. 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.

. Shelter in Each Other

Bitter cold winter winds blow hard,
Across the harsh unforgiving plains.
A coldness to pierce the warmest heart,
Tormenting those caught up in it’s path.

Unable to see the forest through the trees,
A decade would pass before the fog could lift.
Like overlapping snakes entwined without contact,
Criss and cross their own paths would twist.

The heat moves in and out of mirages,
On the lonely empty desert sands.
The sun burns deep into uncovered flesh,
Tearing at their faces in their hands.

No matter how unpleasant the weather,
Henry and Lyn have found their shelter;
With each other, for each other,
More so, they found shelter in each other.

. Whispers

A whisper upon the wind,
A whisper so faint and thin,
Tells of things it has seen,
Whispering of times that have been.
It tears at the strongest of heart,
Watching two souls being torn apart,
By forces beyond their control,
Trying to separate their eternal soul.
But no power can part everlasting love,
For when time transcends the other above,
They shall once again be together,
Happily living in their love forever.
For my Amazing Nan and Pop

. 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.

. A Gathering of Kin

The Four came to the one,
The four whom he had sired.
For three timing was too late,
His life was all but expired.

In a room silent and bare,
He was alone no more.
Although body was never to respond,
His spirit lifted this I saw.

Like a gathering of kin,
Being with him to the end.
Not thinking of him as a father,
But comforting a long lost friend.

The Lone Wolf cries,
Out aloud in the night.
For it has lost a mate,
Stolen away on this silent night.

You walked from the hill,
Of the old rugged cross.
You did carry no burden,
For naught was lost.

. 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.