Priceless

Some things you just can’t put a price on….

It’s not just the plants that give me such pleasure,
Deep in my garden lies its real hidden treasure.

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I use my garden to grow my soul,
To anchor my roots, to make me whole;
To understand how good it can feel
To weed out life’s trivia, to nurture what’s real;
To connect with nature, finding peace in its earth,
So how can I value what my garden is worth?

Maybe Ten More Summers

None of us are getting any younger, but as you progress through your seventies  you begin to reflect on just how many more years you actually may have left…

TPOTG Getting Older Acknowledgement

Maybe ten more summers, I hope there are more,
But nothing is certain, nothing is sure.
And at the end of those summers, when the lights fade,
Too late then to regret decisions not made.

Maybe ten more summers, so what should I do?
Stick with the old or try something new?
Another adventure, before I’m too old,
Create some new stories, which to friends can be told?

Maybe ten more summers, our lives are so short,
That time passes so quickly is not something we’re taught,
Feels like only yesterday those teenage years,
No old age thoughts then, no nagging fears.

Maybe ten more summers, choices need to be made,
But with age we lose confidence, become more afraid;
And what if that ten becomes twenty, or more?
If only I knew what life had in store.

Maybe ten more summers, is the time now or never
To stop being so wise, to dispense with the clever?
Is it time to be carefree, just live for the day,
Before my summers are all taken away?

 

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
And go on serving
A mind set free.

 

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
That’s what I crave,
Perhaps if I distance life’s stresses
I’ll distance the grave.
Getting closer to nature,
Less controlled by man-made;
The colour of my life
Needs a much softer shade.
I need to learn more
About what’s important to me
And from life’s false pretensions
I need to break free.

Just sitting on the stoep,
Engaged in idle chatter,
Not worrying about the time
When 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 I watch 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
That I shouldn’t deny.

TPOTG Copyright 2016-2019

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?

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.

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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.

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Cuddle Hunter

Some people hunt Africa’s big five, others seek the elusive Big Foot, while still others go in search of treasure, hidden in shipwrecks, lying on the floor of the ocean.
Me? I just look for cuddles………

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I am a cuddle hunter,
Now be careful how that’s said.
If you get it mixed up,
It could be very rude instead!

I search for cuddles daily,
I search both near and far;
They can be hiding in my bathroom,
Sometimes waiting in my car.

Sometimes they’re on the sofa
Or even on the stairs;
I can be standing in the larder
When suddenly one appears.

I like it when they creep up on me
And take me by surprise,
And when I feel them squeezing me
It makes me close my eyes.

I like cuddles in the morning,
And after lunch as well.
But those cuddles in the evening?
Well… I’m not supposed to tell!

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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…

Old Writer Artist Frame 1How 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.

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.tootg-copyright-2016-2017