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!
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?
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?
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.
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.
I enjoy taking photographs, but I still like to capture my pictures in my verse…
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.
Yes they were dirty, yes they were smelly – but they were magnificent!
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.
Far better to question than to simply believe,
For a questioning mind is so hard to deceive.
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.
Standing on the scales can be a real mood changer!
It’s a daily ritual
That so many perform.
To stand on the scales,
“Oh weight, please conform!”
We’ve set ourselves goals,
We just want to weigh less,
If we can’t lose those pounds
It just adds to the stress.
So it is with some trepidation
That I strip to the raw,
Ponder the scales,
Waiting there on the floor.
To weigh or not to weigh?
Now that is the question,
Should I leave it ‘til tomorrow,
Maybe use some discretion.
“What say you, scales,
Are you a friend or a foe?”
Until I weigh myself
I’ll just never know;
“Please digital display
Show the numbers I need,
I want to lose weight;
I need to recede”.
Stop! Think back to yesterday,
What did I eat?
Oh god, I had cheesecake,
But I needed a treat,
For the rest of the day
I think I was good,
Eating only the food
That I knew that I should.
That cheesecake now
Plays on my mind,
Better not weigh myself,
Yes, that would be kind,
If my weight’s gone up
A bitter pill to swallow,
Best leave this weighing thing
Until tomorrow!
Take not the hand
Away from me
That writes my verse,
That sets me free.
Cloud not my senses
Nor steal my mind,
Take not my eyes
Don’t leave me blind.
Name the price,
I’ll pay the sum,
Just leave me whole
For years to come,
So I can write
My poetry,
Rejoicing in
A mind set free.
Have the bees been playing tricks on me…?
I went to see my apple tree
And what did I find there?
Not my favourite Granny Smith,
But instead a prickly pear.
Now I’ve never heard of this before,
A most unusual situation.
Must be the result of a freak of nature,
An error in cross pollination.
So I rang the Cross Pollination Institute,
To ask them about my pear,
But they were out cross pollinating,
So I got no answers there.
It must be the bees who had got confused,
So I know where I must go,
A bee keeper lived at the end of the lane,
The last cottage in the row.
But the bee keeper couldn’t help me,
Yesterday he’d been badly stung,
And off he’d been whisked to hospital
After the ambulance had been rung.
It was certainly proving quite difficult
To find out about my prickly pear,
I know! I could try the library;
I should find the answer there.
Down the hill and across the bridge,
The library was by the church with a spire
But when I got there, oh what a shock,
The library building was engulfed in fire!
Fire engines parked along the street,
There were firemen and hoses galore;
I was feeling really frustrated now,
Under my breath, I nearly swore.
Then I remembered the interweb,
Google it, come on, I should have known!
But would you believe it, my router was down,
A connection appears to have blown.
So on went the kettle, I needed a cuppa,
To help me try and recuperate;
Finding out about my prickly pear
For the time being, would have to wait.
Then one last idea came into my head,
I could use mobile communication.
A photo taken and shared on line,
I could ask for some information.
So off I went to photograph it,
No way was I going to be beaten,
But when I arrived back at my apple tree,
By the birds, the pear had been eaten!
Under the jacaranda trees
In the soft dappled shade,
On a newly cut lawn,
With a lunch freshly made;
Sipping a cold drink,
Eyes gently closing,
The peace and the quiet,
Awesome and imposing.
Neon purple flowers
Occasionally falling
As the afternoon breeze
Now comes a-calling.
Butterflies float by,
Their painted wings flapping,
The dog missing their dance
As she lies quietly napping.
A drongo sits drinking
At the water fountain;
Watched over and guarded
By our beautiful mountain.
Our cottage might be small,
But it’s big on the giving,
It’s all we’ll ever need
For the life we’re now living.
