Tinder dance

Tinder do

Tinder dire 

Tinder love

Tinder mire

Tinder search 

Tinder birch

Tinder could and

Tinder should

Tinder infected 

Tinder wire

Tinder is the wood

That kindles the fire.

Wearing Armour for peace

Don’t die miserable with pains the world has given, but go smiling and fighting for the peace that you will receive in heaven. 

Old, New, Borrowed, Red & Blue

I have a hybrid, it doesn’t go fast 

The engines quite old, I don’t think it will last

It’s a cross between Water and Petrol mixed

Either that or the piston heads not fixed

It reminds me of a lawnmower mowing

If you wait long enough, you’ll see it not going 

it runs on oil and willpower too

red, grey and a little bit blue

It has the XFactor

X means it’s in the past, 

pedal to metal, it’s still not fast 

Press the accelerator and you may get a blast

I Cannot see through the windscreen

As the glass is so scratched 

I cannot lock the door as it has no latch

Mondeo at the front, Astra at the rear

It’s log book dates with three different years 

Still it’s mine with its own working clock

The lights sometimes spark

Then I get a small shock

A guide to repair is in six Haynes books

But like a Ferrari, a classic of its kind 

It gets lots of wows with people standing blind

not by it’s looks, but the smoke left behind

It’s worth fifty pounds, when the tank is full

And Ten Thousand pounds 

If I sell it to you.

Queens Park

There is a park of calming surround, people from Bolton arrive all around, feeding the ducks, children on swings, for some it is a place to hear the birds sing, usually there is an Ice cream van ringing ‘Ding a Ding Ding’, not for little Emily Jones

Go for a walk then have a run, take the dog, join in the Fun, whatever you like it’s everywhere, Queen’s Park is nice to see, sometimes a bouncy castle that is free, look at the plants or the trees, locals say it’s Humdrum, not little Emily Jones.

A sickness of possession, it’s a wicked cruel world, that takes the life forever, of a wonderful little girl, call it what you may, a mind in disarray, Schizophrenic feud, or a crazy mental mood, irrelevant to the Mum and Dad who lost little their girl at Seven, little Emily Jones will be in Heaven. 

Some say life in prison is not a long enough sentence,  it is a way to pay some kind of penance, some drugs injected into her brain, she’ll never be the same, will not be free again, lock her up throw away the key, she will never feel the pain or the same as Little Emily Jones.

Rest in peace blessed little angel. XxX

A stroll in the country

Fog on a country road blinds my sight, it’s a scary place gives me such a fright, with turns and bends on the road ahead, if a car approaches I could be dead, Or maybe crushed against the stone wall or fall in a ditch after a long clutching fall,  then again nothing may happen, not at all.

I suddenly find the fog is gone, smoke from the large barbecue clears, to be in shock and awe by lots of cheers to be welcomed in with warm Kentish beers, I feel the love of a familiar crowd, people I’ve not seen for many years, my grandad, my Nan, my great uncle Will, looking quite well and seeming quite fed, a dance by the fire that is glowing bright red, My Mother and Father rush from behind, they pull my coat with a tug, turning round, I wept to see them looking so well, I clutched them both tight for a long loving hug, I wrapped the shawl around my mothers shoulders she smiles and says goodbye my love. 

A fog fills my sight again I cannot see a thing, everything seemed strange, such an incredible thing, emotion Wells inside me I can see a Christmas tree, I open my eyes from a beer spirited nap, I see my children sing, Christmas carols can be heard there’s a present on my lap, you are with us now Dad they both briefly say, I smile warmly at them and then sweetly say, I love you so much as Christmas fades away, I always will my children forever and a day, memories are important, cherished parts of our reign,yet you can live them moments again my friends, again and again.  

A strange occurrence

I woke with a start in a fine fettled blink

Hearing the sound of a familiar clink

Plates from the washer tinkled away

I wondered to look, as I heard someone say

“There must be some food here, to eat today?”

Creeping downstairs plunger in hand

I saw the movement of a scruffy small man

Disheveled and wretched, unclean face

He shuffled about at a tinkering pace

The kitchen was tidy, not a thing out of speck

I thought to myself, ‘now what the heck?’

With sandwich in hand he opened the door

Shouting “Thanks for the food”

then I could see him no more

I opened the fridge to observe what had gone

Just some mouldy old cheese and an smelly onion

I thought ‘a strange occurrence’ without dismay

I eventually adjusted to the strange kind of fright

Then hoped he would return some other cold night

One evening I found him asleep in my shed

I closed the door quietly and crept back to bed.

‘Twas the night before Christmas

Clement Clarke Moore

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"