Summer of Sixty Six – Part Two

Rheindahlen was a school bus ride

The largest base around

But we were based at Wickrath then

With German neighbours round.

Just a few flats where we lived

Canadian and English

Not much to see or much to do

But kick a ball

And wriggle through

Imaginary defenders.

We’d play on any patch of ground

Back then kids were allowed to

So leave us on our make do pitch

And move on with the story

As I shift the scene to Wembley’s green,

And coming English glory.

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The Summer of Sixty Six – Part One

They say that if you remember the sixties

You weren’t there

If you don’t remember sixty six

You weren’t born

Or you’re not English.

It was our special summer

A summer never to be forgotten

To be followed by fifty years of hurt

And still counting.

It was the year that football came home

The World Cup came to England

But, to my mortification

I wasn’t there.

July 66 and of all places to be

You find me living in Germany.

As the events of that summer

Slowly unfold

Here’s my slant on the story

That’s often been told.

From a small English enclave

In a small German town

Enjoying the triumph

On foreign ground.

And history is traveling

As some of you know

To a Wembley finale.

Against the old foe.

To be continued.

Hurting

My new Wattpad book Light and Bitter is an imitation, I almost said ‘irritation’, of Rupi Kaur’s best selling Milk and Honey so part one is about hurting because boys hurt too.

Suicide is the biggest single cause of death among young men in the UK and, if women are struggling to break the glass ceiling, there are plenty of men at the bottom of the heap, our prisons are stuffed with them.

Thanks

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For the smell of a new born baby’s hair

We should give thanks.

For the chill of November morning air

For the opening strains of a favourite tune,

And the glimpse of true love across a room

We should give thanks.

 

For the first sip of a well earned drink

We will give thanks.

For our favourite uncle’s friendly wink,

For the kiss of gentle, late summer sun

For the chatter of children having fun

We will give thanks.

 

For the warming glow of a winter fire

We should give thanks.

For the joyful chorus of Christmas choirs,

First sight of snowdrops, promise of spring,

For the long lazy days that summer brings

We should give thanks.

 

For all the sounds and sights and smells

The things we see and hear and feel

For the senses that deliver these

We should give thanks.

Diffident and quite reserved

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Diffident and quite reserved

He was loath to join in

And would rather observe.

 

He’d keep his distance

Quitely watch

He didn’t care for others much.

 

Meal times he would eat alone.

And, as for company

Preffered his own.

 

Yet there’s little doubt

He didn’t miss much.

We didn’t know him

But he knew us.

 

He’d stand to one side

And just observe.

What lay behind

That quiet reserve?

 

 

 

 

 

via Observe

A response to the Daily Prompt

Abrupt

You’re curt, abrupt, so very rude

Why must we put up with you?

Brusque, abrupt and so off hand

What are we supposed to do?

 

The simplest statement sets you off

As if you think we’ve challenged you.

Snap, bite off the speaker’s head

What the hell is up with you?

 

You’re on your own, I’m out of here

No point putting up with you

Treatment cavalier and rough

I won’t take any more from you.

 

via Abrupt

A response to the Daily Prompt