Getting Old? Me?

I surely must be in my prime. Two kneecaps, a hip replacement and three pairs of new teeth – just fine. I’ve rubbed shoulders with cancer and diabetic eyes and feet.
I’m deaf – can’t hear a thing quieter than next door television. And only when it’s blasting out, to annoy the neighbours, on the other side. Pity they don’t watch Coronation St and Dragon’s Den.
I suppose I can’t have everything; even If I’m (whisper) getting past my sell by date.
Some days it’s hard to think. I’m high on prescription medication most of the time. (40 multi- coloured different kinds) that make me dizzy, fart, and subject to daft poetic rhyme at the oddest time.
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How Are We This April Day
Snow laden bright skies
Nip in the air
Like the day we took our vows
In the little chapel at the foot
Of Muckish Mound
White with snowdrops and Daffodils

Bitter- sweet memories I sigh
We sit now Side by side him and I
Will he, like me be
Remembering
That day we took our vows

His eyes are dull but I remember still
His smile when I walked up the aisle
Alone
My father wouldn’t come
Not to marry him –
Children bridged the gap in our lives
. He never forgave my putting you in front of him.

“How are we this April day?”A cheery nurse says
That’s good,” she smiles
Anticipating our mute reply
Moving on not listening
Why would she wait?
Faceless old people in high backseats

It doesn’t show. The life we shared.
Him and I. Except for a few
Photographs faded to grey.
They don’t show the dreams we let go
Our regrets
What we’d do different. If we lived
Our live again. Him and I
Would we marry? Have our Kids?
It’s hard to tell. Living together
Was called sin in our day
But maybe I would try it now
With him

Tomorrow is nurse’s day to wed
She has other things in her head
She doesn’t see an old couple
Clasping hands
Half asleep – dreaming –
Memories of their life, their plans
Him whispering in my ear

Taking my wrinkled hand He leads the way
To the yellow and white daffodil display
He fumbles one behind my ear
“I knew you’d come that day,” he says quietly.
Nurse smiles indulgently
Thinking of her on wedding day

50 years from now she may be
In our chairs. Some fresh faced nurse
With sparkling eyes will say
“How are we this April Day?”
And expect no reply.

A Poem for My Mother

I think of you at the oddest moments.
In the brightness of a sunny day
In the smell of a teapot left to brew
In the tilt of a woman’s head or
The curve of her shoulders
But most of all I think of you
When I see a woman with a
Pleased smile wearing a red coat
I think about the day we went into town
You tried on the coat
And said,” What does an old woman like me
Need a fancy red coat for?”
I think about how you straightened your
Back stooped with age,hard work and Parkinson’s;
Squared your shoulders
Fingered the quality of the collar
Stroked the buttons
And stood proud and smiling at
Your reflection in the full
Length mirror
Your smile conveyed the message
I’ve arrived. I’m a bona fide person.
Who has her family reared
The red coat signified your reward.
Oh how you loved that red coat
It was the hardest thing to part with
After you died
I think of you when we gather together, to celebrate,
To laugh and sing as you did despite the lack of
Luxuries in your life
I wonder did I ever think to thank you
For all the times you saved me from myself
For sharing my achievements
And soothing the pain of a first
Lost love
I think about the times I caused you
Grief and wonder did you know how much
You were appreciated and loved.
Gemma Hill ©
Writeyouwriteme.wordpress.com 2014

STORY 3 FROM THE TOILET SEAT
The door stuck but I shoved it shut anyway. Today I was going to write. No creepy crawlies or men wearing onesies would be allowed to distract me. I thought. A man’s voice startled me. Then, I realised it was the voice of the presenter coming from the gimmicky toilet radio my family had bought me for Mother’s Day.
“Is there a right and a wrong way to hang a toilet roll,” the radio presenter was asking. “Is that what I’m paying good money to listen to,” I grumbled stretching over to shut him up. But before I could reach the radio he spoke again. “What way do you hang your toilet roll,” he asked. “Call us – we’re waiting for your call.”
“What manner of eejit would waste money and time calling in about bog rolls to a local radio station,” I lamented. But I couldn’t help focusing on my own kitten soft, pink quilted toilet roll. It sat flush with the wall. It uneven ends dangling down. I looked closer. The chew marks on the end looked very like the teeth marks of my spaniel. “I’ll kill her,” I muttered.
The radio was ablaze with callers wanting to talk about how they hung their toilet rolls. A man and women were debating it hot and heavy. “There is a right and a wrong way to hang your toilet roll,” the male caller insisted.
“Man up and get a life,” his women opponent mocked. “When i was a girl we used newspaper cut into squares and speared on a lump of wire. How would you be able to hang that in the right way,” she hissed.
My pen stopped in midair. I’d forgotten all about that. “Made me a fluent reader,” I chortled adding my two cents to the argument raging between the two radio callers. “Mind, I had to painstakingly put the newspaper squares back together again so I could read all the juicy scandal in the News Of The World.”
“So there is a right and a wrong way to hang your toilet roll,” the presenter’s snazzy voice asked egging on the fight between the two callers.
Forced into action I took my toilet roll off its holder and turned it as they used to say,”arse about face.”I studied it for a few seconds. “Naw, makes it look fat and ugly – can’t see the nice wee hearts and flowers on it,” I mused just as the toilet door got a shove.
“Why do you have to write in the toilet,” my son huffed.
“I’m not writing. I’m merely making sure my toilet roll is politically correct,” I pointed out sailing, out past him blank page and pen in hand.
His muttered response sounded remarkably like “What a load of shit.”
“The things you learn on local radio,” I mused giving the turned about toilet roll one last lingering look.

Mothering Day

Even if your mother was friend

Or foe, it’s her day on Sunday

 

Maybe it was your granny who

Nurtured You That’s OK

Mum doesn’t have to be

The one that gave birth to you

 

Maybe it was your Dad

That mothered you

Sister, brother – Uncle or Aunt

Or, strangers who became your family

 

It doesn’t matter what they were

called . They helped to make you

You what you are today

All  you need to know

It’s her, him, their

Mothering Sunday

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NAME THE STORY TELLER.

Give the Leprechauns Storyteller  writeyouwriteme a suitable name

And WIN a boxed Cadbury’s EASTER EGG

 

Everybody needs a name. But this old fella is nameless.

I found this little man alone and abandoned at the back of a junk shop In Co Donegal. We took an instant liking to each other. He explained – without words – that it had been a while since he had had any tobacco for his pipe. Without tobacco for his pipe he couldn’t wander the hills and valleys of Ireland telling his stories about the custom of the faereies and the ‘wee folk.”

“What breed of an Irishman are you, “I asked struggling him out from beneath a broken shamrock that had lost its green lustre.

He tried a feeble wink. “What kind would ye like me to be,” he asked silently. I had no answer.

“Would you like him painted up again,” the bemused young one behind the shop counter asked as I heaved his crumbling body close to my chest.

It was near closing time and I had the feeling the STORY TELLER – for I was certain that was what he was – would be just as happy to keep his faded clothes just as long as I took him home with me. “What colour were you thinking about?” I enquired. To my astonishment, the slip of a girl, launched into a detailed explanation of the dress, colours and costumes worn by leprechauns. “Well, it all depends what part of Ireland he’s from and where he’d be going to tell his stories,” she said without cracking a smile.

“We’re agreed he’s a story teller, then,” I said thinking I’d play her at her own game. She gave me a pitying smile and after rummaging under the cluttered counter for a while, she pulled out a tattered looking book and proceeded to dust it off with the sleeve of her Aran jumper. “Here he is wearing his greatcoat and silver buckled shoes and here he is with his breeches…”

I was beginning to think this wee leprechaun was going to cost me a packet. “I’ll take him,” I said hurriedly.

“He’d look better painted.” And she was off again telling me more.

“Paint him – I’ll leave a deposit.”

Satisfied with the sale, she licked the end of her pencil and laboriously wrote down my name in the kind of swirly Irish lettering I remembered from my school days.

I went home and forgot all about the wee man.

But he hadn’t forgotten about me. About a month later, he came to me in my dreams. He was wearing the coats and britches you see him wearing now and smoke was puffing out of his pipe.

The message was clear. He was ready to tell his stories again.

And so I fetched him home and placed him beneath the golden bush you see in the picture. He settled into his new abode and lo and behold, the rose bush that the frost had filled two years before started to spurt buds and then lovely golden yellow roses appeared. Not quite a crock of gold but good enough for me.

But in my haste to buy the old fella I forgot to ask Miss-know-All-Things about leprechauns what his name was.

And so to this day he has remained nameless.

So I need your help to name him. The best – most suitable- name for him will win a Cadbury’s Easter egg – be it man, woman or child.

In addition your name will be credited on the writeyouwriteme.wordpress.com blog ass the person who gave him his name.

So come on! Give the STORYTELLER a name before Easter

Watch out for Me

“Watch out for me!” The old man cried.

“No longer do I have my eyes

I lost then in a war to set you free.

But Raven Black I still can see

Vengeful devils will have their way

Watch out for me.

 

“Ripe fruit! Sustaining

What is left of me?”

He screamed

Through gritted teeth in

Passionate hate

 

Death drew near

Sighs contentedly

 

“Wait! Wait!”

The old man screamed

“Let me have my memories

To take with me

 

Daughter’s perfumed smell.

Dappled sunshine on golden hair

Childish squeals of delight

Son’s first goal inside the net

 

What use are they?

Lost to me forever now

Without my sight

I have no life.

 

Vengeful tears spilled down his cheeks

He stared at some unseeing face

“I only say what is true.

I have no eyes because of you.”

.

Death’s hand

Stilled his fevered brow

His dying breath –

“Watch out for me.”

 

.A raven stood

Upon the old man’s grave,

And pecked and pecked

At the tombstone grain.

Until the clear inscription

Read;

 

Watch out for me.

I may be dead, But you, will see,

Your dirty deed did not die with me.

 

Raven black I now can see

Swift, Sweet revenge!

Watch out for me.”

Gemma Hill 2012 ©

 

Homeless Susie
It’s a beautiful sunshine Monday morning. It suits my mood. My son is coming home. Just first Susie – the – computer has to move out of his room. He hasn’t slept in it for two year. These days it looks more like an office with all my writing books, magazines and bookcase overflowing on to the floor and chest of drawers.
Susie has a new home waiting for her in the corner of our bedroom. Cosy too – it’s right beside the radiator. And the bonus is I can look out onto the garden where spring is pushing the cold days of winter away and warming the budding flowers with its sun’s rays.
Zack, our Jack Russell watches me with curious, alert eyes. “Richard is coming home,” I say as I struggle past him clutching Susie’s new brain to my chest. He cocks his ears and looks at our Spaniel who gives him her doe eyed look that says something is up. She’s not easily roused out of that bed since she retired – and cleaning too! Could be a walk in this for you and me if we keep out of her way, she yawns, settling back on the sofa.
With Susie’s leads and wires reassembled she’s now is sitting like the Queen bee in her new home. And I am writing this on her new screen. Oh yes, a new brain and a new screen – only the best for my Susie.
Now, what about that mountain of paper in Richard’s room? The suggestion from my long-suffering husband is firmly rejected. Anyway, the bin men have been and gone – by next Monday he’ll have got used to climbing over the boxes. I can hear him muttering as he plugs in the kettle for a well-deserved mug of tea. “Who’d be married to a writer addict? It’s enough to put you on the drink.”
“Been there done that – as they say,”
Thanks for taking the time to read my Monday Mood
See you next week
Bye for now
writeyouwriteme.

An unlikely Group

An unlikely group gathered in support and friendship

Comrades in fun for a short time

Their smiling demeanour denying the blank existence

Of their lives

Problems put aside

Left outside the door

Or shared

A time apart

Where laughter is the centre of the universe

And fear is refused entry

Soon, this unlikely group

Will start the short journey back

Back to the stark reality of life

Laughter and fun will be carefully put aside

Until the next time.

You Have to have a laugh
The Pastor’s Ass
________________________________________
The pastor entered his donkey in a race and it won.
The pastor was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the race again, and it won again.
The local paper read:
PASTOR’S ASS OUT FRONT.

The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.
The next day, the local paper headline read:
BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR’S ASS.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the pastor to get rid of the donkey.
The pastor decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent.
The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day:
NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.

The bishop fainted.
He informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10.
The next day the paper read:
NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.
The next day the headlines read:
NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE.

The bishop was buried the next day.
The moral of the story is . . . being concerned about public opinion can bring you much grief and misery …
even shorten your life.
So be yourself and enjoy life.
Stop worrying about everyone else’s ass and you’ll be a lot happier and live longer!
Have a nice day!