Coffee

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!

This week’s poem is inspired by my favourite hot drink: coffee. It’s my first drink of the day, and quite often the only thing I drink all throughout the day. As my poem will tell you, I’m not precious about my coffee – maybe that’s a bad thing (I know that coffee ‘elitists’ are out there – and if you are one of these, please don’t judge me), but I do like my coffee, and that is that.

The idea to write this poem came about after a conversation with the proprietor of a very lovely cafe close to where I work. The delightful Viola (Hi Viola) is always friendly and welcoming, and although her premises are small, she does well with the space she has – offering not only good coffee but also delicious food too. You can find out more about this little gem by visiting their Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/HotAndSweetDorchester

I would certainly recommend a visit.

But now, I’m not Trip Advisor – I’m a blogger and a poet, and you came here to read this week’s Friday poem. So without further ado, why not pour yourself a cup of coffee and take a look.

I hope you like it.

Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee:
Black or white, strong or frothy
In the morning when I get up,
Give me coffee in my cup.

I don’t have any “get up and go”
Until I’ve had my cup of ‘Joe’
A caffeine fix is what I need,
To get me fully up to speed.

Keep coffee simple, just like me
Not ruined with complexity.
I’m never sold on coffee Frappe
A concept that to me sounds crappe.

I’ve had latte, with an extra shot;
Espresso – strong, just not a lot
Sampled a cortado long ago,
And had a lungo – don’t you know.

Cappuccino – nine-tenths froth
Coffee with whisky (made me cough).
Americano – not my type:
I’m happier with the old flat white.

I really like my coffee – but
In truth I’m just a caffeine slut
Who gets it any way I’m able,
Like stealing it from the disabled.

Friends say that I drink way too much,
Each day on average fourteen cups.
I can’t believe the fuss they’re making,
(Why is it that I can’t stop shaking?)

I’ve taken coffee in some fancy places,
Where it is drunk with airs and graces.
Your coffee comes in a china cup
And at £11.70 they stitch you up.

I’ve also frequented those known franchises
That serve you coffee in three different sizes.
The ones where staff are called “Baristas”
And some have scalded hands with blisters.

Recently coffee’s become refined,
For those more selective – if so inclined.
You can even get to choose the blend
If that is what matters to you my friend.

From Guatemala? Or Ecuador?
Or a bean you’ve never tried before?
The latest coffee trend I hear
Is a bean that crushed by pygmy’s rears

In little huts so small and sparse
Pygmies crush coffee beans with their arse,
Before shaking them off into a sack
(Remembering any stragglers in their crack)

Before this however, the beans are roasted
(The pygmies buttocks must get toasted!)
But it’s this that helps make the flavour pure;
Hot beans squashed by arseholes on the floor.

Back home in London, the cafes are packed
With rich folk drinking ‘pygmy’s crack’
For that is the name of this fine blend
Inspired by a pygmy’s tempered end.

Each to their own, that’s what they say,
I think I’ll stick to Nescafé.
Other coffee brands are available
I’ll drink whatever I am able.

Granular, powdered, refined or not;
I’ll drink it just as long as it’s hot.
The smoky depths of good coffee
Is simply just my cup of tea!

If you like this poem, you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Friday poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from Amazon.com, wherever you are – or if in the UK from Amazon.co.uk in paperback by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/2tOvhA6 , or for Kindle by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/hbDIMdU

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Hello, and welcome to my blog.

The irony continues.

And by that, I mean that I continue to make progress (tiny, incremental progress), even though in a few weeks my swimming lessons will stop because I have cancelled them.

This week, we revisited breathing. Aah, breathing – such a tiny thing, yet so vital to the whole “living” malarkey. My fellow pupil and I are in the same boat (not literally – that would be a bit cheeky in a swimming lesson) when it comes to breathing whilst swimming in that we struggle with getting enough breath in, often take in water, and end up panicking / floundering / forgetting any technique we might have learned.

I suppose I had somewhat of an advantage over my fellow learner in that I had already been “taught” about breathing. The simple fact that I had failed to take in anything taught to me is beside the point, but as Kate our teacher explained to us about breathing techniques, I did feel kind of smug that I already knew this.

Luckily, there was no one around to point out that in spite of already knowing this stuff, I still couldn’t do it.

But then I had an epiphany. No, not an epiphany because that is a divine manifestation, and Jesus did not appear to me in speedos and a rubber ring (if he did appear in a swimming pool, I’m fairly sure that he wouldn’t be concerned about his buoyancy). What I did have, is a moment when something ‘clicked’. And for once it wasn’t my lower back. Kate was talking about how we should not raise our head out of the water when we breathe in, but should just turn our head to the side and breathe in. I had tried this previously, but always got a mouthful of water rather than air. Well, this week Kate told us that as we move through the water, the motion of our arms entering the water on each stroke makes the water part and go either side of us. Not Moses style, but enough to create a small pocket of air on our shoulders – a pocket that we can breathe in, in when we turn our heads. Now, there’s a bit more to it than that, but when I tried it out – it worked! Like I said, it wasn’t perfect, but I was able to take a breath and continue swimming, and Kate said my stroke looked much smoother. So it’s that little pocket of air on my shoulder that just might

I also swam a total of four lengths this lesson – again, not all at once, and my technique went very ragged for some of it, but I’m starting to see the rewards of my efforts.

To end with, I’d just like to prompt those of you who aren’t regular visitors to my blog to visit the “Poems” page of this blog via the menu, and take a look at last week’s Friday Poem, “Otis Rem”. This was a poem inspired by the inside of a lift (elevator). I know that doesn’t sound too exciting, but just go with it..

If you are a first time visitor to my blog, I hope you will have a look around, and perhaps pop back to see me again.

Until next time…..

OTIS REM

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week’s offering is one that I have been sitting on for a little while. As with all my poems, I took inspiration for it from everyday life. On this occasion, I found inspiration at work – from inside a lift (elevator to our friends across the pond).

Our lifts at work are manufactured by the Elevator company OTIS and are monitored remotely. So on the control panel inside the lift there are the words “OTIS REM” with REM being an acronym for ‘Remote Elevator Monitoring’. Im not sure why, but Otis Rem sounds like a name, and that idea nestled into the fertile soil of my imagination and steadily started to germinate.

After many weeks, I managed to cultivate this idea and the following poem is what I have come up with. I have taken the liberty of contacting the OTIS Elevator Company (Hi Jodi – thanks for reply to my email), to tell them about my poem, and to thank them for providing me with my inspiration for it.

DISCLAIMER – This poem is not Elevator / lift related, and bears no resemblance to the fine people at the OTIS Elevator Company. I would not dream of insulting them, as to do so would be wrong on many different levels.

So, without further ado here is this week’s poem.

I hope you like it.

Here is the story of Otis Rem;

Orphaned and homeless by the age of 10.

Under life’s hard boot he spent his time

Unavoidably drawn to a life of crime.

The sprig of youth came hard and bare

Like a bramble that will cut and tear.

In the shadows of life young Otis lived

Stealing what he could – because none would give.

His nimble fingers, pockets found

And lifted contents without sound.

A master pickpocket by age fourteen,

Always silent, never seen.

But growth will often stealth prevent,

So Otis turned to violence.

Brutality soon became his m.o.:

A broken jaw; a severed toe.

He cared not who he terrorised,

He focussed purely on the prize.

His reputation soon did spread,

And the streets were filled with fear and dread.

Folk quickly learned not to venture out,

When word said Otis was about.

To do so was to forfeit life

At the hands of Otis and his knife.

From legend into myth did Otis turn

Soon half the city had all learned

To fear a shadow that would loom

Out of thin air – and herald doom.

Some said Otis grew horns and hooves

And rampaged nightly ‘cross the roofs

Wreaking terror ‘ere he went

On death and destruction now hellbent.

Otis was starting to enjoy this game;

His gruesome antics had brought him fame.

So he decided to leave a calling card:

And on each victim his initials he carved.
The police were helpless – what could they do?

Being regular folk like me and you.

At last a garrison was sought;

Their task – kill Otis, or get him caught.

To soothe the citizens so troubled,

Patrols began – and soon were doubled.

But a message in blood told he’d struck again:

“You’ll not stop me”- signed, Otis Rem.
A reward was offered, and hundreds swarmed

A dozen vigilante groups were formed

All with the same purpose: search the town

Find Otis Rem – and take him down.

But evidence of his work was still found;

Each monogrammed corpse upon the ground

Bore a final insult as they were laid to rest:

The initials “O.R” carved into their chest.

Suspicion like a cancer grew,

Who was this monster – Me? You?

No-one was beyond being interrogated

The mob wanted justice – and would not be abated.

And then one night Otis Rem was caught;

Interrupted in mid-sport.

He fled; and was pursued for hours

Before being cornered in the wooden bell tower.

There would be no trial that fateful night;

The townsfolk simply set the tower alight.

No call for a magistrate – there was no need;

The timbers spread the flames at speed.

Justice would be done that night

Violent yes – but just, and right.

The whole town had now turned out to see

Otis Rem meet his destiny.
The people retreated but fixed their eyes

On Otis Rem’s fiery demise.

And as he burned, the bell he rung,

Laughing as to the rope he clung.

The bell tower now was a fiery scene:

Otis’s laugh was almost a scream,

He swung from the bell, with wild open eyes

As the flames licked at him from all sides.

The burning flames roared as loud as thunder

As finally the bell tower collapsed asunder.

And with a great and deafening crash

Was reduced to rubble, smoke and ash.

After the smoke had finally cleared,

The people of the town all re-appeared.

To search the ruins for the remains

And an end Otis’s evil campaign.

They searched for hours, they searched for days,

Picked through each fragment of the blaze,

Scoured minutely the black and charred ground –

But Otis Rem could not be found.

It was quickly announced he had not survived:

No-one in that fire could still be alive.

But slowly, rumours whispered doubts

Of Otis Rem’s true whereabouts.

It’s true he was never seen again,

But myth and legend still remain.

In the absence of any evidence factual

Belief starts in the supernatural.

So lock your doors and windows tight,

Keep all your loved ones close tonight.

Take all precautions as you see best,

Or find ‘O.R’ carved into your chest…..

If you like this poem, you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Frida poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from Amazon.com, wherever you are – or if in the UK from Amazon.co.uk in paperback by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/2tOvhA6 , or for Kindle by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/hbDIMdU

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Hello, and welcome to my blog – and a very Happy Father’s Day if you A) are a Father, and B) you live in the United Kingdom, where it is Father’s Day today.

If you do not meet either one or all of the above criterion, you are still very welcome, and I hope that you are well and life is treating you well.

I have decided to stop swimming lessons. I have not taken this decision lightly, and it is based purely on financial reasoning. The cost of living is going up, while wages are not so I need to tighten my belt – and that means stopping paying for things that I do not really need. I can already swim – my lessons were just for technique improvement, and to build my confidence. This is just a postponement. I will return to these lessons as soon as I am financially able to.

So, I had a lesson today – and we worked on our arms. It transpires that what happens with my arms is equally important when they are both in and out of the water. When in the water, my arm should push water back behind me, and thus help propel myself through the water. When out of the water, my arm should stretch out and over in an arc, as if I was reaching over a barrel. I was reminded that I also need to make my strokes smooth and gentle, which in turn will give me more time as my arm is out of the water to breathe in and get a full lung of air. At present, I’m still favouring the short, fast, frantic stroke with short gasping intake of breath, resulting in panic and flailing in the water.

On a more positive note, I managed to swim a full length of the pool (25 metres) – three times during my lesson. This is an achievement for me, for it involved traversing the deep end of the pool where all my fears and anxiety lurks. My technique left me for the last third of the length, but I am pleased that I made it.

I will admit that I am aware of the irony at play here. Just as I start to make progress, I am stopping the vessel in which my progress is carried. But in the time between my finishing these lessons, and renewing them I will continue to practice what I have learnt, and strive to gain confidence in my breathing technique so that when I return to lessons, it will no longer be a barrier to improvement.

Leonard McCoy

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!

This is the fifth, and final ‘Poem Challenge’ poem, of this current series. If you have not been following my blog (and please do feel free to), the Poem Challenge is where I invite anybody to suggest a topic for me to write a poem about. There have been no other rules, and I would invite you to read the previous four Poem Challenge poems:

• ‘Amazingly Autistic’ – Friday Poem #71
• ‘Mini Trampoline’ – Friday Poem #72
• ‘Dinosaurs’ – Friday Poem #73
• ‘Hold Them Monkeys’ – Friday Poem #74

As with every time I do a Poem Challenge series, I have enjoyed myself immensely in interpreting your suggestions this time around. I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to Charlotte, Adrienne, Saskie, and Ben for “taking the plunge” and indulging me with their ideas for the previous four poems.

And now to this weeks offering; this poem was suggested by another work colleague, who asked me to write about her cat, who is named Leonard McCoy (that’s him in the picture) and who, like all cats brings “gifts” for his owners – but not the usual gifts you might expect…

So if you are suitably intrigued, here is the poem.

I hope you like it.

Leonard McCoy, Oh Leonard McCoy

You really are a nightmare, boy!

Although we do love you to bits,

We’re at the end of both our wits.

 

It’s not that you’re not housetrained – no:

You’re straight outside when it’s time to go.

And it isn’t for any lack of love;

You fit our hearts like a furry glove.

 

Alas, what causes all the strain

Are the workings of your feline brain;

Your instinct to hunt is fully intact –

But it’s what you bring back, you mental cat!

 

A slice of pizza,  from a bin

(Always stuffed crust – never thin)

That open bag of frozen chips:

Did you have tiny frost-bitten lips?

 

A scotch egg; naan bread; half a sausage roll

Some more examples of things you stole.

An entire crusty cobb roll – it’s wrapper untouched

Where do you go, to bring back so much?

 

And what’s wrong with birds for heavens sake!?

Or the usual things that cats will take?

Like mice or shrews – or even the odd bat?

(I’m sure I’ve read a poem about that).

 

Even a swan I’d let you keep,

If I saw you catch one by the beak.

But you don’t follow that rule of thumb –

You like your bird meat in breadcrumbs!

 

Oh yes, the chicken – KFC-esque,

Do you work alone, or take requests?

As a master thief you have excelled:

Extracting single, defrosted prawns (still shelled).

 

But you have also crossed the line;

Stealing other cats gifts at Christmas time.

Any goodwill thoughts were soon dismissed,

Guess who’s top of Santa’s naughty list?

 

And it’s not as if you are not fed;

You shovel food into your head.

I can only guess that while we sleep

You watch re-runs of “Supermarket Sweep”

 

What really shook us to our joints

Is finding you have loyalty points!

Just how you signed up – we find that hard;

And wonder where you keep your card….?

 

To think, oh fiendish, ruthless berk

You’re named after the friend of James T. Kirk

Who, at your antics would be in shock,

And it would raise the eyebrow of Mr. Spock.

 

So we’ve had to put flyers through our neighbours doors,

To warn them about your sticky paws.

But if there is no end to your tom-foolery,

Can you at least steal stuff like cash and jewellery?

 

My thanks to Kimberly for her fantastic suggestion – all based on real events! Who knows, there could be a whole series of poems based on Mr McCoys exploits!

I hope you have enjoyed this poem, and I hope you will visit my blog again. And of course, I invite you to tell all your friends about it.

You might be interested to know that as well as writing a poem each week on this blog, I also offer a bespoke Poem writing service. I have some examples of previous commissioned poem on the ‘Poetry Commissions’ page of this blog, which you can find in the menu. This Sunday is Father’s day in the UK, and if you would like a unique way to celebrate your dad, why not commission a poem about him from me? All enquiries are free and without obligation, and there is a contact form on the ‘About me and how to get in touch’ page of this blog.

Alternatively, if you know someone who would enjoy my style of poems,  then my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. You can get it from Amazon, wherever you are – or if in the UK from Amazon.co.uk in paperback by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/2tOvhA6 , or for Kindle by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/hbDIMdU

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hello and welcome to my blog.

 

Well, I went back to swimming today after a two week break – and I made real progress!

My teachers name is Kate. I have had that confirmed and verified by the fact that another person in my class, referred to her as Kate in a conversation. So that’s a relief – no more calling her  ‘Miss’, or ‘Swim-lady’, ‘teacher’ or avoiding conversation altogether. I can now speak to her with confidence about how rubbish my swimming is.

As the eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed already, I was not alone in my lesson this week. I had two new classmates – one of which is a friend of mine and my fiancée’s and one of a group of friends who hang out semi regularly. Well, my fiancée and I hang out semi-regularly with them – for all I know, the rest of them could be meeting twice a week and keeping us on the fringes of their collective social calendar. Anyway, “Ed” as I shall call him (for that is his name) was a familiar face to me, but the other member of our class – a lady – was less well known. I recognised her face, and was certain of her last name, but her first name was unknown. I wanted to call her “Jo” for some reason – but didn’t dare do so to her face.

Maybe the whole ‘not knowing a name’ stuff, is subconsciously linked to women? I’ll discuss it with my Fiancée, “whatshername” after I write this blog post.

So the lesson got underway, and because of the two ‘newbies’ Kate started right from the beginning, as she did with me five lessons ago. I didn’t mind this, as it allowed me to consolidate what I had learned already, but still practice my breathing technique (which is still rubbish). I spent a lot of time practicing my kicking in this lesson, which is why my legs were a bit achy afterwards.

I have also made a discovery as to the possible reasons for my difficulty in mastering the whole breathing thing; Kate, my teacher (that’s her name – I know it now), was observing me swim, and mentioned to my that when I swim, rather than being at the surface I am actually about 6 inches below the surface of the water – which would explain why, when I turn my head to breathe in, I often take in water rather than air. And the reason my swimming teacher (Kate) gave for my position in the water:

“You’re too muscular”

Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but nor am I someone who would argue with someone who is clearly an expert in their field. The knowledge needed to be a swimming teacher is clearly more in depth than most other teachers, because people might die if a swimming teacher didn’t know their stuff. So I take what she said very seriously: my muscular frame is hampering my buoyancy (and could probable hamper Beyoncé given half a chance).

Putting it plainly: I’m buff – and buff don’t float.

In due course the lesson ended, and I went and got changed. As both me and “Ed” are male, we got changed in the same changing rooms – which caused a bit of awkwardness. I said earlier that Ed’s face was familiar to me – but his body isn’t. So as we were within talking distance of each other while we got changed, we had a little natter about stuff. While this was going on, however, I was also having an internal conversation with that part of my brain that really talks too much. The conversation went like this:

(Brain): You talking to Ed?

(Me): yes.

(Brain): I’ve never seen his body before.

(Me): It’s not important, I know Ed and I’m just talking to him.

(Brain): Yeah, but he’s naked.

(Me): Shut up, he’s just drying himself off after swimming.

(Brain): Look at his hairy chest.

(Me): No, I’m talking too – oh, Jeez I just looked at it. I think Ed noticed.

(Brain): I think he did – he thinks your weird.

(Me): Fuck off, he doesn’t. We’re just having a conversation.

(Brain): Don’t look where he is drying now.

(Me): I’m not going to! I’m concentrating on his face or the ceiling, or the coat hooks behind him.,

(Brain): That’s a good idea – look anywhere but at him, that won’t appear weird at all….

(Me): Shut up! shut up! SHUT UP!!!

 

Apologies to Ed if he reads this. I’m sure next weeks swimming lesson won’t be as awkward…….

 

 

 

Hold Them Monkeys

 

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem – and the fourth of my Poem Challenge poems.

This Poem is on a subject very close to my heart, and in writing it, many memories came back to me. I must warn you however, that the poem you are about to read contains some references that will mean nothing to anyone other than the person who suggested the topic for this poem. It is even possible that the person who suggested this poem won’t get some of the references, because his memory is terrible. That being said, I am confident that there is enough in this poem to make it enjoyable.

So, what about this poem? Well the suggestion came from my best mate, a man who I have worked with, lived with, played football (soccer) with, and been on Holiday with several times. Over the years we have enjoyed many great times – especially when we have gone to Scotland together. We love the Highlands and always enjoy our trips there. My mate has recently moved to Scotland (the jammy git) so can enjoy its awesomeness even more regularly. For many years we – along with others members of his family (except Greg – Gregnog, Greggy Bread, Greg and Soldiers, Greggy Fart, Greg Head, Bacon and Greg, Greg’s Benedict, Greg and spoon race, Easter Greg, Rotten Greg, Gregshell, etc.) and friends spent time together having a great laugh.

In giving me the subject of the poem you are about to read, my mate has unleashed upon the world a poem about all the great memories we have shared of our holidays in Scotland.

Well, these are my memories – his could be altogether different.

So, no pressure then.

I hope you like it.

 

Overnight journey in the car,

English bastards in a Scottish bar.

To Tillicoultry and Stornoway;

Blazing sunshine, and rainy days.

Highland Cows, and those fearless sheep –

How they kept their grip, with those stupid feet?

 

To Elgol, and Fort William via Glencoe;

All the places that we did go.

Taking friendship and laughter in our packs,

And even a lovely dog called Jack

Who sometimes had to be on a lead so tight,

For fear a sheep (or person) he’d bite.

 

Hardly bothered by the infamous midges,

Being truly committed to the ridge.

We visited out of season Ullapool,

And stayed at Ballachulish – which was so cool.

Popped over to Skye where I bought my ring,

(and subsequently lost the bloody thing).

 

Met James Bond running boat trips on Loch Ness,

Saw Jeff ‘s sunburnt legs – what a mess.

The Service station rest stops, way after dark:

Mr. T. Hermos – “I’ve lost my flask”

The early days of camping, when we first went away

Being lost in the darkness – “What’s that sign say?”

 

The Velux window where I banged my head,

My legs always sticking out the bed.

Wherever we stayed it was just the same

(The bed was always the one I blamed).

Overcrowded boat trip – about a 20-seater;

I sat a small child on my lap, and got a new name: “Peter”

 

Visited Rum – the perfect place to live:

Only 45 inhabitants living off-grid.

The small boat crossing with a choppy tide –

Poor Jim being sick over the side.

I’d never seen him so subdued,

Mind you – he was ejecting food.

 

Walked up Ben Nevis, and past the old man of Storr,

Been higher than I’d ever been before.

Got stung on the ear by a wasp (I think)

Your first reaction; “someone take his drink!”

I never conquered my fear of heights

But the scenery was always such a delight.

 

On the wire bridge, the first aid kit I decided to fling.

The forgetful waiter – “who ordered the…….something?”

Staying miles from anywhere, in a secluded cottage.

Wedding day breakfast – “I’ll have the full sausage”

For me, Haggis and Neaps was the way to go,

And watching Tim Vine –  “Flag Hippo”

 

(Which one’s Canada?)

 

To Harris and Lewis where we went to the Butt.

Not removing the lens cap in the Peat House – you nut.

Leaning into the wind with our coats over our heads,

Rich and Mart going canoeing – almost winding up dead.

The gorgeous five sisters with snow on their peaks,

Watching England beat Greece – in the home of Pete feet.

 

And throughout these adventures in the land of the Scots,

The occasional fruit machine – always worth a shot.

But for some unknown reason, which is still unexplained

You saw Cherries as Monkeys, and would always exclaim,

“Hold them monkeys Lal! Hold them!” – it sounded so daft

But there was method in your madness, wisdom in your craft.

For in the town of Fort Augustus, on Jim’s wedding day

We too hit the jackpot – Seventy-five quid came our way!

 

So in that little sentence, that you loved to shout out

Live more awesome memories that I can write about.

I haven’t mentioned saying “Mart!” at every oriental we saw,

Or you hiding my Kit-Kat, just to wind me up more.

My reflection above the toilet cubicle, that gave you such fun,

Or our romantic lobster dinner as we watched the setting sun.

 

Therefore every fruit machine that I find along the way,

Brings back such great memories – though I rarely now play.

Memories of wonderful times kept in my mind so strong

So don’t worry about them monkeys – I’ve kept them held for so long.

 

My thanks to Ben for his suggestion – this poem doesn’t do the memories justice by any stretch of the imagination, but I hope it brings a smile to his face.

I do offer a bespoke poem writing service, Examples of previous work can be seen on the ” Poetry Commissions” page of this blog. I welcome all enquiries and would encourage anyone to get in touch to find out more. All inquiries are free and without obligation.

 

If you like this poem, then you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy! Get it from your Amazon,wherever you are – or if in the UK from Amazon.co.uk in paperback by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/2tOvhA6 , or for Kindle by clicking here: http://amzn.eu/hbDIMdU

Goodbye Sally

One of our Directors at work, and one of the most well respected people in our organisation retired this year after thirty plus years working in the Health Sector.

Her staff and colleagues asked me to put a poem together for her. As always, they gave me some thoughts about her, and this is what I came up with. I was asked to read it out, and when I did there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

 

 

A smile, and time to lend an ear.

A warm and friendly voice

Skilled hands to heal,

And give comfort too

Such is the nurse’s choice

  

 

That was your choice

When you to Dorset came.

And from then, right up to present day

Countless lives, you’ve changed.

  

 

 Here, in the heart of the CCG

Where the fun just never stops

You’ve helped us navigate our path

Through the brambles and the rocks

  

 

You’ve led us by example

Sometimes firmly – always fair

Steadfast in your professionalism

And not afraid to show you care

  

 

You’ve been brave enough to challenge

When you felt the need was right,

And when crisis came upon us

You stood with us in the fight.

   

 

You’ve been more than a boss to us,

Always someone on who we can depend.

And though your job title has changed through the years

We’ll always know you as ‘Friend’

  

 

When work was done, and dusted

And a team night out came round,

Job titles were left in the office

And we laughed on level ground

   

You see the good in all you meet

And recognise their worth.

Putting people at their ease

By being down to earth.

 

 Speaking of earth, you’re travelling

When you leave the CCG

Off to South Africa for three weeks

A wonderful place to see!

 

Will you get time to practice,

Improving your golf swing?

So you can beat Mark over 9 holes

Now wouldn’t that be a thing!?

 

Although your time may be taken up

Giving cuddles to young Josie.

Feel free to bring her in to show us

We’ll take turns keeping her cosy.

 

Oh, all the things you’re going to do

Now with the time that’s yours.

Just remember to pop in now and then

We’ve always got open doors.

 

We will miss you Sally, oh so much

Especially Jacky, you’re beloved PA

Who asked for these words to be put together

So that we would get to say:

 

Your smile, and time to lend an ear,

Your warm and friendly voice

We wish we could keep you here with us,

But we know we don’t have that choice.

 

So, thank you Sally, thank you Boss

Thank you mentor, guide, and friend,

We will miss you, and we love you so –

And that will never end.

 

 

 

DEAR LYNN

I was asked to come up with a poem by a work colleague for her best friend’s 60th Birthday. She had known this friend for 32 years so had lots of information to give me – how they met, special memories of time spent together, and lots of laughs along the way.

It was a real pleasure to write this poem, and the person who commissioned it was happy with the very first draft I came up with – which doesn’t happen very often

 

Dear Lynn, a hug and kiss from me

To let you know most certainly,

That though this is a landmark day

You are always loved in every way.

I want to jog a memory or two,

To say just how I feel about you.

Can you believe it’s been 32 years

That we’ve been sharing laughter and tears?

And to think, that if I’d had my fork and my knife

You might not have walked into my life.

It was at West Knighton Barn Dance and Harvest Supper

That I first set eyes on you, me old mucker!

You saved our bacon with your knives and forks,

And so it was that we began to talk.

Common ground we had – you and me

Next morning you popped round for a cup of tea.

That is how our great friendship started

And though distance divides us, we’re never parted.

Originally, you’re a Yorkshire lassie

Fiercely loyal – and always classy.

When I met your family, I’m pleased to report

They loved me so much, I got a Yorkshire passport!

It was the bewitching way in which I spoke

That enchanted your lovely Yorkshire folk.

You moved to Dorset in ’86.

That’s when we met – and we just clicked.

In Owermoigne, and round about we’d go

And had themed dinner parties – ‘Allo Allo!’

Your loyalty has never, ever been in doubt.

Remember visiting me, with plans to go out?

But my house had so much work to do,

So we stayed and fixed it – me and you.

You said you couldn’t visit Dorset’s sights,

When there was painting, building, and fixing lights.

With verve and vigour, we completed the task;

Which one of us sawed that stool in half?

That was one of many times we have laughed so much

Thanks to your wonderful Human touch.

Remember drinking tequila, and playing trivial pursuit?

We both ended up almost 90% proof!

Yet you went to work next day with a pounding head

Telling folk, it was a bug – and I was sick in bed!

If asked to describe you, I’d always say “caring”.

Many years as a nurse, with knowledge for sharing.

Forever being asked for illness advice,

You never refuse; you never think twice.

You’re close to being perfect – but no-one is there yet.

And you did have one hang-up that I’ll never forget:

You insisted on security – doors and windows locked tight,

And the thought of not doing so, really gave you a fright.

Remember walking my dog, leaving my front door unlocked?

When I told you, you were horrified – you really were shocked!

You insisted I went back to make my home safe,

And I’ll never forget that look on your face.

Memories like these – we have such a vast amount

But you can’t number friendship – there’s no figures to count.

Though you now live in Cumbria, many miles away

You are always here with me, in my heart every day.

So here’s to you Lynn; here’s to Frank, Alyson and Jenni.

Here’s to all the good times we’ve shared – so often; so many.

You have altogether enriched my life for the better

And if there’s a better friend out there – well, I haven’t met her.

 

Dear Dad

For this commission, I was asked by a colleague to write a poem for her dad’s 80th Birthday. She gave me lots of information about his younger days, and also about how much he likes spending time with his grandson. I had to write this poem so that It came from her perspective so, as with all my commissions, I worked closely with her to check that she was happy with what I had written. She reviewed the poem, and made a few requests which I happily obliged. It’s absolutely vital that the person who has commissioned the poem is totally happy with it.

When I gave her the finished poem, she was delighted. Here is what I wrote for her poem:

Happy Birthday! Here’s to you,

For all you are, and all you do.

Through thick and thin you’ve been my rock,

I do not jest; I would not mock.

To do so would be most unjust.

And I should tell you – I really must

Of all the things that spring to mind,

When I think of you; like how you’re kind

And how you always seem to find

The time to play some little game

With your twin, your grandson – the lovely James.

I must however, tell you in honest truth

I wonder when he’s on your roof

With you again (‘cos it needs tarring)

Is there a danger of permanent scarring?

When he inevitably tries to emulate

Your youthful self, when life was great.

Remember when you had your motorbike,

And offered rides to friends and the like?

Those poor souls often came to grief,

Risking damage to legs, arms and teeth.

Did it ring true, what Pam Ayres said?

Should they have looked after their teeth instead?

But they were young, and so were you –

Although your mischievousness still shines through.

Young James and you are thick as thieves

Don’t say you’re not – no-one believes!

You love your football, and that’s the truth;

You watched Weymouth & Yeovil in your youth

You’d finish off the day with Fish and Chips

(The mere thought of it makes me lick my lips.)

When you and mum got together, you continued the trend.

It wasn’t much of a courtship – but times were different then!

Together you’ve travelled hand in hand

All over this green and pleasant land

Into the wilds of Scotland you even dared –

Just another adventure, without your cares.

Locally, you’ve seen your favourite teams

Their wins and losses; hopes and dreams.

Nowadays you usually listen to the games

In the comfort of your own home, sometimes with James.

It hasn’t got the same atmosphere, and it’s not as sweary,

But if you walk mud though, Mum might say “how very &*^%£! dare he!”

You’ve always been sure of where you are going,

Saying “I’ve never been lost yet!” with a sense of knowing.

But Invergarry forest walk almost revealed the truth

Though you’ll say we haven’t got any proof.

You’ve spent many years of your life on the farm

As a dairyman, tending to the cows with your charm

You talked tactics as you milked them, and they listened to you –

Did the cows suggest a formation of 4-4-Moo?

And now you work part time in the farm shop,

You have no signs of slowing, no intention to stop

Your eyes have a twinkle, and your wits they are quick

So just how did you fall through that hayrick?

Such a life you have lived, and continue to do so,

So today I wanted to make sure that you know

Just how much I love you, and how much that is true.

And with love to you always,

Happy Birthday to you!!