A Penny For Them!

Better Than Flowers

by Tony Kreit (Author)

This is a short book of some of my own poetry collected over some years. It is a mixture of personal, political, family and some humour. For a whole lifetime of reasons I have dedicated the book to my wife Joyce. She has been my best friend since she was 17 and I was 19 and we were both still at school. I have entitled the book Better than Flowers because I hope, it will be a gift even more cherished than flowers, and I am a keen flowers man! Many, many are the bunches of flowers she has received from me over the years and all have come from the heart. This book has certainly come from the heart but one other necessary source has been the head; a much more difficult source to access on a regular basis!

Many of the emotions that I express in the pages of this book are universal. Please read and discover for yourself. I have not written a great deal of poetry during my life. It can be hard work. Sometimes though, IT WRITES ITSELF! It s’ a bit of a devil however when a brilliant idea comes to you during the night, and you fail to write it down. Yes, indeed and at my age and with my experience I should know better. But it still happens!

Please note that it is my intention to donate any profits that I make from the sale of any of my books to the Charity ‘Cancer Research’ Tony Kreit 17-07-2024

The three poems below had been written and numbered 30, 31 and 38 . I have now decided that it would be appropriate to attach them here as samples of the various ways in which my poor mind works. I have included in the book my own thoughts attached to each of my poems. You can read these three at your leisure and hopefully enjoy them as an introduction to wanting more?

[30] A Man Came To The Window.

A man came to the window;

to the hotel ground floor panoramic window.

Two minutes ago he was sleeping over there,

by the wall, the low wall, the long low terrace wall

across the square to the left.

Two minutes ago he was sleeping

under that low wall across the square

near to the waiting place for taxis.

Asleep he was in the cold morning air.

Where the policeman woke him with the toe of his boot…

He woke him, not kicking but prodding

Not kindly not friendly not tender

No, not at all caring but careful,

as if touching might contaminate

that distant and disinterested, youthful, hand…

“Clear off, move on” I saw him say

To that erstwhile sleeping man, now at the window

The panoramic window of that hotel

in the Second City square,

where the March wind whistled cold.

Was he in search of vicarious and

Unachievable warmth;

……………..through the window?

The panoramic window of the hotel

In ‘Brum’, in the Second City square.

That sometime sleeping man

His bedding now round his shoulders

The cold face peered through the window

And into the taken-for-granted warmth of the

Hotel in Brindley Place, in Birmingham.

The cold March wind cut deep into the bones

As it whistled up through the channel between

The buildings called Brunswick Street;

up from the canal in the valley down there.

It cut into the core of the man at the window.

He stood by that window silently asking for help. And I?

I turned away and slowly made my way into breakfast.

Tony Kreit March-26-2019

I began this poem on the morning of 24th March and finished it two days later. It is both a silent tribute to the rudely awakened sleeping man as well as my confession of my own lack of action. I “walked by on the other side…” Tony Kreit May 15 2019

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[31] A Ballad to English PUDS.

Spotted Dick is favourite,

Baked apple too

Baked apple on a plate

With treacle through the core

Apple pie and custard

We ask for more and more!

Toffee apple on a stick,

Apple crumble too

There’s more, much more

When all is said and done

On a plate, a big, big plate

For me, as well as you.

Pears come sweetly from a tin.

Baked pears are not our favourite

But that does not mean that you

cannot have them.

Pears and custard on that plate

With cream and ice cream too.

Pears though, are not best for me,

You may like them through and through

But Spotted Dick is favourite

With treacle, apple pie and custard.

We’ve not even ,yet, thought of apple crumble.

I’ll not tell you again!

Jam roly-poly pudding

Really is the PUD. For me.

The better puddings come with custard

That’s custard in a bowl.

Not custard in a packet.

Forget your dab of nothing

in the centre of your plate there.

Is that a trail of chocolate syrup?

It’ll cost both legs and arms

Yet for all its FLIM, and FLAM

Is impossible to eat!

A huge great mound of TREACLE PUD.

That’s the PUD for me,

With Eaton Mess to follow

Well, there’s insulin in the fridge.

More than enough to cope!

If not, I’ll get more Mañana.

Cos that’s another day.

We’re back now to apple crumble

With custard on a plate,

Cold rhubarb from the Frigidaire

And custard in a bowl

Hot Christmas PUD with almonds

Banana custard too…strawberries…

Sticky toffee pudding…

Lemon meringue pie…

And cheese cake yet.

Dear Lord where on Earth

are you, to save me?

From good old, but beautiful

Dear old good old

Wonderful and splendid,

Good old ENGLISH PUDS!

Tony Kreit 03-09-2022

I wrote this poem shortly after the return to Pub Lunches with friends was permitted. That dreadful period of more than two years of Covid separation; to the quiet return to the variability of the Good Old English PUB. Joyce and I sat in the cold of that day, shortly after the first that our Govt. had deigned to permit us to dine at a Pub but NOT INSIDE! Nonetheless we were there together enjoying the warmth of two friends who had been enforced strangers to us throughout the cold depths of COVID. It felt wonderful!! J.K.T.K.

[38] The Last Bee.

The last bee flies into my garden.

She’s buzzing from flower to flower.

What have we done to our country?

Why has the land become sour?

The last bee visits my garden.

She collects the sweet nectar alone,

because her once busy hive is now empty.

No drone, no queen and no throne.

The striped one visits my garden.

What have we done to her land?

She’s nowhere to go at the end of the day.

Damm! She’s just stung my ruddy hand!

Tony Kreit 07-06-2009

I was sitting in my garden one beautiful June afternoon

when I noticed that sole bee and the words simply wrote

themselves. And NO! She didn’t sting me. I lied! In fact I

have never been stung; neither by bee nor wasp! And yes!

a more fulsome discussion of this poem appears in the book.

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