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.’