There’s nothing worse than a good old fashioned cold!
You know how it is
When your head’s full of cold,
When you’re aching and miserable
And feeling quite old.
Your sinuses blocked,
Your nose a bright red,
Fighting the urge
To just go to bed;
Taking the tablets
That the wife said you should,
Never really knowing
If they do any good,
Hoping it’ll be gone
In the next day or two,
And hoping like mad
The wife doesn’t catch your cold too!
I use this South African word a lot – so just in case you don’t know what it means….
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.
I take Jess, my border collie, for an early morning walk every day.. it’s a treat for both of us.
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.
Five minutes, just five minutes, …that’s all I wanted.
Is it asking too much?
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.
Moving to the Karoo has made me realise the joy there is to be found in a more simple lifesyle.
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?
Sometimes it’s the ones you love and care for the most that turn around and hurt you.
A thorn pricked my finger
And now it is bleeding;
I was giving the rose water,
It was so desperately needing,
And I simply reached down
To cup a flower and to smell,
When the thorn struck me,
And the bloom from my hand fell.
Why did it prick me
When to its needs I was tending?
I was just trying to smell
The scent it was sending
And to hold and admire
Its beautiful flower,
Why then did it stab me,
Try to turn my love sour?
Living on a ridge, looking out to sea, you can see the weather approaching…….
Low pressure is building,
Forecasters are right,
And a storm is coming our way.
Dark clouds and the wind,
Conspiring together,
To spoil the peace of the bay.
Windows are closed
And doors are shut tight,
A sensible precaution to take.
We’ve seen it before,
What a big storm can do,
The damage that’s left in its wake.
A wild wind now howling
Across the ridge,
Nothing can escape from its path;
Trees bow in homage
To the lord of the storm,
But nothing will appease his wrath.
Rain clatters down
In great heavy bursts,
Soaking the hard, parched ground;
And birds and animals
Seek out some shelter,
Wherever it can be found.
Lightning forks
Streak across the sky,
It’s nature’s most fearsome display;
And the thunder god Thor
Sounds so very close,
Although we know that he’s so far away.
The sea is now angry,
White horses appear,
The waves are crashing the shore;
Adding to the noise
Of the thunder and wind,
In nature’s cacophonous roar.
Windows and doors
Rattling in their frames,
Roof timbers beginning to creak.
Exposed to the wind,
Which whirls round the house,
Searching for a spot that is weak.
The roar of the wind,
The drum of the rain,
There’s no chance to get any sleep.
With a storm outside,
Wanting to come in,
It’s such a long vigil to keep.
Then all of a sudden
The wind seems to go,
In a rush to be quiet once again.
Daylight breaks,
And the sun pushes through
Driving away all the rain.
The sea returns
To its gentle swell,
Its waves now caressing the shore.
The birds reappear,
Singing their songs,
Peace is back on the ridge once more.
Sitting on a porch, watching the sun go down
and thinking back on how life used to be….
The old man is gently rocking,
In his rocking chair,
As he rocks he watches
The world passing by out there;
But through his old blue eyes,
Covered by a misty hue,
He sees a different world,
The world in which he grew.
That old man in his rocking chair,
Rocking gently to and fro,
Is hankering after yesteryear,
For the times he used to know.
When people used to show respect,
A respect that was returned;
When being kind and considerate,
At an early age was learned.
When people had the time to talk,
Held conversations face to face,
Not hiding behind a computer
On some network interface.
When you were still at liberty
To speak what was on your own mind,
Before liberal political correctness
Turned our liberty blind.
When the pace of life was slower,
More time was what we had,
Now nobody has time for anyone,
And that makes the old man sad.
Instead now they want to track you,
Know every single move you make;
The old man just can’t understand
Why your privacy they want to take.
Yet he knows that time does not stand still,
The world has to move along;
“The times they are a changing”
That old Bob Dylan song.
Still a tear rolls down his cheek,
Out of his old blue eye;
Just an old man in a rocking chair,
Just an old man wondering why.
The old man is gently rocking,
In his rocking chair,
As he rocks he watches
The world passing by out there;
But through his old blue eyes,
Covered by a misty hue,
He sees a different world;
How he loved the world he knew.
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.
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.
While explorers and adventurers seek out hidden treasure or dangerous wild animals, climb mountains or dive to to the ocean floor, I’m happy just to look for cuddles………
I am a cuddle hunter,
Now be careful how that’s said.
If you get it mixed up,
It could be very rude instead!
I search for cuddles daily,
I search both near and far;
They can be hiding in my bathroom,
Sometimes waiting in my car.
Sometimes they’re on the sofa
Or even on the stairs;
I can be standing in the larder
When suddenly one appears.
I like it when they creep up on me
And take me by surprise,
And when I feel them squeezing me
It makes me close my eyes.
I like cuddles in the morning,
And after lunch as well.
But those cuddles in the evening?
Well… I’m not supposed to tell!
