Tobie was a catcher,
a catcher in the rye;
he’d catch the ball I threw for him
no matter how far or high.
I miss my little catcher,
his cuddles and his ways;
but that pooch did live his best life
in the most mysterious ways.
Tobie was a catcher,
a catcher in the rye;
he’d catch the ball I threw for him
no matter how far or high.
I miss my little catcher,
his cuddles and his ways;
but that pooch did live his best life
in the most mysterious ways.
There’s an acquaintance
that I have no knowledge of –
I call him Sidney.
.
He likes to call round
at inopportune moments
and brings me flowers.
.
He stays for minutes –
barely time for a cuppa –
then he toodles off.
.
I count down the hours
until he returns once again
a bunch in his hand.
.
I don’t like flowers,
or Sidney, or Sidney’s hat;
they make me feel sad.
.
One day – not today –
I shall answer the front door
wearing just a smile.
.
This may do the trick,
or it might encourage him,
who can tell these days?
—//—
When Sidney passed on,
I cried for a long weekend,
and felt my time called.
.
Forty years later,
I still think of old Sidney,
and his horrible hat.
Our Triffid, it’s gone!
Or it may be hiding;
we dare not go and see,
we do not go and look –
or perhaps it’s just a mythical creature
I read of in a book.
We counted them out,
and we counted them in,
there were fewer came back,
and they cried ‘Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a degree of sorrow;
‘But, we are bound to win tomorrow’.
So, we counted them out,
and we counted them in,
still fewer came back,
and they asked ‘Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a soupçon of sorrow,
‘But, we’ll probably win tomorrow.’
So, we counted them out,
and we counted them in,
just a handful came back,
and they asked, Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a small pinch of sorrow,
Though we’re quite likely to win on the morrow.’
Then we counted them out,
and we counted him in,
a dusty young lad from the Farthings,
and he asked, ‘Did I win?’
‘Not today’. we admitted,
with a tear in one eye,
‘But tomorrow is another day,
in which you can try’.
We counted him out…
Sadly, that is what I did: whilst trying to listen to a ‘notes’ document on my iPhone I managed within two or three seconds to delete the whole thing.
Not the end of the world, nor a major catastrophe, but I felt the sadness that losing something precious brings.
It’s not like losing a friend or a relative – as also happened today – and in comparison losing a sketch, poem, or script is nothing – but it set my mood on a downward slope that has been hanging around me since.
Losing a friend of Jane’s today is much more serious, and my error pales into insignificance – however, some things we can avoid, and some things we can’t.
It’s been quite a rubbishy Friday, and all on top of the current crisis in the world.
Sharing a thought for those who lose, and those who are lost in the world today, and every day.
G❤️
I’m ‘there’ in the picture,
can’t you see?
I’m the idjut swimming
in the cold of the sea;
I’m the one at the back
dawdling free;
I’m the clown at the fair
but no-one’s looking at me;
I’m the invisible man
stood next to the tree;
I’m the one who is missing
from the picture,
God bless me.
I had an idea
for a poem,
a wonderful poem,
better than all that I have ever written
before…
then I saw a hypothetical squirrel…
… and that poem was no more.
Mama’s little soldier
went off to the war,
though he didn’t really know
what he was fighting for;
and when he came back,
he was in a box,
Mama visits him on Sundays,
and irons his socks.
Seagull swoops,
loops the loops,
and captures the moment,
that you lost your food,
forever, in your mind
the bird that had designs upon your treat;
swiped by beak and feet
in one mad rush of adrenalin…
gone!
But not forgotten,
as the gull gulps
his Ill-gotten gains,
upon your parade fall the rains.
Tears have ears;
only little tiny ones,
ones that you can’t really see;
but, be aware,
that they are there.