He does love me
I hope that he does
Or does he even care?
He is never here
Never there
Love can cruel
Sometimes
He shouts when I'm ill
Which is most of the time
Will it be until
The day I die?
Love can be cruel
Sometimes.
He is always sorry afterwards
Sorry is such a petty excuse
Take another pill
I say I am fine
Love can be cruel
Sometimes.
Is he bullying me
For his own self satisfaction
If he is then that is wrong
Love can be cruel
Sometimes.
They say one has to be cruel
to be kind
Who on earth thought that one up
Love can be cruel
Sometimes.
I know they love me
In a strange sort of way
I cant help being ill
They know that
So where is the love
Sometimes?

The news arrived via E-Mail
The fog draped heavy in the wood
The message read “Snail For Sale”
None of the creatures understood.
Their tiny minds had gone blank
The fog had trapped the bluebells
Perhaps it was some mad prank
Nothing round their forest sells.
The ants thought today’s climate dense
The fog had started to clear
Most of them sat on the fence
Trust the ants to interfere.
They wondered what the buyer would give
The fog had now gone.
And where would the snail live
They hadn’t considered that one.
The snail slithered past “vacancy To Let”
With a bit of a smile on his face.
He is out for all he can get
He is just renting the place!

Good morning Monday
Good Morning to you
but it's Tuesday.

I met him beneath the lilac tree
One gentle moonlit summer’s eve
The ring; his dream was given to me
And I noticed there was a breeze.
A tree started violently sway
The ring became under threat
Night passed quickly to become day
And I noticed that the Earth was wet.
The lilac soon lost its perfume
The bad weather had almost cleared
However, the sky had lost a moon
And I noticed he had disappeared.
Cheryl Love

Such is the way of the world
When one has to dodge a white light
It is not his only excuse for being nervous
But Zippy the Zebra has stage fright.

Yes, Zippy’s knees knock together
Playing a rather strange beat
Or is it his heart thumping
When the audience and himself meet.

He goes red in his worried little face
And his hooves are a little damp.
It wasn’t like that at his audition or
When he played along at boot camp.

But through thick and thin he showed up
Sitting cross legged in the line up.
The only thing that rattled then was
The spoon left in his tea cup.

But Zippy’s nerves were in tatters
He was an absolute wreck.
He could not be bothered anymore
And walked off set what the heck!

The mixture,
looking as good as it tastes
dappled with currants
matured by the lakes.
Splashed with cherries
as ripe as they should be
Baked with love in my heart
backed up by a cup of tea.
Cradled not curdled with eggs
with a touch of Jamaican ***
Drenched in the juice from an orange
and dried pineapple, loved by some
not by others. But it is not for them
it is for you Sally.  The finest cake
in the land, baked lovingly by me.
For your forthcoming special day.

Tread Carefully
Tread carefully through the tulips
Rush through the bluebells.
The tulips are perfume free
And the bluebells have smells.
You’d get pollen on your fingers
And powder on your toes
If you dawdled through the daffodils
And sat beneath the rose.
Sitting for more than an hour
Under the lilac tree.
Finally you would disappear
I know believe me.
Wandering past the lanes
On a dark Autumn night
If you get caught by a blackthorn bush
It would put up a fight.
Wandering through a strawberry field.
Being here would be a dream
Don’t forget your spoon and dish
And *** of rich double cream.

Tired and exhausted on Christmas Day
Santa thought he’d repair his damaged sleigh.
The snow was thick and falling
The reindeer understood he was calling
At top speed he shot off into the sky and away.

He pleaded to stop until he was blue in the face
Because the reindeer were in a competitive race
Santa repeatedly hit the deck
Now he’s a minute speck
As he has shot off to outer space.

Whispering sweet nothings
Into my Lover’s ear
Words may be discovered
And they do not disappear.
Invent new methods and new means
The words returning but he does not
Then it all come apart at the seams.

RESPECT
Mr C Penguin the head of the house
Wears a uniform and listens to Strauss.
Seals plonked by the door as a draught excluder.
Chimps are taking tea in the parlour Room.
Judging how many cakes they can consume.
“Get a brush Foxy and sweep up those crumbs,
I will be charging them double when the time comes”
Mr Badger making endless trays upon trays of cakes
For the ignorant posh chimps and the mess thy make.
“Bag the goose and send the felloe to me,
I will give the chimps something to do for free”
The penguin cracked his knuckles and gave a cough
He had told the chimps he had taken the day off.
“The goose is here” half smiling “the goose is here”
The chimps shook, gulped and felt a trifle queer.
The goose frog marched in and the chimp went limp
“Right you posh lot, eat nicely is that clear chimp”
“I’m not old fishy pengy” he snapped straightening his wing,
“no hanky panky on my watch, nothing, no anything.
“I run a tight ship chimp, my rules old chum.”
The chimps heard right and put an end to the fun.
“Respect, respect,” the goose patrolled his little space
The chimps now ashen with a worried look on their face.
It is all about respect

As the name implies
It would look quite sweet
Red wings, red lips and
red felty things on her feet.
A red dress with sash of course
done up in a big red bow.
Red curls flowing from a crown
No hang on, no she's not in panto.
She is not the wicked witch of the west
or some heavily done up dame.
No, she just looks after things of red
Everyone gets confused over her name.
No she cares for the rose and stuff like that
She flies around early morning blossom
No dont mis-judge this little red fairy
Like Mrs Bradshaw is for the scarlet geum.
The Red Fairy is the fairy of the poppy
To her the nicest red thing in the place.
She'll get her golden ticket for this of course
when she meets her maker face to face.

I sit tinkering
with the bells in the wood
flicking the bell this way and that
Not doing me that much good.
Playing with my head
and that is not sheet music
it is regrets and bashed dreams
shot down completely dead.
The blues I call it the lavender blues
blue rinses, phone calls and lonely beds.
Not with fruity flowers but dried hay
I have the lavender blues that is
all that I can possibly say.

It is the spooky story of the footballer’s ghost
The younger players are affected the most
They are destined to fall
When they’ve dribbled the ball
They will remember and miss when they reach the post

There was a race at the farm
This caused a great deal of alarm
A stampede of wildebeest
Were stopped by old geese
But the rest of the animals were calm.

The Geese thought the situation funny
And so did the farmyard bunny
But the wildebeest were too strong
And their plan went wrong
So the Geese ended up giving the Wildebeest money.

They called the race off as nobody won
But the farmer was running with his gun
The pigs hid in the trough
The rest shot off
And once more the race had begun.




That night they lay tired in their beds
The Geese were snoring in their shed.
The chickens thought they were lucky
They could have gone to Colonel Kentucky
And thanked the geese for saving their heads.

The moral of this story is plain
Do not mess with angry geese again.
There is no doubt about
That a farm should not fall out
As they have only got themselves to blame.

At the end of the working week
All that's left is cabbage and leek
Throw them in a pan
With bits of old ham
and you have got bubble and squeak.

Looking at the rainbow
The colours envelope your mind
Rubies, ambers and turquioise
Peach skins and orange rind.
Strawberries and lemons in the sky
with apricots inbetween.
A strip of violets in the cloud
Like tea from Devon with cream.
A kind gentle soul emerges
with roses in abundance.
Petals scatter on her path
and fairies lead in dance.
She is wonderful, she is graceful
words without end.
She is a light shining on my dull day
She is Sally, my new friend.

Tears turn to ice
They do not roll
they tumble down my face.
Like hail from my eyes
Spitting frozen tears
into thick opaque breath
Visible upon death
but not now;  somehow
in this life time freezes.
A warm smile pleases my soul
A violet haze around my shoulder
melts away the gloom
bring presence into the room
thawing my wishes
that were frozen in time.

In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.

Allow me to put together a few words about love
Sharing feelings and all what it consists of.
To me love is strong like a knight in armour
Brave and solid dressed all in white
Love is sweet like Turkish delight
Love has an undying power
Yet gentle like a delicate flower.
It is like having a mad love affair
With your favourite teddy bear.
Love is every reason t look out for
Holding your hand; opening the door.
Let us just suppose
That it is soft like a red rose
As stormy as a grey sea,
Romantic like the last dance
An everlasting romance that is love.

Mints, Sages and Dill greet me
as I trample along the way
Stones hide under my toes
settling down to stay.
But they are pea pebbles
Not sharp, but rounded and small.
I try to shake them free
but they are not going at all.
Lavender and the Lilac grin
They have stones embedded too.
They long for the rains to come
drenching their roots wet through.
Basil and Thyme are not surprised
They have been through this before
The Violets have issues to fry
as the Pansies are first at the door.
When a whiff of bother shows its head
you can rely on the ***** to be there
Nothing gets past this little chap
So to the tricksters please beware.
The herbal path offers stories
one gets carried away along the path
to the little mouse nibbling like mad
to the wren bobbing in his mud bath.
There is not a day that goes by
when I do not dawdle on the stones
the crunchy noise it makes soothes my soul
and puts life in the well worn bones.

The mauve, it remembers
The perfume has faded away
from the memories in her mind
from then to this very day.
She is back beneath the lilac
where dreams will hope to survive
But in reality this is no ordinary lilac
it has powers to make dreams come alive.
Or that is what she thought
he met her five years ago to this very day.
Then he disappeared from her life, her music
was like an orchestra with no instruments to play.
No days were with sunshine, just cold hard rain
Her mind was full of sadness.  It is here to stay.
So she returns, to listen to her mind, the perfume
entices her in again gives her advice and stuff
but she wonders if it is all doom and gloom
and has she actually had quite enough.
The roots reassure her, the lilac knows
She hears footsteps from the right hand side
Where the young inexperienced lilac grows
and now she knows she has nothing to hide.
She is greeted with a warm smile and a touch
A touch that sends electric signals around her soul
She is overwhelmed and it is all too much
crying emotional tears was not her goal.
He wiped the tears with a delicate finger
and craved her attention to his face
Now she knows the perfume of the lilac will linger
and she is reassured that it is a trustworthy place.

Kicking the rusty leaves
crumpled by the tree
seeds and twigs broken off
golden and free.
Polished conkers rest
waiting to be smashed
strung up with string
bruised, soaked and bashed.
Russet apples wither in the sun
pecked at by robins and wrens.
Purple clover gather in the distance
on the hills and glens.
Pears drip from branches
like water from a wooden tap.
Twigs point like a human finger
showing the way to follow a map.
Through the ochre wood and
across the sienna fields.
The gathered sticky corn
piled high that the farmer yields
The Autumn season is pure gold
Raspberry sunset and peach skies.
A woodpecker perches, waits awhile
In the Autumn air then off he flies.

It was a very strange day
A day, you could say of unrest.
The day Mr Pig was wed
And wore his Sunday best.

Underneath the Duck’s frustrated wings
He had hidden a gun.
He was planning to use this weapon
Once the ceremony had begun.

The Organist commenced and
The door flung open and in she marched.
In what could only be described as a mess
That had been heavily starched.

Mr Duck felt repulsed
Somebody had failed to do their job
Mr Pig had tears in his eyes as he stared
At his white overweight blob.

Mr Pig’s pride and joy called the shots
But not the one fired from the gun
The wing took aim, the trigger released
The blob fell like the setting of the sun.

She hit the deck with an almighty thud
Mr Duck pelted into his hiding place
Where he had planned to stay the rest of the week
And the guilt wiped from his troubled little face. - to be continued ...

Kiss me sweet lips of the orange
For I am lost in a grove.  I listen
to the tale of the orange blossom.
I examine mackerels across the horizon
and they leave a trail of hope.
Dry bones lie on the ground
Blossom blanketing my hope.
Everything safe and sound
in my heart, my all round periscope
flashes messages in my mind.
I am lost, my inner navigation system
cannot find.
Because I am lost.

THE SCARECROW
The scarecrow is bored playing the same old game
Cold wet clothes hanging from a wooden frame.
He has no choice but to stand perfectly still
Scaring all the bird s at the top of the hill.
A crow calls out from under the hedgerow
“Catch me, scare me old wooden scarecrow”
But the scarecrow was staring across at a stable
As he had noticed there’s food laid on a table.
“Make haste little bird and fly over to the meadow
Bring me some nice juicy berries from the mistletoe”
“Please little bird, hurry now and be on your way
And can you bring m back some of the lovely hay”
But when the crow returned he found him asleep
He had become bored counting sheep.
The Crow lay beside his feet to keep himself warm
And needed shelter from the oncoming storm.
The scarecrow awoke and looked at his shoe
And at last had found a friend he could talk to.

M - moaning.  What Monday was created for.  To moan.  Dragging
ones weary bones out of bed.  Washing, brushing then rushing.. Then we smile when the day is over.  Instead roll in lavender clover.  

O - the shape depicted on our face from lips acting surprised!  The
realisation the weekend has slipped to history panics us.  But it comes again.

N - nothing is quite right on Monday.   The traffic is a nightmare, the wristwatch plays games with our mind. Do not get me started on the buttons on my jacket that dropped off at the glorious moment we needed perfection.  Oh no drop off they did.  Then hid.

D - **** this, **** that.  It is Monday - need I say more.

A -   at last. We say this at the appropriate times, whenever they are.

Y - you are home.  Candles around the bath, to contact undesirable
spirits when privacy is paramount.  Nobody likes a ghost spying on our moments.  Yes, yes, yes Monday is over.  

But today is a holiday. Bring out the wine, chocolates, let us party.
Pack your troubles away, stay in the zone.   You are home.
Party it is Monday and dare I say "Yes!"

They scatter themselves freely to the breeze
Shaking their heads, rocking with the beat
seeds creep under the roots of nearby trees
tucking themselves into cool soil out of the heat.
The white against the green and orange with blue
I'd never tire of this, even if I was to be asked again
Marigolds and daisies - what a very splendid view
My childhood revisits making the endless daisy chain.
Marigolds remind me of the sunsets we used to see
Oranges splashed over and above the sky
with toes dangling in the cool of the sea
watching the world in my oranges and whites go by.

A fairy possessed a strange power
That got stronger by the hour.
Was it because her legs were hairy
Or that she was naturally scary
And I thought she was as sweet as a flower.

THE FUNNY FARM

Take a look, the cow’s milking itself
And the sheep are shearing their wool.
The hens gathering eggs from the shelf
And the pigs entertaining the bull.

The geese are collecting litter
Foxes are mending the fence
Farmers never been fitter
No work for him to commence.

Chickens have pecked the hedge
To make everywhere neat
Ducklings have polished the ledge
Where the farmer keeps his feet.

The plough horse back from the field
Had quite enough for one day
Now has to calculate cabbages to yield
Then clean out the hay.

This is the funny farm
Where smart animals hang out
Full of character and bags of charm
Lots to shout about.

Friends are forever.
They soften the worse things in life.
Smoothing over crinkles that appear.
A gentle whisper in one's ear.
Things that you need to hear.
The good times.
We live in different time zones
We live in different homes
But one thing is for sure
We are friends forever
and what is more
we have good times.
We have giggles and
what is more
we have each other.
I dont need anything more,
Because I have the world in you
I could not ask for anything more.

Meandering through life
Ducking and diving
Rocking and rolling
Living and surviving.
Saving for later
When times become hard
When the chips are down
And the joker’s played his card.
Plan, plan and then enjoy
Lying on a beach like a whale
If you lie on sand is it a pass
Lie on shingle is it a fail?
Reaching retirement
Does this mean time is your own?
There is some advice for this somewhere
By somebody on the end of the telephone.

It is in the lazy, hazy days of late summer
In the heat, a daisy parts company
My body perspires and sends a shimmer
Of sparkling salt down my spine and skin
A rose stands straight like cadet, red
Like his beret, standing as proud as he.
A tropical butterfly dances within
The petals of the rose, tickling the row.
The wind whispers its petals
So secretly, so delicately, to and fro.
The butterfly wears a brave face
Watching the daisy and the rose
With wings just like Nottingham lace.
In the heat, my body embraces its wings
And it kisses my hand, knowing its place
In the lazy, hazy days of the summer.

It is a sad situation, nobody could deny
could it be the hand painted tear
designed with one reason only - to terrify
to lay tracks, to spread a fear.

A clown is supposed to be funny - his profile
Bright, over-sized clothes to complete the plan
do not be fooled by the hand painted smile
portraying he is not that type of funny man.

Years ago it was a different story in the *** of white
you automatically smiled at his expression
held to the moment by the false floodlight
leading him down the path to depression.

His world, this craziness, leaves him alone
His false tears, his smile turning upside down
The expression now has turned to stone
and he lives in his own little ghost town.

This was not supposed to happen this quick
his life is taking on a tricky path ahead
Gone are the days of the laughter from slap-stick
leaving now misery from the big boots, bad tread.

He is growing old, failing to make an impression
he has ran out of smiles, empty of his own fuel
running out of money after each session
leaving him with debts and ridicule.

He does his best, seeking new times, new hope
but it is like everything else,the sign of the times
in a nut shell he can just about cope
the more you scream with laughter, the harder he climbs.

When I was growing up
we had Flowerpot Men
On the television with Little ****.
Their names were  Bill and Ben
who were very strange men indeed.

They were made out of flower pots
and had a hat on their head to match.
This strange gangly flower lived between
It was an odd sight to watch
If you've seen it you'd know what I mean.

But we were glued to the black and white screen
Watching Bill and Ben jig around their pots
Little **** had a squeaky high voice for a plant
It needed the Woodentops dog with the spots
Who used to have legs that were on a slant.

Casey Jones used to put a smile on my face
With his stripy trousers and a very big wave.
Those were the days with Watch With Mother
The happiness and enjoyment it gave
As I sit now watching Celebrity Big Brother.

We must never forget
the heroes that fought - the brave
we owe them everything - yet
it saddens our heart seeing their grave.
A sea of poppies float silently
running into lakes and streams
they fought courageously, mightily
then to have shattered dreams.
The wind in the trees - it's a cool breeze
it detaches a single green leaf
that will not bring the tree to its knees
but a single red poppy will bring grief.

Back Beneath The Lilac Tree

Not much has changed
It has not been that long
But the Lilac Tree remembers
Its roots being firm and strong.
The night that he had disappeared
That is when the tee started to sway
The moon and stars my witness
Sealed in the Milky Way.
Now the blossom sings out
It sings to another tune.
Its blossom is now pink
And has recaptured its perfume.
No regrets, no none on my part
Why should there ever be.
I much prefer pink to blue
It goes with my eyes, you see.
I cannot though, for my eyes have tears
And the tears roll down my face.
Now I remember the hurt
The hurt is written on this place.
The Lilac Tree feels my pain
And its branches touch my soul
I turn and look for one last time
Remembering has taken its toll.

I wish I could have a magic wand
Just for one day.
There would be no more problems
No more incidents
Just happiness, spreading from soul to soul.
a mellow loveliness, a happy calm
floating from land to sea to land.
I would sit on a cloud watching
sprinkling extra magic dust where it is needed.
I wish....

I sit alone just observing, staring
I'm on my well deserved tea break
Just enjoying the view, not complaining
Taking in the beauty of the lake.

The water ripples and across glides a swan
and I notice the slow path it takes
I question where my life seems to have gone
and I realise I need more tea breaks.

Get the trowel out
Im piling it on thick
Sequins and the glitter
and the red lipstick.
Slap it all on
To paint the town red
When the evening is over
I shall smear it on the bed.

The waves rush to the shore
back and forth for more and more
refreshing pebbles foaming stones
bits of old wood and fish bone
vacant shells rushing out to sea
to claim their lodger back for free
a pier covered in seaweed bright green
wood supporting the test of time as seen
rushing, the tide rushing forever more
back and forth to cleanse the shore

Of all the fairy poems I have written, this has to be my favourite and I am dedicating it to Marian.  This is just for you Marian.  I hope you enjoy it.
The Fairy of the Sloe
In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.

There is a Fairy at the bottom of the garden,
She lives in the third mushroom down.
She doesn't own much, between you and me
but she has the biggest fungi in town.

She is a lucky Fairy but doesn't know it.
I dare say she has more than most.
She has a large stalk to hang her smalls on
Which is a good deal bigger than a post.

Thinking about it I ought to charge her rent
She says there is not "mushroom" to spread.
But a Fairy has such high demands
I will have to come up with another plan instead.

She told me now she wants to go to a toadstool
Whill is far too small for her box of tricks.
She has her eye on my place but that
is just too big and it is made of bricks.

Out he shot like a screaming hyena, the Pig’s wig to the side
His trotters were performing a jig, he wasn’t quite sure.
Usually he leaves the house so full of respect and pride
And was particular about anything he touched or indeed wore.

“The Duck’s gone” he yelled to nobody that was about
“My friend has up and left me” sobbing out for all he was worth
“Does nobody care, can anyone hear me if I shout”.
“Talk to me, it doesn’t cost the Earth”

By now the Pig had got his bloomers in a twist
Started searching all the cupboards he could find.
Seeking out the little places he had inadvertently missed.
Looking in all the secret hideouts a Duck would hide.

The Pig sat in a corner and waited for the duck to come back.
He waited a couple of days and he was wondering whether he was dead.
He something outside, he thought it was a quack.
In slid a skinny leg and a webbed foot as brown as wholemeal bread.

In slid a suitcase with stickers “I was here” on from a seaside resort.
In came an enormous stuffed donkey toy with “Made in Spain” on it.
The little devil has been abroad without me, he thought
He has got the nerve I have to admit.

He was getting crosser and crosser by the minute
He was a nice shade of violet and blue.
The blood in his veins putting pressure on his three piece suit
In fact he was getting himself wound up and in a stew.

“Where exactly do you think you have been” enquired the blue blob
“Oh I have been to Majorca for the week, told you when I booked”.
By now he’d heard enough and his head had started to throb.
The Duck had squeezed in his saucepan cupboard and never looked.

The Pig was still chattering on firing the same old question
The Duck was stuffing himself silly with Spanish sweets
Devouring one after the other in no order or hesitation
Never before had he had such nice treats.

ThePig finally tapped on the door of the cupboard and spoke
The Duck could not answer owing to too much food being in his beak.
The Pig was under the impression he was copying a bloke
When the Duck let out a gigantic squeak.

A line of ants were frog marching a leaf around his leg
He froze like a solid lump of ice o a hot day.
His legs were shaking like they were scrambled egg
And his mind had gone into panic and was far away.

The Pig the protective one, at once became a superhero role
The door between them came down with a crash
To the annoyance of the Duck who had his head in a pudding bowl
Promptly hid the bowl and sweets in a flash.

“How dare you interrupt me” shouted he with a frown.
His legs were twitching from the ants which were bothering him
The Duck got up off the floor and proceeded to jump up and down,
The Pig thought his actions were foolish and pretty grim.

One week later the Duck reluctantly emerged from the cupboard
And began to prepare something for friend to eat.
He ransacked the shelves like old Mother Hubbard
Rescuing some tins of something or other which were now obsolete.

Which was fine by the Pig, he ate anything he could get his trotters on
He was just pleased to be reunited with his dear old friend.
He dined until what=ever the meal was called was gone
He did not enjoy the slop and once more had to pretend.