PORN PAINTER

I laid my items out one by one

Now was the time for a bit of fun

There was glue and rope and a roll of duct tape

Silken scarves of every shape

Chains, padlocks and a large wall hook

My husband then took a sneaky look

I produced some handcuffs covered in fur

I could sense him now beginning to stir

Feather duster, a cane and a devilish whip

Now I could see his quivering lip

Last but not least, brushes and paint

Oh dear! i thought he was going to faint

I sashayed across and sat on his knee

“My darling, what would you do for me?

Would you tie me up and make me squirm?”

He slithered from the chair like a petrified worm.

Headed for the door and out to the street

Just one task he had to complete

Not fifty shades but just one hue

I just wanted my kitchen painted blue

But he had to be coaxed to get off his chair

So I gave him a pornographic scare!

CHANGING SEASONS

Gently falling flakes of powdery whiteness, glisten wetly, landing softly on the grateful ground. A panorama of soundless beauty changing ugly pieces of land into crystal wonderlands. Neglected gardens transformed into fairy  landscapes. Trees droop with the heaviness of sparkling diamonds like debutantes at their coming out ball. Slowly falling beauty from the sky cushioning footfalls, stepping into the softest of nature’s carpet.

  But eventually the white becomes grey, the banks of snow a hazardous slush, heralding an onslaught of accidental falls, crippling or fatal car crashes. The non-beauty of snow, the evil underneath the whiteness, the danger lurking in the purity and silence.

     But still we smile when witnessing that first snowflake, that delicate pattern ever changing, that muffled silence, waiting for the first casualty.

Snowdrops herald the coming of Spring, tiny beads of pure white battle the winter to lift our spirits and show us the end of night. Miniscule leaves suddenly appear on bare branches, increasing in quantity and growth as Spring heroically brushes off the Winter chill. The birthing season for all animal kind, especially the frolicking lambs. Poor, unsuspecting creatures, never knowing their fate as lamb chops with mint on someone’s dinner plate. The sun makes an appearance, acknowledging the delight in peoples faces, accepting the praise due to this magnificent star. Onwards and upwards to the increasing heat which fast approaches with the onslaught of Summer.

  Flowers bloom in a myriad of colours, a carpet of differing textures, plumages, shapes and sizes.  Heady scents fill the air, roses, hyacinths, sweet pea, tulips. All battling to produce the sweetest smell. Trees clothed in varying shades of green stand tall and majestic in parks and gardens. The golden sun spreads warmth and comfort throughout, thoughts turn to foreign holidays or stay at home breaks. Swimsuits, sea air, sand, ice cream, candy floss. All the fun of school holidays and the freedom of no school exhilarates the young of our generation. Red, juicy strawberries temptingly appear, red and green succulent grapes. The season of fruitfulness, season of idleness, to bathe in the heat, rejuvenate before another Autumn descends. Sunny mornings, late evening light will soon be gone and the evenings will draw in. But autumn is not an enemy. It holds its own delights.

Colours of Autumn. Russet, brown, gold and green. Trees relinquish their dying leaves and look to the bareness of Winter. Strong winds blow and the ground is covered in a blanket of muted colour. Home fires are lit and the smell of burning turf heralds a warm place to be. We welcome the coming of Halloween with orange pumpkins, sweet apples, juicy oranges and the laughter of children as they dress up in ghoulish costumes and go trick or treating from door to door. The scent of fireworks fills the air and the colourful flash of lights across the sky brightens the nights and lends a magic to the season.  Bonfires burn, candy apples are eaten and children hurry indoors to count their sweet treasures.

Soon Winter will return and Mother Natures cycle starts once more.

Years

Don’ t call me old

Because I’m at that age

When you hear the groans of

Of tired old bones

And words look blurred

On the written page

Don’t say I’m ancient

Or I’m over the hill

As my muscles creak

I’m slow to speak

And I reach for that evening pill

Don’t say I’m past it

As I look ahead

As the years fly so fast

And days and nights

Don’t seem to last

My get up and go

Hasn’t got up and gone

Walkers and wheelchairs

Are frowned upon

I’ll still keep travelling

From place to place

Still take part

In that 5k race

Lunges and press ups

No problem for me

|I’ll still be swimming at 93!