Let’s Be Honest Here

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I could be a better golfer
I could try to be more green
I could be a full-time writer
I could keep my whole house clean
I could take care of my pets
Consider other people’s needs
I could make some sort of effort
To not remain what I have been

But life has made me what I am
Should I try to be another?
It sounds like far too much hard work
I really can’t be bothered




Age Old Blues

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Woke up this mo’nin’
Mah boobs touched mah toes
Grey hairs wuz sproutin’
From outta mah nose
Hormones a-ragin’
All over the place
Acne reclaimin’
Mah much lived-in face
Waistline expandin’
While waistband contracts
No use complainin’
Ah gotta face facts
Ain’t temp-o-rary
Ain’t goin’ away
Youth lease expired
I’s forty today

I thank the Lord fo’
My three handsome men
If they wuz ugly
I’d trade ‘em all in
‘Cause ah’m worth double
A twenty-year old
‘Cept’in mah wrinkles
An’ feelin’ the cold

Don’t you be cryin’
It sure ain’t no crime
Better be forty
Than dead fo’ all time.


The best laid plans of mice and old women…September is my birthday month and I had intended to share some poems I’ve written over the years to mark special dates but, of course, I forgot.

As the song says, this is the last day of September, so you get one poem, written to mark my fortieth. I remember reading it out to three friends who had taken me out for a meal to celebrate, beating time on the table, to their obvious bewilderment. I don’t think I’d told them at that point that I wrote poetry; or perhaps it was the (somewhat – I had the poem with me after all) impromptu performance that kind of embarrassed them. Put it this way: I’m sixty next year and don’t see any of them anymore, so they won’t be hearing that poem.


No more dogs! I barked,
booting poo down the hall.

The kick was accidental;
the weariness incremental.


My dog is getting old and occasionally she can’t make it to the door in time…and occasionally she can’t be bothered to make it to the door in time. This was one of the latter. She’d been out not ten minutes before and I guess she figured that was it until her walk.

I can’t be too hard on her, though, as she inspired a poem; and the carpet had a thorough clean.

Chicken Swoop

Photo by Helen Kay

Auntie Phyllis loves Nigella
That hen is better than any fella
And what would she with any man do?
Not much at age one hundred and two 😉

Happy birthday to Helen’s Auntie Phyllis!


My poet friend Helen Kay is a wonderful niece to her elderly aunt. She also has a cuddly companion in Nigella the Hen, who kept many Facebook friends cheerful (and sane) during lockdown.

Helen writes award-winning poetry and has an excellent published pamphlet of poems about dyslexia through V.Press Poetry. Called This Lexia & Other Languages, you can read a poem sample (and buy the collection) here.

One Wish

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if I could have one wish
it would be that every dish
I ate of fattening food
would reduce my weight
to a long-lost 8
and my belly would not protrude

(okay, that’s two
but greed is why I got so big:
I don’t know how to eschew)


USA readers: that’s a British size 8, which I think is a size 4 in Americanese.