Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Jackie Mead Jul 2018
I wander down memory lane
Crossing corn fields, climbing over farm gates
Meandering through cobbled streets
Golden sandals on my feet
Tanned skin glowing, oh so brown
Smiling, laughing never a frown

I wander down memory lane
Swimming in blue sea, climbing rocks,
surfing in the choppy sea
I have a feeling of being young and carefree
Holding hands with my love, hands fit together like one soft glove

I wander down memory lane
Christmas tree standing tall, dropping needles on the floor
Mulled wine warming on the stove
Christmas tunes playing on the radio
Wrapping presents for the children, while they sleep
Presents wrapped, stored safely away from their keep

I wander down memory lane
This time a road trip to foreign lands
Car packed full to the brim, clothes, games, buckets and spades
Walking along glitzy promenades
Dip our toes in the warm ocean, walk on golden sands
Play mini golf, ride on a big dipper, have a late supper, go to the circus, catch a band

I wander down memory lane
To March and an usually warm sunny day
My wonderful Dad by my side, i step out the car a smile a mile wide
Todays the day I say i do for the rest of my days
It all goes by so quickly and in a bit of a fuzzy warm haze

I wander down memory lane
Full of wonderful memories and happy days
I wander down memory lane
Just for a while
The memories i recall making me smile
Its lovely to wander even just for a while
2 years on Thursday i lost my Dad, the weekend has been about remembering such happy times.
Jackie Mead Jul 2018
Sat on the beach looking out to sea.
Memories in my mind, running free.

The blue sea ebbs and flows.
The white tips of the waves glow.
The sound of the wave is noisy.
The wind is blowing breezy.

The wave begins its inward journey.
Picking up speed, it becomes very loudly.
The wave begins to peak and crest.
The wave looks majestic, at is best.

Its journey nearly over, as it begins to fall.
Its reached its destination and crashes to the shore.

The wave once a thing of beauty is no more.
Its role in life is to live and breathe.
Show people beauty that brings you to your knees.

All day people and children play in the sea, swimminig and surfing freely.
But never take the sea for granted be sure you know the rules.
Being unsafe at the seaside is really not cool.

Lost in my memories of beaching days.
There is no better way to say.
I love you Dad and miss you so.
Thinking of my Dad today, left us 2 years ago today.
I am rembering fantastic trips to the beach, we would pack a picnic, fill the car with cricket bat, *****, surf boards, windbreak, it would be jammed full. Very often we didnt need boards, we would body surf or rock climb instead.
We would go rock pooling looking for ***** and fishes.
We would sometimes meet our cousins on the beach.
Great days, great memories.
Jackie Mead Jul 2018
S...ensationally charged atmosphere.
P...erfectly mannered fans.
E...xceptional riding skills, no gears, no brakes, no fear.
E...xcellent rapport between riders and the crowd, fans like to cheer.
D...angerous sport, injuries kept minimal, within reason.
W...orld Champions crowned at the end of the season.
A...bsolutely awesome fights on the track.
Y...outh riders, coming through, watch out Tai they're at your back.

G...reat day out for the family,  lots of fun.
P...oland, Sweden, Germany, Cardiff , stadiums galore under cover or open to the sun.
I like my sport, hubby and i have always watched motorsports, we were at the Brtish GP yesterday in Cardiff such a highky charged atmosphere, starting with the Fanzone Live Music, the riders meeting the fans for.pics, autographs etc.
Jackie Mead Jul 2018
I wonder if I  truly am a poet?
I put pen to paper and write some verse.
Whatever comes into my headfirst.

Does that make me a Poet, I ponder?

I consider what i write and what does it mean?
Am i truly any good i wonder, is that still to be seen?

I write about things I see, try to capture it well, if possible a little story I tell.
I write about my feelings for my loved ones present and past.
About my marriage, children and grandchildren and how we have a blast.

Does this make me a Poet I wonder?

I write about daily happenings in the news, some horrific stories, some written to amuse.

Am I truly a Poet?

What makes a Poet good?

Is it clarity of verse
Putting others not you first
Is it being able to write short burts, Haiku style
Long stories that make people forget for a while

I guess what i am trying to say
Is, do you put pen to paper to have your say?
Write some lines in a journal every day?
Write some verse, no matter how short?
Do the lines rhyme, of a sort?

Then welcome my friend

You are a Poet

You should celebrate and let everyone know it.
A question i have been pondering for a while, as i struggle to write anything good.
Jackie Mead Jul 2018
A Ghostly tale
Of a Girly Ghost
Who lived in a house where once her Mother would host,
the most wonderful parties you would ever find.
The table decorations and chandeliers would blow your mind.
She invited people of a higher class, fed them shrimp on a plate and champagne in a glass.
They would dance in each other's arms, to a 3 piece band and all their charms.
The party would start at half past eight and run into the night until very late.
Everyone wanted a ticket to this ball, they would pay the full cost of the ticket, and barter to pay more.
It was elegant and a bit of a bore, but the Ghostly Girl would have loved one more.
The girl was just sixteen and her Mum used to say she was too young to join in, send her on her way, to her room.  
The Ghostly Girl did recall, a time she was in her room one of these nights when a very loud noise gave her such a fright.
She rose up from her bed and decided to explore.
She was on the landing looking down when,
she saw several persons dressed as a clown,
Moving around where they shouldn't have been,
unaware they had been seen.
The clowns were getting drunk, being raucous, having a laugh.
They were spinning on the dance floor, falling to the ground.
Not caring for a minute if anyone was around.
They were telling jokes and poking fun, spraying water with a plastic gun.
They had on bright colour clothes and makeup on their faces.
Their shoes were 7 feet long and done up with bright coloured laces.
They were light and cheery and lots of fun.
They saw the girl and invited her to join in, took her arm and gave her a spin.
The girl threw back her head and laughed and laughed, she was feeling light, heady and giddy dancing to Duran Duran and P Diddy.
She tasted hot dogs in a bun, sprayed water from the plastic gun, danced upon the wooden floor.
It was everything she wanted and so much more.
The clowns, just before midnight sent her on her way.
Back in the present, she was wondering if her Mum had thrown a party recently and how it went.
She was a Girly Ghost it was no use to pretend.
The Girly Ghost would always be sixteen, always remain,
with blonde hair and lean.
She would always remain a child at heart and would miss her Mum's party's for evermore, looking down at them made her feel glum.
Hovering over the bed that once was hers, she remembered again the time with the Clowns, glad she had that memory too.
Forever she would miss her Mum and Dad, thinking of them made her sad, thinking of the Clowns made the pain go away, at least until the next day.
Little did the Ghostly Girl know her Mum and Dad were unable to stay in the house the Girl lived and moved away.
The Ghostly Girl continued to roam the old house night and day waiting for someone familiar to come her way, one day she knew they would all be reunited and the parties then would make her delighted.
To be back in the arms of her Mum and Dad she would be happy,  no longer be sad.
For now, though she roams, alone in the house, only kept company by some spiders and a mouse.
Just a bit of fun
  Jul 2018 Jackie Mead
Pagan Paul
.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)
.
  Jul 2018 Jackie Mead
Mike Hauser
Be the wheel
that's set to turn
The comfort in
the daily hurt
The flame that lights
not the one that burns
Be the lesson
that is learned

Be the hope
and not despair
The helping hands
that show you care
The pleasure ride
that takes you there
Be the truth
inside the dare

Be the answer
to the call
The very reason
for it all
The solid yes
to all the no's
Be the river
that freely flows

Be the kindness
that we need
The encouragement  
that sets us free
The do good
to the deed
Be all this
and all of these
Next page