Today’s view,
long drive.
More later!
Tag: Poetry
Shouting in the dark
I’m too small
The world’s too big
Shouting in the dark,
The world’s too small
Solar system so big,
Shouting in the dark,
Sun’s system is small
The galaxy is big
Shouting in the dark –
The galaxy is small
The universe is big
I’m shouting in the dark.
Shouting into infinity.
Is anyone out there –
To hear?
When cats get in the way?
When cats get in the way
You just have to live with it
Or push her away?
Give her attention
Let her just play.
Jumping and leaping
Up on my lap,
Knocking my paints over,
Splashing the water,
Sharpening her claws
On my canvas.
She’s lovely
But mad.
Gemma
She sat at the top of the stairs
Sitting proud on the ledge,
Peeking out
From behind the foliage,
Staring at me.
She was loving and gentle.
Liked the sun,
Bathed in light.
Gemma was my best friend.
Yesterday was Oatcake day.
And I forgot! I don’t know if it’s the same day every year. Anyway I’ve written a little poem in its honour. The best Oatcake poem I ever read was by the artist Arthur Berry. Look it up if you can.
Oatcakes are a pancakes cousin,
designed for savoury
not sweet.
Try with cheese and tomato,
can be eaten cold,
but I prefer heat.
Chilli sauce would add a tickle,
beetroot would be neat.
Oatcakes are a breakfast tipple,
with a good strong cup of tea.
Lunch you find with salad topping
grated cheese and pickle too.
Tea for two an Oatcake feasting,
Maybe sweet with cream or jam.
Versatile the little Oatcake,
Made with simple love you see,
Stoke-on-Trents tortilla, tasty.
Makes a meal for you and me
Fox
Beautiful fox
Red furred wonder,
Sneaky or intelligent,
Fantastic Mr?
Hunted for centuries
By red coated riders
Chased with hounds
For “sport”
Persecuted for being
A fox.
Random
What do you see?
Planets and comets?
Spiralling out of control?
Or a vegetable sliced through?
A seed pod?
Peas in a pot?
A strange roulette wheel?
Abstract art?
Cheerleader pom poms?
Or just random noise?
Home
Sometimes I want to go home.
Not this house, home,
But the one I grew up in.
The family home and hearth.
The place I knew so well
It’s nooks and crannys
The garden and the tree I climbed.
The old swing and the rockery.
Doors I shut forty years ago
Creak open in my mind.
I wish I could shut my eyes and go.
See our old pets, the roses by the back door.
Dad’s motorbike, mom’s hair in rollers.
Little memories make me homesick.
I would drive there now at 2am
But a new family live there.
I feel lost.
I wish…
I miss
Home.
His hair turning white
Suddenly, snow is on his head,
frost is in his hair.
Life is here still, strong and steady
but time has sprinkled white, dead hair into the brown.
Salt and pepper, they say.
Distinguished temples silvered by age.
No wish for dyes to cover it,
no need to hide it.
Only a realisation that winter is on its way.
Electric
The spark of life
Shocked through its body
Sparks gleamed in its eyes
Blue flame shot from its fingers and toes.
Electricity crackled in its ears.
As the power lever swung upwards
The body slowly rose.
Bending jerkily at its waist,
Then it swivelled
Feet sizzling as they touched
The metal floor
The Poetry Monster was born.
