Holidays By Sally Cronin
Time between holidays was very slow
Anticipation growing by the day
Kept asking the question ‘When do we go?’
On and on from the beginning of May.
Food filled memories remain on my lips
Of scones on a plate, warm, laden with jam
And plates of piping hot and crispy chips
Served with thick slices of crumb crusted ham.
Other summer treats are fresh in my mind
Crisp battered fish, served with peppery peas.
Soft whirling ice-creams of every kind
That made you forget the cold icy seas.
The days at the beach with sand in your pants
And in the hard boiled egg sandwiches too.
Left over crumbs that attracted the ants
And painful wasp stings that turned the air blue.
Far too quickly the summer was over
And the long wait for the next festive break
Weeks before Christmas went even slower
Looking forward to that marzipanned cake.
Now I am older the time goes so fast
I don’t have to wait so long for the fun
I know how to make the holidays last
Despite the fact there is too little sun.
I fill up my trolley with scones and jam
And a pot of the finest clotted cream.
Cornish icecream, battered cod and crumbed ham
I am now finally living the dream.
If you would like to share your poetry here then please contact me directly on email@example.com Next week a poem from Mary Smith.
Dark Waters by Sally Cronin
I have been revisiting my poetry from my teen years and have added some of the life’s experiences gained in the intervening 50 years. This one takes me back to fourteen and the lure of the summer fairground along the seafront.. and one slick operator in particular.
The Lure of the Waltzer
Preparations take an hour to complete
With curlers, mascara and bright red lipstick
The adding of two years is quite a feat
As is the hairdo with the right little flick.
We sneak from the house without a goodbye
Heading for a forbidden destination
Very keen not to be caught in a lie
But we are obsessed with a fascination.
We loiter along the rails of the ride
With the others who have a similar aim
To walk away with a swagger of pride
Being winner of this particular game
Black-haired and blue-eyed with a rakish air
He knows the effect he inflicts on his prey
As he deigns to spin a customer’s chair
And rotates his hips with an arrogant sway
Spellbound we wait for him to catch our eye
All desperate to be singled out as the one
And when he does, and smiles, you almost die
From the joy of having your time in the sun
The Gypsy boy on the waltzer is god
But we know to only worship from afar
For we have heard tales of those he has awed
And have then ventured far too close to this star.
But the excitement and danger is bliss
For young girls exploring tales of the bad boys
To test new found womanhood with a kiss
Now that we have stopped playing with a child’s toys.
He grins as he whirls faster and faster
For he has finally selected a date
Let it be me, and not the disaster
Of him deciding that he fancies my mate.
To my relief he ignores both of us
And with virtue intact we leave for the day
Plotting next moves on the top of the bus
To win at this fun game of love we all play.
Image: From Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository
As I delve back into my archive of poems written from my teens onwards it amuses me to see what emotional turmoil I put myself through… and others.
This poem was written when I was sixteen following a trip to the West Country with my sister Diana.. as you can see I was the cat.. and I was away!
Rebellion in Frome by Sally Cronin
My mother said no, that while I was home
That my ears should stay pristine
But away from her, in far distant Frome
I laughed at being sixteen
The hardware store said they’d do it for free
As long as I bought the gold.
I sat there frightened but still as could be
Feeling incredibly bold
Out came the needle, the cork and the flame
A hand reached out for my ear
I closed my eyes tight as nearer he came
And moved away from my fear.
At home again under parental care
My bravado left behind
My secrets stayed hidden under my hair
Waiting for a moment more kind.
Then one day as I leant over my book
She gently tucked back my hair
A shake of the head and a knowing look
Filled with her love and her care
Acceptance was slow and came with my tears
As we both relived my act
But she understood the worst of her fears
Were now more fiction than fact
The girl child in me had stayed back in Frome
A woman taken her place
But, it’s good to know you can still come home
rebellion packed in your case.
If you have a poem that you would like to share… along with your links of course, please email me on firstname.lastname@example.org… Otherwise you may be stuck with mine every week!!
Thanks for dropping by and comments are always welcome. Sally