Proper Trains

Yes they were dirty, yes they were smelly – but they were magnificent!

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Aye, we had proper trains then
That bellowed out smoke and steam,
And to stand on the plate, driving one of them beasts,
It were every little boy’s dream.

Water filled boilers by coal furnaces fired,
So the pistons and rods could be driven,
Those mighty engines, chuffing and puffing,
Setting giant wheels into their rhythm.

Masterpieces forged out of iron and steel,
Reflections of that industrial age,
Not soulless and sanitised, regulated creations,
That now have become all the rage.

Them carriage doors you had to slam shut,
Never designed to keep out the weather,
And windows you needed to pull right up
With a strap that were made out of leather.

And heaven forbid if them windows weren’t tight
As the train went into a tunnel,
Then you’d be coughing and spluttering and cursing the smoke
Belching out of the hot sooty funnel.

Each journey were an adventure, I suppose you could say,
Today’s stainless steel and glass just can’t compete,
As you sat there rocking from side to side,
In your deeply sprung, strange smelling seat.

And the joy of trainspotting as we gathered together
Chatting in eager anticipation,
Platform tickets in hand, with our pens and our books,
Waiting at some main line station.

All trains carried numbers, but it were them that were named
That we were all so anxious to see,
And if they had blinkers fixed to their sides,
Well, it were like we were in ecstasy.

The City of London, Lady Macbeth,
Sir John Moore and Sir Galahad,
The Red Knight, Camelot and Union Castle
Some of the names that them proud engines had.

But them days are gone, that age of steam,
Now it’s all diesel and electric,
But I’ll never forget them glorious monsters,
Hissing steam and looking majestic.

Take Not the Hand…

What if I could not write….?

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Take not the hand
Away from me
That writes my verse,
That sets me free.
Cloud not my senses
Nor steal my mind,
Take not my eyes
Don’t leave me blind.
Name the price,
I’ll pay the sum,
Just leave me whole
For years to come,
So I can write
My poetry,
Rejoicing in
A mind set free.

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A Life More Simple

Moving to the Karoo has made me realise the joy there is to be found in a more simple lifesyle.

tpotg-simple-life-01A life more simple
Is what I used to crave,
If I distanced life’s stresses
Perhaps I’d distance the grave.
Getting closer to nature,
Less controlled by man-made;
The colour of my life
Needed a much softer shade.
I needed to learn more
About what’s important to me
And from life’s false pretensions
I had to break free.

So the move was made,
The bullet was bitten,
And by the much simpler life
I’ve truly been smitten.
A shift in my focus,
On what gets my attention,
My old corporate days
Now don’t get a mention.
And as I make friends with nature,
In her various disguises,
I’ve discovered another world,
A world full of surprises.

Now I can just sit on my stoep,
Engaged in idle chatter,
Not worrying about the time
Because time doesn’t matter.
Listening to the birds singing,
Quietly observing them drink,
Seeing clouds kiss the mountains,
Watching their shadows shrink,
Awed by the Karoo landscape
By its harsh rugged charm,
As the buck roam freely
Across our neighbour’s farm,

And as the day ends
And dusk slowly nears,
The kaleidoscope of colours
As the sun disappears;
Then that magical joy
Of a star filled sky;
That’s the life more simple,
Why not give it a try?

TOOTG Copyright 2016-2020 01

Thorns and Roses

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

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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

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

 

How I Wish I Could Paint

Is a writer an artist? I like to think so, but every once in a while I wish for a more physical artistic skill, sometimes I just wish I could paint…

How I wish I could paint, how I wish I could capture
On canvas those sights that fill me with rapture.
Such wonders that have the power to evoke,
If I could record them with an artist’s brushstroke.

TPOTG Artist Frame 1

Oh! how I wish I could hue, from some solid rock,
A statue of a goddess, to which crowds would flock,
And marvel at my sculpture, how proud I would be,
There for all time, a reminder of me.

I wish I could turn on a potter’s wheel,
A lump of wet clay, crafting purely by feel,
Then firing that clay, creating fine pottery.
How I wish I could do that, how I wish that was me.

I wish I could shape glass held over a fire,
Using a skill of which I’d never tire.
Creating fine glassware with an artist’s touch,
I know I would like that so very much

I wish I could sit down in front of the keys
And play a piano with consummate ease.
Maybe some jazz, or maybe some blues,
Now that is an art I would certainly choose

I wish I could sing, a voice full of emotion,
Have sell out world tours, cross every ocean.
A voice to be savoured by all different ages;
And in the music press filling so many pages.

But I have been blessed with a much different skill,
No concert hall or gallery will I ever fill;
It’s a vivid imagination, at work all the time,
Composing my verse, rhyme after rhyme.

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