The Colour of Glitter

Tell Me a Story

As a change, I thought I'd post this poem by my seven-year-old Granddaughter, Sophie, who wrote it this morning over breakfast. We live in Spain, while Sophie and her parents live in the UK. We don't get to see them too often. Little things like this touch me.

Sophie struggles with anything to do with English as a school subject, hates reading etc, so I'm amazed  she even thought to write it.

The Colour of Glitter:

Some red, some black, some blue, 

And some silver too, 

Some pink, 

I hope it doesn't go down your sink, 

Some dark blue, 

I hope it doesn't go in your pooh, 

And some gold, 

As long as you're not too old, 

And some purple, 

As long as you're not friends with Moaning Myrtle, 

Some light green,
It looks like my sun-screen, 

Some white too, 

It looks like my ballet shoe, 

These are all my coloured glitter, 

Now all I need is a cool baby sitter. 

by Sophie
aged 7

Tribute to an old man - poem by Anon.

Tell Me a Story - Tribute

This is a copy of an email sent to me by Jack Chambers. I thought it very poignant.

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value

Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, They found this poem Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital

One nurse took her copy to Microsoft in Melbourne, and the old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet

Old Man

What do you see nurses?  What do you see?
What are you thinking when looking at me?
A cranky old man,  not very wise,
Uncertain of habit  with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food  and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice 'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice  the things that you do
And forever is losing a  sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not,  lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?  Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse you're not looking at me

I'll tell you who I am  as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding,  as I eat at your will
I'm a small child of ten  with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now  a lover he'll meet
A groom soon at Twenty  my heart gives a leap
Remembering, the vows  that I promised to keep

At Twenty-Five, now  I have young of my own
Who need me to guide  And a secure happy home
A man of Thirty  My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other  With ties that should last

At Forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me  to see I don't mourn
At Fifty, once more,  Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children  My loved one and me

Dark days are upon me  My wife is now dead
I look at the future I shudder with dread
For my young are all rearing  young of their own
And I think of the years  And the love that I've known

I'm now an old man  and nature is cruel
It's jest to make old age  look like a fool
The body, it crumbles   grace and vigour, depart
There is now a stone  where I once had a heart

But inside this old carcass  A young man still dwells,
And now and again  my battered heart swells
I remember the joys  I remember the pain
And I'm loving and living life over again

I think of the years all too few  gone too fast
And accept the stark fact  that nothing can last
So open your eyes, people  open and see
Not a cranky old man Look closer see  ME!!

WRITER UNKNOWN

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might pass by without looking at the young soul within
we will all, one day, be there, too!

Dust in time!

I had an e-amil off my friend, Jack Chambers, and thought you might like to share it. I've no idea who wrote it in the first place - you might. If so, let me know and I'll put the credits in. I absolutely love it though.....


Dust if you must.

Dust if you must,

but isn't it better, to paint a picture or write a letter,

bake cookies or cake, or plant a seed,

ponder the difference between want and need?!

Dust if you must,

but there's not much time, with beer to drink,

rivers to swim and mountains to climb,

music to hear and books to read,

friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must,

but the world's out there

with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,

a flutter of snow, or a shower of rain.

This day will not come around, again.

Dust if you must ,

but bear in mind, old age will come and it's not that kind.

And when you go - and go you must -

you, yourself will make more dust!

Share this with all the wonderful friends in your life. It's not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.


Post script - Just in case you don't see the comments - Janet Jarell has kindly left a message -"A poem written by Rose Milligan of Lancaster, Lancashire, England. The poem was first published in the September 15th - 21st edition of The Lady (magazine) in 1998." - Thank you for the information, Janet. And thank you Rose Milligan for the poem - excellent

• Next post on Tell Me a Story.

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To Write A Story - 20 Ways To Write A Story Better
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7 Cool Ways To Jump-Start The Story Characters In Your Writing

End of post on Tell Me a Story - Dust if you must
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A holiday poem

Tell Me a Story

Asked to write a poem

.

As an exercise at my local writer's circle we were asked to write a poem. I've never thought of myself as a poet, so it was good to be pushed into an area that I wasn't comfortable with. I based the poem on life experience.

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A number of years ago, we booked a holiday in an area of Turkey that was newly opened to tourism. I was devastated with my first sight of the resort. I thought it looked like a third-world bombsite.

.

The next day, however, we saw it in a completely different light; quaint, original, and unspoilt. From then on we thoroughly loved the place. I decided to write this poem as an expression of those thoughts.

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A Turkish Holiday
Exhilaration and trepidation, then on first sight, demoralization,
Waited months and built up hopes,
Wanted sun, not skiing slopes,
Wanted warmth from land, from hands,
Hoped and dreamed of stretched out sands,
But hopes are dashed, as reality clashed, with the brochure’s hash.


Relaxation brings revitalization, and no longer tired, a realization,
That eyes are fresh under warming sun,
Not tired from travel, not devoid of fun,
And poolside seats and a friendly face,
And an eager charm, make a saving grace.
Now hopes are raised, are more in phase, with the brochure’s phrase.


Exhilaration and animation, days of bliss and exploration,
Found new friends and found new ground,
And loved each day, and can’t understand,
Just why I thought, that I had bought,
A week of hell in tired old shorts.
First impressions were false perceptions of the brochure’s conceptions.

Happy Holiday!

.

Hope you liked my little poem .... well more of a ditty I suppose. I enjoyed doing it. I might try more at a later date.

• Next post on Tell Me a Story - Without Reproach, the first chapter free.

End of post - A holiday poem

A Halloween poem

Tell Me a Story - Halloween Poem

I hold up my hand, I'm no poet so writing a Halloween Poem doesn't come naturally....

Unpretentious

I'm a novelist. Modern poetry, like modern art, escapes me. I'm of the old school. Poems, to me, should have rhythm and rhyme. So it should come as no surprise that when called upon to write something resembling poetry, I turn to unpretentious stuff.

Okay, so, we've been invited to a party and we’ve each been asked to bring along a Halloween Poem. So here’s my little ditty. Forgive my lack of chic and style; I’m a simple soul.

A Halloween Poem

The Witch


Cackles and crows, and twelve toed boys,
And smelly old crones with bent up bones.
And toads and mice, and long hair with lice,
All tangled and torn start to SWITCH

With fingers crooked in, scratching mole ridden chin,
And hairy old nose, rheumy eyes squinting close,
She drools spittle and blood, and under black hood
All tangled and torn, wears no STITCH.

Mumbling 'tongues', with a broom she prances the room,
And raises her hand, teeth bared, black and fanged,
With eyes rolling bright, she screams into the night,
All tangled and torn, she’s a BITCH

Fear clutches the earth, ghosts writhe and give birth
To worms horrid and cold, no place even for bold,
The world groans and hangs head, as she raises the dead
All tangled and torn, from the DITCH.

The dead, dance in the night, whilst living take flight
Fleeing magic and seer, and dark Halloween fear.
And though rain spews down black, and lightning bolts crack,
All tangled and torn flies the WITCH

So.... my little Halloween Poem is soon to be aired. I hope it goes down all right. If YOU want to read it out at your party, feel free, but please remember to mention my name.

• Next post on 'Tell Me A Story', Future of books.

End of post - A Halloween Poem


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