Floyd.
At the door I feel the stir
Of a furry face aquiver with purr
I turn around to look,
Take my mind from my book
His eyes are pleading
His paws are kneading
“Let me in”, he is saying
“You know me, I’m not playing”!
“That’s what I’m standing here for”!
So I rise from my chair
To let in with the air
The cat from next door.
The Old Man
I looked in the window and saw an old man,
He was old as old can be,
I gave him a smile and a friendly wave,
And he smiled and waved back at me.
His face was stubbled and in need of a shave,
It was wrinkled and ravaged by time,
But it wasn’t a window I was looking in,
It was a mirror, and the face was mine.
At sixty five I had not met
The cyberspace, the internet
My OH bought a home PC
Said we’d both use it, him & me.
Firstly I was scared to try
Touching it, I don’t know why
Then one day on the BBC
Springwatch they said had boards for free
And put a link to find the site
I was addicted from that night.
Trial and error as I branched out
Eureka I would shout
When I got it right
From being far to scared to try
I now across the net can fly.
Excellent Tiff… 
Thank you OGF.
This is one I composed for my ‘then’ girlfriend on Valentine’s Day in lock down, 2020. She lived/lives in Belgium, and because of travel restrictions it was nearly 18 months before I could fly out to visit her.
No baskets of flowers
Or a fresh red rose
No you in my arms
I’d want to enclose
No touching, no smiles
No chocolates in a box
No kissing your lips
And no fancy frocks
No whispers ‘I love you’
Oh, isn’t it a crime?
If I can’t be with you
My lonely Valentine
I just realised, I wrote the poem in February 2021, not 2020, that was when we first met online on a music appreciation website.
Inspired by events witnessed whilst waiting for a bus outside a hospital.
For those of you not from the UK: -
A Shout - An emergency call
Green and white - Ambulance livery
Blues and Twos - Flashing blue lights and two tone siren, often referred to as a Nee-Naw
Welly - (Wellington) Boot - putting your foot down to accelerate
The golden hour - The most critical time immediately following an injury or illness
The Shout
Cars and busses, heavy traffic,
People milling all around,
Then I hear it coming,
That so distinctive sound.
Waiting at a bus stop,
Sitting, reading a good book,
The wailing noise approaching,
I pause to take a look,
Green and white, with spinning strobes,
Alternate headlights flash,
Through a gap between some cars,
The driver makes a dash.
She stares hard, straight ahead,
Sirens echo off the wall,
Up the hill on blues and twos,
An ambulance on a call.
Driver scanning left and right,
Danger all about,
Sirens change to high pitch warble,
Paramedics on a shout.
Slowing at the junction,
Making sure it all is clear,
Welly down and on she goes,
The golden hour is dear.
On and on and up the hill,
Hard right turn ahead,
Flashing past a line of cars,
The lights have turned to red.
Carving through the traffic,
Precision, slicing like a knife,
On and round and out of sight,
To save somebody’s life.
Not all heroes wear capes.
Good Advice
Never use your hand as a hammer,
My old dad once said to me,
You’ll damage it and be in lots of pain,
Then where will you be?
“Move it from here, to here, and back again,”
As he mixed concrete with a spade,
His dad taught him how to do it,
And he was a stonemason by trade.
If it won’t fit use a hammer,
Or mallet if you’re working with wood,
It will fit if you’ve made it properly,
Well at least, I hope that it should.
If the pilot says, EJECT,”
Never ask them “Why,”
Or you will find yourself to be
The loneliest one in the sky.
When things go wrong,
Don’t make it worse,
Just take a step back,
And have a good curse.
You can rail at the sky,
Or complain to your god,
But it’ll do no good,
It’s just the Law of Sod.
Always read the label,
No matter what you are looking at,
Food, or flat-pack instructions,
Or the size of a Trilby Hat.
When a fire alarm sounds,
Leave straight away,
Real or false doesn’t matter,
You’ll get to live another day.
When walking on roads face the traffic,
Wear something white at night,
When crossing over look both ways,
Then you won’t get a nasty fright.
Never run with scissors,
That’s what kids were always told,
Never play with matches,
And you might live to grow old.
The Cateract
Tumbling down the cataract,
Rainbows forming in the air,
Torrent roars, and tinkling sounds,
Splashing water everywhere.
Down and down the rocky slope,
Plunging to the pool below,
Dogs barking, children laughing
Running beside the water flow.
Stepping stones across the stream,
Hopping, skipping, falling in,
Picnics on the river bank,
Parents watch their children swim.
Flashing past the crumbling Mill,
The Leat all choked with weeds,
The breeze through dandelion clocks,
Letting go all their seeds.
Narrow, swifter, foaming currents,
Heading for the weir,
Warning signs all around,
DO NOT SWIM NEAR HERE!
Slower, wider, ripples forming,
Fish and birds abound,
Coloured streaks in air and water,
Cries of, “Look at what I’ve found!”
Through the town and out beyond,
Past bridges old and new,
People passing overhead,
Stop to admire the view.
Streams and rivers joined the flow,
Pushing toward the tide,
Bobbing floats and fishing boats,
Along the harbourside.
Its journey’s end is now in sight,
As it slows to meet the sea,
Spring water mingling with the salt,
Where now it can run free.
Hi Fruitcake, Your poem is brilliant. I wrote similar poems about rivers…
The Erme
Fast flowing river from moorland source
Cuts channels deep,swift on it’s course
Ripples and eddies as current swirls
Around great boulders it foams and curls
Under Ivybridge, an ancient pack
(Did smugglers use it as a track?)
Rushing downwards and flowing free
'Til at Mothecome it meets the sea.
The Lud
Stand in the shallows on a sunny Summer day
And listen to the music as it ripples on it’s way
Swift and deep in Winter, in Summer calm and still
The horses dip their heads to drink their fill
They stand together in restful doze
Around their legs cool water flows
While my friend and I blissfully gaze
Into the wide and distant haze.
Rising from a Dartmoor marsh
Flows the Lud through landscape harsh
Which in Summer shows a different face
The hills softened in heat muted space
I can see the similarities. Lovely stuff.
Thank you, Fruitcake.
Summer
Towel spread upon the sand,
Muscles taut and suntanned skin,
To get a natural look like this,
Takes hours in the gym.
Plump, clotted cream fed backsides,
Earn women an admiring look,
A man’s wife sees him watching,
And whacks him with her book.
Strolling on the promenade,
Lovers walking hand in hand,
Tossing coins in to the fountain,
Listening to a one-man-band.
Skaters race along the seafront,
Dodging in and out the crowd,
A Traffic Warden berates a driver,
“Parking here is not allowed.”
Ice creams melting in the sun,
Seagulls swooping from the sky,
Flapping wings, a stolen flake,
Makes a small child cry.
Sat, eating pasties on a wall,
Skin burnt lobster red,
An old man in a deck chair,
A hanky on his head.
Caravans stuck in narrow lanes,
Tempers rise, men shout,
A farmer on her tractor,
To pull the grockles out.
Roadside signs to draw the eye,
“Farmhouse Scrumpy sold by here,”
Barbecues upon the beach,
People drinking fizzy beer.
Picnics up on top the Tor,
The Levels down below,
Where Summer Settlers once farmed the land,
Then left when it did snow.
Bed and breakfast, glamping huts,
Campsites in the rain,
Tourists flock down from the North,
It’s summer time here again.
I run for an hour,
Then jump in the shower
I come out all pink and refreshed.
I sit at the table,
As long as I’m able
Eating porridge in my undies and vest…
Well I don’t wear vests anymore, Mrs Fox thinks I look like and old bloke in them…
I wrote this poem for a competition, write a poem in the style of, so I chose this one & no I didn’t win. 
This Road Once Lead To Camelot
Gone, sights Tennyson saw plainly
G.M.T. crops, bearded barley
Combined harvesters heard clearly
Cutting, baling, binding early
This road once led to Camelot
The river full of rusting rubble
New houses cover where then stubble
Bringing peoples and all their trouble
Past, is the island of Shallot.
The Lady’s legend is of yore
They didn’t believe, wanted more
Progress and greed replaced folklore
The past is dead and gone before
Lost, once strong towered Camelot
High rise appartments fill the space
Where a dream castle had such grace
Now none can ever see the face
Cursed, forgot, Lady of Shallot.
Age Gap
My Daughter at age twentythree
Was then far more grown up than me
Now at her age of fiftyfour
She thinks I have regressed some more
Because I’m buying cuddly toys
And children’s books plus other joys
Now I have discovered the internet
The 21st Century I have met.
She thought I’d never reach the stage
Of copy, paste and post on page
Or type a message, send a link
She thought me far too old I think.
She says I’m mad to spend my day
On Facebook chattering away
To people I don’t even know
May never meet, but even so
I now spend hours on my P.C.
On forums that I’ve joined for free
Discovered, I have, a whole new World
The cyberspace, is now unfurled.
Poetry please, I can do it with ease.
I do it all the time, think of what might rhyme.
I do it here, I do it there, I do it where I dare, not say.
Speeding down the motorway, when ready to hit the hay.
In the shower, I have hidden power
To please you all, at this late hour.
The road to Stratford is paved with bards. Being a bard is hard.
Uploading the pros nobody knows, taking the credit for it.
I’m a poet but no one knows it. I wish there was money in it.
Does it rhyme with it, or doesn’t that matter.
Any more.
The less I understand, the easier it gets.
Chaucer drinks tea from his saucer. Hi honey I’m Homer. The things poets say when the going gets tough.
But I don’t give in that easy. I’m a pro with the prose
Dontcha know
So farewell then poetry, was nice while it lasted, the greatest agree.
I’m dead but not yet forgotten, I know what’s said is pretty rotten.
Reborn as a songsmith, you can’t catch me.
