Silence in it’s awesome wake,
It’s charm not broken, not forsake.
Silence for all it’s worth,
Is there for all upon this Earth.

Silence recalls a noise,
That once was heard,
Silence brings with it peace,
And not another word.

Used in the classroom,
To still the rowdy,
It’s what you need,
When your mind is cloudy.

Someone bring about the calm,
The silence of the lonely,
The maddened in their crowded mind,
Dream, “If Only.”

Silence in it’s awesomeness,
It’s charms cannot be broken,
Nothing heard, as nothing stirs,
As not another word is spoken,

Your future

The future’s waiting patiently,
It judges not your past,
It doesn’t care if you won the race,
Of if you came in last.

It means no harm,
It cannot rest,
It waits for you,
Wishing you the best.

A future never reached,
Is one that you have squandered,
It has exciting plans for you,
To show you lots of wonders.

It’s intentions are not harmful,
It has your life in mind,
To meet it with an open heart,
And remember to be kind.

The future’s waiting patiently,
Waiting for you to arrive,
Close your eyes, you will awake,
As your future comes alive.

Mother Natures Tears

They are but Natures tears,
That fall upon the ground,
The pitter patter that you hear,
Is just the weeping sound.

They are the tears of joy,
As she watches her children grow,
The daffodils, the buttercups,
The flowers that you sow.

Soaked to the skin,
The chill that haunts my skin,
I can put away such things,
The moment I get in.

The next time you get caught in rain,
Remember why its here,
And give a sigh of relief,
For Mother Natures Tears.

Emergency Services Needed

Call the Fire brigade,
The ambulance and a copper,
I’m in it up to my neck,
I’m done up good and proper.

It started off all innocent,
Lured me into its wicked web,
Invited me with tenderness,
It said, “come back to bed.”

I’m totally incapacitated,
Wrapped up good and tight,
It wouldn’t be so bad,
If I’d slept at all last night.

The paramedic with his syringe,
Full of adrenaline,
The fire man to lift me out,
And a copper to get me going.

I need a rescue mission,
Three forces I can’t resist,
To get me out of bed,
If you get me gist.

Mother Dear

In between the excitement,
The trouble and the strife,
I try to live the life,
Of a perfect little wife.

I dust and hoover at least once a month,
I even clean the floor,
I’ve tidied up the living room,
Once or twice or more.

I cook a meal from time to time,
I made a roast last week,
I even tried to bake a cake,
Should never have had a peek.

My mother would be proud of me,
I’ve kept the toilet clean,
Don’t pour old fat down the sink,
Even washed the Washing machine.

I’ve exercised the yearly task,
Of digging, through the fat,
Baked on the oven floor,
I’m really proud of that.

Although I say I’m getting,
On with this spousal lark,
I think I’m only grubbing,
In the darkest dark.

I don’t understand the ones,
That spend their life in grime,
I’ve got too much to do in life,
I haven’t got the time.

So when I say I’ve done,
The housework and the cleaning,
It isn’t that I’m lazy,
If you get my meaning.

There are adventures to be sort,
There are lots of things to do,
Like climbing up a mountain face,
And going to the zoo.

Being perfect is well and good,
If you’ve got the inclination,
But mother dear, I do declare,
I just don’t have your domestication.

Colour blind to the World

“It’s Green.” She said in exasperation,
“What Green would that be then?”
“Green like the trees in Summer time.”
“Which tree, it would depend.”

She sat and thought it through a while.
Then she did declare,
“The Tree outside the window,”
Then pointing, “That one there.”

The Man did look upon the Tree,
He squinted and tilted his head.
“The upper green of leaves so high,
Or those closer to the flower bed?”

She looked upon the Tree of Green,
Never noticing the difference.
She thought once more about her choice,
And looked for another reference.

“For the first time,” she stated wisely,
“I have been blind I see.
The difference in the colours wide,
Of the leaves upon a tree.”

I think I’ll choose a red instead,
The curtains for my window,
“Which red would that be,” the Man did ask,
And thought, now here we go.

A fool once more she would not be,
She thought she had this one,
“The colour of a rose so bright,
Sitting in the Summer sun.”

The Man just sighed and picked a fabric.

The fortune teller

With fortunes bold,
The future told,
Of Knights in shining armour.
The Teller tells
What last befell,
Of terror and of glamour.

Forecast they will,
Of health and ill,
Of children and of winnings,
But what they cannot,
Tell you true,
Is the latest England Innings.

Nor Rugby scores,
What opens doors,
How to choose the winning card,
They cannot foretell,
The living hell,
Or why things are so hard.

You’ll ask the awkward,
And question hard,
Of which they cannot answer,
For they know not,
The plans and plot,
Of every living disaster.

Beware the palm that calls for silver,
The one that tell you they’ll deliver,
Every answer to your prayers,
Trust in your intuition,
Not their sad rendition,
Of troubles woes and scares.