THE CHILD AND THE WOLF:

She was just a pretty little brown Cherokee girl,

Of long jet black hair & sweet smile that curled,

Below the eagled skies & floral prairie she´d trip,

Before cooling forest streams she´d bend & sip.

Early one cold morn she found the she-wolf dead,

With two dead puppies & a bullet through her head,

She touched the soft silver fur with tears in her eyes,

Cursing the white men’s guns, then she heard the cries.

Under his mum, bundle of fluff, still alive but alone,

In her shawl, she took the little wolf back to her home,

Where she cared for him & taught him how to be wild,

Wandering prairies together, wolf & little Indian child.

Together they hunted for herbs & birds of fine feather,

They grew up strong into adulthood & always together,

She shared with wolf her secrets, to human never told,

And he taught her when to be meek & when to be bold.

The grey wolf aged fast & the child became an old dear,

Warming old bones in the Arizona sun, wolf´s end so near,

Together they had walked through the paths of life´s map,

And the old grey wolf died with his head on her soft sad lap.

She danced to the sun, wailed in the wind & raved at the rain,

Pleading with them to ease her unending & sorry aching pain,

Hearing on that haunting night, in the wind of summer´s June,

Wolf´s howling, “I´ll wait for you on the other side of the moon”.

TIRED:

“I´m so tired “, she said, as she laid her head,

Down on the hoary hard pillow of her weary life,

Tired of the washing, cleaning & making the bed,

Of the sewing, the ironing & the trouble & strife,

The cooking non-stop & the endless serving it too,

The shopping, the carting & the drudge of it all,

Without recognition, smile or even a “thank-you”,

Always there for everyone, every loud beck & call.

“I´m so tired”, she said, “I´m so very tired of it all”,

Tired maternally, matrimonially & domestically too,

She´s so tired of her life, it´s now beginning to pall,

Tired of the scrimping & saving & cleaning the loo,

Tired too of keeping up with the new techno jargon,

Tired of all the gadgets she can´t & won´t understand,

Tired of rising costs & getting nothing for a bargain,

She´s so tired of everything that stands in this land.

“I´m so tired”, she said, “of not being allowed to grow old,”

She´s so tired of the rudeness, no manners & rushing around,

She´s tired of the aggressive youth, so brash, brave & bold,

She´s so tired of seeing wars, cruelty & the abandoned hound,

She´s so tired of internet, face-book, twitter & that silly stuff,

She´s so tired of the banality of gossip, the news & cheap T.V.,

Of the little botoxed dolly birds with their brains of soft fluff,

“Does everyone feel like this?” she asks, “or is it just me?”

She tells everyone, “I have decided to opt out of society now”,

The doctor looks deep into eyes & her tired weary old head,

And through the questions & tests he digs & probingly ploughs,

“Nothing in there”, he says, “no reaction, she looks brain-dead”,

“Alzheimer’s”, he told her family, the word she heard him use,

If the doctor had really look deeper & without his lip so curled,

He´d have seen she wasn´t mad, nor sick, nor in anyway confused,

“I´ve gone deep within myself”, she said, “because I´m just so tired

Of this crazy old world”.

DAD:

Of Mater and regal Pater you were duly born,

An only child, arriving one warm sultry dawn,

The predicted son to a privileged sunny home,

But having no siblings, you forever walked alone.

Born in old Ceylon, across warm tropical seas,

Amidst fragrant spices and exotic herbal teas,

Son of rubber plantations & white Colonial rule,

Bought up by nannies and sent away to school.

Disciplined from a distance, coldly & sternly loved,

In boarding school, be-suited, be-hatted & be-gloved,

In sad lonely cold climes & so far away from home,

Learning all the classics from ancient & dusty tome.

Daddy, I know you too were once a small little boy,

Who played with hobby-horse, mud & little dinkie-toy,

What happened to the heart & soul of that little sad lad?

Who was told to behave & who was beaten when bad.

University came & then away to the army you were sent,

You fell in love, marriage came & then all passion spent,

You had me, your daughter & then you had a little son,

And you gave me & my little brother the hot African sun.

You did well & proud by your little family, Queen & nation,

Protecting, obeying & serving without any asked explanation,

You helped friends & all who came within your friendly wake,

No questions ever asked, only done for your goodness sake.

Not perfect to be sure, you committed your mistakes too,

But loving you, I find it very easy to pardon & forgive you,

Had you lived, today you would have turned eighty-six,

You are gone now & it is your gentle smile that I truly miss.

THE PICNIC:

I spy little picnicking pixies in pretty printed plaid,

Down by the river, where the willow´s hair strayed,

 Summer´s flowered flutes by the elves were played,

And the river Nymphs danced as the old dog bayed.

Carob munched & nectar drunk from the acorn cups,

Mother´s milk from the whelp for her new born pups,

Every little creature in the wood, dances & gaily sups,

A magical picnic where no human dares to interrupt.

The water giggled & the kingfisher, his fishy songs sang,

The crocus laughed & hollyhocks, their little bells rang,

No uninvited creatures came bearing claw nor fang,

The wood´s cracked seed-pods went pop, crisp & bang.

Sated as the sun went down & fun was had by one & all,

Summer´s nearly over now & in walks smoky golden fall,

All little creatures disappear now to subterranean halls,

Excitedly making plans for their coming floral spring ball.

PROMISES, HOPE AND WISHES:

Promises like pebbles, are tossed shimmering in the stream,

Held tight upon oathed tongues & locked in nightly dreams,

Crossed hearts & fingers, slipping in sorry drunken schemes,

Promises broken, come pouring down in salted saline teems,

Those which are kept are written on souled parchment reams.

Hope like bees golden honey, lies still & cloyingly, stickily sweet,

Hidden away, dripping, seeping deep, taken out as occasional treat,

Hoping that in its silence, its little heart will throb & continuously beat,

And that it soon will grow & blossom, no matter how flighty or fleet,

Hope clung to in adversity, as a baby latched onto life´s nurturing teat.

Wishes like witches, fly away, silent dust upon hushed, night brooms,

Like the breathless birthday candles wafting, leaving wishful glooms,

Like counting clouds, wishing up beyond those balmy summer noons,

Like those little coins tossed into the fountain to chase away the dooms,

If wishes were birds, we´d be happy just listening to their pretty tunes.