This is the one that won Eastwood Writers' Group competition : 

Each day I scan the papers for the competition page.

If answers somehow I can’t get, then I am filled with rage.

The crosswords are my favourites, but not the cryptic ones.

I can’t tell what on earth they mean, especially the puns.

My poor dog hates it when I moan and scratch my perplexed head.

He cries and whines until I stop, and take him out instead.

But all the time I’m walking him my mind is in a whirl.

If only I could get the ten across, my fists I could unfurl.

I hurry home and grab the pen, the seven down I’ve found.

I’ve finished it, oh joy of joys, I jump and dance around.

But no I’ve not. I’m sorely vexed, for when I look again,

The sixteen down’s eluded me. I have to blame my pen.

It must have run out when I wrote the answer to that one.

For sure I can’t have missed it, so, wherever has it gone?


And I wrote this one when my sister was dying in March, 2012: 



For how much longer am I here,

my eyes no longer seeing?

The black abyss is what I fear.

Falling, falling, falling.


The sounds I hear are far too low.

Please just one moment more.

I really do not want to go.

Stalling, stalling, stalling.


Bright lights I see way up above,

Are they the hopes and prayers

Of all the people that I love,

Calling, calling, calling.


One final breath and then I’ll leave.

All right, I’m coming now,

To meet my maker, I believe.



 A silly one written on holiday:Clarice the chair on holiday


‘Now where shall I sit?’ mumbles Clarice the Chair.

‘In front of this wall or perhaps over there?

I liked where I sat yesterday on the lawn,

So I stayed there all night ‘til the onset of dawn.

But I think I’d prefer to move nearer the flowers,

And sniff the red roses for minutes, even hours.

Or shall I divert to a place by the stream,

Where the birdsong will send me to sleep and to dream?

I must make up my mind, for I still haven’t found

The best spot to park. I want somewhere that’s sound.

Perhaps near to the shrubs where I can keep out of sight,

And no-one will find me ‘til later tonight.

I won’t have fat bottoms slouch onto my seat,

Or tea spills or coffee or foul, cheesy feet.

Yes, I think I will do that. I’ll hide under the trees,

And sway to the swell of a soft, gentle breeze.

Ah! This is the life. What a fine peaceful spot.

Oh, no! That bird’s plopped on me. Well, thanks a lot.’