Once Upon A Time

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I used to open doors, now they open for me.

I used to walk upstairs, now I’ve a Stannah stairlift.

I used to dial on my phone, now I press a little green icon.

I used to fall asleep counting wooly jumpers, now I take a pill.

I used to put a record on the turntable, now Lady Alexa does it for me.

I used to visit shops, now shops come to me.

I used to get a tangerine in my Christmas sticking, now it’s a voucher.

I used to vote in a booth, now it’s by proxy.

I used to listen to the Goons, now I watch Gogglebox.

I used to holiday in Blackpool, now it’s a cruise.

  I used to be busy, now I’ve too much to think about.

 

Two Word Tales #7- The Past Will Teach

‘Chambord’ … WHB – Pen & Wash

The Past Will Teach

Two words
“I do”
Gave me
Some hope

Two words
“Of Course”
Helped me
To trust

But then
Two words
Led me
To doubt

Those words
“Not now”
Made me
Despair

Two words
“No Luck”
Made clear
My fate

Two words
“Look back”
The past
Will teach

 

My ‘Two Word’ Verses

Number six  in my series of short verses 

 

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A Haiku For Christmas Day

 

Eskdale in Winter:  WHB … Pen and wash – 2017

ON CHRISTMAS DAY

 

The Christmas message

Its meaning of Salvation

Brings hope to the world

 

 

 

A CHRISTMAS HAIKU

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A  CHRISTMAS  HAIKU

 

The  Christmas story

Holds up the message of hope

That will bring us peace

 

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Two Word Tales – #6. Car Crash

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Car Crash

New car
Big load
Too fast
Old road

At speed
Strike hole
Burst tyre
Own goal

Hit tree
Sore head
Bruised knee
Not dead

No claims
Stiff joints
Bad luck
Six points

 

My ‘Two Word’ Verses

Number six  in my series of short verses 

 

River Of Iron

Skinningrove Beck

 

The water flows red

As it streams down from the hills

And I can’t help but feel

As it meets the cold North Sea

That it bears the blood of men

Who laboured in those mines

To bring the iron for me

 

Prufrock’s Lovesong Revisited

I stumbled into Prufrock’s life
At the age of twenty-one
A loner and a loser
He plucked a minor chord
How sad and sorry a life can waste
And end before death comes

Now, four twenty-ones gone,

As I stir my tedious cup
And knife still slices scone
Better by far to repeat his theme
Let daily chore recur
As daily deeds do
To live my life and measure it
In Costa coffee spoons

The Guardian of Hell

In Norway for a holiday
I chose to take a train.
I found a railway manager
Standing in the rain.

I asked him how I’d get a train
From here to Tromso town.
He looked at me askantly,
Then put his flag and whistle down.

Pausing a while, he sighed a sigh,
“Just go to Hell ” he muttered.
I thought how rude, how quite uncouth,
Such harsh words to have uttered.

I didn’t like his acid tone
I felt so hurt, and, sadly,
Wondered what I’d done to him
That made him treat me badly.

But then he started telling me
About a town called ‘Hell’,
Sitting on the Tromso line
A place where many dwell.

How the long-suffering railway chief
Had laboured to dispel
The reputation he’d acquired –
‘the Stationmaster from Hell.’

So at last I understood
I repented feeling badly.
Now I’d love to go to Hell,
Pay respects quite gladly.

Then standing by the station sign
I’d take a snap as well,
To show how I admired him,
This Guardian of Hell.

To Sleep … To Dream

To Sleep … To Dream

 

Sleep drifts across my consciousness
as I enter that make-believe world
where reality sees through a muslin mask
draped damask silk obscures truth
and a samite screen falls across my past

The difference between then and now fades
as a haze envelopes my senses
featureless clouds descend
and my dream-world begins

Reality now hijacked by myth and legend
a new world
untried
untested
a concoction distilled from my history
as unlike my waking world
as noonday is from midnight
as I am from my shadow

SLEEP

Life’s parade ground

Death’s practice ground

 

OF UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES

 

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Autolycus came to me and said:
You are a fellow Trifler
Collecting titbits as you go
A code, a pun, a cipher.

A slice of verse,
A photograph,
Graffiti on a wall.
A derelict old building,
A motto I recall.

A snippet here,
A smidgen there,
Nonsensical or sane;
Collecting trifles will pay off,
Nothing is in vain.

An old dead doll,
A fireplace,
A waste bin on a beach,
Have all at times inspired my verse
My writer’s block to breach.

For my creative muse,
Despite its times of dearth,
Enjoys the trigger of the odd
‘Tis inspiration’s birth.

NOTE:  Shakespeare’s Autolycus (in A ‘Winter’s Tale’, claims that he is ‘a snapper–up of unconsidered trifles‘.