Contact
If you desparately need to contact me. Try smoke signals. I am usually out of contact any way. If all else fails, try face book. You could use this form, may work
Poetry
Special
So you couldn't find me there. You may find me below.
Bag of Memories
The preparation for the journey was to be long,Your pain and drawn out good-byes from the throng.
To help you on your travels I give you this song,
With this added baggage of memories to carry along.
Too many memories for such a short time,
Yet treasured and held close to this heart of mine.
To my darling soon to rest above,
The one real memory is that of our love.
Son and daughters of bond, not blood,
Send these memories of eternal love.
From the white rose to the white dove,
These words cannot convey the depth of their love.
Ever the more so, is love thicker than water,
These memories come from your eldest daughter.
The touch of your hand and soft, baby like skin
That reflected the love and purity that came from within.
Another remembers the smile upon your gentle face,
When you both danced the dance of waltz and grace.
And although she knows things will never be the same,
Whenever she dances, she’ll dance with you again.
Little words but of sincere trusting care,
Advice always given from a love so rare;
“Listen to me and you will far,
A close friend will teach you to drive in my car!”
“Carretse, Nonno ….Carretse, Nonno”, Caress me;
Grandchildren one and all cherish this memory.
And from those of us who joined in late,
Safe journey to you our father, companion, and mate.
Written and Illustrated at Dincara’s Lair for and on behalf of Margery, Susan, Marina, and Colin and their respective families.
Welcome to My Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly
Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly; more aptly "Welcome to my poetry said the writer to the reader. For it as much the case for the fly as it is for the reader. If you were able to flick through the pages then maybe you wouldn't become the spiders next meal, but untangle yourself to fly away.But. To read the poems in depth, not to browse, but to read as if you were in fact the writer. Then. Then you would see a totally different world indeed.
You will be able to feel the raw emotion. You will be able to sense the fears. Visually seeing all the fantasies. Be entangled in the intrigue.
You can listen to, and hear, differing views on politics, the supernatural, and the ultimate question; are we alone?
You can be swept off your feet with the sweet serenades, and yet then, be brought crashing down by the broken hearts. Only to be lifted back up again with a love song. Be it of a person, country, or just the populace in general.
All in all, you would be caught in the spiders web. Not to become a feeble meal. But. But, maybe. To become a spider yourself.
See the person. See the Spider.
An introduction to my collection, many a year ago.
Title to Song
Oh I do recall my first, real, memory,At the age of three, what a man stood in front of me.
Three fingers on his left hand was all he had,
And it made me sad.
But it made me glad,
To shake his hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.
Out of the darkness comes, more, memories,
Through the house, out the back past the almond trees.
Three sheds stood like sentries, eyes had no tears,
Brewing beer and fishing gear,
Wood turnings there and here,
Then he took my hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.
As I travel through life’s, strange, mysteries,
The path I walk, is shaped by what was behind those trees.
The Man, the sheds, his beliefs, his abilities,
For there was no lock,
For which he had no keys.
I took his frail hand,
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what I said to him,
Beautiful memories of a man of twenty three.
For An English Rose
As our garden looks through the window,From the darkness to a room that glows,
Our hearts are filled with warmth and memories,
For we see a vision of an English Rose.
No ordinary rose was our English Rose.
Such a beauty with a touch of elegance.
Not known for her selfish ways,
Sharing in her majestic cadence.
Have you ever seen a rose drink tea?
Mr Kiplings says that he in fact knows.
For he has spent many an hour conversing,
With our courageous English Rose.
But alas our English Rose grew weary,
Tired within reach of the light.
As was our English Rose’s want,
She took to flight on a Saturday Night.
Our English rose now looks through the window,
Smiling, caring, and free of pain.
Watching over her own little roses,
Sipping Tea with Mr Kiplings again.