The Sea, She Claims Me.

The sea she claims me,
She sends her arms onto the shore
To embrace me.
Joyfully I walk into the sea.
She holds me and together we are one.
Floating away under the warmth of the sun.
Swimming we stretch and pull together
In the current and motion of her underbelly.
In the deep dark interior of her form
I see a multitude of magical lights
,Enclosing me like a colourful shawl
A Kaleidoscope of red blue and green.
Fish large and small welcome me to their domain.
I sleep surrounded by her love
Hear her music deep inside me.
I smile, feel calm, at peace.
Here is where I will stay, happy to be
Under the sea
In a world new to me
Calm, happy and free.
Val Cook 2006

Why

Lake Coniston Cumbria

Why when we walk through a place of un timed beauty
Touched by seasons, but never loosing that special appeal.
We hold our breath and feel uplifted and amazed.

Why when we see a child with an open innocent face and trusting eyes
We gasp and look with longing at our past innocence.
Then feel a sadness, mixed with joy for that child`s passage through life.

Why when we hear music so special that it touches our inner core
And fills our body for a brief time, with longing
As we remember with a smile or a frown lost loves.

Why do we constantly search for perfection in ourselves and others
When we have today and tomorrow to accept
That all around us, we will find less than perfection.

Why when we feel dissatisfied and sadness
Don’t we balance this, with a love of life itself..
So we may find life`s imperfections a perfect foil for peace of mind.

Val Cook 2009

Bad Dreams

Let me interpret your dreams
And all will become clear.
Prophetic or persistent
Help is always near.
Are you falling forever
Are you drowning in the deep.
Has your love one got another
Do you suffer lack of sleep.

If you dream of Frogs you `ll be successful
And your friends true and sincere.
Wearing a helmet will give you
A protective atmosphere.
But see it on another
Many problems reappear.
Dream of coconuts
Gifts and money ,
Will put you in good cheer.

But if nightmares stalk and haunt you
Through the dark winter night.
And you hear the weirdest noises
As you lie awake in fright.
Its just your imagination
That’s playing tricks on you.
So you see there is an answer
For all dreams that may be bad
I think it could be down to
All that Turkey that you had.
　
If your dreams are so dramatic
That you wake up in a sweat
Then you must look for a reason
And the reason is I bet
Its possible you have eaten
Something heavy something strong
Or drunk more of the hard stuff
Than your usual, am I wrong?

Val Cook 2008

A Mothers Soliloquy

This poem came about on my last visit to Perth to see my daughter and grandchildren. There comes a time in all parents lives when they realise they are surplus to needs. I have no doubt my family love me and appreciate all the help given in the past,but when grandchildren get older and families dynamics change grandparents can be in the way. I just felt very lonely during this last visit and wanted to go home.

A Mothers Soliloquy

Good Morning Australia
How will this day be.
I know that tears and sorrow
Will be with me.
Where will I go
Who will I see.
This is not my home
This is not where I should be.

The sun is shining
It’s a bright new day.
But all who love and need me
Are far far away.
I hear birds singing
They are singing to me.
Go home and be happy
This is not the place to be.

I walk on the beach
Watch children at play.
Paddle through the surf
With feelings of dismay .
Listen to the sea-
Calling to me .
Go home and be happy
This is not the place to be .

I return across the oval
Sausages sizzle on the grill.
The BBQs are firing up
The Stubbies nicely chill .
The wind whistles through the trees
Urging me persistently.
Go home and be happy
This is not where you should be.

I came to see my daughter
Who left our cold wet land.
To start life anew
I came to see first hand .
Her home and lifestyle
Was she happy in the sun.
As much as I miss her
I have accepted what she`s done .
Achieved everything she said she would
On this sunny southern shore.
So now I can go home
And worry, no more.

VCook 2008

I have no idea why I wrote this poem,maybe something I had read in the news or seen on TV.
I can see the logic in these words and many follow the Naturalists Code all over the world. I wish I had the nerve.

The Human Form.

Why are people so afraid of the human form
Celebrated from dusk to dawn, where non conform.
When challenged they act quite naive
Become embarrassed when we just slip a sleeve.
To take our clothes off can be a sin
In some company that you are in.
Doctors nurses all agree
We are all the same, you and me.
Some cover their eyes snigger and turn away
When ever the body is on display.
Its seen as lecherous in thought word and deed
To have this unnatural need,
To celebrate the human form.
So speak out create a storm
Stand out from all the rest
To be judged as the best
Is an accolade of the highest degree.
But its really not for me.

Its beautiful wondrous and unique to behold
What God has given. We are told
That it is bad and non PC to enjoy the sight
Of men and women and what they look like
In the buff and looking good.
They are proud and so we should
Give our support to this style of undress

Hey.
Life is for living
Hang-ups are for the Psychiatrist couch.

Val Cook 2009


These poems don`t need any explanation.Life has many twists and turns.

“I do not enter silence it enters me”
Ezra Pound.

Solitude

Empty rooms that echo silence.
Empty heart that loudly beats.
Empty arms that ache to hold you,
Cold and numb that nothing heats.

Thinking of our time together.
Thinking of why you left.
Thinking of my world without you,
Cold and lonely so bereft.

Wondering where you are today.
Wondering why you would not stay.
Wondering did you ever love me,
Cold and silent since you went away.

Do you ever think about me
Do you ever wish you had stayed
Do you know how much I miss you
Cold and desolate since you went away

If you knew that I forgive you
If you knew that I still cared
If you returned my arms would hold you
Warm and loving our hearts repaired.

Val Cook 2002


Free my Mind

Halt who goes there?
I am not alone
So you beware.
You have no right
To invade my mind.
Your a memory
Of the worst kind.
I thought I`d seen the last of you
I havent a clue
How you break through
Into my mind.
So go away don’t torture me
All I want is to be free.
Free from all thoughts of you
But It`s so hard what can I do.
To free myself of thoughts of you.

Val Cook 2006

These two poems go together,poetry can be a kind of therapy
especially in emotional times. Divorce after 40years of marriage can be difficult to purge.

Broken Heart

Where is the love that once was ours
How many years has it been?
Since you took the sun and left me showers
How much rain have I seen?
My broken heart will never heal
The fissure is deep and wide
With only a superficial seal.
That opens and bleeds inside
When all the hurt is again revealed
By the memories I thought where sealed.
The knife that cut was long and thin
Silent as it slid right in.
It gave me pain that I could not bear
So hot and searing was the tear.
That ripped my heart so deep and wide
And I cried as I have never cried.
I swore, stamped and got up steam
To howl and scream as in a dream.
I was angry, despondent, suicidal and mad
The love was gone the love I had.
Betrayed dejected depressed and alone
I felt my heart turn to stone.


My Hearts Triumphant Cry

This day I will remember
As the first day in my life,
When I rose and realised
That I was now, no ones wife.
The feeling, the elation
Was a great exciting buzz.
Truly liberating, there
Would be no more of Us. I
Can come and go at leisure.
Buy without consent, all the
Fripperies a female wants
With complete abandonment.
Will this make me happier,
I won’t know till I try. But
I will go from strength to strength
Is my hearts triumphant cry.

Val Cook 2001


It Was Then

Heartbreak
A time of
Fleeting moments.
That grip the heart
Assault the mind.
Loyalty and love
Cast aside
Life became unbearable
Has no meaning.
Despair and loneliness
Fill the day.
It was sad
It was bad
It was then.

Val Cook 2006

My Family

To Return to My Homepage http://www.valerieshomepage.blogspot.com/

Childhood Reminiscences
Lancashire England
1941 -1951

Before my childhood was done.

The days seemed longer,

Full of freedom and fun.

Lasses and lads playing together,

Mainly outside whatever the weather.

Roaming over the hills and far away.

Violence and fear no part of our day.

Trusting, truthful and trouble free,

Innocent, carefree, happy were we.

Doors left on the latch.

Or string through the letterbox

With door key attached.

Neighbour looked out for neighbour.

Always ready to do a favour.

Big hearts with open doors.

Sparse covering on bare floors.

Rag rugs by firesides

A welcome present for any new bride

Sideboard gleaming in the firelight,

Rubbed with mansion polish bright.

Gas light and cobbled street.

Living rooms small but neat.

On the wireless, Hancock Murdock and Horne.

The BBC where home entertainment was born.

Mothers in curlers and pinny,

Standing at the door singing out,

For their Winnie or Minnie.

To come home, tripe and onions for tea.

Bought fresh from the UCP. (United Cattle Produce)

Kettle simmering on the fireside grate.

Cups and saucers with doily on plate.

Home made bread, biscuits and pies,

Fresh from the oven a lovely surprise.

With beer collected in a jug,

For fathers supper mug.



Streets of tramlines for the horse drawn tram.

Manure for the gardens, where the horses ran.

Bells dinging, people clinging,

Tramlines singing, strap hangers swinging.

As they where transported around the town.

Going to work, or for a beer at the Rose & Crown.

Then the Trolley buses swished silently by.

Powered by overhead rail and electric supply.

Street parties and a family sing song,

In parlours where Aspidistra’s belong.

Tin baths and Tipplers down yards. (Lavatory)

Glowing coke fires and fire guards.

High stacked chimneys on Cotton mills.

Distinctive landmarks on northern hills.

Low lying weaving sheds alongside lodges.

Where illicit swimmers knew all the dodges.

Filled with fish, a fishermen’s delight.

Women in clothes black as night.

Lyle stockings, clogs and shawls.

Trawling around the market stalls.

Clog irons sparking on cobbles.

Where high heeled ladies hobble and wobble.

Local drapery shops selling goods.

Stiff collars, cuff links and studs.

Fleece lined liberty bodice vest,

Rubber buttons harnessed it round our chest.

Hand knitted woolly socks scarf and gloves.

Made by mum for those she loves.

Heavy tweed coats, Sunday best.

Easter time bonnets better dressed.

Knocker up and lamp lighter.

Demob suits fitting looser or tighter.

Silver Cross coach built pram.

Monday washing day for our mam.

Boiling babies bottles and teats.

Lines of washing filling back streets.

Hand wringing, boiling and possing.

Busy day no time for gossiping.

Dolly Blue brings out the white.

In lines of nappies what a sight.



Corner shop, ration cards and slate.

Paid off on Friday, unless wages were late.

Fresh baked white loaf, crusted black.

Wrapped in fragile tissue paper sack.

Bacon slicer cuts rashers thick or thin.

Spam or Corned Beef from a tin.

Doorstep milk delivered by the farmer.

On horse and cart in churns much warmer.

Doorsteps and flags dubbed white.

With Donkey Stones was socially right.

Or painted Cardinal Red instead.

Then pity anyone who dared to tread.

Rag and Bone man’s barrow patrols the streets.

Collecting old clothes in exchange for treats.

Goldfish in jam jars swinging by a string,

Or a paper windmill for anything you bring.

Concrete bunkers on seaside promenades.

Corrugated air-raid shelter in backyards.

Flags and buntings lining the street,

Trestle tables spread with lots to eat.

Street parties full of fun,

Maypole dancing in the sun.

May Queen processions down our street,

Field days an annual treat.

But nothing ever stays the same.

Except memories, that stay bright as any flame.

<©>Valerie CookFebruary 1999

My Home

My childhood home,
Was a two up two down terraced house in Tonge Moor.
Cobbled streets lined with copy cat houses;
Row upon row a regiment on parade,
Doors numbered 1 to 100.
We faced the railway arches.
Gateway to green fields and space to run
Free from restrictions of the street.
My Grandparents lived next door, Aunty Sissy two doors down,
Aunty Nelly and Aunty Annie, always in and out
My dad was the youngest of seven sisters
We had cousins galore.

Our house had running hot water, a full sized bath in the kitchen,
A flushing lavatory too, where most had tipplers and cold water taps.
We had a flagged floor until dad covered it with Asphalt,
A rich ruby red, polished to perfection by mother.
Front windows and vestibule leaded with fancy glaze
And a solid shiny brass door knocker at the front
Dad was a journeyman plumber,
Could turn his hand to anything.
It was fascinating to watch him work
Scraps of lead melted by blowtorch
Poured out in strips on the kitchen step
To set into solid shiny silver sticks of solder.

Many backyards contained concrete air raid shelters
By 1942, dark and smelly.
Our backyard had a timber and glass roof
It was dad`s workshop.
Neat and tidy with a swing for us kids
Hung from an overhead beam.
The sounds and smells that came out of my home where unique.

Monday was wash day, boiler bubbling, mother possing away.
And a huge wooden mangle, the clatter deafening
Until we got electric wringers with super silent rubber rollers .
Line after line of snow white sheets filled the back street
Blowing in the wind like an Armada in full sail .
Then Mother sleeves rolled, pink cheeks,
Elbow deep in Dolly Tub, scrubbing and rubbing.
Intent on collars and cuffs white and bright.
Sunlight soap, the smell often haunts me, as does
Mum baking bread, cakes and custards every Friday.

Most families including mine, had an allotment.
Digging for Britain in the 1940s .
Grandad loved it down there by the river
On his precious patch of rich brown earth.
He worked hard and we ate well.
Within ration book restrictions
Fruits, vegetables, chickens and lots of eggs.

I can visualise Mum and Dad sat by a blazing fire,
Listening to the radio,
Dick Barton`s signature tune fading into the distance.
Front door ajar, step donkey stoned to classic proportions.
Warm inviting smells coming from the kitchen.
I can hear our grandfather clock chiming,
The fire crackling.

The house is still there
Facing the railway arches.
But the fields have gone
Replaced by an Industrial Estate.
A sign of the times.

© Valerie Cook August 2007


Alice Elizabeth

My mother had the purest heart
She had a good heart and a willing soul
Life dealt her many blows
But her strength of character
Pulled her through.

She lost her mother at an early age
Was brought up by someone
Who had no mothering skill
A dried up prune of a woman.
Who treated her like a servant
And that was all she knew.

Married young
Gave birth to five children
A son and daughter
Lost to Meningitis
Aged six and seven.
She never spoke of them ever.
Her misery sunk deep into her soul.
It was as if they had never been.
She knew she had to get on
With life and never look back
At the suffering and sorrow of the past.

I had a charmed childhood
No suffering for me.
My two brothers and I
Probably took her for granted.
I know my father did.
She was a work horse.
As good a provider as he.

There wasn’t much display of affection
In our family
1940 post war years
Was about utility and survival.
Mother worked on the buses as a clippie.
And waited on tables in the UCP
Dad was in the Royal Navy, submariner
A proud mountain of a man.
A stranger coming home
Firm, resolute and totally in charge.

My grandfather Thomas was a Publican
Mum was brought up in the pub
She took over the license when he died.
It was long hours and hard work
But she never complained.
She so much at home behind the bar
Enjoyed her Guinness,
Had a good singing voice,
Was a superior darts player.
180`s Champion and loved the game.
Dad was jealous, he didn’t like her
Going out and having fun
So he stopped her playing .
She obeyed without a word, but her smile
Disappeared for a long time.

She was a wonderful Grandmother
Always there for me.
It was only when she had gone
Never to return
That I realised how special she was.
Meek, mild, gentle and willing
How do I think of mother
She was an angel.

V Cook 2007


My Mother

"Was I a good mother?" I ask of my three.
You see, it was what my mother asked of me.
I told her "yes" she was always gentle and kind.
That was the memory she would leave behind.

As a child she lost her mother
And was raised by another.
This woman was mean and didn`t love her.
So she assumed, because she didn`t have
The love of a mother.
She couldn`t provide a mother`s love for another.

So you see I have a problem,
Was I a good mother?
Being taught by my mother, brought up by another,
Who wasn`t her mother.
And didn`t love her

Well, we where put to the test
We both did our best.
And I know I was blessed
With a Good Mother

(c)Valerie Cook 2007

This poem was written for Ben my grandson who emigrated to Australia in March 96 aged 4 years old

My Friend Ben

With his little hand clutched tight in mine
I know this is a good sign
That everything will be just fine
We`re going to have a lovely time
Because he is my friend.

As he sits in comfort on my knee
He likes to share his news with me
He brings his treasures for me to see
And requests cheese on bread for tea
Because I am his friend

He asks for cuddles when he`s sad
He hides from me when he`s been bad
He doesn`t want to see me mad
But he knows that soon I will be glad
When once again we`re friends.

He likes me telling stories new
I must listen to his reading too
Hear his tables and what`s two time two
And know his favourite colours blue
Because he is my friend

He likes to hear the Back Street Boys
Their music appeals far more than toys
I can`t complain about the noise
Because I too like the Back Street Boys
That`s why we are such friends.

Even though he`s five years old
He`s a big bonny boy to behold
A strong character, beautiful and bold
And worth more then his weight in gold
And he will always be my friend

(c)Val Cook 1997

His Treasure Trove

His precious treasure trove is hidden in a box
In the bottom drawer, beneath his sweaters vests and socks.
It’s a collection of coloured stones and shells,
Bits of string and broken things no one ever sells.
On days when he feels unhappy or sad,
He takes his treasures out and recalls all the fun he had.
He cleans and polishes the stones until they brightly shine,
Admiring his collection and thinking it quite fine.
It doesn’t matter that the watch won`t go;
Or the fancy chain was broken long ago.
They are his treasures, his secret and his joy.
Collected through the years since he was a little boy.
Then carefully he replaces the treasures in the box,
Puts it in the bottom drawer under sweaters vest and socks.

(c)ValCook 1999

Holidays

Roman Holiday

My birthday treat was a holiday in Rome
I love history and was eager to roam
Through narrow streets soaking up the sights
The Pantheon Coliseum famed for gladiatorial fights.
We stayed at a quaint hotel, centre of the city
It had a walled garden, quiet and pretty.
All the streets crowded and noisy with cars,
On every corner cafes and bars.
We found a Trattoria where we could afford to eat
Dishes of pasta,chicken, cheese and spicy meat.
We attended an audience with his holiness The Pope.
Seated in an auditorium with hundreds of pilgrims filled with hope
That they would get up close as he moved amongst the crowd.
Some got so excited singing his praises out loud.
We toured the museum and climbed St Peter`s dome.
Saw the Sistine Chapel and many sights of Rome.

We had a guide book and we followed where it led.

The river Tiber was muddy, little flowed along its bed.
The Spanish Steps,Trevi Fountain and others scenes as grand
Are hidden in courtyards,where statues and fountains stand.
Horse drawn carriages take tourists to see the sights
Especially in the evening when the city`s ablaze with lights
We caught the train out to Pompii the ruins to view.
Saw bodies turned to stone and exotic drawings too.
The history,buildings,atmosphere of Rome
Will stay in my heart forever, was my thought as we flew home.

valcook 1991