It’s Good to Write
It’s good to write a line or two of poetry and verse,
As far as hobbies go, there are choices far worse,
It’s good to think and get down your ideas
It dispels your traumas and fears.
It’s good to ponder and search for ages,
For just the right words to fill the pages.
All your emotions once expressed
Puts a heavy heart to rest.
Luck of the Draw
Ten hopefuls lined up for the university post,
Twitching nervously before their host.
The Dean in charge of the selection game,
With four other “heads” in the frame,
Important folk in the chain of command
The power brokers - a permanent job to land.
Officious in their Sunday best,
Copious questions to test.
Candidates put through their paces,
A whole day with strained faces,
It all looks so fair and straight,
Judged on merit, not left to fate.
May the best man win they say...
It’s all down to that thing called luck
So bugger, damn, shit, bollocks f***?
Or a bit of the underhand, no doubt
Who knows who... is what it’s all about.
The Green Capped Ladies of the Swimming Club
The green capped ladies are there every time,
The two of them swim in line,
They are best friends, and not just for show,
Always in the middle row.
Side stroke is what they do,
So they can chat about a thing or two,
They arrive dead on eight,
Never early never late.
They go up and they go down,
For half an hour exact, without a frown,
For they are happy to be together,
They are there, no matter the weather.
How I’d like to share their tete a tete...
For they are the kinds of friends I would like to get.
All poems (c) Mary Mae Lewis
Fashion comes and fashion goes
And why it’s so, God only knows.
This year they’ll have us all wear black,
From top to toe sombre is back.
Gypsy lace, frills, and leathers,
Puffy sleeves, fine fur and feathers,
So dark and grim we look like death,
All so dull, I whisper under my breath...
BUT not to go along with trends
Will lose you not one but many friends,
So it’s go follow bravely and be included
Or resist and be excluded!
She goes by the name of Val,
From primary school she was my pal.
Through the teenage years we stuck together,
But at eighteen, our lives diverged, almost forever,
I went on a teaching training course,
She a typist in the work force.
Me to Wales, then to the capital city,
No time for each other, what a pity.
She to Ireland, then back to Stoke,
To set up home with her bloke,
There she stayed in one home,
And I had twenty... I hear you groan.
I travelled from place to place,
She lived at a steadier pace.
I went abroad: a life so full,
She lamented hers so dull.
In our fifties, we meet again,
And share in each others agony and pain.
Mothers with three children each,
Grown up and out of reach.
Our families’ behaviour putting us to shame,
We speak as if we are not to blame.
We tell ourselves we’ve done our best,
And try to put the strife to rest.
Fill up our glasses with something strong,
And swear we never did one thing wrong.
We don’t know if we are right,
But its too late to fight,
She the steady, mumsy spouse,
Me the gritty power about the house.
Our children brought up not the same
But now in trouble, suffering equal pain.
Both of us can do little now
Can’t tell them what to do, nor how,
For they will go on their chosen way,
And there really is no more we can say.
Except to confirm that whatever mothers do,
We can’t do right from wrong - that’s nothing new !