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My Secret Place 
Encased within a private place,
safe from the light of day,
I keep some special memories,
So safely locked away.
Memories which make me smile
and thaw my chilly heart,
happy thoughts of cheerful times,
Of which you were a part.
Whatever should befall my life,
Should it be short or long,
My memories accompany me
like an ever haunting song.
And if life's feeling very bad,
And I find it hard to cope,
I open up my secret place
and give inside a poke.
Then all the memories flood right back
and dance around my soul,
They fill me with completeness,
and make me, once more, whole.
They're there within my secret place
and never will depart,
Where no one else can touch them,
So deep within my heart.
The Whistleblower. 
He always would intrigue me, the raggedy old man,
Who cycled past my home each day, t'was said his name was Sam.
He had a floppy hat he wore, tucked behind his ears,
His hair was salt and pepper, and he was aged some eighty years.
His coat was tied with string and his demeanor very shy,
Yet when I was but four years old, I just wanted to say " Hi".
I was truly fascinated with his looks of this old guy,
Yet my Mum forbade I talk with him, as we watched him cycle by.
Sometimes he would be walking, pushing on his bike,
Loaded up with bags and things, as if upon a hike.
Within the wheels he'd threaded, coloured bits of string,
And in the bags he carried, every single thing.
The villagers would gossip, about Sam and his ways,
An aged old accentric, so the rumour says..
A kindly man on hard times fell, so the story goes,
And all he owned his bicycle, and a few old dirty clothes.
The stars became his blanket, the trees became his shade,
He'd spend the nightimes snuggled up along the river glade.
He truly lived a simple life, as anyone could see,
And when he passed I'd wave my hand and he'd wave right back at me.
I could hear him coming, he'd whistle loud and clear,
And looked forward to just waving out,I truly had no fear.
And then one day he walked along, my Mother wasnt there,
Just my Dad, a kindly man, who didnt have a care.
I asked if I could talk to him, and Dad said " Yes Okay,
" But please dont stand too close to him, that is all that I will say".
I hurried out to meet him, grabbing daisies on the way,
A little gift of flowers, in a tiny pretty spray.
I held my hand out to him, my whistleblower friend,
And a wrinkled aged grubby hand, to me he did extend.
My Father he was watching, I couldn't come to harm,'
There was no cause for worry, or any such alarm.
" My child I'd like to thank you", were his words to me,
" For the gift of Gods sweet flowers, you've brought to me today",
And then he smiled so sweetly, a smile I wont forget,
And he waved out to my Father, and doffed his wrinkled hat.
I was only four years old, but wont forget that day,
And even at that sweet young age, for Sam I'd always pray.
I dedicate this poem, to the man who at me smiled,
To Sam the Whistleblower, and my memories of a child.
Remembering.
On a cold October day, when theres little else to say,
With the darkness drawing close, and a feeling of repose,
I'm remembering.
Sat on grass so lush and green,fountain frames the pretty scene,
I can see in my minds eye, memories of that July,
I'm remembering.
With a smile which said it all,and assists in my recall,
And a gentle touch of hand, in some far off distant land,
I'm remembering.
As a butterfly flew past, and alone with you at last,
With a twinkle in your eye, and the softest sweetest sigh,
I'm remembering.
When the time comes I grow old, and theres nothing left to hold,
I will see it just as clear, keep that memory so dear..
I'm remembering.
Not a soul can take away,what I think of every day,
Not a second would I trade of every memory which we made..
I'm remembering.
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The Cottage On The Hillside. 
There's a cottage on a hillside,
I saw it long ago,
Where a stream will bubble quietly
And the banks of bluebells grow.
I do not know who lived there,
I guess I never will,
Yet seeing all its beauty,
Was an overwhelming thrill.
The qaintness of the garden,
The path up to the door,
The tiny painted picket fence,
Who could have asked for more?
Whenever I feel lonely,
Or tired , or e're in pain,
I just go back in my minds eye,
And visit it again.
So long since I last saw it,
A vision of the past,
The cottage on the hillside,
In my memory shall last.
Posy Of Rosebuds 
It captured each emotion of my happy wedding day,
Each tiny silken rosebud within my brides bouquet.
I carried it with dignity, upon my Father's arm,
Giving me away for marriage, with happiness and charm.
At every anniversary, I'd take it out to see
What pleasant recollections would all return to me.
I'd finger every rosebud I'd carried up the aisle,
Each petal was a memory, causing me to smile.
The years each held their story, of sons whom we gave life,
So very much happened since I became a wife.
Each year I touch the rosebuds, now faded with the years,
Recalling happy laughter, the sunshine and the tears.
My Father, he has gone now, and when I said goodbye,
I picked a little rosebud from my silken Brides bouquet.
I laid it in the coffin of my dearest, precious Dad,
Beside the silken lining which framed his sleeping head.
I told him that I loved him, a thing I'd seldom tell,
As I kissed his precious forehead to wish a fond farewell.
I hold the other rosebuds to remember times I've had...
Always remembering the missing rose, in heaven with my Dad.
Tapestry Of Life 
There was an old lady
Sat down in a chair
With lines on her face
And the odd silver hair.
Remembering times
Which had long passed her by
With a look of acceptance
Which shone in her eye.
She remembered the love
She had known through the years
She remembered the the laughter
and the pain, and the tears.
She recalled where she'd been
And the folks that she'd known
Like a beautiful tapestry
She had lovingly sewn.
And the memories warm
Which had once made her sigh
Were now faded and weak
But still shone in her eye...
The love which did comfort her
So long ago
Still there in abundance
It never would go.
She sat there recalling
Each touch she had known
With pleasure she pondered
At how time had flown.
She'd always remember
The years which have gone
Her tapestry faded
The colours all worn.
I look in the mirror
And what do I see?
The old lady who's sat there,
...None other but me.
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