THE NATIONALITY OF OLD MEN:

You´ll find them hovering in the strangest places,

Determination etched on their weathered old faces,

Within the noisy grey edges of construction sites,

With their clicking dentures & their old milky sights.

 

You´ll see them sitting hunched on old park benches,

Huddled in their woolen scarves & arthritic clenches,

Garbed in hats, caps & often, their mismatched socks,

Hanging around bus stations & fishermen´s damp docks.

 

Men who have loved women & shaken baby´s toy rattles,

Who have gone to wars & sport scars of old fought battles,

Men of the colonies, of toil & oft, of positions well placed,

Brave men who never shirked or ran, when with danger faced.

 

Those men, fathers of beautiful daughters & smart clever sons,

Speaking old lingos, at which the young now merely poke fun,

Digging their allotments & remembering times of “back when”,

Hail to that special breed, the nationality of all the grand old men.

 

 

ABUNDANCE:

Oh for the abundance of those long gone days,

When life was offered up upon gluttony´s trays,

Upon spits turning & tables generously mounted,

Not the dainty nibbles of those calories counted.

 

Viva those days of flagons, gills, steins & quarts,

Without the careful sips, quips & snide sly retorts,

Those times of laden tables & rich groaning feasts,

Of oily fingers, the turned greased & roasting beasts.

 

Those days of abundance, feasting & jollity of lutes,

When wenches were comely & men never wore suits,

When no one spoke of fats, grams or the correct B.M.I,

Oh for long gone history, enough to bring tear to the eye.

 

LIFE´S TOO SHORT:

Life´s too short to sing tuneless songs,

To not say “Sorry” for all our wrongs,

Life´s too short to read tedious books,

To glower, frown & give dirty looks.

 

Life´s too short to moan of all unfair,

To fret about wrinkles or silvered hair,

Life´s too short for the calories & flab,

To worry about folk´s words that stab.

 

Life´s too short to stuff the mushrooms,

To wield mops, dusters & endless brooms,

Life´s too short for many things my friend,

To live is the answer, from beginning to end.

 

BUT I KNEW YOU:

I was not born with silver spoon at my lips,

No golden goblet, from where rich king sips,

I know no riches of precious metals & gems,

I´ve never been garbed in silk & velvet hems,

But I knew you.

 

I´ve not been blessed with glibness of tongue,

Nor with voice to sing, as the troubadours sung,

Not with the swiftness of foot, nor agility of cat,

I´ve no wing of eagle, nor night wisdom of bat,

But I knew you.

 

So many things I´ve not had, nor ever will know,

I´ve had nothing to gain & I´ve nothing to show,

Yet in all my nothingness & my humble being,

I´m blessed, as with in you, I´m all heaven seeing,

As I knew you.

 

SILENT WHISPERS:

Hark those silent whispers talking,

Within their gentle sighing,

Upon their breath of dying,

In yearning wishes of the soul,

Within being the living whole,

Deep in quiet night-time dreams,

In confession’s untold schemes,

Upon breath of wafting breezes,

In winter as it sleeps & freezes,

Soundless footsteps on final stairs,

Upon tongues of deep felt prayers,

Hark those silent whispers talking.

TOO MUCH OF A LADY:

She was too much of a lady for her own bloody good,

Behaving always well, as her old Papa said she should,

Never ever blaspheming, never a swear word nor a curse,

Always restricted & controlled, whatever could be worse?

 

She was never lifting petticoats, for the first man around,

Minding all her P´s & Q´s, she´s never deeming to astound,

Never imbibing more than tonic, without one gin too many,

Not even ever spending, more than one tiny necessary penny.

 

She was always too much of a lady, ever vigilant & prudent,

Her eyes down, head down, skirts down, the ever A1 student,

Keeping her modulated voice down & never making a scene,

But that was the old “Her”, a lady who was, & the “has been”.

 

It is now the time of her Crone-dom, her heyday & her time,

Now it´s time to hit the dance halls, the Harleys & red wine,

 Saying out loud “Look at me now Papa, if only you could see,

That being a bloody lady, did absolutely nothing at all for me.

 

THE CLOAK:

It was not the dress that she was used to,

They weren’t the clothes she used to wear,

It wasn´t her usual image, that she once knew,

What on earth was that, now replacing her hair?

 

What happened to that suit of her satiny skin?

Nipped & tucked tightly, in peachy soft pink?

When had those stitches worn & frayed so thin?

And her hair turned to grey, from its ebony ink?

 

Her garment now, was merely an old loose cloak,

Hanging about her bones, now all tattered & worn,                       

Her gloves & shoes, now were gnarled as old oak,

Her garb, moth eaten silk, of living years, now torn.

 

 

I AM ONLY HERE FOR THE NIBBLES:

“You are invited to our summer night´s soiree”,

Said the card, “& please reply with an R.S.V.P”,

An evening of elegance with such liberal libation,

How can I not accept such a gracious invitation?

I shall go for the nibbles.

 

So, posh frock at the ready & matching heels & bag,

Hair & make-up in place, converting Lady from hag,

Off I go to Hob-Nob, with all those who deem shine,

For an evening of pretence, champagne & old wine,

I just hope there are nibbles.

 

The people are beautiful & background music is cool,

There´s mingling going on, around grand patio & pool,

Flutes of crystal, bubbling golden & so suitably chilled,

Penguin clad waiters ensuring, that all glasses are filled,

I espy the tables with nibbles.

 

The long tables are laden, with silver & the finest of fare,

Caviar, lobsters, oysters, so much, it´s hard not to stare,

An elegant gent next to me asked, “Having fun my dear?”

“Actually”, I said, “I´m a girl who prefers peanuts & beer”,

I am only here for the nibbles.

 

 

HOLD ME WHILE I´M DYING:

Hold me while I´m dying & tell me pretty things,

Talk to me of waltzes & bird´s soft feathered wings,

Please garb your tongue in my floral print dresses,

And with your fingers, please comb my long tresses,

Please dab my tired brow with your petal perfumes,

While I´m dying, please sing me joyful sweet tunes.

 

Please hold me while I´m dying & talk to me of love,

Talk to me of wolves, old ravens & sweet grey doves,

Gloss your words in many hues, of dusk & rosy dawn,

When I finally go, never waste your time to mourn,

Let me hear your laughter, in final tolling of my bell,

So when I get to heaven, I too, will have tales to tell.

 

RAPSCALLION´S RANT:

Bad boy, naughty boy, singled out with finger pointed,

Beggar, thief, rascal, with bad names he is so anointed,

Knocked about, locked up & out, then the mug shot taken,

With society asking, if to his crimes, he will ever awaken.

 

He was born in lowly gutter, through no fault of his own,

He was shunned by society, without a warm loving home,

Merely roaming around the edges of scum, gloom & grime,

Flirting with all that is bad, within his innate life of crime.

 

Yet this rapscallion´s rant of, “I am a good boy, nearly”,

Fell on the deaf ears of society, saying “Is that so, really?”

He had never been cared for & he had never known love,

But someone had plans for him, & was watching from above.

THE LOST TRIBE OF OLD WOMEN:

Where has that lost tribe of old women gone?

Lost in places where they really come from,

Back in those times where places stood still,

Beyond wheelchair, illness & sad prescribed pill.

 

Those of church bazaars, baked scones & teas,

Of stories to grandchildren bounced upon knees,

Of the knitting, mending & the tatting of old lace,

Those of rounded rose-cheek & cheery sweet face.

 

Those tribes have morphed, moved on & so changed,

Have those grannies & nannies now become deranged?

Flaunting tattoos on old skin, that was once frail & white,

Showing now their flesh, that once, they kept out of sight.

 

The floral old ladies, of chintz, bottled jams & baked pies,

Tribe of old women, lost, on wings of time that now flies,

Now merely stored away in memories & old sepia pages,

That tribe of old women now lost, within past´s old ages.

 

I AM NOT:

I am not the colour, number, creed nor name,

I am not him or her, & as you, I´m not the same,

I am not the political party, label nor of any race,

I am not here competing, I only go at my own pace,

I am not any religion, I´m not them, they or even she,

I am not tied to any convention, I am always free,

I am not beautiful, ugly, short, tall, fat or even lean,

I am not particularly kind, nor am I even very mean,

I am not cut from a pattern, nor any particular line,

I am merely part of the human race, serving my time,

I am a soul upon a journey, within a mind that´s free,

I am not anyone special, but I am very special to me.

I PROMISED:

My child, I promised you at your birth,

To give you freedom of the wafting feather,

To plant the bright stars within your eyes,

To bestow you dance of the waving leaves,

To scent you perfumes of blooming petals,

To paint your lips with the sunshine´s smile,

To let your only tears be those of raindrops,

To endow you with the heart of an Angel,

To wash your sorrows with ocean´s waves,

To wish you all the wisdom of mother moon,

To bless you with the love of God´s beatitude,

My child I promised, may my promises be kept.

MERE WHISPERS ON THE SKY:

Mere whispers upon blue yonder sky,

Floating, drifting, wafting way up high,

Soft wispy clouds, mere Angel´s sighing,

The seagull, still & silent, upon its flying,

Leaf, in freedom, adrift from its mother tree,

Mere whispers upon sky´s breath, now free.

THE OLD COUPLE:

 

I saw them only, in mornings of Sundays,

Upon weekends, fiestas & all the fun days,

Never on mid-week, when all became busy,

The old couple had no time for hustled tizzy.

 

Along the Boulevard they ambled & strolled,

And ever so gently, her old hand, he would hold,

Beneath the shady trees, they would slowly walk,

Knowing each other so well, with no need to talk.

 

They were always neat, so very well turned out,

For them, it was what Sundays were all about,

His titfer was always tilted, at a jaunty wee angle,

Her lipstick always red & on her arm, an old bangle.

 

Steeped just in gentle smiles & no need for words,

Content with scented flowers & the singing of birds,

Leaving their shadows behind, in sunny old smiles,

This old Sunday couple, had walked their due miles.

LIFTING:

Arms lifting up, daily awakening,

Arms of baby, lifting to Mama,

Arms of Mama, lifting her baby,

Arms stretching up, inhaling breath,

Arms thrown up, in ecstasy & joy,

Arms lifting up, to God in prayer,

Arms lifting up, at the winning post,

Arms thrown up, in all celebrations,

Arms up & akimbo, in restful sleep,

Arms up, always up, in all happiness.

SEASONS OF WINE:

Walking through life´s seasons of wine,

Remembering & recalling passing of time,

Childhood fun & those wine coloured lollies,

With no time for worries & no thought of follies.

 

Youth was time of wine & gentle soft whispers,

The world our oyster, & all glowed & glistered,

Sipping our life from pink & rose bubbled glasses,

Watching the world go by, as it so quickly passes.

 

Last sacraments sipped, from the old wine of ages,

Blessed & forgiven, by all the churchmen of sages,

Now ending in ruby-red libation, of dry sapid must,

The seasons of life´s wine, now merely dust to dust.

 

OF GIN AND GEMSTONES:

She was merely a relic of times long gone,

Of the old Raj, where gold sun once shone,

A colonial product, of the Empire´s glory,

Now merely chapter, in past´s dusty story.

 

Of kowtowing servants, from dawn to dusk,           

Now she sits all alone, just a dried old husk,

From wakening each day, in rose-pink morn,

To ancient memories, well fingered & worn.

 

Now all that remains, from her glorious days,

None of the glad-rags, now merely all that frays,

Just her gin of forgetting & exotic old gemstones,

History´s stories, within her withered old bones.

 

HER PRAYER MAT:

Bestowed upon her, on the day of her birth,

In all of nature´s colours, of sky, leaf & earth,

Spun in tattered silk, of spider´s old homes,

Stitched with blessing, of A´llah´s gold domes.

 

It was where, as a child, she learned to pray,

Where, to her God, all her secrets she´d say,

Asking for a good man & the babies to come,

It was her mat of refuge, beneath ebbing sun.

 

She & her prayer mat, both fading with age,

Book of prayers & stories, upon every page,

Of kind wishes granted & old sins dissolved,

Her mat of prayer, where her life was solved.

 

BEAUTY:

Raven of obsidian eye & onyx plumes,

Guardian spy of stone ancient tombs,

You of ruby tongue & hard marble claw,

Who silence all dying, with a single caw,

Garbed in silken head & velvet feather,

Forever vigilant, in all sorts of weather,

Making sapphire oaths to crimson moon,

Beauty, enough to make dead men swoon.

 

IF I GAVE YOU:

If I gave you a word, would you scribe me a poem?

If I wrote you a note, would you sing me a song?

If I gave you a touch, would you return a caress?

If I looked you a glance, would you show me a sign?

If I give you a kiss, would you return it to me in love?

If I sighed you a breath, would you turn it to life?

If I gave you these gifts, would you give me your “You”?

AMAZING:

Isn´t it amazing?

When baby is tucked up sleeping, warm & safe,

When clean sheets wave in the springtime breeze,

When those baked bread aromas fill all the senses,

When the air is perfumed soft by summer flowers,

When sweet bird song serenades the heart & soul,

When the neighbours greet & the stranger smiles,

When the cat purrs & the dog´s tail happily wags,

When the prayers are heard upon the final Amen,

When I feel your ageing hand reaching for mine,

My darling, isn´t this life really just so amazing?

OLD:

It is loose, it jiggles, it flaps & it wiggles,

It aint hard no more & heads for the floor,

Uttered it prattles, when gnarled it rattles,

It´s creased & crinkled & ever so wrinkled,

It´s lined & floppy & it gets ever so stroppy,

Going yellow & grey & it´s forgotten to play,

In each step it shuffles & in word it muffles,

Thin, silver & stringy - now what´s that thingy?

It´s about forgetting it all & it all starts to pall,

The Zimmer-doddering man, where he once ran,

Now not hearing & seeing, yet forever peeing,

No longer the young, brave & bold, merely old.

 

EMBOSSED:

Scribed Upon parchment, by Bard´s moving quill,

Posted in missives, within the cooing pigeon´s bill,

Tossed upon oceans, in green bottles well sealed,

Scratched upon bark of old trees, in forests & fields,

Etched deep within marble & ancient Druid´s stones,

Carved in sacred symbols, within primitive old bones,

By carpenters & masons, chipped, hewn & chiseled,

Upon baked loaf & cake, in icing sugar, sweet drizzled,

Daubed & painted, in golden ochre, silver & blue woad,

Marked & stored for eternity, within old fairy tales told,

Whispered from tongues, in prayers, to God´s skies above,

Ever embossed, the history of man, who has fallen in love.

 

SHE WAS A LADY:

She was supremely beautiful, aloof & elegant to boot,

Her men weren´t gents, unless garbed in bespoke suit,

She was mantled in silk, spun by hands upon fine looms,

Her aura wafting upon the trail, of her exotic perfumes,

She was a Lady.

 

She would ride only in a Bentley or in silver Rolls Royce,

Her world was pearled oyster; she was spoilt for choice,

She dined on caviar, truffles & pink whelks without skins,

She was seen in chic bistros, quaffing champagne & Pimms,

She was a Lady.

 

Her genes were refined, not just blue-denim on buttocks,

Suffering no fools gladly, of bumpkin, yokel nor lummox,

She had no time for lingo banal, nor for anything profane,

Looking down her long nose, with utter scorn & disdain,

She was a Lady.

 

Her come-uppance arrived, with the passing of time,

With her first graying hair & that first wrinkled line,

She looked into cruel mirror, at her image in frame,

“In the end”, she said, “We are all, really the same,”

She was a Lady.

SHE GAVE ME A FEATHER:

She gave me a feather, saying,

When it left my breast, it was not sore,

It´s shedding, meant it´s needed no more,

Wear it in an earring, from your pretty ear,

So you may fly far beyond your sad wept tear.

 

She gave me a feather, saying,

When the wind whispered to my tail feathers,

It dropped this plume, upon midnight heathers,

Take it to waft the dust, from your sad old being,            

So far horizons shall be ever, within your seeing.

 

She gave me a feather, saying,

When the sun waltzed away with Autumnal moons,

It tempted this quill away, with sweet gentle tunes,

So please take it my friend, & write poetry of love,

So saddened lovers shall look always up & above.

 

She gave me a feather, saying,

When the seasons turn & I´ve finished with nesting,

It is then time to fly & put a quiet end to my resting,

Please take this feather; it is not a sign of my dying,

So your dreams, you´ll never stop from their flying.

 

DESTINY:

What´s happened to the life I should have been given?

Where are all those roads, I should really have driven?

And those paths I should have taken & bridges crossed?

Where´s fate, which by my destiny, is supposedly embossed?

 

Turning left, right, taking U bends & winding wrong turns,

Loving wrong ones, who merely dip, sip, then sadly spurns,

Uttering utter banalities & all those wrong words spoken,

Making oaths, vows & promises, which are further on broken.

 

All of those “on the spur of the moment,” decisions made,

And what of the, “not taking actions”, due to being afraid?

It´s all in the palm of my hand, within each line, so revealed,

Secreted in my soul, destiny signed, & so very deeply sealed.

NOW LET MAMA BE:

She has worked hard all her life & done it all,

Supporting her family, so they wouldn’t fall

She has cooked, laundered, swept & mopped,

She has dusted, polished, stooped & slopped,

She´s tired, now let Mama be.

 

She has kissed, petted, patted & rubbed sores better,

She followed recipes of motherhood, down to last letter,

She changed nappies, cleaned pee, poop, misaimed feces,

Mama, ever there, replacing broken bits & mislaid pieces,

She´s tired, now let Mama be.

 

She is rock of her family, well honed, worn & lathered,

Wanting to be stone now, of moss, truly & well gathered,

She´s given & loved, with her body, heart & woman´s soul,

She´s Mama of the hearth, the home & has given her whole,

She is tired, now let Mama be.

 

AWAKENING:

By one, she was sired,

To one, she was a sister,

She was engaged to one,

Then she married another,

Two, she birthed & reared,

She gave them her very Soul,

And she totally loved them all,

Yet deep down within her heart,

She knew there was no excuse,

Then awakening one fine day,

She walked away from abuse.

OH PRETTY PRIMAVERA:

Oh pretty primavera, in petaled petticoats of frills,

In beribboned bonnets of green blade & floral hills,

You, my fickle dame, when smiling, bring soft rain,

Then while resting upon laurels, bring allergic pain.

 

You pollinate the eyes with a nasty shade of red,

And just as we´re dancing, you get inside the head,

Skin you daub & stipple, in wheals & bumpy itches,

Sending in mosquitoes, those hard hearted bitches.

 

Oh pretty primavera, what a fickle friend you are,

You´d be really perfect, if you´d only never mar,

Stings are not needed, nor wanted, is the sneeze,

Otherwise my dear, you´re quite the perfumed breeze.

DANCE MAMA, DANCE:

Go bop Mama, rap Mama, go waltz, glide & sway,

Move your tapping feet Mama, go every night & day,

Gyrate your Latin hips Mama, move your well heeled feet,

Get bare-footed in the dust Mama, to that hot African beat.

 

Snake-like as the cobra Mama, dancing Arabic slinky belly,

Shake, turn it & burn it Mama, just like fizz & lemon jelly,

In the ballroom or bedroom Mama, or in any other room,

Alone or with your man Mama, or with your witches broom.

 

Dance dressed in finest silk Mama, grass skirt or rich brocade,

Swaying in your sari Mama, or dance the jig dressed in plaid,

The important thing Mama, is the fact that you are bopping,

Never mind your age Mama, in dance there aint no stopping.

 

YOUR BEING:

I planted the seeds of your young being,

So deep within my womb,

I loved you even before all my seeing,

And vowed so, until my tomb.

 

I nurtured, tended, & lovingly cared for you,

With all my body, heart & soul,

For all those deeds, I know, that I will never rue,

And for your existence, I gave you my entire whole.

TELL ME LITTLE BIRD:

Tell me little bird, of your delicate small bones,

Of how they can support your fine & tiny legs,

Tell me little bird, of your woven nested homes,

Of how you´ve spun them, from straw, twig & pegs.

 

Tell me little bird, of how your trilling beak sings,

Of the songs from your journeys, across distant seas,

Tell me little bird, of the strength within your wings,

Of how they never tire, until reaching tall green trees.

 

Tell me little bird, of your warm & downy feathers,

Of the feelings you feel, in your little heart beating,

Tell me little bird, how you face inclement weather,

Of how you feel, when from earth, you´re retreating.