These are the Hands

These are the hands,
That stitched the saddle.
That cut and bled,
As they worked the leather.

These are the hands,
That mined the coal.
That grew hard and callused,
As they swung the pick.

These are the hands,
That dug the canal.
That tore and split,
As they toiled with the shovel.

These are the hands,
That tilled the earth.
That weathered the elements,
As they scattered the seed.

These are the hands,
That comforted you.
That never wanted to let go
As they held you close.

These hands were all I had,
That even now as they grow old
That though they are tired,
Have stood the test of time.

Life is just too short

As I go about my life,
Avoiding trouble , strife
And time-wasting guff
Stopping me doing stuff.

I find …

I don’t want to take your survey
You see,  I’m in a hurry
And I’ve already tried your product
And to summarise , it sucks !


When I place my food order
On rudeness does it border
To ask me if I will add fries
I simply don’t have the time !

But what really takes the proverbial biscuit…

Is that I am sitting here writing
And though it can be exciting
I should stop at the next line
As I simply don’t have time !



This poem is based on a series of events that happened to me last week all when I was busy.