The Resolution

New Year, New You,
is what they say.
A chance to start anew,
making huge improvements
is what I plan to do.

There’s drinking lots more water,
going to a gym,
eating balanced food groups,
and hydrating the skin.

Watching where the money goes,
and putting some away,
then building up the savings
for a future rainy day.

There’s trying to be nicer
to folk who drive me mad,
and being optimistic
when things are looking bad.

Also I will volunteer,
for something that’s worthwhile,
and separate my plastics
to go that extra mile.

Wow, that reads like quite a list,
I’m filling up with doubt
I didn’t think I was that bad
but now I’m freaking out.

I’ll start with drinking water,
to get me into gear,
Then look at all the other tasks
this time again next year.    

Snooze-ology

I’ve found, as I get older,
An “ology” I love,
The art of having forty winks,
Or fifty, or above.

It’s something I’ve perfected,
To get me through the day,
I simply have to close my eyes,
And soon I’m well away.

A little snooze each afternoon,
Restores my power cell,
But sometimes I just can’t wake up,
And sleep all night as well.

Christmas Wrap

The Christmas Elf was feeling down,
His spirit had been crushed.
Last to pack his presents up,
He felt that he had rushed.

Santa always told them,
“Take care when wrapping gifts!”
Good Elves wrap throughout the year
And work in double shifts.

But not this Elf, oh no, not he,
He always left it late,
Then rushed around on Christmas Eve,
In such a flustered state.

As midnight struck he wrapped a book,
And then another one,
His pile had almost reached the roof,
Five minutes he’d be done.

Dashing down the corridor,
Towards the waiting sleigh,
Down the curly whirly slide,
On to the loading bay.

“Where HAVE you been?” said Santa,
“I’m sorry” said the Elf.
He gave Santa his presents,
And retreated to his shelf.

Santa smiled and said out loud,
“Well, better late than never,
Your wrapping has improved this year,
The little bows are clever!”

The little Elf puffed up with pride,
And wiped away a tear,
But secretly thought to himself,
“I’m safe until next year”.

Too Much News

There’s too much news,
You get me?
Too much cut and thrust,
Too much consternation
And hardly any trust.

We seem to be obsessed,
With the battles and the strife,
We’re folding in upon ourselves,
We’re short-changing our life.

Let’s stop and think, Yes disagree,
And rage at the machine,
But understand the temperature,
And keep the playground clean.

The Body

The Body woke this morning
And Hand said to The Brain,
“I’ve had enough of being here
I’d rather not remain”.

The Arms then both went crazy,
Folded in disgust,
They fell out with each other,
The Body lost all trust.

The Brain called an election,
The result was such a riddle,
Half will go, half will stay,
Cut right down the middle!

Eyes would not look at The Ears,
And let their eyelids close,
The Head became a sticky mess,
No Hands to blow its nose.

The Shoulders were unhappy,
Carrying that weight,
Tummy kept on grumbling,
And Ears could not relate.

Hands refused to work with Legs,
Knees refused to bend,
The Body was in turmoil, and just
Lay there in the end.

The moral of this sordid tale,
Is recognise you’re part
Of a bigger situation,
And respect that from the start.

Later

Later, you traitor,
You always delay,
Fine ‘till tomorrow,
Is all you can say.

Later says wait,
Let’s not do this yet,
Best to postpone,
Perhaps to forget.

Buy now pay later,
No need for distress,
Get all you want,
Without all the stress.

Later looks lovely,
Free from all pains,
Put offs are gorgeous,
For hope still remains.

But sooner or later,
We have to take chances
And live in the moment
To make our advances.

The Zombie

Depression is a zombie,
dragging souls to hell.
It hollows out the inner self,
and hurts a lot as well.

Alas, for in that moment,
when we need “get up and go”,
we lose our navigation and
switch off our dynamo.

There is but one path forward,
one step ahead each day,
Fear of putting down your feet
must not get in your way.

However dark the road may be,
however black the night,
You’ll make it through this tunnel
And step into the light.

The Creature on the Moors

“Don’t go on the moors tonight,
beneath that cold moonlight.
Stay safe in doors, not on the moors,
please don’t go out tonight”.
He seemed a jolly fellow,
so I took his words in jest,
I hadn’t thought of going out,
just staying with the rest.

But after listening to his words,
I seemed to want to go,
to take a stroll out on the moors,
a sort of dare, you know.
I slipped out of the pub back door,
and down the country lane,
across a style, for half a mile,
as it began to rain.

But as I passed a clump of trees,
a shadow caught my eye,
did I just see something move
against the evening sky?
A cold and prickly feeling,
started creeping up my spine,
I felt that I was being watched,
perhaps for quite some time.

Of course, I’d heard the stories,
of the creature on the moors,
but hadn’t really thought it real,
just crazy old folklores.
A snap behind me made me jump,
and quickly spin around,
prepared to face a vampire,
or a ghoulish demon hound.

I fled back up the country lane,
and bolted through the door,
the landlord turned to speak to me,
“Have you been on the moor?
Don’t go on the moors tonight,
stay here, for in these parts,
after nine, it’s free house wine,
and everyone plays darts”.

9am on the beach

The roar of the waves,
as they break on the beach,
not yet drowned out,
by the clatter and screech,
of girls in bikinis,
in Instagram poses,
and dads rubbing sun cream
on foreheads and noses.
A sunbow of parasols,
will be displayed,
as lots of hot bodies,
set up in the shade.
The sand freshly raked,
and the sun loungers neat,
waiting for tourists
to put up their feet.

Oh the peace on the beach,
at the start of the day,
before all the tourists
get in the way.

One Word

We are a world of words,
That spark, and tame and frame,
Soothing sounds, some out of bounds,
Invented for the game.

A world that oft is foggy,
And filled with dark half-lies,
Fuelling our suspicions,
Searching through disguise.

Yet words can move a mountain,
Build bridges over streams,
And bring us all together,
As we line up into teams.

Words are ammunition,
Cannons, on front lines,
But also they’re the pathways,
That calm chaotic minds.

Words of truth are brutal,
Not kind, as we suspect,
But in the end, the final word,
Is always use respect.

Mary the Lyrical Fairy

Mary the Lyrical fairy,
Could make words disappear,
She’d wave her magic wand at them,
And they’d fly out of here .

Woosh! there goes a word or two,
Hidden from our sight,
I wonder what that word could be?
Could we guess it right?

There, you see, one went just then!
Can you work it out?
These words keep disappearing,
Is there a thief about?

We just can’t lock the words all up,
We need them free to roam,
I wonder if she’ll stop it soon?
And leave those words alone.

Why oh why then Mary,
Why must you mess about?
She says “words can be so painful,
So I rub some of them out”.

Why am I here?

“Why are we here?”
asked the bright little girl,
“what is the meaning of life?”
The man thought for a moment,
and raised an eyebrow,
then turned, and looked at his wife.

“You’re here thanks to love”,
said the lady to her,
“and your life will be what you will make”.
“But WHY am I here”,
insisted the girl,
“what’s my PURPOSE for goodness sake?”

“There is not a point,
not a reason as such,
you take life and use it your way.
You will decide,
how you want to abide,
and how you will live every day”.

“If you want our advice”,
she said, being nice,
“I suggest that you live through your heart.
Be clever, be kind,
Make the most of your mind,
That sounds like a great place to start”.

The Fall 2 – The Rise

Being the continuing adventures of Leaf in “The Fall”

Leaf trembled in the icy blast,
Twisting wildly round,
The only leaf left on the tree,
The others, on the ground.

He’d lived though all four seasons,
But knew his time had come,
The wind would surely take him,
And compost he’d become.

Then howling wind leapt from the east,
And SNAP he felt it go,
Suddenly he’s floating,
Caught in wind and snow.

High he flies, the tiny leaf,
Spinning round and round
Swirling past a steeple,
And down across the ground.

Round and round the roundabout,
Then over a street light,
Like a crazy fairground ride,
That goes on through the night.

He swirled into a market square,
Then swooped beneath a gate
And stopped outside the smart back door
Of Church lane, number 8

“Look this one is perfect!”
Cried the giant looking down,
She picked him up, “this one is just,
The perfect shade of brown”.

So now, leaf shines there proudly,
In a front-door Christmas wreath,
All golden, and with glitter on,
And two big balls beneath.

Inside Out

There was a boy with skin so blue,
As blue as sunny sky,
He turned up in our village,
And startled passers-by.

They’d not seen someone with blue skin,
Unsure of what to think,
He’s not like us, they whispered,
We’re used to brown and pink.

He had a truly awful time
At the local school,
People called him smurf-face
And thought him most uncool

Every night he cried at home,
And hated going out,
He did not feel secure at all,
When he walked about.

But then a kindly teacher,
A certain Mr Quinn,
Started asking questions,
About his coloured skin.

Tell me why it matters?
He asked the local folk,
Just because he’s different
You treat him like a joke.

You villagers have problems,
You can’t see past his face,
He’s still a human being
Your reaction’s a disgrace.

A wiser person judges people
From the inside out,
Start by looking at their heart,
To see what they’re about.

You must not judge a person
Just because they’re blue,
It’s what’s inside that really counts,
That should mean more to you.

A person may be pure and kind
Or rotten to the core,
But you just can’t judge a person
By their colour any more.

The Sentinel

I sit beside the fire,
I think of all I’ve seen,
Of Kingdoms and of Dragons,
Adventures there have been,
But oh what a surprise to find,
That soon I’d leave them all behind,
To go upon my last
My final journey.

Across the misty mountains,
Beyond the Chalice seas,
Through lush enchanted valleys,
Filled with watching trees.
At last I reach the caverns,
On Midsummer’s Eve in June,
Here I sit whilst waiting
For the rising of the moon.

So as the moon begins to climb,
Revealed within the light,
An ancient tomb carved from the rock
Upon which stood a Knight.
This dusty, aged sentinel
Looks kindly on my face,
He nods and steps down from his plinth
And I take up his place.

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