Everyday Poetry

Kids today just don't know how lucky they are,  carrying their own phone around in their pocket!  The late '60s saw our very own phone installed. Dad made a telephone table, fixed to the wall in the hall: A slim white melamine box with gold stick-on trim, Holding the Yellow Pages, local directory, notepad and pen, Spring-loaded black book of special numbers, with its matching dial.  In pride of place the polished ivory phone sat on top, Each number dialed clockwise round to its stop, Then let go to click back before dialing the next. Its round dial centre inscribed with our home number, Ready for us to give out with our name when it rang; Etiquette important, we were coached on how to answer. No chair. Calls should be short, to the point. No more walking to the phone box on the corner, But we didn't have money to burn.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

My mum died after an operation, just before her 69th birthday. It seems her superstitious nature has passed itself down to me as it has given me pause for thought.   My son gave me fifteen years - Four or five years ago. It made me laugh at the time, but ever since I've thought of it as a rolling fifteen,  The dark always there, waiting for me,  But edging no nearer.  There's so much living left to be lived, Each breath-filled moment precious -  Not put on hold until this or that.  We all must die sooner or later.  Just let it be later.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

It's been months since I've felt able to get out in the garden and tidy up the beds.  I've told myself I'm leaving the debris for the benefit of wildlife but as winter begins to warm and new shoots are pushing through the leaf litter I know it will soon be time to venture out again.  Whenever I get my secateurs out to cut back the shrubs in our garden I can hear my Dad telling me they will thank me for pruning them hard.  At winter's end he'd 'do the roses' Pace out to where they sheltered behind the garden wall, Look hard at each of Mum's prized rose bushes Eyeing up where crossed limbs crowded the centre, Where last year's growth veered away from view. His shears would snip and prune, lop and sever,  Removing the weak, opening up the space for air, Till each crown rose no more than six inches from the ground.  He'd stand back and squint, clip once, twice, pronounce it done;  Six spiky clusters where once a hedge had been. We always mourned ...