The Daydream

Clouds float today above the hay,

God’s handiwork so high above.

What skillful art could mend this heart,

or fill each beat with tender love.


Sweet natures bed to lay my head,

to draw each breath upon your chest.

What springtime joy could tame this boy,

and find this weary soul a rest.


Birds in their dance and perfect stance,

to give me peace and rest me slow.

Your beauty ought to still each thought,

ignite my spirit, watch me glow.

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House Trained

I was going through my socks the other day and found a pair of my running socks that I hadn’t worn for a while. I put one on and was thinking how comfortable it was when I noticed a small hole starting in the toe. “I wonder why I haven’t worn these for so long” I thought to myself.

Oh that’s why. I also remembered that I had another sock that needed sewing so I darned the socks and fixed a dolls dress for a charity shop that had a tare in it. 

Fixed

Well who ever said guys can’t sew and be house trained? Now I have another pain of running socks to wear to add to the list of socks that I have had to fix recently. This has saved me lots of money. Wish I could thank my mum for teaching me to sew.

Where To Go Now?

To Heaven or Hell to pick a fight.

To dance with the Devil in the pale moonlight.

To follow the red-haired Angels flight.

To tear the sea and land asunder.

To rain from Heaven – fire and thunder.

To live with the pirates, pillage, plunder.

Time and again the thankless task.

To choose a wife with furies flask.

So where to now I dare to ask?

Just a fun poem. Which one would you choose and why (accepting that for women it would be choose a husband).

The Ballad Of Christina and Divina

In a cottage near the hill,

past the stream, past the mill,

see her there waiting still,

the one they call Cristina.

Near the thorny beds of rose,

plucking weeds that skyward chose,

scented herbs under her nose,

the other called Davina.

 

Through the fields of golden rye,

comes a knight riding by,

with an errand from on high,

sees the young Cristina.

Through the lattice kneeling there,

near the rustic garden chair,

‘neath her long and flowing hair,

the lady named Davina.

 

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