Thorns and Roses

Sometimes it’s the ones you love and care for the most that turn around and hurt you.


A thorn pricked my finger
And now it is bleeding;
I was giving the rose water,
It was so desperately needing,
And I simply reached down
To cup a flower and to smell,
When the thorn struck me,
And the bloom from my hand fell.

Why did it prick me
When to its needs I was tending?
I was just trying to smell
The scent it was sending
And to hold and admire
Its beautiful flower,
Why then did it stab me,
Try to turn my love sour?

TOOTG Copyright 2016-2020 01

Storm on the Ridge

Living on a ridge, looking out to sea, you can see the weather approaching…….

TPOTG-storm-across-the-bay-frame-01Low pressure is building,
Forecasters are right,
And a storm is coming our way.
Dark clouds and the wind,
Conspiring together,
To spoil the peace of the bay.

Windows are closed
And doors are shut tight,
A sensible precaution to take.
We’ve seen it before,
What a big storm can do,
The damage that’s left in its wake.

A wild wind now howling
Across the ridge,
Nothing can escape from its path;
Trees bow in homage
To the lord of the storm,
But nothing will appease his wrath.

Rain clatters down
In great heavy bursts,
Soaking the hard, parched ground;
And birds and animals
Seek out some shelter,
Wherever it can be found.

Lightning forks
Streak across the sky,
It’s nature’s most fearsome display;
And the thunder god Thor
Sounds so very close,
Although we know that he’s so far away.

The sea is now angry,
White horses appear,
The waves are crashing the shore;
Adding to the noise
Of the thunder and wind,
In nature’s cacophonous roar.

Windows and doors
Rattling in their frames,
Roof timbers beginning to creak.
Exposed to the wind,
Which whirls round the house,
Searching for a spot that is weak.

The roar of the wind,
The drum of the rain,
There’s no chance to get any sleep.
With a storm outside,
Wanting to come in,
It’s such a long vigil to keep.

Then all of a sudden
The wind seems to go,
In a rush to be quiet once again.
Daylight breaks,
And the sun pushes through
Driving away all the rain.

The sea returns
To its gentle swell,
Its waves now caressing the shore.
The birds reappear,
Singing their songs,
Peace is back on the ridge once more.

TOOTG Copyright 2016-2020 01


The Old Man in the Rocking Chair

Sitting on a porch, watching the sun go down
and thinking back on how life used to be….old-man-in-rocking-chair-new-frame-1

The old man is gently rocking,
In his rocking chair,
As he rocks he watches
The world passing by out there;
But through his old blue eyes,
Covered by a misty hue,
He sees a different world,
The world in which he grew.

That old man in his rocking chair,
Rocking gently to and fro,
Is hankering after yesteryear,
For the times he used to know.
When people used to show respect,
A respect that was returned;
When being kind and considerate,
At an early age was learned.

 When people had the time to talk,
Held conversations face to face,
Not hiding behind a computer
On some network interface.
When you were still at liberty
To speak what was on your own mind,
Before liberal political correctness
Turned our liberty blind.

When the pace of life was slower,
More time was what we had,
Now nobody has time for anyone,
And that makes the old man sad.
Instead now they want to track you,
Know every single move you make;
The old man just can’t understand
Why your privacy they want to take.

Yet he knows that time does not stand still,
The world has to move along;
“The times they are a changing”
That old Bob Dylan song.
Still a tear rolls down his cheek,
Out of his old blue eye;
Just an old man in a rocking chair,
Just an old man wondering why.

The old man is gently rocking,
In his rocking chair,
As he rocks he watches
The world passing by out there;
But through his old blue eyes,
Covered by a misty hue,
He sees a different world;
How he loved the world he knew.

TOOTG Copyright 2016-2020 01


Always Writing In Verse – It Could Be Much Worse!

I am always writing verse, jotting down ideas, sometimes on scraps of paper, sometimes on my phone. It can drive the wife up the wall, but I tell her it could be worse, much worse…!

The wife says I’m a nuisance always writing my verse;
But there are things I could do that I think would be worse;
I might have a car engine in bits on the lounge floor,
Or sit with a telescope watching the woman next door.


I could buy a drum kit, try to be the next Ringo Starr,
Or imitate Queen with an electric guitar;
Or invite mates round who’d all get quite drunk,
Being sick on her carpet, as we listen to punk.

Perhaps a DIY freak, carrying out home repairs,
With half finished jobs left waiting for years.
Or have a X Box, on which I’d play through the night,
Being invaded by aliens with whom I would fight.

I could be a model maker, sticking things I’d then paint,
With the smell of it all making the wife feel quite feint.
Or brew my own beer, taking over the kitchen,
Or sniff something nasty and form an addiction.

I could collect tarantula spiders that sometimes escape,
Or believe that I’m Zorro and wear a mask and a cape,
Maybe answer the door naked, giving callers a scare,
Or eat boxes of chocolates that I’d refuse to share.

I could be cyclist, wearing those tight Lycra shorts,
Or be a couch potato watching all sorts of sports.
So, you see, there are many worse things I could be,
Than someone who sits quietly, writing his poetry.

TOOTG Copyright 2016-2020 01