Note Number 52…Waiting…

 

 

Here is a little poem I put together while I was walking the dog and waiting for her to finish looking into the distance at. . . nothing. It made me think about how much of my life I spend waiting for someone or something. When you’ve read this you can add your own ‘waiting for…’ in the comments.

 

I’m always waiting
waiting for the dog
waiting for the kettle to boil
for the washing machine to finish, for a cake to bake
how much time do I spend waiting?
waiting for the bathroom to be free
waiting for my money to get to the bank
I’ve always waited for that, first birthday gifts, then salary, now pension
I’ve never waited at the altar
even though I’ve been married three times
I’ve waited in the courtroom for a divorce

waiting at the cemetery to watch a burial
waiting to spread the ashes of a loved one
stood, waiting in line to buy a stamp
waited for people to come through the barrier
at the airport or the station
waited for a taxi to come along

Waiting, always waiting
I’m always waiting for my turn,
at the shops, at the doctor’s, at the poetry evening,
at a dance competition when I was younger
for my husband to come back from a bike ride now
I’ve waited to be served, with tea, coffee, cold drink
wine, water, snacks, food
waiting for a letter to come
waiting for an email to tell me good news
waiting for my next birthday
waiting at a junction

waiting for a baby to be born, waiting for a relative to die
we’re born waiting.
pausing, postponing, lingering, hanging around, marking time,
killing time when we should be living time
but
we’re waiting

waiting. . .

always waiting

 

 

Ninette Hartley © February 2018

waiting for computer

This is The Man…every day! 

 

 

Note Number 46…Office Christmas Party…

party-time

My second Christmas poem is based around a party that many of us will have attended at least once…  It’s probably not very PC but then office parties often aren’t…

Click the play button to listen or see below to read the text: –

I should just mention before I go that I forgot to bring in the Mistletoe. . . But, maybe that will be for the best, for today, a kiss underneath it could lead to arrest. . .

mistletoe

Office Christmas Party

When the boss popped the cork on a bottle of pop
Freda from lettings was already half-shot.
that chap from accounts, mild-mannered Jim
has got something disgusting stuck on his chin
it could be an olive – whatever – it’s gross.
that secretary Jane is getting quite close
she picks off the green thing with certain aplomb
flicks it over her shoulder where it lands, splat on Tom
now he’s had a few drinks he’ll be telling wild tales
I’m surprised he fancies that girl from sales
I rather thought he would lean the other way
and grab the chance to get close to Ray
Alison Bartlett adjusts a plentiful bust
puckers her lips and oozes with lust
the music is on, getting louder and faster
she’s looking around – who will she be after?
not too steady on the high heel shoes
whoops! She’s made a beeline for the loos
a relief for them all except poor Bert
who’s longs for Alison every day at work
each Christmas party he waits to dive
for if there’s one thing Bert can do, it’s jive
he pounces when the song is right
they’re on the floor, he’s holding her tight
but the music changes to the Christmas conga
and Alison, as ever, is his no longer
red faces a’plenty, throughout the room
taxis are called, the party’s over, what gloom
regrets in the morning will come with hindsight
as couples slope off to continue the night
the boss is delighted – the party succeeded
some, wine, food and nibbles, all that were needed
he relaxes, sits back, gives a huge weary sigh
to his employees’ antics he has turned a blind eye
as he lifts the hanky from out of his pocket
along with it comes Alison Bartlett’s gold locket
at least, he had meant it to be for her neck
instead he’d given her a leaving cheque
now home to his wife he could go without fear
he’d resisted temptation, at least ‘til next year

© Ninette Hartley December 2017

partytime

Anyone for Walkies? Brooklynites Love Pooches

Walkies?

Walkies?

It seems to me that in Brooklyn one in ten people own a dog. This means that walking down the street you meet every known variety of pooch. Little ones, medium size and great big things, hairy mutts, smooth coated, well behaved, bouncy, aggressive and passive. The varieties of breed, character, size and shape are endless.

Waiting on the Stoop

Waiting on the Stoop

We have a dog in this house and she needs her walkies like every other four-legged friend. So off we go in the mornings, poop bag (or three) in the pocket and walk 20 minutes to the park. You have to be in the park between seven and nine in the morning if you want to let your dog off the leash, notice the American leash… not lead, I’m getting very good at the local lingo. On the way to the park we meet other people walking or jogging with their little canine companions by their sides and then once we arrive, well, it’s doggy mayhem! There are hundreds of dogs, honestly! Well fifty at least at one time. There is one area in the park which is big, square and sandy, it looks like a doggy football pitch with no goals. Dog owners stand around here with coffee ‘to go’ in their fists chatting to other doggie owners about, dog behaviour, dog habits, dog excrement, dog foibles, etc., (May be I’m being harsh, perhaps they’re discussing politics and world news). Meanwhile, the dogs race around, sniff each other (as they do) charge at each other, bark, howl and go about their daily business and have the occasional scrap. I hurry quickly past this area, slalom around the joggers and head for a quieter corner if I can find one.

Big Dog

Big Dog

Little Dog

Little Dog

Tree Meeting

Tree Meeting

Our dog likes us to throw a ball for her, which she returns to our feet, when she feels like it and allows us to throw it again. Lots of the other owners throw balls for their dogs too and the most amazing thing is, that on the whole, the dogs stick to their own balls, if you get my meaning! There is no doggy thieving or attempt to score or take possession of a different ball, not so far as I’ve witnessed.

It is not unusual to hire a dog-walker. You can see them everywhere, walking the dogs (obviously). You just know they are dog-walkers and not owners because often they hold a big bunch of keys and sometimes the dogs are a little reluctant to walk. We saw a bull dog living up to his name, sitting stubbornly on the pavement and refusing to move at all. It’s a serious business dog walking, financially rewarding and there are plenty of punters here in Brooklyn who make use of the service. The duty walker comes in, takes your dog out for half an hour, and leaves them back home again. They write a little report for the owner with the time of the walk and any relevant information, for example: –

‘1.30pm. We had a lovely happy walk for half an hour. Five pees and a poop. She picked up a piece of bread on the road and ate it, (naughty thing!) but otherwise she walked well on the leash and was very well behaved. One treat given.’

Gotta go, it’s time to take the dog around a block or two. We have to stop at every tree and every earthy, interesting patch, so it takes a while.

Whoops, don’t forget the poop bag!

Okay, this is MY tree guys.

Okay, this is MY tree guys.

An Unusually Quiet Corner of Prospect Park

An Unusually Quiet Corner of Prospect Park