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?

TPOTG Copyright 2016-2019

Loss of a Loved One

A simple encounter with a stranger who had just lost her husband made me reflect on the impact of losing a precious loved one. Sadly this is something most of us have either gone through or will go through. That does not make it any easier.

When you reach out to touch, there’s nobody there,
When you whisper “I love you”, there’s no one to hear.
Thoughts and concerns now yours alone to keep,
Lying in your empty bed, searching  for sleep.


Friends to support you, sometimes it’s too much,
All you really yearn for is that old loving touch,
And the words  that reassured you everything was all right;
A light’s gone out in your life, now you face the long night.

No discussions on decisons, now it’s only your choice,
What to do next? Oh! how you long for that voice.
On a trip to the shops or a meal out for one
It’s obvious a new chapter in your life has begun.

And yes life must go on, still you can’t help realise
You’re no longer being watched by those old loving eyes;
Going through the motions, one day at a time you take,
Sharing with the empty space your endless heartache.

Don’t be angry with the world for being left out in the cold,
Be grateful for the memories that forever you’ll hold.
Alone, but never alone, over those memories you’ll cry;
Maybe torn apart by death, but your love will never die.


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 they can’t appease his wrath.

Rain clatters down
in great heavy bursts,
Soaking the hard, parched ground;
And birds and animals
look for 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 again.
Daylight breaks,
and the sun pushes through
To drive away all of 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.



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 rocking
In his rocking chair,
The old man is watching,
A different world out there;
His old blue eyes
Covered with a misty hue,
Remembering another world,
The world in which he grew.

Time doesn’t stand still,
The world has to move along;
“Times they are a changing”
That old Bob Dylan song.
But the 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;
Being kind and considerate,
At an early age was learned.
When knowledge was the quest,
There was a yearning to discover,
Not obsessed with social media,
Video games, reality TV undercover.

When your privacy was respected,
There wasn’t the need to hide,
And with your friends and family
You could openly confide.
When people didn’t track you
Every hour of every day,
Trying to record
Every single word you say.

When you used to have conversations,
Talking face to face,
Didn’t need a computer,
Or some network interface.
When you were still at liberty
To speak what was on your mind,
Before political correctness
Turned our liberty blind.

When the pace of life was slower,
More time was what we had,
Now there’s no time for anyone,
It’s makes the old man sad.
A tear rolls down his cheek,
Out of his old blue eye;
The old man rocking there,
The old man wondering why.

The old man is rocking
In his rocking chair,
The old man is watching,
A different world out there;
His old blue eyes,
Covered with a misty hue,
Remembering another world;
He loved the world he knew.


Situations Vacant – Personal Assistant

You know how it is?  You find the perfect person for a job, devote time and effort on training and development and then one day they just up and go….
Good riddance says my wife! Can’t imagine why….. 

I’ve lost my assistant; I’ve lost my PA,
She said  “I’m quitting! ” and just stormed away.
She was doing so well, there was no need for that tone,
I’d already promised to teach her how to answer the phone.


Then how to file things, apart from her nails,
I was showing her kindness, it never usually fails.
The potential she’d shown was truly immense,
And the training I’d given, personal and intense.

Don’t know why she left, it can’t have been stress,
I even chose and paid for her company dress.
If I see her again I’ll beg her to come back,
She was never in any  danger of getting the sack.

She brightened my day, cheered up the workplace,
She put a big smile on everyone’s face.
An asset no doubt, driving away office blues,
With those glorious long legs and those high heeled shoes.

Now I am lost,
A light has gone out of my life;
And as for an assistant?
Well it’s back to the wife!



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 and we’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 so many worse things I could be,
Than someone who sits quietly writing his poetry.

TPOTG Copyright 2016-2019