Margaret Kollmer Poems

Blood intermingled with soil and sea
Now the common bond of unity
Triumph over sadness
Courage makes us strong
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Butterfly friend, how well do I know you
How long will you stay is the question I ask
Butterfly friend how well do you know me
How long will you love me
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Now Idi Amin was Big Daddy
And Saddam Hussein Bagh Daddy
Both Daddies are baddies
But another bad laddie
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Howdy, Ma, you said
the day ou came back
from the Border...
but it wasn't the dull
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A poem by my grandson, Gregory on a tortuous crossing of Van Zyl's Pass in Namibia by his father and brother in a 4 x 4 called Ntwa Dumela. Greg says his Dad's name, too, should have been Ntwa Dumela as he, too, is a lion who greets with fire! (I can vouch for that!)

Once there was a Landy
Which came in rather handy
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I didn't have much in my basket
Some veg. some bread, a magazine
It was bucketing outside
and my feet were damp and cold.
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It eats soccer. It breathes soccer. It lives soccer. It fades when it's team fades and it blooms when it's team blooms. It has the letters S.W. permanently etched upon it's brain and it probably even arranges it's Monopoly money in S.W. formations. What is it, you ask? It's a soccer fan. You knew that, didn't you? But it isn't just any soccer fan. It is specifically a Sheffield Wednesday soccer fan. Or addict, for want of a better word.

Yes, of course, even I know about Liverpool, Everton, Arsenal and Man. United fans. They're the normal, run-of-the-mill type but Owls supporters are really Something Else!
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Have you ever hung on a Judas tree?
You do that when you slander me.
You swing when cheat you do…and lie
And when your neighbours you deny.
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A Lawn Bowler's Nightmare

I sank back into the soft puffiness of my pillows and luxuriated in the warmth of my electric blanket, one eye half watching something rather steamy on cable TV and the other battling with yet another tiresome episode of what is commonly known to the over-fifities as 'eyelid droop.' I was barely concentrating on what was going on. It'd been a hard day, what with a grief encounter with the taxman and another of a similar kind, in the afternoon, with Denis, my bowls coach of a mere two weeks.
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These are what are known as Tom Swifties.....

'It's YOUR turn to score the ham, ' Stella said cuttingly.
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