Gran'dad's Little Gift

My daughter gave birth to her first child in November

so here's my response to that event. A bit schmatlzy, I know.

To My Grand Child Freya Rose

It was more than good to see you lying in your crib
In fact, ‘bloody marvellous’ would be nearer to the mark.
Your little face, so tiny and intent; large hands clutching at thin air.
You have your mother’s features, but it’s early days as yet,
And maybe as you grow a bit, your eyes will go dark brown
Like mine.
I hope I live a good few years to see how your growing goes.
My wish for you, a great childhood, my darling Freya Rose.

This poem is dedicated to all those poets who
can really strike a chord with their readers.

Your Poetry Sings


Your poetry sings.
It shimmers with subtle similes.
Your metaphors are musical.
And your imagery sublime.
‘Look,’ you seem to say,
‘And you will become submerged
Into my world.
Discover truths that you never knew existed.
Feel the emotions that cascade.
Know me, and know yourself.’

I long to write like that,
But lack the muse somehow.
My poems are in your face.
No questions need be raised,
No hint of careful introspection.
Why use your thought processes
To untangle what isn’t there?
Here, the truth is plain,
What you see, is what you get.
My poetry does not sing.

This poem was written at a workshop and in some ways shows the differences that exist between the male and female species, though, of course, there are always exceptions.
Would You Like to Eat a Tulip?

“Would you like to eat a tulip?”
I asked a little girl.
She looked at me, wide-eyed and innocent
And gave a little smile.
She shook her head, and turned her leg
And pondered for a while.
Then she sniffed and touched a petal
And ran the proverbial mile.

“Would you like to eat a tulip?”
I asked a little boy.
He stared at me incredulously
And scratched his tufted head.
He scratched his arm, a knee, his nose
He stretched upon his toes,
Then, breathing heavily
He said “Yeah, OK, I suppose.”

This painting is called 'New Boy In The Staff Room'.

My self-portrait is the chap with the beard.

As you can see, some of the rest of the staff are a motley crew.

A Walk on Gwithian Dunes

At the start
I wrap in copious layers,
A vest,
Shirt.
Jumper and coat
Scarf round my neck
And woolly hat on my head.
Rosie has her golden fur.

As we set off across the dunes
The wind whips viciously
At all parts of my protective gear.
I shiver, and press on.
Rosie leaps in unaffected abandon.
She greets her pals,
Chases rabbits and birds.

I dig hands deeper into my pockets.
As we press on
I flap my arms
I throw the ball
I run down hills
I watch the sea.

It’s time to turn back.
I now have an extra layer
Called ‘sweat’.
The hat is off,
The scarf undone,
The coat flaps open to the wind.

Rosie stares at me,
Her long pink tongue flicking
As she pants heavily.
“You’re OK,”
She seems to say.
“I’m stuck with all this fur!”
I race her back to the salt-sprayed car
Where we flop
Disreputably.

On the coastal footpath from St Just to Sennen, at every step there's a picture worth taking.

Taking that look out towards the sea you'll find something akin to the mystery and magic.

Magic is what lies beneath the ground and beyond the horizon - it crackles in the air.

Air that's worth every breath you ever wish to take in this land of granite, sand, grass and tin.

Tin and copper, silver and gold - dig deep for there are stories to be told on the coastal footpath from St Just to Sennen Cove.

An Acquaintance Died Last Evening

An acquaintance died last evening.
A sudden, but expected death
From cancer and chemo.
When last seen
She was undoubtedly alive,
Full of spirit, a firm smile, gritted teeth.
A survivor, we all thought.
But not for long.
Her extinction leaves a coldness
Stretching taut the nerve ends of my spine,
And leaves me with vague feelings
Of another death - mine.
Who will mourn my passing?
Who will even think of asking?
Who will weep?
Who will shiver in their beds
Then, simply return to sleep?
Who will even want to know?
Whose interest will be kindled?

Pause for thought.......
Time to ask.....
Time for one small, heartfelt request.
Dear God, grant me my full three score and ten,
And then
Another fifty years on top again!
Just think
Time
Time to read those unread and unwritten books
Time to write one hundred poems
Time to finish the unfinished novel
Time to love, and love again.
Time to seek immortal fame.
Time......
Until at last my own departure
Evokes a Universal, world-wide response
"See, hear, old HK died last night.
How sad.
But, hey, he had a good, long life.
And listen, I can remember
Something he wrote, oh way back when,
' An acquaintance died last evening.....' "

The Thinnest of Men

Hi, I have been a teacher for a number of years, over 30 in fact, and spent quite a bit of that time writing for the children in my classes. Now that I'm no longer teaching full time I can afford to write for myself. This Blog will give me the opportunity to display some of the work I have created. I hope you enjoy reading it and would welcome constructive comments..... or just 'great stuff' might be enough!