at home – Page 3

What’s A Stoep?

I use this South African word a lot – so just in case you don’t know what it means….

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It’s like a porch, or veranda,
Or even a large balcony too,
A place to sit outside,
Maybe take in the view.
It could be in town,
Possibly out on a farm
Either way stoep sitting
Has its own special charm.

It’s a place to chill out,
A place to contemplate,
To drink coffee or tea,
To ponder life’s fate.
It’s where you drink wine
With friends who have gathered,
Or where you sit and snooze
When you just can’t be bothered.

Somewhere to quietly read a book,
When you’re in the mood,
Or to savour a plate
Of your favourite food.
It’s where gossip is updated
And opinions expressed,
And sunsets are watched
As the day’s put to rest.

Morning Walk

I take Jess, my border collie, for an early morning walk every day.. it’s a treat for both of us.

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Its six in the morning,
Bedford’s still sleeping,
The new day’s sun
Over the mountain just peeping;
The air still fresh
From its night time chilling,
A sense of utter peace,
Both eerie and thrilling.
A clear blue sky,
No clouds detected,
No sign of any breeze,
The stillness perfected.
And as Jess and I walk
The quiet, empty streets
I try to digest
All of the new day’s treats.
The best time of the day,
Of that there’s no doubt,
And we have it to ourselves,
No one else is about.
It’s like a gift we’ve been given,
Our own special prize,
Jess and I walking
Just after sunrise.

Fly!

Five minutes, just five minutes, …that’s all I wanted.
Is it asking too much?

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The fly found me
As on my sunbed I rested,
Buzzing about my head,
My short fuse sorely tested.
Why flies? Why me?
Aren’t there other attractions?
All I wanted was five minutes
Without any distractions.

From my head to my arm,
From my arm to my knee,
This fly had decided
It rather liked me.
If its aim was to annoy
It was certainly succeeding,
All I wanted was five minutes
With the book I was reading.

I brushed it away,
But it still persisted,
And my very best swearing
It completely resisted.
At every new invasion
I felt its tingling touch,
Trying to bite or infect me?
It was all getting too much.

So I closed my chapter,
The plot would have to wait,
That annoying, buzzing fly
Had now sealed its fate,
And with the book I’d been reading
I now tried to swat it,
And after my five minutes of time
I finally got it.

A Life More Simple

Moving to the Karoo has made me realise the joy there is to be found in a more simple lifesyle.

tpotg-simple-life-01 A life more simple
Is what I used to crave,
If I distanced life’s stresses
Perhaps I’d distance the grave.
Getting closer to nature,
Less controlled by man-made;
The colour of my life
Needed a much softer shade.
I needed to learn more
About what’s important to me
And from life’s false pretensions
I had to break free.

So the move was made,
The bullet was bitten,
And by the much simpler life
I’ve truly been smitten.
A shift in my focus,
On what gets my attention,
My old corporate days
Now don’t get a mention.
And as I make friends with nature,
In her various disguises,
I’ve discovered another world,
A world full of surprises.

Now I can just sit on my stoep,
Engaged in idle chatter,
Not worrying about the time
Because time doesn’t matter.
Listening to the birds singing,
Quietly observing them drink,
Seeing clouds kiss the mountains,
Watching their shadows shrink,
Awed by the Karoo landscape
By its harsh rugged charm,
As the buck roam freely
Across our neighbour’s farm,

And as the day ends
And dusk slowly nears,
The kaleidoscope of colours
As the sun disappears;
Then that magical joy
Of a star filled sky;
That’s the life more simple,
Why not give it a try?

Always Writing In Verse – It Could Be Much Worse!

I am always writing verse, jotting down ideas, sometimes on scraps of paper, sometimes on my phone. It can drive the wife up the wall, but I tell her it could be worse, much worse…!

The wife says I’m a nuisance always writing my verse;
But there are things I could do that I think would be worse;
I might have a car engine in bits on the lounge floor,
Or sit with a telescope watching the woman next door.

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I could buy a drum kit, try to be the next Ringo Starr,
Or imitate Queen with an electric guitar;
Or invite mates round who’d all get quite drunk,
Being sick on her carpet, as we listen to punk.

Perhaps a DIY freak, carrying out home repairs,
With half finished jobs left waiting for years.
Or have a X Box, on which I’d play through the night,
Being invaded by aliens with whom I would fight.

I could be a model maker, sticking things I’d then paint,
With the smell of it all making the wife feel quite feint.
Or brew my own beer, taking over the kitchen,
Or sniff something nasty and form an addiction.

I could collect tarantula spiders that sometimes escape,
Or believe that I’m Zorro and wear a mask and a cape,
Maybe answer the door naked, giving callers a scare,
Or eat boxes of chocolates that I’d refuse to share.

I could be cyclist, wearing those tight Lycra shorts,
Or be a couch potato watching all sorts of sports.
So, you see, there are many worse things I could be,
Than someone who sits quietly, writing his poetry.

Mother-In-Law’s Annual Visit

Just when I thought it was safe to come out of my garden shed…….!

tpotg-flying-witch

The house has now had its final inspection,
Just back from the docs, I’ve had my injection.
So we’re all geared up now for what’s in store,
The annual visit of the mother-in-law!

Three weeks is how long she usually stays;
That’s a very long time, it’s twenty one days!
When each day can seem more like a week;
It’s an awful long time to watch how I speak.

She’s not too bad really, and at ninety years old
It’s amazing how much whiskey she is able to hold;
(And it’s my whiskey she’s drinking, the Famous Grouse,
An appropriate name when she’s in the house!).

She arrives on Monday on a budget airline,
Her broomstick’s been sold, on E-bay, online.
Far too old anyway for that form of travel,
With the wind in her hair, her perm would unravel.

Her room is all ready, the bed has been made,
It hasn’t been used since the last time she stayed;
We left it alone so that the spiders could breed;
Well she frightens me, so I’m returning the deed!

I’ve just painted the cauldron, so now she can brew
Her potions and lotions, her toad and newt stew;
It’s a specialty of hers, of which she is fond;
And that reminds me, I must look for her wand.

I do love her really, she so sweet and so kind,
The best mother-in-law that you’ll ever find;
That is, of course, while she’s a long way away,
It’s a whole different ball game when she comes to stay.

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Not long now! I’m having a panic attack;
Need calming down with a good slug of Jack.
There, I can see her now getting off the plane,
Wearing that black pointed hat once again!

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