Food

Though any food is all one needs in order to survive,
There's nothing like a well-cooked meal to make one feel alive;
Delicious smells rise in the air to meet one's twitching nose,
As steam from all the pots and pans in spirals upward flows.
And then the taste, both sweet and sour, perhaps a touch of spice,
With blander foods in contrast, potatoes, bread or rice,
Whether fried or boiled or steamed, poached or eaten raw,
Just freshly cooked or heated up from dinner the day before;
Each dish containing flavours which really seem to shout -
That's part of what a well-cooked meal should always be about.
So though we need some sort of food to keep us on our way,
Delicious meals add much to make a really happy day.

Rambling

A group of people, large or small,
The number matters not at all,
Providing all those present there
An interest in the outdoors share,
And like to wander paths and fields,
Enjoying whatever each one yields.
The sound of birdsong in the trees,
The rustling noise of a gentle breeze;
The bleating of sheep and mooing of cows,
The meadows full of summer flowers;
The trickling of the numerous streams,
Sunrays on water so that it gleams;

Squirrels racing across the ground,

Tails waving, making hardly a sound;

The crunching of leaves and twigs as they walk,

The words and laughter of lively talk;

The warmth of the sun as it shines from the sky,

The chill of the wind rushing speedily by;

Brambles galore, which can catch on your clothes,

The sharp stinging nettles which everyone loathes;

Freedom from traffic - no cars whizzing past,

Or the chance of being caught in a lorry's strong blast;

The smell of the air when it's wet by the rain,

And also the plants, till they dry out again;

The buzzing of bees as they roam overhead,

The sight of some poppies, their petals bright red;

So much to enjoy as one rambles along,

Things that just to the country belong.

Cherry Blossom

From January onwards throughout all the years,
The pink and white blossom always appears,
Like tufts at the end of each twig on the tree,
They're such a beautiful sight to see,
Lining the streets, with few leaves to be seen,
Just pink and white blossom, with touches of green.
When the petals start falling they're like flakes of snow,
Which drop and soon cover the pavement below
With a carpet of white, which is soon blown away
If the time when they fall is a breezy dry day.
But if it is wet they remain where they fall,
Creating a very real danger to all
Who walk on the pavement, who're likely to slip
If they don't watch their step or have shoes with no grip.
Soon it is gone, but again will appear,
Showing its beauty the following year.

Traffic Jams

I sit in the car and inwardly groan
At just how much of my time has flow,
Sitting in traffic, with cars end to end,
All in a line, and all nicely penned
So nothing can move; such a waste of my time,
Especially combined with pollution and grime.
In the future, I think, if I'm not going far
I'll cycle or walk instead of taking the car.

The Traffic Warden

The traffic warden's got a job that no-one really likes,
Whether chasing errant cars or pavement-riding bikes,
They tend to be regarded as very much a blight,
Someone whom most people would prefer kept out of sight,
For to many traffic wardens are nothing but a curse,
Yet if we didn't have them, our roads would be much worse.

The Secretary's Lament

I used to feel so wanted; every company needed one
If they wished to be quite sure they got their letters properly done;
From the smallest to the largest, they really need us,
To make sure things went smoothly with the minimum of fuss.
My shorthand was so speedy, I quickly filled each page,
For minuting big meetings, my skills were all the rage;
My spelling was quite perfect, my punctuation too;
Faced with awkward grammar, I knew just what to do.
My knowledge of each company, its history and its wares,
Was equalled by my knowledge of its secrets and affairs.
My bosses knew I'd be discreet, befitting their right hand,
As I typed all correspondence, I had to understand
Much was confidential, and I knew well that I must
Ensure that many things I knew with others weren't discussed.
Many saw as a kingpin, around whom all revolved,
The one with all the knowledge to get every problem solved.
Not just a shorthand-typist, though such skills were in demand,
By every firm of any size in almost every land.
But times then changed and in the end the secretaries got the sack,
Replaced in every office by a PC or a Mac,
Which every boss could operate, thought rarely quite so fast,
And now the days of secretaries are firmly in the past.

The Waitress

Ever rushing to and fro,
She is always on the go,
Taking orders all day long,
She really must be fit and strong;
Several plates upon her arm,
She hurries, yet remains still calm;
Demanding patrons rise their hand,
The food's too hot, or is too bland,
And she must answer with a smile,
Even if feeling all the while
They are the sort she can't abide,
Their comments are quite unjustified.
But she must pretend that in her sight,
A customer is always right.

Salesgirls in an Upmarket Dress Shop

Straight black shirt and white blouse,
An outfit that will surely arouse
Memories in any girls who've served
In a shop where they observed
A dress code which proclaimed to all
They were a place which one would call
Upmarket, where they usually sell
To rather wealthy clientele.
Where sales assistants must be smart,
And selling really is an art,
For madam must be made to feel,
She really is, oh, so genteel.
Assistants clearly understand,
Her every wish is their command.
They flatter her and help her try
All she thinks that she might buy;
Telling her in every case,
"That outfit really suits your face."
Madam thinks they are so kind,
For not one ever seems to mind,
How much time she takes to choose
A nice new dress or pair of shoes;
And they are always so polite
And take an interest in her plight
When she has need of something new,
And no idea of style or hue.
The salesgirls on the other hand,
Are living in a different land;
Their minds are not on madam's needs,
Her outfits, hats or fancy beads,
But their commission, which depends
O making sure that madam spends
Lots of money, so that they
Will earn a decent wage that day.

A Postman's Job

A postman's job has several perks,
It's one of the few where everyone works
Out of doors, and on his own,
And yet within his working zone
He's free to chat to the people there,
And make the most of the nice fresh air,
For it is not a postman's fate,
That a stuffy office should him await.
Starting early means that he
By early afternoon is free
To then pursue whatever he wants,
Have a nap, or else ensconce
Himself in hobbies or sport or go
To see a film or perhaps a show.
His bag was once a heavy load,
But the modern postman's letters' abode
Is a smart red trolley, covered in
If it rains his letters are safe within.
Bankers may be frowned upon,
Respect for many jobs has gone,
But disliking postmen's extremely rare,
Instead they're welcome everywhere.

A Cup of Tea

My inspiration's running low,

Ideas have almost ceased to flow,

My brain is sluggish, half asleep,

My thoughts are scattered in a heap;

My pen lies idle in my hand,

It doesn't seem to understand

What it should do; it doesn't move,

Remaining as if in a groove;

I just can't write; it's all a blur,

Creative thoughts refuse to stir;

But I think I know what's wrong with me,

I badly need a cup of tea.

Watching Where I Go

Whenever I'm out, I always look round,
Viewing the scenery, catching each sound,
Noting what's different, what's still the same,
Noting the buildings and every street name.
I'm ever aware of the places I go,
Whether my footsteps are rapid or slow;
My eyes are like cameras, as they record,
All things which into my clear sight have soared.
For if somewhere's familiar and I know its ways
Its people and landmarks are not just a haze,
I feel so much safer when walking along,
A street where my knowledge makes me feel I belong.,

Victimhood

One of the problems we face today is the culture of victimhood,
Where people sit back and do little, feeling society should
Do more to help and support them, believing they ought to be nursed,
Forgetting their obligation to help themselves comes first.
The sort with complaints never-ending, who think all their failures are due
To rampart discrimination, which keeps arising anew,
To stop them ever achieving, all that they deserve,
Instead of making their watchwords determination and verve.
The sort that fail to acknowledge, that they should contribute more
 Instead of regarding effort as really rather a bore.
The sort that always blames others, though however deeply one delves
It's obvious that blame attaches to no-one but themselves.
They think all the time they are victims, who haven't been given a chance
Completely ignoring what's obvious from even a casual glance,
They've made themselves far too dependant, instead of taking the view
That they have an obligation to contribute all possible too.

The Check-Out Operator

"Do you have a club card?"
Is printed on your brain,
As many thousand times before
You ask it once again.

Like smiling every moment,
Always cheerful, calm and bright,
Even when you're working
Until very late at night.

Putting up with shoppers
Who always keep their purse,
Somewhere they can't find it,
Or forget it - even worse!

Always staying patient,
And looking full of joy,
Despite the awkward people
Who can thoroughly annoy.

Dealing with the youngsters
Attempting to engage
In buying goods forbidden
To those still under age.

My Wardrobe Needs a Clear-out

My wardrobe needs a clear-out,

It's really far too full,

And yet I'm always hampered

By the ever-present pull

To keep nearly every item,

For they all form a part

Of my life in all its richness,

So it's very hard to start.

Some dresses have just languished

On a hanger all forlorn,

But still I hope to wear them

Though for years they've been unworn.

I've endless pretty blouses,

With long sleeves and with short,

Some very old, but others

That quite recently I've bought,

But I need them all for matching

With the skirts I want to wear,

Or else I might start looking

And find nothing matching there.

My cardigans and jumpers

Take up quite a lot of space,

But I couldn't be in fashion,

If that were not the case,

My scarves are rather numerous,

Every colour, shape and style;

I like co-ordination,

So I need a largish pile.

My skirts - I need so many

To look different every day,

And since they all still fit me,

Every one will have to stay.

So though my wardrobe's creaking

With not an inch to spare,

I don't really feel like parting

With anything hanging there.

Bills

There can't be anyone who thrills

At the sight of endless bills;

Gas, electric, water too,

Phone and broadband also due;

TV, taxes, credit card,

Insurance - most you can't discard.

All that money going out,

Leaving one in little doubt

Just living really costs a lot,

With bills all forming such a blot

On lives that are already stressed -

They're something many quite detest.

But they have to be paid; no choice is there,

Though often seeming quite unfair.

The Pet Shop

Lots of furry creatures
Waiting patiently until
A kindly seeking heart appears
Which only they can fill.

Guinea pigs and rabbits,
Tiny hamsters, too;
Gorgeous smiley kittens,
Puppies of every hue.

All are looking forward,
And hope it won't be long
Until they are adopted,
Have a home where they belong.

Tube Travel at Rush Hour

If you're one of those people whose favourite state

Is squashed on all sides, you will think that it's great

To travel by tube, when the rush hour is on,

And hopes of a seat have most certainly gone.

If you like to be hot, so your clothes are soon wet,

While jammed between people you've not really met,

Breathing in air that is humid and stale,

While many around you look dizzy and pale;

The tube is for you, if you're that way inclined,

For during the rush hour, that's just what you'll find.

But if you like comfort, and somewhere to sit,

Then rush hour tube travel won't suit you a bit,

For it's crowded and sticky and terribly hot -

But for getting to work may be all that you've got.

Retirement to the Country

A house in the country can so easily seem
The route to contentment, a wonderful dream.
Waking to birds singing out on the trees,
The sweet scent of grass wafting round on the breeze;
Bright honeysuckle surrounding the door,
Bold coloured rugs on a polished wood floor.
A cosy log fire with its cheerful red flames,
The chance to enjoy all those old indoor games;
Walks in the country, whenever it's fine,
Leisurely meals with good food and nice wine;
It sounds so idyllic to those city-bred,
Whose knowledge extends just to what they have read,
And look with nostalgia on simple lives past,
And hope in retirement to live them at last
But reality's often quite different to dreams,
They may find that country life's not all it seems.

My Cat

A furry bundle on my lap,
Purring most contentedly;
It really would be true to say
That she is splendid company.

She's always here, and loves to be
Made a fuss of, given treats,
Purring while she gently rubs
The legs of everyone she meets.

She's never awkward, never shouts,
Just smiles and purrs through every day,
Bringing sunshine to my life,
Driving out the dull and grey.

The Election is On

The date’s now official; the election is on;

Any doubts that existed before have now gone.

The parties have chosen the people to stand,

And various strategies long have been planned

To ensure that their candidate right from the start

Is the one whom the voters will take to their heart,

And give them their cross when they reach polling day,

Not changing their mind to vote some other way.

The activists find that their lives are now ruled

By leafleting, door-knocking – they have been schooled

In how to ensure that the message gets through

To the many and not just the interested few.

Most parties can call on a small and loyal band

Whose commitment to working is currently fanned

By the thought that their efforts might bring about change,

Especially if victory appears within range.

They’re out in the evenings and weekends as well,

Trying their hardest their party to sell,

And trying their best to get people to vote

For those that look into it can’t help but note

That turnout can sometimes be far, far too low,

For any results to be able to show

The people’s real wishes; though someone gets in,

Their mandate may be unacceptably thin.

Very often there’ll be quite a number involved

From various parties, who all are resolved

To get the vote out for their candidate’s name;

Whatever their party, they work much the same.

And the message to all can be taken as read,

“From now until polling, it’s full steam ahead.”

If You Want to Stay Young

If you want to stay young, then I think you'll agree,

Whatever your age, then it's best not to be

One of those people who lives in the past,

Their life at a standstill, and always aghast

At the thought that one day they might try something new,

Whose plans for the future are minutely few.

The young on the other hand rarely look back,

Their lives do not generally have any slack,

For dwelling on things that they've now left behind;

Instead they look forward you'll usually find

To what they can do, and new things they can try,

In the future before too much times passes by.

If you want to stay youthful, you also should aim,

To be like the young, with an outlook the same,

One that looks forward in hope every day,

So you can quite proudly, with confidence say,

Your years may be many, but you are not old,

For you're looking forward, both active and bold.

Walking in the Rain

Going walking in heavy rain,
Is something most of us distain.
We are not ducks, who like being wet,
We much prefer the sun; but yet
When well wrapped up with a plastic mac,
Completely covering front and back,
And shoes or boots that don't begin,
Very soon to let water in,
Then many people aren't in doubt,
That it's quite pleasant to be out
On a misty day, when gentle rain,
Enhances nature's scents again,
And they stay warm and dry the while
They're tramping over many a mile.

Graves on a Battlefield

The rows of crosses mark the spot,
Where thousands died; no single plot
Belongs to anyone alone,
A place which he can call his own.
But all there share a common grave,
As part of those who there would pave
The way to the future, when at last,
Left behind was the hated past.

Dreams

Nearly everyone it seems

Carries in them cherished dreams

Of things they'd like to be or do,

To change the old, bring in the new.

To some all things should stay the same,

Some dream of fortunes linked to fame;

Almost everyone has a goal,

Ambitions that they can extol.

To be an artist, write a book,

Become a new world-famous cook;

Explore the jungle; travel far,

Discovering where new places are;

Learning music, or to play

New types of sport in which they may

Become a champion, or just enjoy

Becoming a fitter girl or boy;

Finding the "right one", who'll be there

With them throughout their life to share

In all they do; and be a guide,

In whom they always can confide.

Others see a wider stage,

Especially in this modern age,

With world news at their finger-tips,

And comments on everybody's lips;

Their dream is peace, an end to war,

A world where hated is no more,

A world where there is food for all,

A world where everyone walks tall,

Knowing that they have a place,

As equals in the human race.

So many dreams, some old, some new,

That might perhaps one day come true.

The Reliable Sun

The sun is vanishing in the west,
Going to its nightly rest,
Slowly moving from our gaze,
As it's done throughout the days
The earth's existed; should it drop
Right out of sight, then life would stop.
But every morning it returns,
Thus allaying all concerns,
That it might have disappeared,
And the worst that earth has feared
Has come to pass; without the sun,
Of life on earth there would be none.

Boating on the Lake

"Boats to Hire".  The sign invites
All those passing within its sights
To take a boat, to pedal or row,
And lazily over the waters go,
Enjoying the scenery by the lake,
The sun, the breeze, and all that make
For a pleasant time spend out of doors,
With the gentle sound of pedals or oars,
Interspersed with the songs of the birds,
And sometimes also of laughter  and words.
And if you're tired, you can always stop
And drift awhile, or even hop
Out of the boat, and on dry land,
Leaving it there for a while to stand
Tied to a tree, until you feel
You once more have sufficient zeal
To sail again, or perhaps you just
Want to return it, as you must
Within the hour, for you hired it for
Sixty minutes and no more.

Parking at Long Weekends

It's usually difficult to park,
Especially evenings, after dark,
When everyone's returned from work,
And any empty places lurks
In odd stops which are hard to find
In streets which never were designed
To take parked cars, but now are full
Along both sides as the modern pull
To have a car exerts its weight
And brings about the obvious fate
Of roads so clogged, there is no room
For anyone to simply zoom
Into an empty spot nearby;
Instead they'll have to try and try
To find a place which well may be
Some way from those they've come to see.
But come along weekend it's fine,
No longer is there one log line
Of cars which bumper to bumper stand
Along both sides; reduced demand
For parking spaces means that there
Are empty spaces everywhere.

Effects of Winter

Wind and rain, hail and sleet,
Puddles of water under your feet;
Bigger puddles on the road,
As drains are suffering overload.
Hair all wild and blown about,
That it looks a mess, you aren't in doubt;
Cheeks all reddened from the gale
And icy cold, which without fail
Wrecks so much damage on your skin;
You try your best, but can never win
Against the cold and other things
Which every winter always brings.

Babies

Babies are usually born experts
At reaching an adult's heart,
With big wide eyes and a cheeky smile,
They're the tools they need for a start
To make everyone who's around them
Want nothing more than to share
In doing whatever is needed,
Involving themselves in their care.
Babies know they're dependent
And so they have to persuade
Al;l adults that come in their orbit
To willingly come to their aid.