Youth ends when egotism does; maturity begins when one lives for others.

― Hermann Hesse, Gertrude

1 hair speakingparrotss00russ_0354

Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with breaking up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with losing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eighth grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with  finding out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

Pascale Ost

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ten-grey-hairs-and-a-silver-one/

“If a man has to say trust me it’s a sure sign you cannot. Trust him, that is. Trust is a thing you do without words.”

― Juliet Marillier, Wildwood Dancing

1 beastsmenbeingca00hage_0045

Bees

From the hollow trees in their native home
them old fellows cut the honeycomb.
On honey and little white grubs they fed,
’cause them young bees was blackfeller’s bread.
That’s why they was so mighty and strong
in their native home in Currarong.
An’ them old fellers’ drink was honey-bul;
honey and water, a coolamon full.
Naked through the bush they went,
an’ never knew what sickness meant,
them native bees could do you no harm,
they’d crawl all over your honey-smeared arm.
But them Eyetalian bees, they’d bung
your eyes right up. When we was young
we used to rob their honey-trees,
Savage! they’d fetch your blood, Them bees
would zoom an’ zing an’ chase a feller
from Bombaderry to Bodalla
Well Old Uncle Ninah, and Billy Bulloo
Old Jacky Mumbulla, King Merriman too,
them fierce old fellers, they’re all gone now.
An’ the wild honey’s still in the gumtree bough.

Roland Robinson

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bees-12/