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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...

No way!

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, 2005


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 !

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