Author: Sue Young

Teabag Mystery

I found a teabag (old and dried) in my Busy Lizzies this week. No idea how it got there. The husband doesn’t know anything about it. Bit of a mystery, I thought, and it kept me going for a few days. But I love and hate mysteries with equal measure. So I thought, I’m going to work this one out if it kills me. Unless, I have a poltergeist that likes drinking tea, I have to think of another alternative, a logical solution.

Maybe I had a cup with a herbal teabag in it, from a recent previous beverage, which I filled with water, watered the plant, emptied both water and teabag into soil and voila, end of mystery. I do like solving mysteries. Sorry, poltergeist. Your days are numbered. It was fun while it lasted though.

I Love little Furry Things

I love little furry things

that whizz across the floor

That no one can identify

It makes me love them more

And if they have long tails

It doesn’t induce fright

And if they have big whiskers

It fills me with delight

I love little furry things

anything rodent shaped

That might crawl up your leg

And make the faint heart faint

I just don’t get it

Why are we scared of them?

They’re soft and they are fuzzy

From where did our fears stem?

Why do they scare the elephant

When it is so big?

Why do they scare the human race

When they’re the size of a small wig?

Oh, I love little furry things

That dart across the floor

It’s true, they nibble a lot

But they don’t shout or roar

I love little furry things

That get eaten by cats

They’re much smaller than us

So don’t kill them in traps

So, the moral of this story stands

Well, there is no moral really

Just be kind to those of us

Who are small and cute and furry.

 

Colours

I was black and I was blue

With a yellow purple hue

Bruised because of you

So thank you

I was grey and I was down

Because of you, psychotic clown

You know you broke my crown

So thank you

I am grateful for your stink

Because it made me think

I started to be pink

So thank you

You took me to the lows

I went from China Rose

To red as Drinkers Nose

So thank you

But now I’m on the rise

The colours are surprised

They’ve suddenly got wise

So thank you

I’m not as green in game

You’re the quagmire heat of blame

You’re the dirty brown of shame

So F you.

 

Toasted Crumpet

A griddle cake

By any other name

Would taste as sweet

I toast it

Both sides

Now, hot off the press

I spread the

golden

melting

ever so slightly flowing

butter

And watch it seep

Deep

Not over the edge

And not out of the bottom

But into the pores

And into the heart of comfort

That is my crumpet

 

He’s Coming Home

Image result for Creative Commons Photos of Poppies

I’d not forgotten his face

Or the sound of his voice

I’d not forgotten his smile

My heart gave me no choice

I would close my eyes

And count to ten

And have the crystal clear dream

I’d wake up from again

But I’m not asleep anymore

There’s warmth from the sun

And bad times are over

This war is now done

He’s coming home

After all this time

He’s coming home

At long last, he’s mine

It might take a while

To finally feel free

But he’s coming home soon

He’s coming home to me

 

 

 

 

After Years Of Darkness

Image result for Creative Commons Photos of Poppies

After years of darkness

The light is shining through

After years of darkness

The sun is now in view

We will be together

When we were so alone

We will be together

Now you are coming home

After years of darkness

It’s looking brighter now

Let’s chase away the darkness

And make up the years somehow

Now there’s tears of joy

Instead of tears of sorrow

We have a new today

We have a new tomorrow

Now it is our time

Hope is on its way

After years of darkness

You are home to stay

The Story Of The Poppy

Image result for Creative Commons Photos of Poppies

The soldiers were courageous

But in battle they did yield

And John McCrea, he lost a friend

On Ypres fighting field

He wrote Flanders Fields for him

His soul he laid out bare

He wrote about the poppy fields

For every soldier there

The slender graceful poppy

Sprouted where they lay

So that we would think of them

Every Remembrance Day

They grew in their thousands

And proudly there they stand

This hardy little flower

Grows on barren land

American lady, Moira Michael

Made poppies of silk to sell

And Anna Guerin, brought them to England

And boy, did they sell well!

It was The Royal British Legion

Who sold nine million poppies on

Remembrance Day

Back in nineteen twenty one

Over one hundred thousand pounds

That first appeal did raise

Which helped the Great War veterans

In those very early days

The Legion, along with Major George

Houston’s factory line

To this day, produce nine million

poppies, every year combined.

Scotland wanted poppies too

But England’s were all gone

Lady Haig set a factory up

So Edinburgh had one

A story of a little flower

A symbol of life and not of death

Its beauty blooms to give us hope

And help us never to forget

Quote Of The Week

‘Everybody needs a different climate in which to create, like for some people it’s the sun streaming through the blinds, or the Rocky Mountains, or a room sanitized for your own protection.’

–Tom Waits

LA Free Press 1975 Los Angelas Is Poetry from Tom Waits on Tom Waits. Interviews and Encounters, Edited by Paul Maher.