POETRY BY SIMON

BEING 7

Remember when the days were always long and sunny
and 'Scooby Doo' was often funny
and our noses were runny
we always seemed to be in a hurry
and about money, we never had a need to worry.

The highlight of my day
was when the home-time bell rang
and being free to play.
I'd usually run round my friend's house for tea
which was always a special treat for me
'cause there was never any brocolli.

And we never had to think
about doing what was right
being quiet and polite.
'Behaviour' didn't seem to be the operative word
being seen and not heard.

We were allowed to be loud
and to scream and shout.
Who know's what we'd talk about?
It didn't really matter
you know how children like to natter

it was probably
things like,
I dunno
working out how old we were going to be
at the turn of the century
'26'.
'26'?
crumbs!
We'd better re-do our sums
using all of our fingers
and both of our thumbs.

That all seemed so ominously
and impossibly far away
too far away
there was still an unimaginable amount of time
and a lot of games to play.

No time for over thinking
about the shapes
that our futures might take.
Far too long to wait
and speculate
about the roads down which
we were to be driven

our future wives and lives
children, livelihoods
mortgages
all of those things were just a 'given'.

'Cause this was all a long time past
before the days started whizzing by
in the blinking of an eye
and the sky, seems sometimes
overcast.

'Don't You Know Who I Am...?'

I am not a writer
but I have a writer's hands
I am not religious
but I'm sure HE understands.
I am not a painter
but I can feel a painter's pain
I don't think I'm mad
but is anybody really sane?

I am not a fireman
but I can put out a fire
I'm not a politician
but I can still conspire
I'm not an astrologer
but I can still try and decipher
what's happening in the sky
I'm not a great thinker
but I can ask a question
'Why?'

You see, the thing I am
is something
that no-one else can ever be,
I am me
I
am
me.

By Simon


DAFFODIL

A daffodil doesn't know it grows
deep beneath the Winter snows.
And when it's Spring
It nods its head
and it doesn't think it should be dead.

And when the Sun is at its height
it's chased back home by the night
it hides
from all the passers-by
waiting
for it again to rise.

Written By Simon