I used to tie a string around my finger

Which functioned as an ever-faithful clue,

So, when I woke and saw it in the morning,

I knew exactly what I had to do.

Older now, when I wake in the morning

And see a string, I’m driven to despair;

Curious why that string is on my finger,

Furious at who might have tied it there.

Don Weill



While leafing through my copy of Roget’s Thesaurus,

I found several expressions that, in fact do nothing for us.

They stand out wherever words like “old” and “aging” are defined.

I would have them all deleted, if the editors don’t mind.

For example, these three phrases will all articulate that I’m

“Old as Methuselah”, “old as the hills” and also “past my prime”,

And, furthermore, here’s “ripe old age” and there’s “long in the tooth”,

I’m sick and tired of the lot and that’s the living truth.

Though editors in general are good people, I suspect,

They don’t know the definition or “politically correct”,

If they did, they’d realise those old expressions should be lifted

For that one phrase that says it all… “Geriatrically–Gifted”.

When we hurt each other

We should write it down in the sand,

So the winds of forgiveness can make it go away for good.

When we help each other

We should chisel it in stone,

Lest we ever forget the love of a friend.

Christian H. Godefroy.



The spring is fresh and fearless

And every leaf is new

The world is brimmed with moonlight

The lilac brimmed with dew

Here in the moving shadows

I catch my breath and sing

My heart is fresh and fearless

And overbrimmed with spring

Sara Teasdale (1920)


In the spring I have counted

one hundred and thirty six

different types of weather

inside of four and twenty


Mark Twain


Another year, another start,

A time of hope for every heart,

A time to leave the past behind

And share a newfound peace of mind.

Then going forward, day by day,

Find love and joy along life’s way.

Trish Hesselden.



If you think you’re a winner, you’ll win

If you dare to step out, you’ll succeed

Believe in your heart, have a purpose to start,

Aim to help others in need.




Life is a journey, not a home;

A road, not a city of habitation;

And the enjoyments and blessings we

Have are but little inns on the roadside of life,

Where we may be refreshed for a moment,

That we may with new strength press

on to whatever may be ahead of us,

We People of God – until we reach the

end of the road.

Horatius Bonar (1808 – 1889)



We can’t act friendly toward someone

for very long without feeling friendly.

Many a friendship, long, loyal and

self-sacrificing, resting at first on no

thicker foundation than a kind word.

Frederick W. Faber.



Love, they say, is patient,

Love, they say, is kind,

It sees beyond another’s faults

For love, they say, is blind.

Love will not diminish,

Or rush or fade with years,

But it will gain its strength

From time, from laughter, joy and tears.

Love is God’s own gift to us.

A present from above,

He gives us peace, He gives us joy,

But first He gives us love.



July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes –

There’s a dance in Billy Brennan’s barn tonight

And there’s the half talk code of mysteries

And the wink and elbow language of delight

Half past eight and there is not a spot

Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown

That might turn out a man or a woman, not

A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite

Of all the solemn talk of contemplation

Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight

Of being  king and government and nation,

A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king

Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

Patrick Kavanagh, Inniskeen Road – July Evening



Across the open common land

Shines glowing purple floral blooms

The humble bee can hardly stand,

As flowers, scent is rising fumes

And lies there in the summer shade

A resting deer quite joyfully

For in this beauteous sunlit glade

All’s observed by sent’nel tree

This tall oak stands by sparkling stream,

Whose water splashes grass and rock,

Reflecting in this beauteous sunlit glade

The woodland plant and dandy clock

While goes beneath the cloudless sky,

Amidst a warm and dreamy breeze

A squirrel idling, passing by,

Pass numerous, careless, floating seeds.

Stephen Patrick, Sleepy July in Skipworth.