Seeds of friendship

Most of us know the poem, “To Daffodils” by William Wordsworth.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud … ”

Here is my version – a lighthearted take on the original. I hope you like it.

 

To Hollyhocks

I wandered barefoot in the sun

Having taken off my socks

And all at once I came upon

A clump of golden Hollyhocks

 

I pocketed some tiny seeds

They flew with me on Easyjet

I scattered them among my weeds

And with myself I had a bet

 

Could I get these seeds to grow

Among my dandelion clocks

And if they did how would I know

That these were truly Hollyhocks

 

A few months on a fabulous sight

Hollyhocks of every hue

It looks like I did something right

And then I gave some seeds to you

 

And then as quickly as they came

My flowers disappeared from sight

I looked for them but all in vain

They had just vanished overnight

 

I think my gardener was to blame

Mistook them for some flowering weeds

My garden didn’t look the same

And I hadn’t even kept the seeds

 

Then you and I met up for lunch

And I told you this tale of woe

Ah you said I have a hunch

That I still have some seeds you know

 

You kindly posted seeds to me

Just like the ones I once gave you

When you were here with friends for tea

Such a thoughtful thing to do

 

What goes around comes around they say

It looks like we will prove this true

And who knows maybe come next May

I’ll have more seeds to give to you

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

 

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The 7 Ages of Woman

The 7 Ages of Woman

 

 

 

 

 

Noise making

Milk taking

Night waking

 

Friend making

Exam taking

Internet dating

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love making

Love faking

Heart breaking

 

Breakfast making

Children waking

School taking

 

Bed making

Cake baking

Leaves raking

 

 

 

 

 

 

Limbs shaking

Bones aching

Will making

 

Heart aching

Leave taking

Forsaking

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems


Another year, another birthday

Think my posting this poem is going to become an annual event!

I can remember in my teens longing to be 21. And now I wish that time could go backwards and I could be 21 again!

Another year, another birthday

Something happens

Between 60 and 70

You become a senior

and all of a sudden

you don’t recognise

that person in the mirror

and on the scales.

You shuffle in your slippers

read the papers

and pop pills.

The receptionist

at the doctor’s

knows your name.

Complete strangers

call you my darling

and my dear.

You want to be offered seats

on trains

And flat shoes seem

a better option

than high heels.

You are now

a silver surfer

so you search for

senior bargains online

There must be some perk

to reaching this age.

Hotels offer you

twin beds

and disabled bathrooms.

11 o’clock at night

seems very late to be out

and you find yourself

wanting to nap

in the middle of the day.

Your children ask how you are

but don’t really want to know

and people say you look well

when they mean

you are looking good for your age.

You have become invisible

to the opposite sex

and to anyone

under forty.

People talk about “special” birthdays

and give you soppy smiles.

You wish you were

growing old disgracefully

but just don’t have the energy.

Come upstairs and make love to me

I read somewhere.

I can do one or the other

was the answer

Don’t expect me to do both.

I’ve started listening to the Archers

and the weather forecasts

Doing crosswords

and reading the obituaries

Seeing the names of

people I once knew

Thank goodness Mick Jagger

can still strut his stuff

and Macca too

still performing

whilst others the same age

languish in care homes

uncared for and forgotten.

It’s odd to think

that in ten years or so

I will look back at this time

And think myself young.

 

Age 20

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems


Remembering my mother

 

Heart Thumpers

 

A faux brass case of old photographs

None of them good

And yet she kept them

A shopping list

Scrawled and barely legible

But in her hand

A birthday card signed “with love”

A button waiting to be sewn on

A compact that was once beautiful

Her glove

Her handkerchief

Her fragrance

“Heart Thumpers”

It says on the little case

Of photographs

Me squinting into the summer sun

How old could I have been?

Our children at play

Her unsmiling passport photo

All found in the drawer beside her bed

Throw them away, my father said

But I kept them all

The little things that made up her life

Keepsakes in a crystal bowl

That once held her make up

I open it reverently once a year

To smell the fragrance

Of that unforgotten past

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems


Goodbye to the year.

Wishing all my readers, followers and poetry lovers everywhere a very happy, healthy and fulfilling new year full of only good things.

Here’s a poem I posted some time ago. Hope you like it.

Thank you for following My Life in Poems. And all the very best for 2017.

 

Seeing the old year out

Look over your shoulder

and the year has gone

Gone with the tide

and the sea-washed sandcastles

Gone with the rust of autumn leaves

swept up in a heap

by twilight men

Children are sliding

on the frozen park lake

and the gulls sweep

past my window

Look over your shoulder

Tomorrow is standing

in my light

Turn around for a second

and say goodbye

to the sands as endless

as time itself

and the dust that lies

thick upon remembered things

the sun on the bodies

of golden girls

the sky lit night

the shooting stars

that fell upon your dreams.

© Andrea Neidle. My Life in Poems


Mad Men

Watching Mad Men takes me back.  Yes, advertising was really like that once upon a time. Sexism was rampant.  As was sex.

I remember one agency where all the men seemed to be having affairs. And a number of them were at it with one of the secretaries. On the board room table. (Not all at the same time I might add.)

News of this got to the director of the board who sternly said something would be done. Immediately. And it was. He got rid of the board room table.

Making Hate

After making hate

they lay together

separately

thinking lonely thoughts

After the anti-climax

climax

he said, your body is smooth

and smells of summer

She wondered if

he’d be insulted

if she lit a cigarette

After making hate

their bodies all used up

in an orgasm of

frenzied mutual analysis

he said: my wife is expecting me

And then they made love

Making Hate was published in ARK,  the magazine of the Royal College of Art. Its editor was John Hedgecoe.

They also published this poem at the same time:

Cup Final

Tonight was going to be our night

This room was going to be our room

This bed, our bed

Why did you switch the TV on?

 

© Andrea Neidle. My Life in Poems


Our New England quilt

We recently visited some very dear friends who live in New England.

This poem is for them.

quilt-pic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our New England quilt

We watch the fall leaves drifting down
Hues of red and burnished brown
The leaves are flying everywhere
And soon the trees will all be bare

And all along the silent street

A quilt of colour lies at our feet

And now we have to say goodbye

I find it so hard not to cry

Instead I’ll take our days with you
And stitch them all together
And make a quilt of memories
Moments we will treasure
And when we’re back to our grey skies
I’ll hide my tears and dry my eyes
And think of us together.

collage-for-poem

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems