poetry – Page 7

Fly!

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

tpotg-fly-01

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?

Thorns and Roses

Sometimes it’s the ones you love and care for the most that turn around and hurt you.

tpotg-rose-and-thorn-frame-01

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?

Storm on the Ridge

Living on a ridge, looking out to sea, you can see the weather approaching…….

TPOTG-storm-across-the-bay-frame-01 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.

The Old Man in the Rocking Chair

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.

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.

tpotg-through-the-telescope

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.

Cuddle Hunter

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………

old-writer-cuddles-with-frame

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!

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.

tpotg-jack-daniels-with-frame-01

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!

How I Wish I Could Paint

Is a writer an artist? I like to think so, but every once in a while I wish for a more physical artistic skill, sometimes I just wish I could paint…

How I wish I could paint, how I wish I could capture
On canvas those sights that fill me with rapture.
Such wonders that have the power to evoke,
If I could record them with an artist’s brushstroke.

TPOTG Artist Frame 1

Oh! how I wish I could hue, from some solid rock,
A statue of a goddess, to which crowds would flock,
And marvel at my sculpture, how proud I would be,
There for all time, a reminder of me.

I wish I could turn on a potter’s wheel,
A lump of wet clay, crafting purely by feel,
Then firing that clay, creating fine pottery.
How I wish I could do that, how I wish that was me.

I wish I could shape glass held over a fire,
Using a skill of which I’d never tire.
Creating fine glassware with an artist’s touch,
I know I would like that so very much

I wish I could sit down in front of the keys
And play a piano with consummate ease.
Maybe some jazz, or maybe some blues,
Now that is an art I would certainly choose

I wish I could sing, a voice full of emotion,
Have sell out world tours, cross every ocean.
A voice to be savoured by all different ages;
And in the music press filling so many pages.

But I have been blessed with a much different skill,
No concert hall or gallery will I ever fill;
It’s a vivid imagination, at work all the time,
Composing my verse, rhyme after rhyme.

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