THE OLD FISHERMAN:

He was born smelling of salt, within the sound of the sea,

Of ancestors whose souls now in gulls, flying high & free,

With grandfather, father, brothers & now with his sons,

Out in all weather, storms, wind & beneath burning sun,

From his tender years, working all hours till ripe old age,

Losing the youth on the way, becoming salted old sage,

Of saline creaking hull & old weathered cracked hands,

Of wide oceans afar & between so many foreign lands,

Leaving behind mother, then wife & small little babes,

For months on end, those on land praying & so afraid,

Old nets sewn, re-sewn & mended, then cast far flung,

To where once he´d heard songs the mermaids sung,

To the places where dolphins laughed & whales played,

Places where his eyes wept & his skin was sore & flayed,

Now the fish have swum away with his long-gone years,

With pipe-clenched lips & cold bones now clad in furs,

He sits huddled old, within his wrinkled briny dreams,

Tears of his past, running in jowled furrowed streams,

He smells the Galician sea upon his old wife´s breath,

And he knows it´s time to go to his deep saline death.

GRANDPA´S JEWELS:

Peering at each one through his old pebbled lens,

Grandpa played with his jewels, his tiny wee gems,

Each one a jewel he felt & so very perfectly made,

“This little piggy”, he tickled & with each one played.

As the old man´s Granddaughter sat on his bony knee,

A tiny little tot, pink, round, soft & not barely yet three,

Each little toe he´d roll between his gnarled old fingers,

And the scent of new bathed talc rose, wafted & lingered.

The little lass listened & loved her Grandpa´s stories & tales,

While he played with her toes & spoke of gnomes & whales,

Those precious times together, spent by that friendly hearth,

So warm, snuggly & cosy after every night-time’s supper & bath.

“Why do you call them your jewels & gems, each of my little toes?”

The old man laughed & kissed her little cheek of the evening rose,

“I call them jewels & gems, because that is just what they be & are,

As these little toes, through your long life will be sure to carry you far”.

PEBBLES:

Round pebbles, rumbling, tumbling, rolling & trundling,

Kissed by passing fins of salmon, caressing & fumbling,

Dragonflies nosily from above, prodding & delicate poking,

With dappled sunbeams through green wavelets stroking.

On silt river bed lie basking, pebbles smooth & rounded,

Rocks of ages, moulded & by time & cold water pounded,

Cascading waterfalls, icy, tickling & relating ancient tales,

To little rounded pebbles, home to bubbles, fins & scales.

Little fingers grasping, wee summer pebbles white & small,

 Carried back to pretty gardens, with trees big shady & tall,

Then tossed into domesticity of little cool & pristine ponds,

Where baby frogs go leaping & willows quench their fronds.

Graced by stony gnomes & the pensive half dressed muse,

And the cute baby boys, depicted as piddling nude statues,

Little pebbles, missing the music of bigger dancing stones,

In their tiny little hearts, they miss their silted river homes,

And while pretty water lilies sit still & blushing pinkly ponder,

Little rounded pebbles dream of homes far away & yonder.

DIAMOND JUBILEE:

Diamonds are a gal´s best friend, so they tell me & say,

And today is the day I celebrate my old sixtieth birthday,

I shall think like my queen & call it my diamond jubilee,

This day when I reflect on what it´s like to simply be me.

As a small child I played free & wild under the African sun,

With stones, beasts, birds & with the Bushmen having fun,

Where time didn’t matter & in my little life, had no place,

With feet in muddy puddles & sun on my rosy wee face.

As young nubile maid, I´ve loved men from near, far & wide,

Those who have made me laugh & with the others I´ve cried,

Monsieurs, Mijnheers, Lords, some very rich, but most very poor,

But in the end I settled for my dear & un-intelligible Spanish Señor.

As a mother, I suckled at my breast, my two lovely little boys,

And then grew them up to finer men, giving a lifetime of joys,

Goddess of home, nurturing & keeping always warm the hearth,

Sending my sons away on their life´s unknowing & hopeful path.

Now as an old crone, creased, silver & hopefully diligent & wise,

And looking through the mirror of life, into my rheumy old eyes,

I see a life well lived, with its tears, smiles & many ups & downs,

A twitching of puckered lips, I see a smile kissing my old frowns.

So now with the brilliance of diamonds & the wisdom of crones,

I no longer fret & worry, nor diet & starve to show off old bones,

I have earned my wrinkles, my leg-dimples & my blue-lived veins,

They´re all just furrowed ruts of life, where I´ve ambled down lanes.

My tresses are not merely grey, but the silver of old solstice moons,

Today I celebrate me & the passing of my many past & lost noons,

With great joy, at sixty today, I shall celebrate my diamond jubilee,

And I shall shout at the world, “Eureka, at last, today I am now free”.

AN OLD FASHIONED WOOING:

I remember that once-upon-a day, long ago when we met,

You were nothing special; my friends scathed & made a bet,

That I´d never be attracted to you & your olde-world style,

No modern clothes & hair of those times & a too shy smile,

You weren’t handsome, not very dark, nor fair & not very tall,

No glossy hair, in fact you were going quite bald, I now recall,

You wore little round spectacles upon your large crooked nose,

But my silly heart skipped a beat as you proffered a single rose.

I fell hopelessly in love with a man, who still doffed his old felt hat,

Who when entering my heart & home, wiped his feet upon the mat,

A man who stood up from the table, when I entered or left the room,

He who pulled out my chair as I sat & talked of butterflies & the moon,

That gentle man, the gentleman who bent & kissed my waiting hand,

Who would open doors & brush away life´s irritating crumbs & sand,

He who cited poetry, sang old songs, painted the sea & ancient trees,

That man of tender touch & who speaks words of the dancing breeze.

You´ve gone back to heaven now, sitting by lucky God´s right hand side,

In this neon world I stay, but without you, I would rather skulk & hide,

My dear man I miss your gentle wooing, of our very many happy years,

Your wise & softly spoken words, banishing all my sad & worldly tears,

 Protecting arm around my shoulder & the nightly rose upon my pillow,

And those evenings we spent talking, under the shady summer willow,

Now all I have are dusty hands, of your ashes I´ve sadly freely scattered,

But in your years of gentle wooing, you´ve bequeathed me what has mattered.