Blue Monday

I hear it is Blue Monday,
You might be feeling down,
So here’s a little thought that should
Alleviate your frown.

Spring is round the corner,
And it’s heading right this way,
It won’t be long before the trees
Have fresh leaves every day.

The sun will shine for longer,
The sky will soon be blue,
Now that’s the sort of blue Monday
I’d like to send to you.  

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The Glass Half Full

Let’s celebrate! Here is the news;
Two weeks in, without the booze!
It’s been a strain, I must admit,
But now I’m getting used to it.

Water with a dash of lime,
Jumping out of bed on time,
My skin, smooth as a baby’s bum,
2 inches lost from round my tum.

I guess I am more energised,
Standing straight, with brighter eyes,
More money in my pocket too,
I’m buzzing with the things I’ll do.

I’m hoping that ‘the grumps’ have past,
And that I’ll sleep all night at last,
“It’s early days”, I hear you cry,
But life seems good when life is dry!

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Winter’s Bench

Walking through the winter woods,
My breath the harshest sound,
Past ancient oaks, kissed by the ice,
And frozen in the ground.

My path, a leafy frosty carpet,
Snaps beneath my boots,
Shattering the small ice pools
Between the exposed roots.

The Holly almost berryless,
The best has been and gone,
Apart from at the very top,
For birds to feed upon.

Sunlight works in shorter hours,
And frost may yet prevail,
No warmth has reached the Eastern slopes
That edge this Yorkshire dale.

Beyond the sugar-coated rocks
A clearing to the sky,
And there a bench to sit upon,
To watch the world go by.

I take the seat that’s offered me,
I must not miss a thing,
So I will sit and rest awhile
And wait here for the Spring.

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The Path

The heavy weight of deep regret,
That grows around the soul, 
Slowing footsteps, bending backs,
Don’t let it take control.

Of course, we’d do things differently,
If we could turn back time,
But living in the past, my friend
Can be a bigger crime.

Our lives, they are not perfect,
We learn from past mistakes,
So turn to face your future
And whatever path it takes.

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Dry January

January will be dry,
At least it will for me,
I hope to occupy myself,
With other stuff you see.

I’ve made a little list just now
Of things I like to do,
It’s called replacement therapy,
And it’s cheaper too.

There’s potting lots of seedlings,
Getting out for walks,
I also plan to learn to draw
With pastels and with chalks.

So as I raise a glass to you,
On this our New Year’s Day,
It’s just a glass of water, as
I’ve thrown the booze away!

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The Box Set

He lived inside a box set
His life played out on screen,
Whilst a small discerning audience
Watched every single scene.

Series one was hopeful,
The cast were young and bold,
The energy was palpable,
The acting solid gold.

Series two, a shocker,
With twists around the plot,
Masked marauders joined the fray,
He swore an awful lot.

Series three seemed better,
The pace was fast and slick,
Optimistic storylines,
Some notable slapstick.

Series four could be his last,
A perfect happy ending,
But then there came a cliff hanger,
Totally mind bending!
The next instalment won awards,
A thrilling series five,
But by the end he was surprised
That he was still alive.

Series six was quite low key,
He didn’t do that much,
The audience began to say
He’d lost his magic touch.

Yet series seven was his best,
Poignant and wise,
He bowed out at the end of that,
And watched his own demise.

They brought in younger actors,
To freshen up the game,
Protagonists with bright white teeth,
It didn’t feel the same.

So now he’s left the studio,
His story is complete,
And yet he loves to sit and watch
His best bits on repeat.

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The Dandy Lion

Roaring round the garden,
Dressed in his Sunday best,
Popping up in lovely lawns
And spreading out when pressed.

A splash of yellow sunshine,
Wildly roaming free,
A diuretic detox, for a
Sweeter garden pee !

Time-telling childhood blow-balls,
Torpedo on a stem,
Nice with ice and burdock
(That refreshing little gem).

A mascot for the army,
Resilient and strong.
A source of golden nectar,
For the bees all summer long.

A weedy lion for the quacks,
To take all pains away,
But most of all, a sign that it’s a
Blue sky sort of day.

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Back to work day

My last day on furlough,
So, with trepidation,
I pack my computer
Then head for the station.

These one hundred days
At home, in the garden,
With chocolate and wine
As my arteries harden.

Mixed feelings have I
Of this time spent at home,
My journeys restricted
To dreaming alone.

Back in the real world,
Where all things will change,
I nervously view this
As frighteningly strange.

We must all move forward,
I’m forced to admit,
But I rather liked furlough,
At least, most of it.

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A Tale of Midsummer

Midsummer’s Eve,
In the strangest of years.
When nightmarish creatures
Became our worst fears.

Threatened by demons,
Who flew through the air,
Locked in our towers
And filled with despair

We trusted our kingdom
To do the right thing
But nervously worried
Of what that might bring.

We missed all the magic
Of friends in hard times,
When sharing a hug became
One of life’s crimes.

We clapped for the Carers,
Our own fairy folk,
Whilst damming the asses,
Who thought it a joke.

Gargoyles and pixies were
Flouting the rules,
As darkness descended
On all of our schools.

What a tale we will tell,
On next Midsummer’s Eve,
Of this time in our lives
We can hardly believe.

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