poems – Page 4

Time

I found writing this to be quite time consuming!

TPOTG About Time Frame

Time wraps us all
In its invisible cloak,
You can’t throw it off,
It’s a lifetime’s yoke;
Sometimes a friend,
Other times it’s a foe,
When it moves quickly,
Or when we think it moves slow.
When it works with us
We say time’s on our side,
But when time’s against us
There’s nowhere to hide.

Time rushing by,
Or time dragging on,
And when it gets lost
We ask, where’s the time gone?
When we feel generous
We have time to spare,
But when we’ve no time
There’s nothing to share.
We create time for people,
Or give them no time at all
And when we forget
We ask for time to recall.

When we want to track time
We build a timetable
And we try to save time,
Whenever we’re able.
We claim it can stop
When we say time stood still,
Yet we seek its demise
When we have time to kill.
We say time is short
When we don’t have too long,
And if we’re “doing time”
Then we’ve done something wrong.

By taking less time
We can hasten an endeavor,
But if something is timeless
It just lasts forever.
Time can run through our fingers
Like the dessert sands,
But when it stops flowing
We have time on our hands.
And by asking you to read this
It’s your time I am using;
That cloak that surrounds us
Can be very confusing!

The Sunglasses’ Nightmare

You know what it’s like when you put something down, but you just can’t remember where…..

I looked for them here, I looked for them there,
I looked for those sunglasses everywhere.
I looked in the kitchen, I looked in the hall,
Where had I put them? I couldn’t recall.
Searched the lounge, even looked in the loo;
Without my sunglasses what would I do?
Should have walked the dog before the sunrise,
Now the sun is too bright, it will hurt my eyes;
Looked through my office, turned files upside down,
The smile I woke up with had turned into a frown.
I just need my sunglasses, I need them to wear;
Oh the frustration! I was beginning to swear.
Are they in the car? Took a look in the garage:
Had my wife hid them? No, I mustn’t disparage.
Now getting ever more desperate, even looking under the bed,
And that’s when I found them – on top of my head!

Santa’s Bedford Experience

A brief look at early morning on Christmas Day in Bedford…….

So what happened in Bedford
On Christmas Day?
Did Santa arrive
With his reindeer and sleigh?
Well, Pete couldn’t feed the reindeer,
It’s been far too dry,
And without food for the reindeer
Santa was unable to fly.
So to ensure the presents
Arrived on your hearth,
Santa used a scooter
That he borrowed from Garth.
So we had the sound of put-putting
Instead of the sound of hooves,
And sadly no sleigh perched
On Bedford’s tin rooves.
From his new petrol pumps
Wolfie provided free fuel
And there were drinks from SPAR
To help keep Santa cool.
As Santa passed Hope Street
Charles played him a song
(Sounded like Cliff Richard,
Although I could be wrong).
Abby tried to sell him a house,
But Santa didn’t have time,
Said on his return to Lapland
He’d take a look online.
Couldn’t stop for a portrait,
So Ken got frustrated,
And there was no time for Les
To get social media updated.
So there you have it,
No reindeer, no sleigh
But I hope that didn’t spoil
Your Christmas Day.

The Night Before Christmas; The Mouse’s Story

“…..’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…” We all know Clement Clarke Moore’s wonderful Christmas poem, but did you
ever wonder about that mouse? Well this is his story…

tpotg-night-before-xmas-01

T’was the night before Christmas
And little Stanley the mouse
Could sense the excitement
As he stole round the house.

Something was different,
Coloured lights and decorations,
And strangers in the house
Called friends and relations.

There was a tree that twinkled,
A holly and mistletoe smell,
And candles on the mantelpiece,
Stockings hung there as well.

For an inquisitive mouse
Lots of new things to explore;
Stanley raced around so excited,
Looking for more.

Climbing up the sparkling tree,
He surprised the fairy on top,
Then sliding off from a branch
He landed on boxes with a “plop!”

He didn’t know what was in them,
Or how much joy they would bring,
He just sniffed the bright paper
And had a chew on the string.

Then Stanley spotted something,
It was a sight for sore eyes,
There by the hearth a plate,
Loaded with sweet smelling pies.

He danced across the room,
Had his Christmas now come?
A plate full of happiness,
Oh what a treat for his tum!

But before he could eat one
Stanley got such a fright
As he heard a voice cry out,
“Phew, this chimney is tight!”

Then soot started falling,
And then crash, a man appeared,
Dressed in a sooty red coat,
With a long, sooty white beard.

He dusted himself down,
Took a sack from his back,
And with a “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Parcels he began to unpack.

Stanley quickly dashed away,
Now a frightened little mouse,
Went back behind the skirting,
Back to his safe little house.

And as he watched through a crack
His pies disappeared,
Eaten by the old man
With sooty white beard

Then the old man sighed,
“Suppose it’s time I moved on,”
And he went back to the chimney
And in a flash he was gone.

And as Stanley watched all this
He was sure he could hear
Clattering hooves on the roof
That sounded a bit like reindeer.

Stanley crept carefully from his house
And to his surprise,
There by the skirting board
Was one of the pies,

And a note that simply said
“Stanley this one is for you,
Making folks happy at Christmas
Is just what I do.”

So little Stanley slept happily
All through that Christmas day,
Full from eating the pie
Left by the man with the sleigh.

Just a Friday Morning

Not always that easy to find the motivation…..

As the chill morning air
Banishes a few days of heat,
And the rain gently falls,
For our plants such a treat.
A second pot of coffee,
As if by magic;
Not to soak up this splendour
Would surely be tragic.

The camera shutter clicks,
Must capture the morning
As the mist cloaks the mountain,
Of more rain it’s a warning.
Searching for the energy
To make a start to our day,
Or should we just stay here?
Perhaps we just may!

Dog Whistles

But how DO you know if a dog whistle works?

I think I have stumbled across one of life’s quirks
How do you know if a dog whistle works?
Dog whistle manufacturers, now how do they know
That a whistle will work when you give it a blow?

tpotg-dog-whistle-01

Whistle technology is not that profound,
And you know if it works, you can hear by the sound;
But a dog whistle is silent to the human ear,
With a vibration and pitch we’re unable to hear.

So how would you ever be able to detect
If the whistle you’d bought had a defect?
When your dog doesn’t come when the whistle you blow,
Is it your dog or the whistle, how would you know?

Some dogs might object to the whistling sound
Made by the new toy that their owners have found,
So if your dog doesn’t respond, it may be through choice,
Preferring to answer only to their master’s voice.

“Respond to a whistle? Don’t you think I have feelings?
Maybe it’s time to review our dog/human dealings,
If whistling is something that cheers up your life,
Then don’t whistle me, go whistle your wife!”

Sadly all of my enquiries have been in vain,
So as one of life’s mysteries it must remain;
And while the manufacturers aren’t prepared to give us the proof,
Perhaps one day a dog “whistle-blower” might just tell us the truth?

Hanging Out the Washing

Some guys have all the luck….

I was given my instructions as the wife drove away
To hang out some washing, it was a good drying day;
She assured me I’d cope, it was a simple enough task,
Anything more challenging then she just wouldn’t ask.

tpotg-hanging-out-the-washing-01

Now there’s something therapeutic about pegging out clothes,
Working out logically where each item goes;
Allowing enough space so that clothes can blow free,
And won’t get all tangled, bringing misery to me.

Finding a place on the line that looks just about right,
Making sure the pegs are fixed, good and tight;
The satisfaction when finished of a line neatly hung,
From life’s little pleasures such joy can be wrung.

Pictures in Verse

I enjoy taking photographs, but I still like to capture my pictures in my verse…

TPOTG Keyboard Frame 02

I use my keyboard, not a camera,
To catch a moment in time,
Rather than stroke brush onto canvas
I paint images in rhyme.
Scenes captured in verse
Can express more of the feeling,
Than a mere digital image
Will ever be revealing.

Can a camera really capture
The mood of the day,
Describe the feel of the breeze
That makes the trees sway,
Or tell of the scent
Of jasmine in the air,
Or the movement of clouds
That say rain might be near?

Can it capture the silence
When there’s not a sound,
The tranquillity you feel
When no one else is around?
Can it describe the warm glow
Of a blazing fire,
Or that taste of hot cocoa
Just before you retire?

So to preserve an image
Or to capture a view,
I reach for my keyboard,
It’s just what I do.

Proper Trains

Yes they were dirty, yes they were smelly – but they were magnificent!

TPOTG Steam Train Red frame 01jpg

Aye, we had proper trains then
That bellowed out smoke and steam,
And to stand on the plate, driving one of them beasts,
It were every little boy’s dream.

Water filled boilers by coal furnaces fired,
So the pistons and rods could be driven,
Those mighty engines, chuffing and puffing,
Setting giant wheels into their rhythm.

Masterpieces forged out of iron and steel,
Reflections of that industrial age,
Not soulless and sanitised, regulated creations,
That now have become all the rage.

Them carriage doors you had to slam shut,
Never designed to keep out the weather,
And windows you needed to pull right up
With a strap that were made out of leather.

And heaven forbid if them windows weren’t tight
As the train went into a tunnel,
Then you’d be coughing and spluttering and cursing the smoke
Belching out of the hot sooty funnel.

Each journey were an adventure, I suppose you could say,
Today’s stainless steel and glass just can’t compete,
As you sat there rocking from side to side,
In your deeply sprung, strange smelling seat.

And the joy of trainspotting as we gathered together
Chatting in eager anticipation,
Platform tickets in hand, with our pens and our books,
Waiting at some main line station.

All trains carried numbers, but it were them that were named
That we were all so anxious to see,
And if they had blinkers fixed to their sides,
Well, it were like we were in ecstasy.

The City of London, Lady Macbeth,
Sir John Moore and Sir Galahad,
The Red Knight, Camelot and Union Castle
Some of the names that them proud engines had.

But them days are gone, that age of steam,
Now it’s all diesel and electric,
But I’ll never forget them glorious monsters,
Hissing steam and looking majestic.

Echoes

Far better to question than to simply believe,
For a questioning mind is so hard to deceive.

TPOTG Echoes 02 jpg

We are losing our voices, becoming just echoes
Of the propaganda we so naively accept,
It’s a much easier choice
To join with the herd’s voice;
At questioning we’re no longer adept.

And if we do question, then we are condemned,
As ‘liberal’ intolerance raises its ugly voice;
Some kind of ‘ist’ we’ll be named,
Then derided and shamed;
Another opinion is not an acceptable choice.

Too apathetic, too distracted, we just simply agree,
Instead of challenging we’d rather bury our head;
In this age of information
There’s a knowledge starvation,
It’s by media opinions and views that we’re led.

We can no longer speak freely about what we believe,
Any independent thinking is thwarted.
Like so many sheep in a fold
By political correctness controlled,
We are gagged as the truth gets distorted.

Our children’s thought patterns cloned to fit an agenda,
How to think no longer something we teach,
And as today’s generation grow
Perhaps they’ll never know
The true meaning of freedom of speech.

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