Poems by Amara450

When we are born into this wondrous life,
We hope for one that is peaceful, clear of all strife,
But from the first day, the very first day,
We never know of the price we must pay,
For whatever happens, in no matter what way,
There is always a price that we have to pay.

Even as children, innocent and free,
Not understanding how hard life can be,
Someone has to pay the price,
For our free and unworried life,
The lines in our parent furrowed brow,
Greying hair and ageing all show how,
For us to live in a carefree way,
It's our parents who have the price to pay.

When something drastic come to pass,
To tear our carefree life in half,
Tragedy happens to show that we,
Are not shielded from how hard life can be,
Death can strike any time to raise our fears,
To remind us what awaits us in future years,
To lose siblings, and parents, torn roughly away,
Is part of the price we all must pay.

It's fine when we are young and confidence high,
Do not notice how fast the years go by,
See our children spread wings to leave and roam,
To move far away, to start their own home,
We say we understand, they have their own life,
To love a new partner, make them husband or wife,
Make life without us, to make their own way,
To leave us alone, it's the price we must pay,
Just because they have gone, are no longer near,
Doesn't stop us from missing those we hold dear.

So, now left alone, just Derby and Joan,
To live out our retirement, at home, on our own,
You would think it would be all sweetness and light,
But this is the time when the price starts to bite,
To see the one you have loved for so many years,
Succumb to some illness, the sum of all fears,
To sicken and waste, to fade day by day,
The darkest, the hardest, the price we must pay,
To live on alone, and to wonder each day,
When will it end and what price must we pay ?

Twas on a bright September morn, and without much fuss,
Our bowls club set off to Devon by bus,
The driver was amazed as could be,
Thinking, their average age must be 93,
He didn't know of the hard inner core,
Of these aged players that would rise to the fore,
That would show their real spirit the very next day,
When they arrived at Much Banter ready to play,
When driving winds and torrential rain,
Would not be allowed to spoil their game.

So, undaunted, when surveying the scene,
First viewed when stepping out on the green,
At the sight of the rinks that awaited us there,
Unless it was to sigh, and then to despair,
At the sight of the gullies, the dips and the bumps,
The patches of mud and grass scattered in clumps,
Their Captain, on seeing my horrified face,
Said "don't worry, it's not such a bad place",
"It plays well when you know it", he said with a smile,
"But to work all that out might take you a while".

Well, just in an effort to make things far worse,
The rain just increased to make players curse,
And to those in club shirts and some dressed in shorts,
It put sunny days and dry clothes in their thoughts,
But never the less, they bravely played on,
Till every last vestige of dryness was gone,
And the bowls struggled on in search of the jack,
Spray spinning from puddles that now held them back,
We played out eight ends while the rain it just poured,
I'm not even going to mention the scores,
Then we stopped, and all rushed in for tea,
Inside in the warm where we wanted to be,

We were plied with hot tea, scones, jam and cream
While our shirts and our trousers started to steam,
Then the Captains conferred looking up at the sky,
And hopefully said "It's starting to dry",
We were given the choice, as both Captains exclaim,
Stay inside in the dry or go back out again,
Well, we gazed out on skies looking blacker than ever,
And foolishly said, 'What!, and be beaten by weather"?
Now what on earth made us make that stupid reply,
To troop out once more neath grey leaden sky,
How foolish we were to think things might change,
Cos the minute we started it poured hard again,
Then the jacks were rolled out and hopefully we,
Sent out our bowls to where they might be,
With hands dripping wet and numb with the cold,
We failed to find grip on the woods that we bowled,

Five more ends were played out as the rain it just poured,
As we stoics played on and simply endured,
Then the Captains cried 'Stop, we've all had enough",
"It's time to give in and get out of this stuff".
So wet and bedraggled we trooped back in doors,
Our soaking wet shoes leaving mud on the floors,
Then our hosts had the best idea by far,
As they shouted out loud, "We'll open the bar",
Now those who know us, well you all know the score.
For bowlers like us it's what we came for,
With loud shouts of glee in one steaming rush,
They lined up at the bar in one heaving crush,
And as Amber liquid washed away all the pain,
They toasted Much Banter shouting 'We'll be back again".