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Category Archives: Prose

JOE…#Poem

JOE

 

TV now stands quiet,

We’ve no need now to shout.

For Uncle Joe, he was quite deaf,

When hearing aids fell out.

 

No – “Oh, Hello.”

Followed by a smile.

His chair it sits empty now,

It has done for a while.

 

We’re not here a visit,

But sorting what is left.

Wonder what this item is?

And, Why was this thing kept?

 

Memories we’re a sharing,

Whilst doing this last task.

With fondness and with laughter,

What more can we now ask?

 

What things we find of value,

Will those that we will leave?

More precious are the memories,

To those that do bereave.

 

I hear the clock a ticking,

Just like those at Nan’s.

Noise level is a matching,

Dried peas n shake tin cans.

 

Yes everything is leaving,

All of it must go.

We’ve said  our last fare-well,

To my,

Uncle Joe.

 

Rest in peace.

Reflections 2019 w36

This weeks reflections is going to be a little different, and I apologies in advance for those that read these and my poetry releases – there is going to be a double up.

All of us at some point will have to experience this, in fact it is probable the only thing in life we CAN guarantee…

My heart goes out to those sharing the feelings that this time brings.

So here is the (amended) poem…

 

JOE

 

TV now stands quiet,

We’ve no need now to shout.

For Uncle Joe, he was quite deaf,

When hearing aids fell out.

 

No – “Oh, Hello.”

Followed by a smile.

His chair it sits empty now,

It has done for a while.

 

We’re not here a visit,

But sorting what is left.

Wonder what this item is?

And, Why was this thing kept?

 

Memories we’re a sharing,

Whilst doing this last task.

With fondness and with laughter,

What more can we now ask?

 

What things we find of value,

Will those that we will leave?

More precious are the memories,

To those that do bereave.

 

I hear the clock a ticking,

Just like those at Nan’s.

Noise level is a matching,

Dried peas n shake tin cans.

 

Yes everything is leaving,

All of it must go.

We’ve said  our last fare-well,

To my,

Uncle Joe.

 

Rest in peace.

Box…#Poem

Box

I sit and I look,

inspiration t’ cook.

Poetry subject,

in my little book.

Scanned all around

for something to see.

Something of interest,

to set my pen free.

Blankly I look round, 

it then caught my eye.

A – foreign language,

in printed black dye.

Box made of cardboard

that once did hold fruit.

Having a move round,

by bloke in a suit.

Fruit came from Egypt,

to sell at this store.

Box is well traveled, 

But wait – there is more.

Box was made elsewhere,

Italy the start.

I shop in England,

now think of my part.

I will recycle,

to think myself green.

This sent to China,

reports one has seen.

How many miles,

does a box clock?

Time bomb a ticking.

Tic Toc,

Tic Toc,

Tic; Toc.

A § M 

15/06/2019

Lampost…#Poem

Lampost

Lamppost the challenge,

for writing these lines.

Honestly thought of;

not many times.

Switch on in evening,

and stay on all night.

Ill-um-in-at-ing,

when gone is sunlight.

Lean on at bus stop,

to share the long wait.

Dogs see a pee post,

unpleasant its fait.

Birds use as perch post

surrounding survey.

More stable, in winds,

than tree with sway.

Fog make things eerie,

defusing the light.

See wind a swirling,

such a strange sight.

Used by an artist,

to show a romance.

Seems more iconic,

than a tower in France.

Old type – not modern,

the style and the shape.

Maybe with side bars,

from bunting can drape.

Nighttime, or raining,

couples will walk.

Under umbrella,

whispers small talk.

Into the painting,

we follow their tracks.

Faces are not seen,

view only their backs.

A § M 

13/06/2019

Mare’s Field…#Poem

Mare’s Field

Tales of a pond,

Nay, there be two.

Whispers in playground

of what we should do.

Sneak over the road,

and find the red path.

Shrouded by talk trees,

we giggle and laugh.

Follow the leader,

who’s been there before.

Telling us stories 

of what is in store.

Frog spawn and tadpoles,

the stickle back fish.

Something called newt,

to see it we wish.

Crested the first hill

and broke through the trees.

masses of bankside,

our little eye sees.

Follow the footpath,

go down and go up.

Sharing a bottle,

each taking a sup.

Onward we venture,

to crest one more hill.

There in its glory,

Gleams pond water still.

This was our first time 

’twas never our last.

Mare’s field’s our future,

our present, our past.

Remember the pleasure

you had in this park.

Maybe go wander,

when life looking stark.

 

A § M 

05/06/2019

The Grum…#Poem

The Grum

I’m off to the Grum,

I’d shout through the door.

Horseshoe embankment,

red ash park floor.

Witches hat towering

over basic park ride.

Tunnel embankment,

for children to hide.

Swings made of old tyres,

on thick heavy chain.

Twisted to spin round,

n’ scramble one’s brain.

Fort made of thick logs,

to clamber about.

Or maybe to fumble,

hit floor with a clout.

But then there’s our favourite,

the forty foot slide.

With a bump in the middle,

gain air on the glide.

Waxed to perfection,

with candles we’d bring.

Riotous laughter,

in horseshoe would ring.

Butterflies and grasshoppers,

on banks we would catch.

Grazes and Grass stains,

our colours would match.

But grass banks we’d scramble,

or steep concrete climb.

For slide of excitement,

Time after time.

 

A § M 

24/5/2019

Gratitude…#Poem

Gratitude

Maybe my Gratitude

was met with a platitude,

until I started to think.

What if ones Gratitude,

with a change of my attitude,

allows for the good vibes to sink.

No longer in servitude,

or feeling of lassitude,

but nectar thats ready to drink.

Found not in solitude,

but part of a multitude,

In crash or simply a dink.

I now take an interlude,

to build on my fortitude,

find solace, instead of the brink.

 

A § M 

29/05/2019