Every Home

(Picture Credit - Joyous Health)

Every home has a Mother

Waiting with open arms at the door.

And a Dad in his armchair,

As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge

Where we can huddle by the fire.

TV in the corner

And - if you have them –

Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch

And those daily aromas of baking.

Memories of scooping out the bowl

And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge

Where you can bring all your troubles

And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,

Resplendent with colourful flowers.

An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:

There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.

Ronaldo (a Clerihew)

Association Footballer Ronaldo,

The new Wizard Waldo.

Oh what a fandango,

You bet he can tango.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\11\2017.

Every Club

(Picture Credit - Working Men's Club - Daily Mirror)

“Who let you in?” jokes Henry the Doorman,

Waving the signing-in book

Like a wanton dervish,

With a glint in his eye.

But in you go,

Into a dimly lit room,

Filled with smoke in yesteryears.

Men in huddles

Hatching plots

Or just playing cards

Or Dominoes.

In the corner those darts are flying,

While blokes stand chatting

At the bar.

Next door you find The Snooker Room,

Where all is silent

As “World League Championships” are underway.

Snooker and billiards to be precise.

Men so serious

Some sitting sternly

Worrying about their match.

The odd breakout of conversation

Over some dispute or debate.

Back at the bar

All is well.

No need to be PC here.

You can say whatever you want.

We drink and drink,

Until the bar closes

At whatever time.

The chat gets louder

As the booze loosens our tongues.

Then home we roll together.

Every Club.

A place I love.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\11\2017.