Poems by Amara450

Dear reader, when you view a verse,
Just realise on how perverse,
The difference that is in the time,
It takes to pen this little rhyme,
To that it takes for you to scan,
The effort wrenched from mind of man,
The epic tales it may set down,
Of darkest deeds to make you frown,
Or heartache set to bring the tears,
Experienced throughout the years,
Or comic verse to make you laugh,
From hours of effort come to pass,
Of grammar dredged up from the day,
When our tutors and teachers had their say,
Teaching i before e except after c,
And things called mnemonics to help confuse me,
So please be kind when you study a rhyme,
Consider the efforts of the poor writers time,
So give your mind a chance to unfetter,
And ask yourself, could I have done better?

The hot May sun beat down in a haze,
Pressing the Marina's dark waters flat and so calm,
Shining on narrow boats, now past working days.
Moored up in pairs to come to no harm.

No longer the forefront of haulage and trade,
They rest now, retired, cherished and loved,
By elderly people who now spend their days,
On England's canals and old waterways.

A few stalwarts are seen slowly at work,
Maintaining the glory of their ancient craft,
While one lady labour would far rather shirk,
To capture on canvas nostalgia that lasts

I relax on a bench and survey the calm scene,
Where trees lazily wave fresh leaves at the sky,
May blossom, wind blown, flutters down so serene,
Too settle down softly to go floating by.

I look more afield, where not far away,
St Mary's Church tower is soaring on high,
Guarding the graves, where stones old and grey,
Mark the passing of those from times now long by.

It may be that those now interred, at peace and at rest,
Spent lives working the boats moored up and in view,
Would be pleased are still used and not sadly left,
But are still loved and cherished by a fortunate few.

My, darling, your rose is in bloom again,
The vibrant pink rambler, Dorothy Perkins by name,
The one you wanted to grace our new home,
To stay planted and settled, never to roam.

One day down in Hampshire a rose grower I spied,
So I parked up my truck on the road right outside,
On enquiring the grower led me down to the plot,
Where Dorothy Perkins were massed in a block.

I'm taking orders for these, he said with a smile,
They are not ready yet, they will be quite a while,
I will take down your details so I will know where,
To send one to you when November is here.

So I paid the man then, so the it deal was done,
In November my wife shouted "the rose has just come",
So we opened the package, excitement in place,
To find a single dry twig with some roots at it's base.

Well, a little discouraged we took it outside,
Put some feed in the hole and knelt down side by side,
And planted the 'twig', but how little did we know,
How this dry twig would flourish and grow.

That each June it would fill our garden with grace,
We would gaze at it in awe, with a smile on our face,
A profusion of blooms that spread wider each year,
A gift given in love, that we both held so dear.

It is still there in place after many a year,
In June, a sight my heart holds so dear,
I gaze at it now, at it's vibrant pink hue,
To remind me of our love, and how I miss you,
So I'll repeat the first line, so you may hear it plain,
My darling your rose is in bloom once again.