A Siren's Warning

If you are wise sailor, cover your ears,
Remembering the insight of the years
For I shall entice you with honeyed voice
Then you must forget you have no choice.
Your proud ship will founder and be no more
Becoming as driftwood on this strange shore.
A sad Nemesis for a man so brave,
The ocean shall claim you as its slave.
Tossed lifeless upon the boiling foam,
To see nevermore the fair shores of home.

*

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Puzzling

The strangest gift you ever received

Was a jigsaw puzzle.

Bits were missing; disappointing -

As if you were trying

To piece your back life together,

Finding the most important

Parts were never there.

It was a jigsaw of a horse.

The missing pieces were his eyes.

A majestic, white stallion,

Blindly galloping across barren plains,

Mane flaying against the wind;

Having no sense of where he was going

Or where he had been.

Separated from the herd,

He would battle on regardless

And never falter; fearless against the unseen.

Blindness can never defeat the brave,

Though they may be lonely in their quest.

You found the pieces that were his eyes,

Jammed underneath the lid;

They were brown eyes, warm and doleful.

You completed the puzzle so he could see the

Landscape unfolding before him.

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Illusion

Walking around the walls of your incarceration,

I search for a breach in the concrete

(This could be the very antithesis of the little Dutch boy and the dyke).

The years erode slowly for you on your side;

Sifting through meaningless mountains of legal jargon,

In search of fresh evidence to clear your name.

The sun is shining and being in one of my more contemplative moods,

I imagine I'm encompassing the walls of Jericho.

I don't have a week, like Joshua, before my visit

To walk round these walls seven times,

So they crumble by the very will and wrath of God

But an appeal to him for divine justice passes my lips nonetheless.

This concept called freedom which we both hanker after,

Continues to elude us, you on your side of the wall and me on mine

Like Dr. Who and Rose separated by some technical loophole in time.

But we are coping, you and I; survivors with or without freedom.

These walls remain but so will our love and our fight against injustice

The system has not destroyed us or our creativity.

So what is it this freedom we desire so much?

Does it exist at all or is it just a fragile illusion?

People are born free like Joy Adamson's lions

But there the concept stops - mortgages, marriages, money

The trappings of life imprison us all.

Freedom is a mere figment of our imagination- incarcerated or not. 

*

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Then and now

Then, Costain built, in salubrious suburb of the thirties
With unshakable, firm foundations,
Grandma's house was constructed to last.
For little more than five hundred pounds
She bought a house in Greenford, Avoiding proverbial peasoupers,
Leaving urban grime an hour away,
Still near enough to shop at Swan and Edgars.
Delighted her nets would retain their whiteness

She swapped the blitz for sane suburbia.
Peaceful was her tree-lined avenue,
Family cars, a  future fantasy.
Constant birdsong interrupted rarely
By whirs and fizzes from the Piccadilly line.
A tranquillity almost rural; an ideal location.
Now, through grimy panes beneath Heathrow's flight path,
Grandma sees Jumbos release their landing gear.
She can almost shake hands with the pilot,
Sitting in her not so tranquil garden,
Birds only audible at dawn,
Sparrows no longer ubiquitous.
Her yellow canary dares to chirp
His unchanging melody from a prison
A world away from a life nature intended.
He sounds happy but is his song
A yearning for a life he’s never known?
Windows rattle to the din of congestion,
Walls reverberate; and pantechnicons
This road was never built for
Spew noxious fumes into the lounge.
An ambulance races to the IBM building
 At the crossroads, sirens blaring.
Whir and fizz of the tube train,
Compete with motorbikes and jet engines,
An orchestra of transport surrounds Grandma
But deafness in twilight years blinds her to reality.
Sometimes, startled, she'll turn up the TV in response,
When best china tea cups dance to the tune of the traffic.
Seventy years on, houses like Grandma's sell
For more than a quarter of a million pounds -
What price now for tranquillity?

*

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                    A poem about missed opportunity in love

Carpe diem... seize the day

 *

 Life

At the end of your life everything is supposed
To flash before your eyes - forwards.
Would backwards make any difference?
Suppose you could rewind your existence
Back to the point where it all went wrong
And edit out the disastrous bits like in a home movie
It might make more sense backwards.

'CUT!' You would shout,
Intervening at that crucial point
I could have made some changes there!
And prevented years of misery that followed.

To untangle a lifetime of negativity
As if it were some badly knitted pullover,
becoming an unblemished ball of wool again.
Then knit it up into something more useful.

Ink removed from register,flowing back into pen,
Golden band of servitude torn from finger
And white rolls reversing to the parental home
Where you would have remained in bed, that fateful day.

But the past is too complex,time is a continuum,
One event affecting all those to come
Life is too interwoven
to unwind like some misshapen jumper
Unravelling it isn't possible
Even going back to pick up dropped stitches is difficult.

*

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A poem about two children playing 'Cowboys and Indians'

Powwow in the park

  My Best Friend 

 

 

Where are those times we spent together?

They've gone so far away,

But it seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way.

(Chorus)

It seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way.

The years go by and I am lonely,

I miss you more each day,

But it seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way.

(Chorus)

It seems to me somehow,

That I've lost you along the way.

You'll always be my special friend

Much more than words can say

But it seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way.

(Chorus)

It seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way.

I won't forget those happy times

Even when I'm old and grey

But it seems to me somehow,

That I've lost you along the way.

(Chorus)

It seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way

I thought that we’d be friends forever   

Never changing - come what may

But it seems to me somehow

That I’ve lost you along the way

(Repeat Chorus to fade)

It seems to me somehow

That I've lost you along the way

*

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Wednesday's Woman

Wednesday's woman, neither young nor old,
Remembers when she was Wednesday's child,
"Full of woe," her mother used to say.
Not so many years ago when she'd viewed anyone
Fast approaching fifty as an ancient relic.

Now like Wednesday, half-way through the week
Wednesday's woman stands at that crucial point,
Reflecting on her past and contemplating the future.
It's gone so quickly, she muses
The Sunday Monday and Tuesday of my life
And what is yet to come?
Thursday, Friday and Saturday and that's all.

In Germany, Wednesday is "Mittwoch," middle-week
A glass is either half-empty or half-full;
Depending on ones point of view.

Wednesday's woman tosses her greying hair
In cool defiance, grateful for what has been,
And anticipating those remaining days
With a gladness not a sadness in her heart.

*

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My Life as a Housewife
 

Morning:

The timer pings; the hot rods of the toaster glow.

We're out of tea bags and spray starch for the laundry;

We'll have a nice fish and chip supper tomorrow.

The house is clean; today can be a nothing day,

I feel I can take down all the pewter thunderclouds

Polish them up so they gleam like precious silver.

I'll spruce up the world so everything looks proud

Not sad and dreary like the willows by the river.

Noon:

The shopping's bought; the ironed shirts are crisply starched

Both cats are fed. Who has the time for daytime TV?

The phone rings; the kettle sings; my throat is parched

I don't complain; this is the life I chose for me

If I groan or I rebel no one will even listen.

Who will scrub the greasy pans and dirty dishes?

To make my busy kitchen shine and brightly glisten;

Kids and husband will ignore all my futile wishes

Night:

The day's work is done but never any praise for me -

Just the things that I've forgot are the ones they mention

Once more to bed and in my dreams at least I'll be free.

A housewife's humble prayer is still worthy of attention.

That I'll be more valued by the folk I've raised.

A new day's hope that life won't remain the same;

That there'll be less worries and I'll get a little praise.

But if the sky fell in tomorrow, I know who'd get the blame.

 *

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Pockets

I go through people's pockets a lot.
No, I'm not as thief,
I just don't want to mess up the washer.

Mum said that dad's pockets
Contained one pound and eighty seven pence in loose change
When he dropped dead, his keys and a rather embarrassing keyring.
I wasn't there but I bet her face went bright scarlet
At the funeral directors, when she opened the envelope.

My teenage daughter's pockets are disgusting.

A crisp wrapper, some welded gum -
Or is it Blue Tack? Half a Polo mint
And a scrunched up document vaguely resembling a bus pass.

I have a beachcomber of a seven year old
And I wondered at the seaside,
How he was able to cram so much into his pockets.
Now I know, back home, as I sort through the washing pile.
Feathers, seashells and an awful lot of sand
Have escaped through a hole in his pocket
Into the lining of his coat,forming an indefinable lump near the hem.
But how can I be annoyed with this possible David Bellamy of the future?
Each pebble and piece of coloured glass,
Grown smooth by centuries of waves, is to him a precious treasure.

In my husband's pocket there's a well used hanky reeking of nicotine
Forget the washer and consign it to the bin.
I always hope for something incriminating,
Strange phone numbers perhaps, scrawled on an empty fag packet -
Anything to suggest that another woman might want him.

Even baby clothes have pockets.
Cute, little heart-shaped ones trimmed with Broiderie Anglaise.
Nothing goes in them of course - what would?

Grandma needs pockets more than anyone,
Or just thinks she does.She wears a voluminous apron
Which ties at the waist and passes her days
Painstakingly bending down,picking up bits of fluff,
Bag ties, paper clips and things that the rest of us throw away
She refuses to take the apron off so I can wash it.
We'll bury her in it. She looks absurd like some
Human kangaroo protecting its young.

There's a small hole, getting bigger in one of my pockets.
I've been meaning to mend it; no wonder I can never find any change.
I'm sure I kept my day ticket but as I attempt to go back into town
I present a Tesco till receipt to the bus driver instead.

 *

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The November of Her Life

It's grey November with skies overcast,
There's not enough future and too much past
When wintry winds begin to moan
Those grating joints will make her groan.
As she watches the fire smouldering in the grate
And an inner voice laments: 'Too late,'Too late.'
In these fruitless years of cruel November
Her life is nothing but a dying ember.
'Too old for this,' and 'too old for that'
Living is tedious,boring and flat
She pines for the long-lost days of her youth
A glance in the mirror reveals the truth
It's so hard now, just to remember
In the sombre years of her November.

*

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A Thought

 This time yesterday,
Summer there meant blazing sun,
And scorching sand beneath
Clear Mediterranean skies.

Last day of a fortnight,
Longing for you,
Slicing through waves
On a speed boat, soaking sunlight.
Swim to the rocks and back,
Meander along the sands
Chatted up by persistent Frenchman
Watching "Pirate" ships
Sail in and out of Hamammet.

Today, back in cool British August,
Far too bronzed for this weather.
With you on a pedalo, elated.
Murky middle of Askern lake.
Rain cascading in heavy droplets.
You smile your ray of sunshine smile
Looking ridiculous in compulsory
Bright orange life-jacket
When the lake is only two feet deep.

Summer here means grey sky
And constant drizzle.
Then the thought occurs to me -
You are all the sunshine I need.

*
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A poem about New year celebrations

 New Year's evil

Woman of Glass

I saw her sisters blown in the heat of a Venetian furnace
Before choosing her from the adjacent gift shop.
She was tall, elegant and slender
And cost me more lira than I could afford,
But mum would be pleased. This woman of glass had real class.
I knew she would hold pride of place on our sideboard,
Her sleek, transparent figure marbled with myriad streaks of red

And bubbles of trapped air would be a striking contrast
To the other ornaments all brought back from my school trips.
There was the miniature of Rodin's kiss in cheap, imitation marble
Which could never look as smooth as real Venetian glass
And a windmill that played "Tulips from Amsterdam"
Not to mention the tacky regiment of plastic-encased dolls
My father collected. Mere kitsch in comparison.

I lovingly wrapped the woman of glass inside a thick sock
And for extra protection put her inside one of my plimsolls
In the middle of my suitcase.

Mum loved the glass woman too.
She graced the sideboard for many years.
Mum would often quote Keats:
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
...But not if it's made of glass.

One day dad stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The glass woman toppled over the edge of the sideboard
Creating an instant crazy-paving of the glazed surface below
It all looked like a very bad ice-skating accident.
It seemed to me that the streaks of red colouringWould ooze from her neck onto the shattered glass panel
Like real blood. Her decapitated body remained there
While her head rolled and dropped silently to the carpet.

I tried to stick her head back on with Araldite.
But the magic had gone and she never looked the same.
Several years later she lost both arms in a similar scenario
We called her "Venus De Milo" after that.
Eventually,not having the heart to throw her in the bin
She ended up in the jumble bag along with the windmill
That by now had lost its tune and most of its sails,
And Rodin's sculpture that had become pitted and rough
When Mum tried to scrub it clean from years of Dad's smoking.

                                                                               *

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    The Tree Fellers

Three fellows - tree fellers in my back garden
Tarzan-like,swinging upside down on strong ropes,
Nimble,muscular limbs clambering up the trunk
Of the leaning tree, threatening next door's fence.

I feel sad for the tree,older than I am,
Not to be felled majestically with cries of "TIMBER!"
Instead its proud limbs severed, tossed unceremoniously
Dismembered slowly...it looks somehow undignified.

The tree fellers balance on the outer branches
Sawing and swaying,moving backwards, moving forwards
"Don't cut the branch you're standing on, stupid."
I muse, as I peer out at them through the patio door.

Sipping at my morning cuppa,I watch entranced
As these guys soon have the tree denuded of leaves
Finally reducing it to a ghostly stump
They are not stupid - amazing how easy they make it look.

Years of growth reduced to wood-chip, pulped in no time
There is welcome light in the back bedroom now
I still feel sorry for the old tree,
But it's a willow: it'll copse and grow again.

They won't have defeated it completely
The garden's a mess but soon the tree fellers
Vacuum up the debris with meticulous precision
It all ends up tidier than before they came.

I ask to keep a few sections of the trunk.
Perhaps they can be hulled out and turned into planters
If my husband is feeling creative.
Or we can just varnish them to sit on if he isn't.

The super efficient team don't want a tea break
They complete their task and are gone
I can sunbathe now the shade is banished,
But still regret the loss of the tree.

I try to count the rings on a piece of its trunk
Which is silently and painlessly bleeding sap,
That fresh smell of timber like nothing else.
Birds gather round again, settled now the garden is still.

  *

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 Who am I?

I'm a letter with zeal, the only one with two names.
Collectively I make the sounds of the bees
And sleeping, so it was funny when they named a bed after me.
I become ‘N’ when I'm drunk
And don't they always leave the best till last?
Across the pond my name rhymes with ‘E’
I'm not a well-rounded letter, more zigzag, you might say.
My favourite animal is of course the zebra.
Surely it's all black and white to you now?
Just like the old TV police series.
If not, take a trip to Zeebrugge
Or New Zealand, if you have any zest.
Xylophone and Xerox should have been mine
But I've got zenith, zephyr and Zachary.
You don't see me that often
But I'll make a zany impact when you do
I am a bolt of lightning, the mark of Zorro
And the scar on Harry Potter's forehead.

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Forsaken

A poem about lost freindship

A View and you

A poem about two of my favourite things...a view and you

'Just Visiting'

Please click to read my poem on Hubpages

A poem about visiting a prisoner