Poems By Mary

The path I trod over decades
Bears no comparison, yet shares a thread—
Dedication to working with and for people,
A theatrical lens on life’s unfolding drama.
A chance meeting, once in a lifetime,
The magic number, 126, sparks thoughts
Of what the future holds for you and me,
On roads with twists, turns, and cul-de-sacs.

​

Frustration unravels life’s tangled wool,
How many steps backward to move forward?
We are never the finished article,
New roads veer into the unknown,
Opportunities pluck us from comfort’s ease.
How often do we ponder the path ahead?
Forward planning, a mythical beast,
Slips beyond our grasp, defying control.

​

Ideas grow from belief in our own charge,
Innovation reshapes who we are.
Yet outside forces disrupt the baseline,
Chance events, rules set by others,
Guide a well-trodden path of discovery.
You and I, destined to shift direction,
Bound by a thread of working for others,
Changing what’s broken, leaving what’s whole.

​

Whims of fancy, unrooted in reality,
Can devastate the future, unravelling
The surefooted knowledge of generations,
Like lace torn, never to be mended.
Nature tricks us into thinking all is well,
Set for life, until a tripwire in the undergrowth—
A fall at the first fence, yet we rise again.

​

The spider weaves, the bird dives for survival,
Stepping off the path into a wilderness
Of thoughts, ideas, and inner voices:
“I can do this,” the soul declares.
Creatures of habit, we climb hills,
Stand firm, the horizon beckoning,
Urging exploration beyond comfort’s edge.

​

But falling, an ankle twists, halting steps,
“I need you, and you need me,” the truth.
No one reaches the finished article alone,
Like a stream diverted into the unknown.
The world extends past borders of self,
Nurturing or challenging our growth,
If we rise, step by step, to leaps and bounds.

​

Regrets clutter paths, but cannot be changed,
Look in the mirror—what do we see?
No finished article, only seeds of discontent,
Fuelling growth, not hatred, for you and me.
Be the keeper of your own soul,
The eyes, mirrors of truth, reveal the way,
Tripwires lurk, yet gut instinct guides.

​

No road is free of hidden ice or potholes,
Seize the chance or sink into oblivion.
“I need you, and you need me,” the key,
Independence, a mythical beast, trips us,
A step backward, not forward, in solitude.
United we stand, divided we fall,
Centuries prove interdependence is all.

​

From birth to life’s close, we rely on each other,
Power absolute breeds a lone dictator’s voice,
No place in families or societies whole.
Democracy, imperfect, is the midline path,
Balancing freedom with connection’s call.
Socially, politically, we tread with care,
Lest unseen potholes change our course.

​

Judged by those we save or harm,
“I need you, and you need me” holds true.
Totalitarianism lurks, left or right,
But working together carves the way.
The ladder climbed, rung by rung,
Rests on shaky ground without another’s hand,
United, we shape a path for tomorrow.

—Mary G. Douglas

​A bus full of people
From all walks of life,
From bus stop to bus stop
Clambering aboard—
Each hoping for a seat by the aisle.

​

The window seat loses its appeal
When one finds oneself squashed.
No disrespect intended—
But then comes a passenger
Whose circumference requires
More, not less.

​

The seat once sat on with a view
Loses its charm when shared uninvited.
A seat, plus space,
Is now a diminishing luxury.
A wave of panic descends.

​

Good manners should prevail,
No matter what.
Yet survival mode sets in:
Only my head
Has room for manoeuvre.

​

“Excuse me, please…”

​

The inevitable dilemma unfolds.
I long to sit farther back,
Where an aisle seat waits—
Now blocked,
As descent is expected.

​

Why must the simplest steps in life
Create such barriers?
Now I’m obliged
To weigh the feelings of another
Against my own.

​

I find myself standing
On the pavement once again,
Waiting for another ride.

​

Next bus due:
Twenty minutes.

​

Where does one draw the line—
Between my needs…
And another’s?

​

by Mary G. Douglas

Never retire from thinking of having never retired—
That is the secret of never growing old.
Never shirk waking with a plan
For how to spend the day ahead.

​

Rain, hail, snow, or whistling wind—
No barrier to creativity
In seizing the day with joyful intent.
Today will be our yesterday when dawn breaks.

​

The unexpected is waiting out there:
A tourist from Australia,
Their story wrapped in an unfamiliar accent,
Sharing a view of Edinburgh through different eyes.

​

The filth and grime of Princes Street go unseen,
While the castle nestles high on the hill.
The monument pierces the atmosphere,
Yet is missed by bowed heads.

​

Eyes fixed on glowing screens—
A mobile phone world
Oblivious to left, right,
Or the majesty rising above.

​

And what of them,
Years from now, in senior moments?
Will they recall decades past,
Walks through parks,
Children laughing on Portobello’s esplanade?

​

Waves crashing.
Sun, sea, and sand—
Sandcastles built with spades and buckets,
A theatre of innocence at play.

​

The pleasure of sitting on a bus or train
As nature merges into one grand display:
A panoramic view etched into memory.
No photograph can compare.

​

The eye captures what is fleeting
Yet remains forever fixed—
A kaleidoscope of colourful imagery,
To be revisited
In one’s senior years.

That— Is the secret of never growing old.

by Mary G. Douglas

In childhood years, I was given a half crown.
I cried—
It made no noise.
My Aberdeen Papa
Happily exchanged it for two pennies.

Two or three more years passed—
Growth came slowly.
I was again given the half crown,
And this time,
I pocketed it.​

Papa looked on in quiet despair.
I returned his gaze
With a look of innocence
And thanked him with a smile.

The smile vanished—
No longer did Papa offer such a prize.
Two pennies it was thereafter.

If only I’d had the wisdom
Gleaned from passing decades—
Saved and banked,
I might’ve joined the ranks
Of insightful millionaires.

This is the lesson
In how the world of money works:
Some spend,
Some lend,
Some invest—
And reinvest.

The spin of the wheel
Can make or break.

Now, we look ahead
To a cashless society.
What joy remains
For a child,
Hearing coins jingle in their pocket?

Banks vanish
From the High Street.
Contactless transactions
Become the norm.

Cold currency
Is the future.

The warm shake of a hand
Upon introduction—
“How do you do,”
Said with no expectation.
Conversation flows with ease.

“No speak English,” with a smile.
“No speak Spanish,”
Or another language—
Also with a smile.

​

Phone held in hand,
Peripherally speaking,
No interaction.
Eyes front,
Head bent in concentration.
Unseen passersby
Glide silently through
The shrinking streets of life.

Princes Street—
Milling crowds of tourists.
A camera fixed to a cap,
Eyes focused on sights ahead,
Striding forth
For posterity.

When the holiday ends,
They sit with family and friends
Watching videos
Of Princes Street,
The gardens,
The crowds.

​

No need to study language overheard—
Voices babble into a joyous melee.
Happy tourists,
Going home with memories.

A walking tour
By video—
Revenue for the country visited.

The chain of events
In the streets of life.
Toil now remote—
From factory to farm.

A computer counts
All that is required.
Rollers glide
Food for consumption—
Packaged and delivered
In labelled containers.

Some live from the settee.
Jaws chomping
Pizza and burger
In satisfied silence.
A voice on the telly,
Food in the belly.

What then,
In centuries ahead?
What will the human body
Still be capable of?

Communication by remote.
Working from home.
Staring at a screen.

Who will still wear
Boots on the ground?

Shop windows—no longer needed.
Scrolling becomes a beeline.
One finger exercises
Speed through fashion.

Takeaways boxed—
Delivered.

Hospital wards
House patients
In need of knee replacement.

“If you don’t use it,
You lose it.”

Eyes fixed,
Takeaway boxed.
Finger food dispatched
From laps opened.

Will the day arrive
When we’re transported
From chair
To ambulance—
In a fixed position,
Shaped like the very seat?

A metaphor
For what lies ahead.

If we don’t use
Our vision—
Left and right—
Or limbs
For striding into the world?

What will
The human body and mind
Evolve into?

The couch potato
Takes instructions
On which pill to take.
A pun,
But also a truth.

Life and limb
Might shape the population’s future.

At our fingertips:
All that’s required
To live,
Work,
Be productive.

Money deposited
By remote control.

Takeaways
At the door.

A cashless society
Paid for
From work done
Facing a screen.

Sitting for hours—
Eyes front.
Not left.
Not right.

One finger
On the keys.
Feet prone.
Arms still.

Tourists stride
The streets of life
With cameras fixed to caps.
Arms dangling
At their sides.

What then
For the child
From crawling
To standing?

Its world—
Seen remotely
On an iPhone screen.

If the child opens their mouth
To gain attention
From the parent
Sitting mute on the bus,
It’s met
With a remote reply.

What use
The child,
Dressed in their best,
Strapped in for safety?

A loving parent
Corresponds
With milk or juice—
And an iPhone,
Where cartoons squeak
In artificial talk.

This—
Is the modern world
Of city life.
But the Enlightenment
Of the 18th Century?
It is not.

​

by Mary G. Douglas

One for the Road
 

“The usual, Rob?”
“Make it a double, Jim.”

Two hours later—
“Time.”
“Time folks… last order.”
“One for the road?”
“Make it a double.”

“The usual, Rob?”
“Make it a double, Jim. And…”
“…a bottle of whisky. Usual brand.”

“Last orders folks. Bar is closed.”

The road is long.
The river beckons.
From the shoreline—
A sobering thought.

A bottle of whisky,
Held fast in Rob’s grip.
His arm raised—bottle aloft—
Rage overtakes,
Conscience stricken.

It soars upwards and onwards,
In a sharp arc—
Illuminated for seconds
By the full moon,
Low in the sky.

Rob stood in awe
As it made its descent.

A voice in the night:
“What are you doing?”

Rob turned
Into the darkness.

The road is long.

The door ajar—
There Mary stood.
A sheepish grin.
“You know what it’s like.”

“I do not know what it’s like.”

“What’s for dinner?”
Rob dared to ask.

“A dinner eaten alone
Is a dinner served cold.
It’s past midnight.
Good night.”

Sunday morning.
“How about dinner out?”
“To forgive is welcomed.
Where shall we dine?”

“The food at the Local?”
“The table is booked.”
Comfortably seated,
With a view of the river.

Order placed.
Rob heads to the bar.

“A glass of red wine—
And a single of the usual.”

“Rob,” says the bartender,
“We no longer stock it.”

“You no longer stock it?”
“Why?” asks Rob.

“When it ends up in the river,
It falls out of favour.”

A sobering tale.
The boats were out—
To no avail.

Forty years on...
Yet to be found?

​

by Mary G. Douglas

​

When a child of five l stared at my reflection in the mirror
Who are you ? Thought l
When a teen and stared at my reflection in the mirror
I thought l knew who l was and my path in life chosen
The pattern of events that have made me who l am today
Now having reached the early years of my eighth decade
Do l now know who l am ?
I now reflect on a fact of life that who is now reflected back
Is not who l am today, it is who and what l have been through decades
On my own journey of learning and understanding what shapes us and what shapes others
It is a revelation on how one can be perceived by others
Appreciating not to allow the perceived judgement of others
Those ‘ others ‘ when reaching their eight decade less or more
It is a revelation on how one can perceive on reflection of how one has judged others
During our journey through life and how we have misjudged ourselves
The process of learning is a long term journey
Of who and what we are and how we judged who is reflected back at us
When having reached the early years of one’s eight decade
We think we know who we are from our yesterdays and our todays
The tomorrows are the ones when we reflect on our yesterdays
We think we are knowledgeable suffice to be
judgemental of others
The gaps of decades between then and now with no between
Who are we to judge another when no bridges have been crossed
Stagnation of thought from decades ago
Memories of who what why where when ?
Manifests into a judgment of another? Based on What?
The mirror on the wall is a reflection of Self
Whose only reflection is of Self worth
One cannot judge the worth of others
If decades of ‘ not knowing another ‘
The only person that one can judge is Self
One cannot pass judgement on others because they are not there to defend themselves
A truism of never judging a book by its cover ?
One has to read chapter by chapter
The reflection on the mirror of oneself
Is only a reflection on how one reflects on
oneself and not on how one is perceived by another
The delusions of how one presents oneself to others
If one has no aforementioned knowledge of what has offended
That is the conundrum of the whole world and where as individuals we fit or not fit in the scheme of events passed or present
Do we know who we are ? Do others know who they are ?
We think as others think and thinking can be as good or not so good depending on one’s own perspective of the reality of the difference between Fact and Fiction
On looking in a mirror decades plus on how the story is presented and accepted
Peace and goodwill to all at home and beyond
Is the mystery that we all know is what we want
Yet another mystery on why it is not possible for all mankind at home and beyond
The answer to this question has to wait for eight decades plus to pass
The reflection of oneself has the power to reflect on the past
The answer is not on how we perceive others
It is how we perceive’ Self ‘
Learning to know and understand the meaning behind the phrase
Judge thee not me
Mary G. Douglas