Poems By Mary

The Ladder of Life’s Journey

The elderly of today ‘ young in mind 

A Zimmer frame , a trolley on wheels 

The walking stick , the electric propelled 

Wearing the badge of seniority  ‘

With a dignified sense of self ‘ age is just a number ? 

Yet to see one on an E- scooter ‘ why bother 

Bus pass at the ready , the world is our oyster 

Free travel on the bus, until cross the border 

Cheap and cheerful , a third or more of our fare 

The common sense , the sensible prevails 

One has only one roll of the dice ‘ 

From the day we draw our first breath

To the day of reckoning ‘ written in the stars 

Guess what happened to me ?

On reflection , taking one step at a time ,

as one reaches seniority , it is one decade at a time , 

There are three definitive decades x three 

The Thirties , the Sixties, the Nineties ‘ the ambition of us all , 

Making a Century ?  Many do ? with the March of the Scientific Researcher , Genetic  & Social Engineering?

The World we live in , can be travelled ‘ globe trotting ‘ 

The future of travel , in Outer Space ? the septuagenarian to the octogenarian to the centurion ‘  

The bus pass ‘ old hat , the stargazer permit ? 

will it be free ? 

All aboard the Stargazer Express , Hope l am around, 

A return journey ? may find amongst the twinkling stars ?  A Planet with all mod cons 

A weekend retreat , close by , not one light years away 

Not in my lifetime l won’t , fun to imagine 

winner takes all ‘ 

The fun is in the doing ‘ not in the having ‘ if not to be ‘ 

A book for Christmas ‘ shelves awaiting 

The fun is in the doing ‘ not in the having ‘ if not to be ! Exhilaration if achieves success 

Decades x three ‘ learning curves ,

Whatever our ambitions ?  The key is not spend them wishing for this and for that ,

Seize the day and enjoy ‘ 

With yesterday of regret ‘ if left it until tomorrow ‘ as today is the yesterday of our tomorrow ? if we leave off doing today ‘ for tomorrow 

The days roll into weeks , months and years !

The roll of the dice ‘ bypassed 

Seize the day , roll the dice ‘ take a cue ‘ 

That is the elixir of Life 

The gamble taken ‘ without going for High Stakes ‘ 

One step at a time on the Ladder of Life 

If one slips  ‘ a downward step behind , 

As mother once said ‘ don’t ask The Almighty for anything ‘ as you won’t get it . 

only ask him for strength to get through this day ‘

your wish will be granted ‘ 

On reflection our wish is granted ‘ as out of diversity comes much ‘

Many a slip can be a blessing in disguise 

On reflection, a Truism

Life has a plan for us ? We don’t have a plan for Life 

Keep trucking along ‘ is wisdom ‘ having regrets is not 

Learning from our mistakes ‘ is part of the deal 

After all there is no such thing as Perfectionism 

Only success relative ‘ to how we climb ‘ The 

Ladder of Life 

Mary G Douglas 

The girl with the green umbrella

The one in the window of an antique shop 

It was a strange pale green ‘ with a bamboo 

handle ‘

Patterned with pale  images of unpeeled bananas ‘ 

A sturdy construction ‘ yet ‘ delicate in formation ‘

It was arced ‘ giving it a sense of security ‘ 

winds from all directions ‘ cross - winds 

buffeting ‘ had no effect ‘ 

The girl with the green umbrella ‘ destined in life to journey’ 

There was something magical about this umbrella ? 

It’s origin unknown ‘ had it travelled from overseas ?

Was it bought by a traveller ‘ in a bazaar ?

From whence it came ‘ a mystery to ponder 

In an attic ‘ lying dormant for decades ‘ it’s owner may have been working on a project ‘ 

or an intrepid wanderer ‘ 

Under the hot suns ‘ espying this umbrella ‘

lying on a blanket ‘ waiting for a buyer ‘ 

It had the image of an umbrella ‘ with a history’

not just any umbrella ‘ made to perfection’ with loving hands’ a keen eye ‘ and ‘ hope 

Hope it will be sold ‘ by a passer by ‘ under the hot suns ‘ in a far off country 

It was in perfect condition’ taking pride of place ‘ centre attraction 

In the dingy window of an antique shop ‘

Seen after closing time ‘ l pressed my nose against the dirty window ‘ 

This umbrella was a must ‘ did not care about the cost ‘

Imagination running riot ‘ l set the alarm for 7am : 

Next morning up and about ‘ around 8:30 outside the shop ‘ 

With my nose pressed against the dingy window ‘

This umbrella was going to be mine ‘ first in the queue ‘ this thought secure ‘

at nine the tinkle of a bell ‘ my heart was beating ‘ 

in a tremble ‘ enquired if the green umbrella was still for sale ? 

Indeed it was ‘ and to the price ? 

It cost twenty pounds ‘ and if had said double or treble ‘ l did not care ? 

The umbrella had lain in an attic ‘ for many years ‘

The owner had travelled overseas’ visiting countries ‘ had the wherewithal to do ‘

The antique shop full of the treasures collected 

the antique dealer ‘ surprised the green umbrella ‘ was up for sale ‘ 

A an unusual design and beautifully structured 

An umbrella ‘ once owned ‘ would never wish to be partied from ‘ 

The green umbrella ‘ to date ‘ had travelled hundreds of miles ‘ from east to west ‘ then off on another journey ‘

Over the border from north to south ‘ 

the owner of the umbrella ‘ in the year 2016 ‘ with no plans to leave Scotland ‘ but fate decides ‘ 

A train journey ‘ from Blairgowrie to Dartington College  ‘ 

A degree in Theatre Studies & Performance Arts ‘ 

Two years and more ‘ living and studying ‘ Dartington College ‘ surrounded by beautiful gardens ‘ a river that meandered through ‘ cutting the grounds in half ‘ with trees of magnificence ‘ bushes green ‘ and those a myriad of colour ‘ 

One could spend hours ‘ idling the time ‘

wandering around ‘ with hillocks to climb’ turning a corner ‘ a joy to behold 

tended daily by a team of gardeners ‘ 

with a tree ‘ that was seen to be ‘past it’s best 

past it’s best ‘

decision made for the chop ‘ the tree had other ideas on that ‘ 

Highly likely still holding its own ‘ waxing and  waning as does the moon ‘ 

The green umbrella ‘ with its exotic look ‘

When on a rainy day ‘ held high ‘ by its bamboo handle ‘

Keeping its owner ‘ warm and dry’ it’s exotic appearance ‘ in contrast of immaculate grounds ‘ sculpted to perfection ‘ 

An English setting ‘ 

The girl with a green umbrella ‘ arced ‘ giving security and comfort from the inclement weather 

The girl with the green umbrella ‘ patterned with pale yellow bananas ‘ held it close  by its bamboo handle ‘ with a look of the East ‘ 

the coveted college degree achieved.

The journey not over ‘ Ma in Dramatherapy ‘ and throughout this academic journey ‘

A girl with a green umbrella ‘ patterned with unpeeled bananas ‘ with a bamboo handle ‘ 

An umbrella with a history of travel ‘ from the Far East ‘ is still on its travels ‘ held aloft when it rains ‘ 

From North to the South of the Border ‘ a girl with a green umbrella ‘ patterned with pale unpeeled bananas ‘ 

Travelling a road ‘ with many twists and turns ‘ yet to be encountered ‘ ambitions yet to be fulfilled ‘

 ‘ if walking in the sunshine or on ‘ occasional rainy days ‘ has the warmth and comfort ‘ on her journey through life ‘

The girl with the green umbrella with a bamboo handle 

Patterned with unpeeled bananas 

Protected ‘ from the wind and rain ‘ and stormy weather ‘ on her journey through life ‘ 

Mary G. Douglas 

A walk in the park

A walk in the park , a feather wafting in the wind 

Not a whisper of sound does it make , as it floats before my eyes 

It’s landing less spectacular , as it now lies at my feet 

With awe , l pick it up , now in my minds eye 

Now have the means to write a novel 

all it now requires is ink 

What power now lies within my grasp , to put pen to paper 

A quill of an idea passes through my head 

With its pinhead , crafted by nature , what then 

Rice paper?  another one of nature’s offerings 

the pith of an Asiatic tree 

the cuttlefish ? the berry growing on the branches of trees 

all it now needs is a novel idea ‘ where does this spring from ? 

as thoughts float through my head as l make my way home 

what is home? a mud hut made out of the  crust of the earth 

baked and dried from the heat of the sun, high in the sky 

I sit cross legged , on a mat made out of grass 

woven by hand , crisscrossed to give strength 

All now that is required? is to put my thoughts and ideas 

Down through the decades , fashioned into centuries 

the writings of our ancestors , found by chance 

the natural substances do not rot with time ‘

found in crevices 

protected by the elements , giving succour to the mind 

the rock in caves , covered with drawings made 

telling a story from the past 

to the pioneer , the traveller , the researcher 

sitting in his lab 

the mysteries of the centuries , unfolding their secrets 

yet the modern world , has yet to grasp 

how to live peacefully side by side 

the more we know, the less we understand?

Survival of all that has been gifted to us 

can be destroyed 

What lessons have we gleaned from our daily lives 

all that we have has been drawn from the resources 

found in caves , deep within the crust of the earth 

the coal mined ,  keeping the home fires burning 

The tree growing over centuries chopped down 

with an axe made out of the products provided by nature over the centuries 

clever minds, working out a pattern of ideas 

the sheep roaming the hills , shorn of their wool 

made into garments , from the wool spun into yarn , the wood from the trees , fashioned into looms 

the human who evolved over centuries , whose existence rested on the fruits of nature , from the beaches , the sands of time , tools fashioned from the minerals found underground 

in this modern world , we now have the power to build rockets that can be sent off on a journey through space ?

yet one thought escapes us , how to accept one another 

wars are fought , wars are lost , wars are won?

yet as l carry home the feather , giving me an idea 

using the quill to dip into the ink from the dark liquid of the cuttlefish, the juice from the berry 

and sitting on my favourite chair , made from wood , that started in life , growing in a forest with a seat crafted from grasses , strong and true, growing in the soil 

crisscrossed to give strength , bound by rope made from jute , the fruits of my labour , using the natural gifts nature has provided

what can l write about ?  my story , the story of my life ? 

the innocence of childhood , what will l be when l grow up , on reflection as l sit there with quill and ink ? the decades past of failures and triumphs, the ghosts from the past, our desire to carve out a career that gives us the means to shape our lives and that our offspring 

upwards and onwards we move through the years , building our skills and knowledge to better our lives and provide for ourself and our loved ones 

A future of prosperity to lighten our load 

as we move through the decades , from childhood to adulthood 

The feather at my feet , a gift borne by the winds , the inky dark liquid of the cuttlefish , or from the juice of the berries growing on trees , trees that will provide much ‘ for the comfort of us humans ? yet now with the advancement of Time ,  researchers in labs can lengthen our lives, with technology and experimental fusions of thoughts and ideas, progress marches through the decades , becoming a century ‘ adding to the day the human species learning, leaving a legacy of the struggle on how to survive , 

yet now look for domination of our own needs for survival , by infringement on the rights of others, whose rights are equal , yet are not seen as such , by those who have power to inflict upon society , at home and abroad, their will to bend others , to accept it their way or the highway.

the feather taken home ‘ now resting on a nail on the wall of the kitchen 

symbolic , giving me a sense of the simplicities of what nature over the centuries has given us

all

the means to protect ourselves from the harsh winds that can chill  , the hot sun that gives warmth and light , the food on our table ‘ the clever minds of those who have nurtured us , with pills and potions to lighten our load 

the farmer whose plants provide food for the table , fish from the seas , trawled and prepared , adding another health food for our survival.

the battle for our survival and future generations , mental and physical health and well-being rests on us all , the fruits of our labours mentally and physically, sharing , by giving and receiving , our knowledge and power ,  to enhance our lives 

Nature can be cruel as well as being kind ,

let us all now be mindful , of what little and much  we can do , to minimise the damage owing to ‘ Climate Change ‘

 brought on our own heads owing to being needy for our survival against the elements ‘ gas and electricity, oil and the fruits of the earth ? 

We are our own worst enemy , yet working together at home snd abroad 

rests often with one who wields power over a nation of millions and billions 

the feather , the ink , can document history past and present , for future generations to learn and study 

In the hearts and minds of us all , rests the future of how we are judged , by future generations , studying the documentation , the records of our strengths and failures ,

yet one lesson taught is our failure to change 

Utopia is the dream , impossible to achieve ,

The feather with quill ‘ the dark liquid of the cuttlefish, the juice of the berry , the pith of the rice ‘ paper to document our strengths and failures . 

The barrier to peace within us all , caring for each other , within our hearts and minds , denied because at the crux of the matter ‘

is man’s inhumanity to man. 

Mary G Douglas 

The journey ?

Are we there yet?  said the child
On the train to wherever ‘ not known where ?
Sitting on a bench in railway station , just off Princes Street
Passing the time , plenty of it?
The hurry and scurry of those leaving for destinations ‘ north south east and west ,
a passer by ‘ sat on my left ‘ his train not yet due
A local off to London to meet his daughter and family
He rose to his feet , time drawing near
Platform 7 train to Kings Cross
Enjoy your journey , said l
He turned midway with a final comment
I have yet to board the train , not yet started my journey?
My immediate reply to his pointless observation
Your are on a journey ? It began decades ago
He stopped in his tracks , aged around seventy he gave me a puzzled look, and replied
That is not the same thing ,as my journey now will start when sitting down on the train
He then took off at a rate of noughts
Showed his ticket at the gate
Fifteen minutes passed , a glance to my left
there he stood , on Platform 7
As said , his journey had not yet begun
He was in a queue of hopefuls , attempting to board
The world at large , going from A to B , boarding planes , trains , cruise ships , ferries
All focused on their planned route
minds respectively focused on their destination
Yet no thought of a fact of life , each day when its Dawn , where are we going ? as we wake from slumber
No thought given , the sun has risen , promising warmth, to ask oneself , what shall l do today ?
Embrace the day, laze around ?  Not l
My journey as with us all , starting  when we attempted to crawl , is a journey with many pit stops
the race begun , is not yet over , when won
the beginning of another  ? A miler or a half miler ? or in for the long haul
Decades later , looking back is not to be with regret , bargaining , with thoughts of , if only ?
Dawn now breaking , awakening with the thought of what shall l do today ?
Retirement is a journey , pit stops breaking the circuit
Seize the day , as tomorrow,  it is then yesterday
Dawn now breaking , awakening with the thought
A day to enjoy , a choice made , b’fast over
Sun high in the sky , the day is yours , choose well
There are millions in this world of ours , the sun high in the sky ‘ whose day is not for them to waste
Seize the day , if a luxury to ponder on
Choose well , make it a day to reflect upon
when retiring for bed
A day of building another brick , cemented well
in our hearts and minds ‘ the journey is now beginning , who knows what it will be
Making it a day to reflect upon , when retiring for bed
Sitting on a bench in the railway station
the comings and goings , luggage one suitcase
For others too much baggage ,
Life is similar , at times only carrying a small suitcase
times when carrying too much baggage ?
Now retired , sitting on a bench , where to ? each with their own destination
I know where l am going , off to a local cafe
Coffee ma’am ? indeed
Life is a journey,  a cafe serving coffee
A pit stop much enjoyed , on my journey through life .
Mary G Douglas

Conscience ? Do we all have one ?

What do you care about, said the fly 

I care about living in peace , said the ant

Peace at any price ? whatever the cost ?

The ant looked up at the fly ‘ indeed only way to travel 

I have to live with myself, said the ant 

The burden we carry , make it light say I

whatever the cost to another ? said fly 

Life is how we shape it , said the ant 

Fly settled on a plank of wood , his

tiny frame disappearing , the wood hard and unyielding 

Ant stopped in his tracks , his burden on his back 

Fly said, why don’t you remove your load, give yourself respite from forever carrying such a load 

Removing the load l am carrying on my back 

gives no respite of what l carry within, the heart and the soul ? troubled for eternity, said the ant 

I flit here ,  I flit there ,  l take wing and fly to wherever the wind takes me , 

Why take on my back , what l cannot change

 said the fly 

Ant replied, when l carry my load on my

back , my thoughts not like wings , they cannot fly 

Fly replied , there is only one road to take , the one that lessens the load 

Let go free , that is, what is holding you to account 
How can l ever be free , one cannot lie to oneself , replied ant 

Conscience , my friend , said the fly , lighten your load 

How can one remove a conscious thought ? said Ant 

Lay it at the door of another , whose conscience is clear ? said the Fly 

Is that fair game ? to shed what is yours ? onto the shoulders of another ? Said Ant 

Why not , said Fly .  The world is not fair , and a heavier load to bear, who cares 

Ant replied , your lack of conscience is deeply troubling , adding to my consternation 

The balance of Power , is not ours to determine said the fly 

Fly taking wing , says to Ant as he passes by 

The path taken is strewn with good and bad conscience of thought 

Ant on his journey through life , his heart filled with the knowledge , the choice is not ours 

A chance remark ‘ with deliberation , thinks Ant 

Fly is on his chosen path , thought ! why take it on board 

Freedom is letting go , conscience can be too much of a burden 

Honesty within oneself , a burden not easy to shed ? thinks Fly 

Ant cannot undo what is now gone down another route ? 

Fly takes off , the transition complete , or so Fly believes , he has found the way ,

The road ahead , Ant now self aware of how easy another can lighten their load 

By shedding a weight to heavy , shifting the load’s position , now on another one’s back ?

The world keeps spinning , l have a bad taste in my mouth ‘ thinks Ant 

Fly will flit to and fro , his conscience not troubled . 

Ant thought , l will continue to carry this burden, truth can be a burden for life ‘ isn’t it the lot of the Ant, thought Ant ? to carry on marching , with one’s burden on one’s back , 

with no respite in sight 

Fly has little imagination , a few chosen words in the ear of Ant , after all thought Fly, that is what nature decreed , 

Ant accepting the role he is designed for ,

To carry on marching through life , with the understanding of knowing , 

He was not designed for shedding his load 

The Fly taking off , after all designed in thought and deed , without conscience , carries no load on its back . 

Mary G Douglas 

The thoughts within ?

A Voice can be one of persuasion 

Gently prodding the senses 

Slippery and easily swallowed, likened to honey on the palate 

A Voice can be harsh with a sting of derision 

Once stung , there is no wish to return for more of it

A Voice can be uplifting , encouraging an audience to remain in their seats 

A singer with the art ‘ of filling the heart with joy 

A Voice of command at the tiller 

All hands on deck , let the race begin 

The prize is there for all to win , success or failure , no in between 

A Voice can be inspiring , accepting all is not lost , when loss is staring one in the face 

Climbing mountains, wading through a fast flowing river , the first time on skis, making a move without being sure if on firm ground 

The descent unexpected , with all three 

A Voice of comfort , when one‘s attempts   unceremoniously a feat of endurance 

A Voice can be reassuring , balm to the soul 

when one’s dignity is compromised 

Tripping over one’s feet , landing in a heap 

No bones broken , a crimson colour to the cheeks , and laughter within and thinking , wish l had put my best foot forward sure and true 

with the other following into line 

A Voice within , the voice of reason , is our best Protector 

Life ‘s journey is not all smooth as paint going on a wall 

Pot holes on roads , a burst tyre changing the pace 

The appointment made , too late on arrival 

A Voice in one’s head , berating the loss of opportunity, when finding the position now filled , if only ?

The loss of one’s plans , metaphorically going up in smoke , 

can lead one down a different path 

Leading to fruition , a path of enlightenment 

A Voice reasoning , when reflecting decades later 

Life can be a Lottery, the numbers chosen by choice ‘ a weekly pattern

The Voice of triumph , when making an error 

Jackpot secured , owing to putting a six instead of the usual 7 

The deck of cards ‘ expertly shuffled, no reward is the outcome 

The one who mixes the deck of cards with the nonchalant approach of the amateur 

The Voice of despair of the professional,

when the “ winner takes all “ is an amateur 

The Voice of those , when in their senior years 

on reflection , reckoning that despite the pitfalls met by us all 

The basic fundamentals if met , having a roof over our head , clothes on our back and food on the table 

The Voice in our head , all three needs met 

The rest is academic 

Shrouds have no pockets ,  as said , the rest is academic . 

Mary G Douglas