"cosies" poems
At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!
Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!
My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day
She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!
Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:32 AM UTC
Down among the Zed men, lay a little lullaby,
Waiting to be sung; by the children of the sea.
And waiting in the billabong with a feather helmet on,
Was Willie of the three hearts, to see what he could see.
‘Well, lookie here’, said Willie, when he saw the little lullaby,
‘Who left you to lie around, unwanted and unsung?’
‘Bad boys, mad boys, they left me here to waste away,
Won’t you to take me across the sea, to shores far flung?’
So, Willie picked up lullaby and put him in his little sack.
‘I’d better take you home my love, it’s time for tea’.
‘Oh thank you” said the sweet refrain” I will be your friend,
For you have saved me from my fate, as well as you can see’.
So! Off they went with merry step, to find the way to ******* home
And soon they heard the calling voice of ******* faithful mum.
‘Hello lad, where’ve you been now and who is that you’re carrying?’
You’ve both arrived in time for supper, jellied wasps and roses, and cream.
An hour later warm and fed, soft lullaby wished them many thanks
‘Think nothing of it’, said ******* mum, pouring another cup of steam
‘Come on said Willie, Let’s light a fire
Well lullaby, so happy now, living with his special friends,
Laid a spell upon them both and gave them the eternal dream.
This is how they dream,
Fairy cakes and shaggy dogs
Washing lines and rainy days
Hammers, nails and rusty iron
Pretty dolls and mornings in May
Clouds that look like Ships of the line
Leviathan whales and teapot cosies
Skipping children and Waterfalls
Thunderstorms and sweet little posies
Blues and reds and pinks and greens and
Black and red and black and blue and black and blue and black and blue...
Sweet dreams,
Remember,
Lullabies are forever.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
no more does my mother knit
half finished scarves, tea cosies
and tiny shell like booties
sit in forlorn piles
awaiting a hand that
is no longer deft
or interested
her conversation is now not
accompanied by the soft rhythmic
clicking of needles, tapping away
we are no longer halted in questions
by the phrase"just let me finish the row"
now, pattern books are filed away
wool paased on to others for their projects
groups of women no longer gather
my mothers hands lay idle and listless
in her lap, finger bent and curled
in painful submission to age
she is some how smaller, diminished
as tho the k itting needles gave her strength
to battle to stand stoic, against the tides of misfortune
that battered the island that was her life...
my mother no longer knits
and in me that creates a sadness
that is deeper than words explain
and often as I sit with her
I long to here that rhythmic clicking
that was the back ground to my childhood
knit one purl one.....
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC