Expectations

I have had a bad couple of days after some unpleasantness that is best not dwelt on and the result was these two poems here. Steve and I will be away on a work trip for a few days and I hope that will clear the cobwebs away. It is now exactly 100 days until I start the big challenge that I have been training so hard for. Don’t forget to donate if you can please. www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

Expectations 

Tried to be what was expected

But still it lay cold underneath

What I was and where from?

Expect, know for why and try

Feel the pressing, feel the teeth. 

Can it be done as expected?

Still and solemn as a wreath

What was I and where from?

Expect to try, begin to cry

Like the trodden path beneath. 

Fail to be what was expected

Reach out and feel the grief

I was what I was and from

Expecting  lies, as was I

Soft moulded to an old belief.

Penumbra

 

Waiting to start a new day

Leaving behind the old way

Hear what older people say

Watch the child I once was play

Remember the smell of sun on hay

The suck on stones in wavy spray

When jolly fun meant life was gay

Discipline from eyes of grey

The secret when to bodies flay

Rush to leave without delay

The smell of death and of decay

Of family in sombre array

Then wish the world would go away

In darkness palms together pray

 

 

Endless Ladder

Read this one a strange but peaceful dream or use it as a swim drill which it what it is under the thin disguise. I find a bit of visualisation goes a long way. I wrote it with a friend in mind who is working hard on his swimming. I can see him under the water while I am swim training but like most swim teachers, I couldn't resist sticking my oar in! If you find it helps your stroke, send a fiver to my collection point for the kids at Chestnut Tree House www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

Endless Ladder

 

It’s all quiet

Nobody is there

Keep moving on

Eye’s ahead where 

Focus in this

Underwater scene

Still and tranquil

In bluey green 

Far as the eye can see

It stretches on

How can it be

To infinity it has gone 

Deep down inside

You know it leads

To something better

Where style succeeds 

The endless ladder

The perfect tutor

Leads you on

Like a loving suitor 

Passion to reach for

Something better

Rise to the bait

Of this chain letter 

Reach forward

With your hand

To the next rung

And firmly land 

Pull your self along

One rung at a time

This arm and then this

Rhythmically in rhyme 

Plod away and

Keep a steady pace

Relax and settle

No need to race 

 Pull along the side

Keep your reach

A little wide

Your memory teach 

Slide again along

The ladder’s length

Grip and push back

Use your strength 

On hand one side

One hand the other

Nicely spaced out

And then recover 

Further along

More power then

Flowing movement

Smooth timing when 

The Endless ladder

Cadence steady

Take a rest

When you are ready 

Comfy now

Onward ever

Feel you could

Do this forever 

Knuckle down to

Peaceful progression

The pleasure true

A satisfying lesson 

Floating climb

Toward infinity

Settled style

With sure affinity 

Pull-push away

Till the move remain

In muscle memory

A sweet refrain 

Never reaching

The ladders end

A better swimmer

You are my friend

Biker Biker

Too many cyclists are being knocked off their bikes by motorists, and it seems to me most often at roundabouts and junctions. Let’s all try to ride safely and be aware of what is happening around you at all times.  

Biker, Biker  

For the non sporty masses it would appear

That fit folk only do it just for the gear

Tight colourful Lycra gets us so hated

We’re flashy show offs, there to be slated

Here’s a note to the ‘Hate Bikers’ society

We don’t wear the clothes to gain notoriety

Let’s say ‘Give to Caesar what is Caesars’

Lycra tights will never be crowd pleasers

And ‘Give to God what is Gods’

Onward and onward the cyclist plods

‘A place for everything’ is commonly said

‘Everything in its place’ could be said instead

So bike gear for bikers because after all

You’d never wear cricket gear to play football

You wouldn’t wear a rumba frock to a rugby match

Or a wetsuit to golf when you play off scratch

The bike clothes have not unnaturally evolved

But for improved comfort it has been solved

No wind drag, no chaffing, and a pad just there

Young lads roll the window down, at us to swear

We put in the miles, the cars move so fast

With a bright coat on we hope safety will last

So you tend your business and I will tend mine

Between us we’ll carry our lives on just fine

The Sepia Photograph

During a hunt around for something I had lost track yesterday, I found a framed picture that used to hang in my parents home when they were alive, both gone now for quite some years. It was taken down because it had been damaged at the bottom of it or maybe it had just torn with age. It was a sepia photograph of my grandfather, my mothers father. Mum told me that he had died whilst serving with the British Army in Palestine. She didn't remember him because she was very young when he was killed. She did still have the photograph that her mother had told her that he always carried with him. It was of my mother and her two elder sisters when they were all tiny. On the back he had simply written "My three darling daughters".

Don't forget the reason I am sharing my scribbling's, if you like any of them, please donate something no mater how small a sum www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

The Sepia Photograph 

He sits wearing a slightly crumpled British Army uniform

The high collar soft from wear, a cord from the shoulder fell. 

The brass jacket buttons are polished and fastened neatly,

A healthy head of dark hair parted and neatly combed. 

His expression weary, between his eye two creases form.

Comfortable and at ease for those at home to tell

That he was well enough and loved his children sweetly

And wished for this adventure he had never roamed. 

Trimmed moustache above his mouth’s expression warm,

The gold band on his left hand is clear to see as well.

Held in his breast pocket above his heart stored neatly,

An image of three little girls who stand un-chaperoned. 

A far away look in his eyes might of the near future warn

Would he see those daughters once more? He could not tell.

Ever see them as they grew or care for them completely,

Or would they see that wedding ring that he once owned?

 

Kestral

I have been meaning to write this one for a while. Don't you just love Kestrel's? Though as with much of natures work they are actually not that cute. Not like puppies and kittens and babies, but they are quite stunning and I love them. Sometimes life is not cute and cuddly either and some of us have to toughen up. For the Kestrel, it is quite a kill or be killed world bringing the their young. Our world can be a sink or swim, dog eat dog place too. Be prepared for the unexpected.

Kestrel 

The kestrel; the easiest bird in the heavens to spot

You would have to be half blind to miss one

Not a question to ask, if it is one or is not

Hovering high above in the light of the sun. 

Flying as fast as the blustery wind blows it back

Eyes rigid and still, fixed firm upon his quarry

The perfect poised position to launch an attack

Leaves not a moment for its prey to be sorry. 

Swiftly turning to drop like a stone in the wind

Then stop for a last intent location prey check

In a flash a head from it tiny body form skinned

From high above it was only the tiniest speck. 

This falcon may not even have any hunger

The hunter will add this feed to his stash

He cares not of waste or any do-good monger

A vole presents itself, spare food he’ll cache. 

The killer arcs back to his hovering habit shift

Wings a-flutter no matter how strong the wind

Tail expertly flapping to maintain his perfect lift

Flashing rich browny red ‘til the next meal pinned. 

Hanging effortlessly, head held still as a rock

Amidst the miraculous turmoil of wing-ed prance

Held in place like a pole tethered wind sock

Yet in extraordinary quavering, wavering dance. 

Returns to the previous builders evicted nest

Only then we hear the mate calling cry

“Dinner is served my love” from this mornings test

For larger predators, keeps a watchful eye.

One Step

One step at a time is all any of us can manage and as long as that one step is forward and not backwards and we have done our best, then one step is enough.

One Step

 

One step at a time in all things

One careful step all the better

One thoughtful note sings

One single stage scene setter 

One step more each day taken

One consideration for the other

One old friend not forsaken

One good turn deserves another 

One step each day toward a goal

One plan before it is too late

One idea in life’s mixed bowl

One thing worked not left to fate 

One step more with stronger tread

One day making each breath count

One time planting seeds to spread

One more problem to surmount 

One of you can pave new ways

One of them can hold her hand

One of us improve his days

One step makes us all feel grand

Jean

Having posted my poem about me and Stephen King yesterday and heard a couple of comments about it, reminded of the time my husband Steve and I moved into out own home for the first time thirty four years ago. Thinking about the time we spent in that house prompted me to write of our experiences there in my todays strange but very, very true story. Make a cup of tea and sit down before you start because it is quite long.

Jean 

Quite early on in our relationship

Something less than a year in fact

We shared an interrelationship

That called for a degree of tact 

My husband had not said a word

‘Til one night sitting side by side

Stroking the cat while he purred

I said something I couldn’t hide 

“Ever feel that we are not alone”?

I’d wanted to say it for a while

Over time the thought had grown

He turned to me with a knowing smile 

He puffed through his cheeks a bit

“I though it was just me”, he sighed

“You’ve seen her”? Eyebrows a-knit

“Thank heavens for that” he cried 

“Where did you see her, and when”?

“At the top of the stairs at first”, I said

“In the hall, and the front bedroom then,

She doesn’t seem to know she is dead” 

We talked about her in total calm

No fear at all by either of us felt

She did not want to do us any harm

Dazed as to what the past had dealt 

We went to visit the previous owner

He called his wife to say we were there

To see if she knew our mystery loner

Hand to her mouth then the back of her hair 

We described the woman we had seen

Looks went back and forth at each other

“I have to say that it sounds like Jean”

That would be Bill’s poor dead mother 

Photo albums all brought to the table

Silence fell as Rosie rummaged through

This time it was we who were not able

To hide feelings, it was the woman we knew 

We came home with an old photograph

Of Jean dressed just as we saw her

Placed in a sturdy frame, her epitaph

On its final position we did then concur 

We said nothing to anybody else at all

Then my daughter went up to bed one night

Rushing back in, hands against the wall

“A lady on the stairs gave me such a fright” 

The teenager looked at us both and knew

That we knew, that much she quickly saw

What she had seen was completely true

Her outburst loud as she laid done the law 

We should have warned her, a ghost was here

She slowly calmed down and asked at last

“Why aren’t you scared, do you have no fear”?

From one to the other her eyes were cast 

We knew not why Jean was still in our home

And likewise she knew not why we were

She didn’t speak but continued to roam

We stopped in our tracks at a look from her 

A friend house-sat once when we were away

And on our return he gave us a warning

“There’s a ghost in this house, don’t say nay,

Dressed in black as if she is in mourning” 

The only physical thing that ever occurred

Just a little adjustment from time to time

The photo was faced down without a word

No special reason, no comment, no rhyme 

She never bothered or worried us at all

We lived there for years without dread

But suddenly she went away as we recall

Then we heard that her only son was dead 

She was waiting for him or so it seemed

The thought I had firm set in my mind

Her journey to heaven delayed she’d deemed

Not to leave her beloved son William behind