LET ME BE YOUR POEM:

When you search for words, let me be your will,

With your quill to page, I´ll be sun upon your sill,

Let me be the ripple in rhythm, within your rhyme,

Let me be the ancient poetry of your passing time.

Let me be spring flowers upon your lover´s bonnet,

Let me be the adoration within your love´s sonnet,

And upon the parchment, when you scribe quatrains,

Let me be your sun, moon & the gentle drops of rain.

Let me be the Princess in your promised prim prose,

And I am also willing to be your proffered red rose,

In your meandering musings, I shall be your muse,

When writing joy, your smile & when sad your blues.

When you write of love, please let me be your ode,

And deep down in your soul, I shall find my abode,

And when you are angry & want to rend your rage,

Let me be your parchment, silk or your virgin page.

In words, let me be your ocean, field, sky & mossy fen,

I´ll wend wherever you lead, with your quill or errant pen,

And whenever you stop to muse, write & pensively think,

Let it be me, running in your blood as your scribbling ink.

When you´ve lost your way & cannot find the way home,

You shall be guided only by God & eternal earth´s poem,

Let me be the last dirge & eulogy written for your death,

And let me live on in your words, upon heaven´s soft breath.

OLDIE´S OUTING:

All onto the coach with suitcases, boxes & bags,

Packed lunches, new coats, still sporting price tags,

Socks with sandals, caps & newly blue rinsed hair,

Some in gnarled solitude & others clinging in pairs,

Shuffling with Zimmer-frames & old tapping canes,

Chatting about grand-children, pills, aches & pains,

All popping tablets together with beer & their wine,

Groaning in their creaking, about the passing of old time,

Every five minutes, stopping the coach for a needed pee,

Left behind shouting, “hey driver, please don´t forget me”,

Once in the hotel, they all settle in their favourite chairs,

Ensconced in their places, they sit, doze & vacantly stare,

Forget all the excursions, trips, monuments & fair sights,

Sitting in front of the telly, is how they spend their nights,

Meal times are the best, that´s when things get exciting,

Elbowing each-other, to get all the food that is inviting,

Soups dripping down bosoms & cream upon old chins,

Spluttering, gnashing, champing, with evil contented grins,

Then off to bed until breakfast, when food beckons again,

Trudging streets daily, in what could be Leeds, Crete or Spain,

It makes no difference to them, where they go or even when,

And when it is all over, “Yippee, now we can go home again”,

Buying dirty postcards, sticks of rock & presents made of tat,

In karaoke creaking, shod in slippers & donning silly-billy hats,

Moaning about their bunions, their false teeth & achy veins,

Dripping from every orifice & then comparing all their pains,

Then turning off their hearing aids & not hearing anything,

But turning up for dinner, in best cardies & their pasty bling.

(I know, because I am one of them.)

MEN OF THE SEA:

Chicharreros, Islanders, those brave men of iced seas,

Toiling on boats, in sun, cold wind & balmy soft breeze,

Of chiseled sunned faces & cracked cockled salt beards,

So many monsters beneath, in oceans deep to be feared.

Seamen, of molten sun-crashed voices & rough cut hands,

Heave-ho, twined old nets, hauled safely to waiting lands,

Of shanties plucked, reels heeled & story soaked tongue,

Echoes over seven seas, heard when dreamt, told & sung.

Chicharreros, strong men of salt, shell & fish-gut scum,

Saline burnt by salt & sun, rot gut by grog & rough rum,

Visions of fin, shell & the elusive silver & shining scales,

Dreaming of mermaids, Neptune & much heard whales.

Chicharreros, Islanders, you men of seas & oceans wild,

You of Tenerife, rusted anchors, ropes & home-left child,

Dreaming of your Maria & home hearth you left burning,

With nets full, compass to home & over doldrums churning.

LET´S:

Let´s dance far away to the edge of the sand,

Let´s worship the moon, come & take my hand,

Let´s go to where starfish share secrets with waves,

Let´s go where moonbeams wend & pathways pave.

We shall weave, wend & waltz down to frothed sea,

Where you shall whisper words of sweet love to me,

And the wind shall serenade songs to swirling spume,

We´ll sip dawn´s dew, listening to the whale´s sad tune.

Let´s go at midnight, tonight, before it gets too late,

Let´s go now, before the sun rises & scorches our fate,

So blow farewell kisses to earth & give me your hand,

On the morrow, only our footprints will be left in the sand.

POTS, PANS AND KETTLES:

“Come & buy my pots, pans & well made kettles,

All hand beaten from the finest of Spanish metals,

Pots for your water, milk, oil & your best kept wine,

You won´t be disappointed & the guarantee´s all mine.”

Bronze cauldrons for your soups & pans for your stews,

Steel kettles for infusions, that I am sure you will use,

Of copper scrubbed well & hung over bubbling hearth,

Soft shining in the firelight, reflecting my walked path.

Glinting urns for your flowers & your loved one´s blooms,

And I have pretty little pots for your creams & perfumes,

Some with lids, for oils, unguents, & pomades for your hair,

So come on all you lovely folk & please look at my wares.

I´ve lots of watering cans, for your plants & gardens green,

You´ll hear me clanging on the road, long before I´m seen,

There goes the pretty tinker, on her clinking-clanking way,

Please stop here little vendor, as I need a brand new tray.