Hobbo's Poems
A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
A rabbit’s habits
Posted on 19th Jan 2022
A rabbit's habits A rabbit cohabits From sociable habits, Producing her young by the score. And when she is old Then her partner is told Not tonight bunny, I'm sore.
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Lost time
Posted on 7th Jan 2022
Lost time They say that time's a healer; well, I am ninety-three, it might work for the youngsters but time is killing me!
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Transition
Posted on 20th Dec 2021
Transition As I transition seamlessly from mid-life crisis to the gentle senility of old age, I find myself contemplating profound questions; what is the real meaning of life and have I eaten my lunch yet. Sadly, both are equally difficult to answer.
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Seasons of life
Posted on 8th Dec 2021
Seasons of life
Spring
It’s fashion, it’s passion,
it’s sporting, it’s courting,
it’s all about falling in love.
It’s sowing, it’s growing
and yearning and learning
what it means to walk loved hand in glove.
It’s exploring, deploring,
it’s hoping and coping,
it’s having some muscles to flex.
It’s exciting, inviting,
it’s all new and all you,
the very invention of sex.
Summer
It’s working, some shirking,
ambition, fruition,
a bit, to be honest, yes guv.
It’s slippage, it’s marriage,
it’s squadrons of children,
it’s learning the meaning of love.
It’s romantic and frantic,
energetic and hectic,
the busiest time of our life.
It’s stations, vacations,
promotion, devotion
and knowing you’ve found the right wife.
Autumn
It’s grown kids and grandkids,
retirements and virements,
a warm, fluffy socks kind of love.
It’s possessions, impressions,
it’s cynical, clinical,
the need for a bit of a shove.
It’s grilling, it’s chilling,
it’s box sets and twin sets,
a chance for the world to slow down.
It is cocoa and go-slow,
it’s white hair, -where? -right there,
a stroll down the quiet side of town.
Winter
It’s aching and shaking,
it’s fresh ills and more pills,
above all a chance for reflection.
It’s objective perspective,
it’s welcome and wisdom,
a counting of blessings collection.
It is Lord Above love,
it is last minute faith,
thanks given for each shallow breath.
It’s tearful and cheerful,
it’s goodbyes and don’t cries,
Then finally, my friend, it is death.
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Dementia
Posted on 21st Nov 2021
Dementia I dreamed I was asleep but clearly was mistaken, as I showered in my undies, I could smell the care home's bacon. A woman with a badge on was washing off my bottom, I wish I was asleep, my life right now is rotten.
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Contentment
Posted on 20th Nov 2021
Contentment Whilst I'm usually okay in the skin I am in, I sometimes reflect on the years I was thin. When I had my own teeth and I still had some hair, my memory was good, I could quote from Voltaire. Many winters older and folk look at me like I'm stuck to their shoe or I fell from a tree. I am pleased that my missus has aged a bit too, I'm the house red and she's the grand cru.
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my generation
Posted on 18th Nov 2021
my generation I hope that I die before I get old, lyrics of a lie, my generation were sold. Who were so sure before they got there, they would not try that cure, they did not want that care. Now we are old and do not have our youth, if I may be so bold, that is not quite the truth.
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Fast forward
Posted on 23rd Oct 2021
Fast forward Pacemaker fitted, poo tests for cancer, whatever became of that once great romancer. Regular health checks, heart rate is naughty and as for my pulse, it's two hundred and forty! The sex life, once active I thought was forever, Is slowly declining from rarely, to never. Each new health crisis brings on hypertension, I should have skipped childhood, moved straight to my pension!
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Diagnosis
Posted on 15th Oct 2021
Diagnosis Audiology, said, Cardiology, heard Neurology, the ward she did venture. Which is maybe as well, because, deaf as a bell, she also had early dementia.
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Oh Well
Posted on 23rd Sep 2021
Oh well Forty five years we've been wed And it don't seem a day over forty, We never had need of a bed, You were sexy, and ever so naughty! Now, it's all aids and false teeth, Like a project that's got out of hand, Never knowing quite what lies beneath, As our hourglasses run out of sand.
Hobbo's Poems 