Here are some poems I have written recently.
The first is one I wrote after going to a Mary and Martha service (Anglican Women's Fellowship service) and getting lost on the way.
IT'S NOT A PROBLEM. JUST FOLLOW THE BUS
There’s
a red and white bus to take us to our meeting.
(We
all simply must be there,)
but
I can’t stay for tea; I have to leave early,
so
I drive in my car, my own little car,
my
little blue car
just
behind it.
The
sun shines bright, the gulls fly free.
The
bus trundles on, on the road by the sea.
I
sing as I drive in my own little car,
my
little blue car,
just
behind it.
The
bus-driver swerves out to pass a slow truck.
There are cars in the way and I
have to swerve back
The
bus speeds on, on the road by the sea
and
I am there in my own little car
my
little blue car
far
behind it.
The
bus turns left and then turns right
I
see it stop by a traffic light,
but
when I get there the bus is gone.
Do
I turn left, or right, or go straight on
in
my own little car, my little blue car,
in
order to follow behind it?
The
chairlady sitting in the back of the bus
gets
worried when she looks
through the window of the bus
and
she doesn’t see me, in my own little car
my
little blue car
just
behind her.
I
get a message on my hands-free phone
With
directions to get to the meeting
then
the phone goes dead. There’s no coverage.
The
bus has gone without trace and I’m quite lost
in
my own little car, my little blue car
far
behind it.
But
somehow I reach the town of Belhar
and
there I meet a charming man called Basil (of Belhar,)
who
takes me to all the churches in Belhar
until
we find the red and white bus
and
I park my own car, my little blue car
right
behind it
DIPSTICK
She
was the first dog that was my very own,
wouldn’t
walk with anyone
unless
I told her to. She owned
one
black ear and one white
and
on her head a spot
to
indicate the place to drop a kiss.
The
face she showed the world
was
pure and innocent, but underneath
there
lurked the nature of a thief,
a
devious raider of cupboards with a love
for
trash and rubbish bins.
She
was a hunter, dedicated to
the
hounding of squirrels, geese and ducks.
a
killer of rats and moles, a TV star,
a
guardian of the home, and
for
all her sixteen years,
my friend.
GHOSTS
“He
sees a ghost,” you say
When
your dog stares, growling, at an empty wall.
But do dogs see ghosts?
No,
they don’t. They smell them.
There
is a mouse-shaped smell that haunts
the
space beneath the kitchen cupboard,
just in the
spot a hapless rodent met its fate,
head
bitten off and swallowed.
Say”mouse”−
Jack Russell, Beemer
jumps up and barks and runs straight there.
There
is a smelly feline ghost
that
lives in the back lane and even I
catch
whiffs of it at times. And then
there
is the postman ghost
that
hovers by my grandson’s gate
Dogs
always circle him
with
hackles raised.
though
no one sends us letters any more.
And
when my little dog sniffs round and round
a
worn patch on the mat, and curls up
next
to it, I know he smells the ghost
of
my old beagle, Dipstick
lying
there.
