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Laurence Tye Poem
What is this life if other folk,
dictate where we can drink or smoke.
No ashtrays now in bars are seen,
nor happy drunks on village green.
The 'health police' now make all the rules,
they treat the rest of us as fools.
'You can't drink this', 'Oh dont eat that',
'too high in salt' or 'too much fat'.
They curb your pleasure, stop your fun,
'eat more greens', 'avoid the sun'.
We used to love crisp chips and pies,
'no, no' they cry, 'more exercise'.
But just you wait, the day will dawn,
when in their care homes, sad, withdrawn;
They might reflect on pleasures spurned,
and of the bridges that they burned.
With triple chins and swollen knee, in voices weak and quavery,
they'll try to make their carer see,
how great life is at ninety three.
Copyright © Laurence Tye | Year Posted 2018
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Laurence Tye Poem
Our Island's disparate seasons guide the pen, of authors, poets, artists, common men.
When bitter, snow-flecked winds and frosted boughs, draw us to our hearths and thoughts arouse;
of springtime promise, nature's quickening pace, the lengthened day, the gravid swollen ewe that seeks some sheltered space.
Regard how soon, in spring, our dark-tinged winter thoughts recede,
the city's black wet slush is washed away, weak April sun caresses ripening seed.
In rural fields and woods, now clothed in verdant green, new shoots, new life, bursts forth from winters annual, tight-held quarantine.
Soft trembling new-born lamb gulps in the sounds and smells, then seeks the teat; before, from milk flecked lips there comes his first weak ovine bleat
Urban streets as well, reflect the season's change, and sun-warmed brick gives ease to stiffened limbs.
While city dwellers sit at open doors, in floral dress and hats with turned up brims.
A jaunty step replaces hooded slouch as townsfolk sniff the air, and shun the comfort of their soft warm fireside couch, then venture out, bare-sleeved to test, that nature hasn't pulled her cruel, and not infrequent jest; that lures us out, then drives us in again, from blackened skies, a biting wind, and Englands never distant rain.
Copyright © Laurence Tye | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Laurence Tye Poem
There's an old family shop that sells ciggies and pop,
plus Mars Bars and aspirins and tinned Winnalot.
Then just past the shop there's a small patch of green,
where kids playing football can sometimes be seen,
on its edge there's a bench to give old bones a rest,
and a rusty red see-saw that's way past its best,
down at the end of our road.
Mrs. Mullholland in twin set and pearls, has two mangy cats that are known as 'her girls';
and she sits in a deckchair with biscuits and tea,
plus both of 'her girls' fast asleep on her knee.
There's some girls playing hopscotch and giggling at boys,
while their runny nosed siblings sit lost in their toys,
down at the end of our road.
Most of the families have lived here for years,
and they whisper in groups when a new one appears.
Ernie McPherson at number nineteen,
has a spyglass he uses to take in the scene,
and they'd all be amazed at the sights that he's seen,
down at the end of our road.
But now things are changing, it started last week,
the builders arrived and it's looking quite bleak.
There are fences and scaffolds and two wrecking balls,
and there's dust in the street as another house falls,
we've lived here for years by an unwritten code,
but now it's the end of this sweet episode,
and I think it's -
the end of our road.
Copyright © Laurence Tye | Year Posted 2018
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