Posh is a word that is often misused,
Without knowing the meaning, so sorely abused.
It is thought to mean snobbish, and rather stuck up,
That you’re an upper class toff who drinks from a teacup.
It actually means “port out, starboard home”,
For those who possessed a rich chromosome.
On board a liner you paid to have the sun,
And it was port side out on any cruise run,
But coming home, it was on the starboard side,
So you paid to ensure that you could really enjoy the ‘ride’.
So now you know ‘posh’ is a slang word for rich,
Use it to describe those who can afford the very best ‘pitch’!*

*as in pitch a tent (of extremely luxurious proportions, in this case!)

Walking through a sea of purple,
Like shot silk, yet alive,
And the warm sun
Enhancing the perfume.
As I brush each stem,
The intoxication of scent,
Warm, full, rounded,
Spicy, even.
And a luscious torpor ensues,
Invading the nose,
Bewitching the brain,
Infecting me.
Memory of intimate touches flood back.
My mother placing small sachets under my pillow.
Incense sticks perfuming a party room.
Reflexology, massage, therapy.
All this from a lavender field.

I’m over here and I’m bemused,
Befuddled, puzzled and confused.
I found this perfect, cozy spot,
Can I get out, no I cannot!
Please come here and rescue me,
I’d like a kipper for my tea….

A mirror image,
Perfect impressions of an original.

A thought,
Articulated from a point of meditation.

An image given to illustrate,
A counterpart.

A carefully considered observation,
A fixed opinion.

An unfavourable remark,
A criticism.

The return of heat, light or sound,
After striking a surface.

A part bent back upon itself,
An anatomical fold.

The replacement of a point on a plane or side,
With another symmetrically positioned.

All these are reflections and yet,
I love those that shape themselves in water the most.

It’s years since they closed
The railway down.
Life has slowly taken hold, crept in
And covered the tracks that brought jobs to this town.
Moss grows along the cross-ties.
A metaphor for our families’ lives.
The loss of work, the hopelessness.
Trees have sprouted in defiance
And greened our world.
The railway was life,
Frenetic, frenzied,
But somehow sterile.
Now the railroad has become
A unique part of our landscape,
Natural, beautiful, crowded, living.
And in a mysterious way,
Our pride returned,
And hope for better things.
Yes, it’s years since they closed
The railway down.

I have been watching you.
From a still, quiet place.
Just watching, observing,
Drawing my own conclusions.

I have been looking.
Looking for clues,
Looking for reasons and answers,
Just quietly absorbing information.

I have been seeing.
Seeing you and how you see me.
Acting on it, or not,
As the mood takes me.

Watching, seeing, looking,
All these things lead me
To a sense of you,
And what you tolerate, what you like.

I watch, and you react.
I watch you, and take everything in.

I’m tired I tell you, dog tired,
I’m not sure I can quite convey,
That I rested for one nano second,
And I just fell asleep this way.

I’m tired I tell you, dog tired,
I’ve felt like I’m walking uphill,
And now I’ve just seized the odd moment,
To recharge my batteries and chill.

I’m tired I tell you, dog tired,
I’ve been on the move for what seems like days,
I’ve taken this small opportunity
To just fall asleep on this chaise!

I’m tired I tell you, dog tired,
Unless it’s dinner, don’t wake me up!
I just need to catch up on 40 winks,
I’m one tired, exhausted pup!

I love the way you laugh.
Like a peal of handbells
With perfect pitch.
Or the sonorous belly laugh of a wind chime.
And when you laugh until you weep,
So that fat tears, good tears,
Drench your cheeks,
And you shake uncontrollably
With the joy of it.
What about when you are faced with the ridiculous?
So that your laughs scatter
Like gunshots of rapid rifle fire?
And those low chuckles that seem to start
Somewhere near your toes?
Your laughter is medicine, a sunburst, a holiday,
Infectious, inclusive, individual,
As are you.
I just love the way you laugh.

I love the sound of a xylophone,
It has a lovely, mischievous tone,
As does its cousin, the vibraphone,
It has a melody all its own.
And allacazam and AI Carimba!
What about the chords you get from a good marimba?
Or, bless its heart, a glockenspiel,
My enthusiasm for it is quite unreal!
I love all these pieces of percussion,
I’m an aficionado, no discussion!

From Zagreb to Zanzibar,
I want to travel wide and far!
Ride a camel to the Sphinx,
Go to Harry’s Bar – down several drinks.
Climb Machu Picchu for the view,
See the Potala Palace too.
Research what the Great Wall was for,
Go and worship at Borabudur.*
White water raft down the Zambesi,
Take a US road trip, nice and easy.
Visit Shanghai, see the sights,
St Petersburg, for the White Nights.**
Go to Franschoek, taste “the grape”,
Stop in Paris, eat a crepe.
Try some tapas in Seville,
Or go rum tasting in Negril.
Take a walkabout in Aus,
Go to Rio, just because!
From Zagreb to Zanzibar,
I want to travel wide and far!

*pronounced Bora-bador
** White Nights Festival in St Petersburg, Russia