We were off on holiday, in 1953 Mum booked up for a week, at a Margate B&B In our ancient Austin Seven, with our luggage in the boot Buckets and spades upon our knees, Dad in his best suit As we drove along the road the journey seemed to fly We were singing ten green bottles, and playing at “I spy” At last we arrived at the B&B and entered the dingy hall The smell of boiled cabbage, and a picture of the King on the wall Scratchy sheets on lumpy beds, net curtains dull and grey But we were kids, and happy just to be beside the sea We woke up in the morning, the sun was shining bright We headed off towards the beach, clutching bucket, spade and kite, We changed into our bathers which were dreadfully ill fitting They soaked up all the water because they were made of knitting Emerging from the sea the crotch hung down between our knees The icy water was so cold our toes and fingers freeze Mother very daring tucked her dress into her drawers And had a little paddle as she watched us from the shore While Father sat in a deckchair, hairy legs in khaki shorts A knotted hankie on his head, with the paper, back page, sports It was such a struggle getting out of a wet cossie Wind whipping at our towel, sand in every nook and cranny Then out came the bucket, build a castle made of sand Seaweed flag and driftwood drawbridge, we were kings who ruled the land Up to the shop for a bottle of pop and a bright green fishing net Searching rock pools, catching shrimps, our dresses getting wet Mother bought us ice creams, and sticks of bright pink rock We did not heed dire warnings that our teeth would start to rot And then along the sandy beach we had a donkey ride We watched the ships far out to sea and saw the incoming tide We collected shells In buckets, to take home and keep for ever Memories of a magic time that we would always treasure In the restaurant the menu was excitedly perused We were so excited ‘cos we were allowed to choose Knickerbocker glory, cheese omelette, cod in batter The waitress said, “You’re late, it’s off, we only have spam fritters” We walked along the promenade, the brass band in the park Then back to bed in the B&B because it was getting dark Next day suitcase packed and loaded, ready to depart Leaving our seaside paradise, with a heavy heart Off we drove, a last glimpse of the sand and sparkling sea But father said “Now cheer up kids, we’re back next year, you’ll see” I now go to Majorca, where it’s never wet and cold But I still remember Margate, when I was seven years old.
Another day in A and E, what will it bring I wonder, I need a bit of a tidy up, there’s a bit of blood down under. They need to wash my legs and my pillows need a plump, My mattress needs a wash down ‘cos it’s feeling rather damp.
Oh good, here comes the cleaner, a cheerful soul is she, Around my nether regions mopping up the drops of wee. I must be spotless, sterilised, germ free and sparkling clean, My next customer will be here soon, I wonder where he’s been.
Look out, he’s here, a little boy – he’s fallen off his bike, And Mum is very worried ‘cos she thinks his wrist is broke. A kindly nurse says “never mind, we’ll fix it don’t you fear”, She brings a smile to his little face as she wipes away his tears.
A quick wipe down they change my sheets who will be next I wonder I’m proud of what I do each day when their lives are torn asunder. It’s my job to support them and keep them safe and warm, I am their friend and carer until they can go home.
A homeless man is next to lie upon my pristine sheets, Silent, sad, so shabby, it almost breaks my heart. They warm him up and wash him, but I know he cannot stay, And all too soon the poor old man is sent upon his way.
All day the patients come, then go, time schedules must be listed, Heart attacks and broken bones, bruises, ankles twisted. I’m a very important member of staff, here in A and E, I am a bed, I see it all, what would they do without me.
Signed – I. M. A. Bedde. (And his friend Carol Butson) Waterfront Writers - Plymouth Copyright (C) Carol Butson 2020
Many thanks to everyone who sent me their poems today. Here's the first one from Nick, which had me laughing out loud & spitting coffee across the room.
COVID-19 by Nick Spargo
The economy's wound up in bits, That COVID-19 is the pits, You can't be a rover, Until you are over Your fever, your cough and the shits.
A glimmer of spring lay around the corner shimmering with promises. The day lengthens and entices bluebells and harebells to waken peeking out beneath heather's glow.
Meadows are refreshed with new Timothy and Hair-tuft. All winter long a red breast stood on his field post, now he scuttles around below as a blackbird sings aloft.
Skies are cerulean blue and seagulls sky-dance. Upon the placid waterways streamlined cormorant's race as a sailor readies his craft with a glimmer of spring in his eye.
Enjoying the space No need to rush No hassles from anything No fuss.
Time to cook To walk and explore The limited-time that I 'should' go outdoors.
The reduction in work The peace, the quiet The greenery The sun The starry night.
I 'should' join a choir I 'should' ride my bike I 'should' go to the moor For a stomp and a hike.
I 'should' go to the gym Do pump and a swim I 'should' do some aerobics I 'should' drink less gin.
So many 'shoulds' Now externally controlled My mind is now calmer I observe what unfolds.
And yet, when I focus internally Or, apparent in my dreams There's an undercurrent of anxiety Or so it seems.
An insecurity, a sense of loss A helpless desperation So there is a cost To the positives of the isolation To the reduction in choice Unconsciously, there seems a pretty scared voice.
Unveiled in chords of harmonious rapture. Pure innocence echoed In the enchanted voice. The blues and jazz in such sensual rhythm an outstanding portrayal None to surpass of Ella Fitzgerald the LADY of JAZZ.
Sue Gage March 2020 Copyright.
An Ode. When you get old And you cant touch Your toes. and your Belly drops to your Knees. Pretend it's not fat and give it a pat and Say this belongs to ME !
Coughs and sneezes spread diseases Hacking, spluttering, snot and phlegm You get on the bus and you get coughed on They sit behind you spraying germs
Noses dripping, hankies wiping, Streaming eyes and chest infections. All of a sudden a mighty sneeze, And flu is sprayed in all directions.
Influenza germs are wafting, Like toxic fumes from a jumbo jet. Infecting the whole bus with their coughing, At the next stop, off you’ll get.
The doctors surgery is not safe, Sore throat, earache, feeling hot. They sit beside you wiping noses, With paper tissues soaked in snot.
Into the chemist to find a cure, Aspirin, throat spray, menthol sweets, Day nurse, Night nurse, Lemsip, Kleenex You’ve spent ten quid before you leave
Stagger home and go to bed, Rub some Vick upon your chest. Inhale some steam and have a whiskey, And then put on your thermal vest.
You had a flu jab in November, The doctor said “you won’t get ill, This jab will keep you fighting fit” He was telling lies ‘cos you caught it still. Aaaaachooo!!!
What in God’s name has happened to our great old British food, The roast beef and the pork pies and the steak and kidney pud, Brown sauce with our sausages and vinegar on our chips, Fish that’s fried in batter, as with greasy fat it drips.
Toad in the hole with Oxo gravy, baked beans on the side, Liver and onions, mushy peas, a source of British pride. Bangers and mash with gravy, and Spam fritters taste so good, Bacon and eggs in a fry up and black pudding made with blood.
And what’s happened to our salad, with lettuce crisp and green Tomato and some cucumber and a pickled onion seen. Now it’s olives and weird feta cheese and the tomatoes are sundried, And chorizo sausage, all fat and gristle, now that I can’t abide.
And what is wrong with white sliced bread that lasts a good ten days, We don’t need those dry baguettes that are rock hard anyway. And who wants Frenchy croissants for their breakfast, I still say That a good stiff bowl of porridge will keep you feeling full all day.
The Scots they have their haggis, with minced heart and lungs it’s scrummy, And the Cornish pasty is the best for filling up your tummy. And if you come from London town you are in for a treat, With jellied eels and pie and liquor, it’s all so good to eat.
Now we all eat foreign muck, the EU is to blame, Everything is red and sloppy, and it all just tastes the same. Chilli and fajitas and Spaghetti Bolognese, Pizza and lasagne topped with strange Italian cheese.
Indian curry, made from meat that can’t be identified, With day-glo yellow sauce so hot that your tonsils they are fried. And what about the Chinese food that all just tastes the same, An hour after you’ve eaten it you’re hungry once again.
Give me English food that makes me grow up big and strong And good old British ale, now I can quaff that all day long. You can keep your smelly garlic cheese and your gassy German lager, It’s British food for me today, tomorrow and for ever.
A duchess was locked in the loo, inhaling the smell of her poo - she cussed and she groaned, she muttered and moaned, as others were stuck in the queue...
65 is only a number It accounts for the years Of my life ! 40 of them spent with you As your darling wife ! 2 off those years I washed Your socks.and 3 of them did the washing up! It took 5 of them to make the bed and that was while You still read ! For 30 years I continued to work And while the pubs were open WHO ironed your shirts! The 40 years i slept with you I even showed you what to do !
Sue Gage Copyright March 2020
Lifes Highway !
I looked for direction But all I could see Was a shadow of you Walking beside me . You took my hand and Lead me on.to find a Signpost which I leaned upon.
Each way pointed straight ahead So I took the path from which I read.
On lifes highway Enjoy each day its Only lent not here to STAY. Sue Gage copyright March 2020
Sitting on a bus, observing social distancing, People with rubber gloves and facemasks, And people with glum expressions. The COVID-19 effect.
It’s really quite interesting, Research shows that, unless you are in close contact, Facemasks and rubber gloves are superfluous. Of course, a study in the USA shows that facemasks are necessary. Who commissioned the study? Could it have been manufacturer of facemasks?
If you are old enough, you’ll remember a study on cyclamate sweeteners, The study, carried out in the USA, showed that they were carcinogenic. But the rats, who were the subjected to the study Had to ingest ridiculously huge amounts of cyclamates Before any effect was manifest. Who carried out the study? Could it have been the US Sugar Corporation?
I look out of the bus window And a herring gull strolls past, It’s toenails incongruously blue against pink feet. Do herring gulls visit beauty salons? Strange, I thought they were all shut.
“Pa’s Dying” and “The Wrong Trousers” by Nicky Bevan-French.
“Pa’s dying” she said, feeling the words, Acknowledging the weight of them, the sound of them. They weighed heavy on her, each letter cutting into her, Sharp edges piercing her skin and her mind. They sounded dull, hollow, like an old cracked bell. “Pa’s dying” she said again, tasting the words, Metallically bitter, like blood when you bite your cheek Or the taste of a 9 volt battery against your tongue.
She felt that she needed to keep saying the words Aloud; in her head; whispered; to herself; to others. She had to understand them, believe them, learn them, Know that they were true and one day they’d be “Pa is dead.” instead and those words, They’d be barbed so viciously, tearing her Ripping into her soul and bringing harsh salt tears, Rolling fat down her cheeks, pooling at her throat.
It hurt her heart to think of a world without him in. This man, this clever, funny man, with stories and tales And such a way of telling them to you. This man who knows so much about ancient times And how those days gone by led to the here and now. Where would all that go? Would it all just be gone? It didn’t seem fair somehow, not only to lose the man But to lose all that made him Pa. She wept.
“Stop your mithering, woman” he chuntered. “I’m wearing them and that’s that!” Picking up his coat he added “There’s nothing wrong with these trousers!” His lips set in a straight line, disapproval shown He went out of the house, holding the door for her Because after all, he was a gentleman And a gentle man, mannerly and kind.
Poor Pa, whatever trousers he wore, whatever occasion They always seemed to be declared unsuitable. Wrong colour, wrong style, too old, too new. Pa couldn’t do right for doing wrong, it seemed! But they were comfortably happy, these two. Many years of companionable bickering, The love between them like a soft blanket Enveloping all who spent time with them.
I cherished conversations and time spent with him. Not my Dad but still a father to me, loving and loved. I learned so much from his wealth of knowledge, Sharing, explaining, helping on endless topics, Of his favourite, ancient times, he knew so much. He once renamed some treacherous months for me When year after year those months had hurt me. Naming them for dead Emperors, to break the spell.
Gardening, another thing he loved and did so well Apart from that time, I remember to this day, He said the mint was taking over round the pond, cut it And the heron came and took all the fish away. And when my weeping willow got too severe a cut! My garden is more beautiful because of him, The plants precious and dear to me, Living reminders of time spent with Pa.
His burial, I thought would be a heartbreak. That it would overwhelm me to say that last goodbye. But the day was kind, sun shone, birds sang. He would have approved – perhaps he made it so. We gathered round the grave that had received him, And with goods for his journey carefully placed Spoke precious memories with love. My voice caught As I mentioned ………..The Wrong Trousers.
The mermaid swimming in the sea was scowling when she spotted me - quite ghastly with her seaweed hair, she wasn't rattled by my stare, and hauled herself on board my boat (despite her weight, we stayed afloat). Her scaly tail and fishy smell convinced me that this gal was Hell, and then she shoved me overboard. My shouts and splashes quite ignored, she cackled loudly, yelled, 'Whoopee' and left me stranded in the sea...
THE FULL AND TRUE STORY OF HOW PRICES WENT UP AT THE CHIPPY ON OK CORRAL STREET by Nick Spargo It was the day that the fish and chip shop, You know, the one opposite the Plastic Loofah pub On OK Corral Street, two doors up From the Mohandas Karamchand McGregor Indian takeaway And three along from the Hearts of Oak Health Centre, Caught fire. It was only a small fire, And it wouldn’t have happened at all If William, the assistant, who’d been left in charge By the owner, Isaac Abernathy, Hadn’t take advantage of the fact that there were no customers To nip off to the bog to give himself a quick five-fingered shuffle. It must be said, that it wasn’t entirely William’s fault, It was because his girlfriend, Matilda, You know, her with the ginger hair done in dreadlocks Who works on the chilled gateaux’s counter Of the Away and Empirical shop-in-shop at TESCO, Across from the Council Recreation fields Next to the old gasometers, Had gone to her mother’s for two weeks Because her mother’s cat had become depressed, Due to the fact that Tom and Jerry had been cancelled indefinitely, And had taken to drinking her mother’s medicinal gin And her mother couldn’t cope with a drunken cat piddling on the arms of the sofa, So William wasn’t getting any. The fire was spotted by Elsie Skullsworthy, You know, her with the wooden leg And a morbid fear of flames and Income Tax Inspectors Who, once she had called the fire brigade, Disappeared inside the Plastic Loofah To drink brandy and lovage like it was going out of fashion. When the fire brigade arrived, William had already emerged and had put the fire out With the vinegar from three large jars of pickled onions and one of pickled eggs, And was contemplating washing his hands And sampling a couple of the onions and an egg With some of the chips that had been frying. Not much had been lost, Only two pieces of cod, one of plaice and three fish cakes, Although William reckoned that one of the fishcakes would have been alright, But he had to dump it, as he didn’t like vinegar on fishcakes. The firemen were a bit pissed off at being called out for nothing, And one of them, Egbert ‘Lardass’ Lillicrap, You know, him with the wig and halitosis, who’s only a part-time fireman,
His real job is in the office at the pig fat rendering plant on the Alamo Industrial Estate, And who doesn’t like William because the chippy only uses vegetable oil for cooking, Called William a wanker, Which, although it was true, touched William on the raw, And he replied that Egbert could take his hosepipe And shove it where the sun didn’t shine. While the other firemen didn’t mind this, Egbert not being the most popular of men, When William said that there couldn’t be much to a fireman’s job If a tosser like Egbert could do it, they became a little agitated. From this point the situation deteriorated, With the firemen threatening to put the pickled onions, eggs and the jars they came in, Somewhere that William would find painful and unpleasant, And from which location it would take several hours And a team of proctologists to remove them. William, rather more forcefully perhaps than was necessary, asked them to leave, And when they had done so, he began to clean out the fat fryers. While he was doing this, the firemen’s union rep, Arnold Breaksnap, You know, him with the bandy legs and a wart, Who came second in the Cleverlee all-comers tango competition, Despite the fact he had a sore throat and flatulence, Called them out on strike, And formed them into an official picket outside the chippy. When William had finished cleaning out the fryers, He noticed the firemen turning all his customers away, But being of an inventive turn of mind, And knowing that people can cross picket lines for medical treatment, He called Dr Alfie Wong at the Hearts of Oak Health Centre. What exactly William said to Alfie, nobody knows, But according to Hilda Armenfract, the receptionist, You know, her with the lisp whose bosoms point in different directions And who does the really crap karaoke in the Plastic Loofah, Alfie looked really serious for a minute, then grinned his big, shark’s grin. Then he rushed off to the computer And printed off loads and loads of prescription forms. Not National Health ones, but the Private Patient Ones that Gladys Obelisk, You know, her with the nervous twitch And eyebrows that meet in the middle, Gets when she wants her special nerve tonic. Then he put that big sign in the window. It didn’t take long for the chippy’s customers to catch on, They’d call in at the Hearts of Oak and give their orders to Alfie Who’d write them down neatly on a prescription form, The customers would then toddle off to the chippy, Show their prescription to the firemen And pass the picket. Of course, William had been thinking, Which was usually bad news for somebody, And when the customers arrived, they found he’d taken all the prices down, And when the presented their prescriptions, William would cook it fresh, And charge them the same as the NHS charges for a bottle of pills. As a result Isaac Abernathy’s takings went up, So he put William in permanent charge of the chippy And branched out into hospital catering. Dr. Alfie Wong set up a special team at the Hearts of Oak, Nobody is quite sure what they do, But Alfie’s just bought himself a new Mercedes. After about four weeks the firemen gave up their picket When the local newspaper accused them of putting patients’ lives at risk, The chippy’s customers, after some initial grumbles, Have got used to the new system, And that is The Full and True Story of How Prices Went Up at the Chippy on OK Corral Street.
If I had been there, seen the traitor's kiss, would I have stuck around and called you Lord? Or told the mobs their actions were remiss, and took your side, to face the Roman sword? If I had stood within the crowd that day, to watch you suffer on the cross and die, would I have wept and kissed you as you lay upon the ground, deceased? Or hurried by? Although my faith is painless, I've been blind, and haven't always had beliefs this strong; but now I know you love me - all mankind - and doubts I had before were clearly wrong. You rose to show the doubters of death's loss; now those who love you bow before The Cross.
A panic buyer, name of Stan, will grab each bottle, jar or can and leave the supermarket bare. (No toilet paper? Stan was there!) His house is full...he buys some more, and cannot squeeze inside his door!
It happened the first day of Spring: a cuckoo in drag tried to sing; the lambs and the chicks were getting their kicks by bitching about all 'her' bling.
The cuckoo was in for a shock; they pushed 'her' inside a big clock - 'she' pops out on springs, with bells on 'her' wings, and tells them, "It's creasing my frock."
On days like this on the bus, The sun shining and a blue sky, One could almost be forgiven For thinking the city habitable After all.
Then the old crones get on, shorn Heads and miserable faces, Sounding embittered at life and the Young in particular. I hear at One point:
'Young people these days!' The Old men that get on are no better, Sitting in gloomy silence with their Similarly miserable faces, walking sticks or Crutches positioned
To block anyone sitting down beside Them. I think of Nancy Astor about whom I have been reading, who was tireless in Trying to help the good citizens Of this city,
Whose reward now I suspect is That most citizens of this city do not Even recognise her name and those Will do will probably abuse her memory - 'Meddling, wealthy Yank bitch!'
I once heard from someone who grew Up here during the war. By now my mood Has darkened and I notice once more The rubbish strewn streets, graffiti on the walls And the moss
Covered lamp standards. I close my Eyes and dream of the Mediterranean At this point - the very words 'the Mediterranean' conjuring up sunshine And warmth,
Elderly people who seem happier (The climate perhaps ensuring less of them Need crutches or walking sticks), good food - Calamari or swordfish with salad and fries And not (for me)
The dreaded British Fish and chips And stodgy Sunday Roast, consigned to British pseudo pubs, which one avoids Like the plague and, above all, no Stench of pasties
On buses or in the street. I know it's me At fault, liking the sun, heat and food as I do, So - unBritish! But the Mediterranean is Paradise plain and simple. I would move There tomorrow.
Dear Dad, you endowed me with a great many things, Sound ethics and values, and a perchant to sing A wonderlust for travel, and a passion for dance but why did you leave me your collection of stamps
twas in the mid sixties you took up your hobby pictorial collections, new, franked or worn you followed this up with some first day editions from a seedy shop dealer on the dark side of town
long winter evenings spent harvesting envelopes pooled in the lamplight you tended your spree licking and sticking diminutive documents whilst the rest of the family watched 60s TV
at the turn of the decade, your eye it did wonder to more exotic specimens away from our coast Rhodesia , Cambodia, the Congo and Burma The poorer the country the prettier the post
Triangular novelties, a stockpiled obsession by the mid 1970s your assembly expands A uniformed page of serrated small stickers a philately patchwork stitched by your hand
and so for a while I shared in your passion increasing my knowledge of lands far away the stark and industrial eastern block countries contrast with the exotic of southern Malay
By the end of the decade stamp passion is waning Its turned into a monster that gobbles up time And soon your collection is consigned to the loft space A window in history from a man in his prime
May be you felt that the next generation Might covet the albums and feel just the same But modern time collections for those that came after Were pokemon stickers and electronic games
With time on my hands, I tidied your loft space And discovered anew your sticky back treasure mosaics of memories, of time spent together A snapshot in time of a family at leisure
Pictorial records of commonwealth realms Shared pages with countries which have rose through the ranks Germanic unity, the great Russian break up No euros, just drachmas , pesetas and francs
If these stamps could talk, what a story they’ll tell Of world wars and politics, religion and race if only our nations co-existed like my stamp book the world would become a far peaceful place
And so dad I have taken up your much treasured booty and regularly check all their values on line but until I find the stamp that will make me a fortune re-living our memories will suit me just fine
Queuing in the Co-op, The background muzak plays, eminently forgettable, The suddenly, it’ Itchycoo Park! The Swingin’ Sixties are back And my youth returns as the Small Faces perform magic.
The woman behind me in the queue sings along, She knows all the words, Giving away your age, dear. The Steve Marriott gets high And I remember teenage Summers, Girls, sunshine and a life without care.
“Next Please!” And I’m back to the present, Well, it was fun while it lasted.
There was a young fellow from Crewe, Who desperately wanted a screw, You’ve a real dirty mind, It’s the woodworking kind, The poor soul’s front door was askew.
So often we forget you’re there, Taken for granted, unappreciated, overlooked, But not now. The country in lockdown, Its people in peril, And you stepped forward, Accepted the challenge and took control.
You dismiss praise, Saying that you’re just doing your job; You put your lives on hold To save ours; You care for us as if we were your own.
From cleaners to consultants, Frontline to support, You have our respect, our admiration and our love, You are the NHS.
I am broken into a thousand pieces. Grief swirls around me like a sandstorm, Obliterating all light; Making it hard to breathe. My eyes ache, tears flow unchecked. The loss makes me feel violated; A thief has taken that which is dear. His name is Death and he visits too often, Stealing away those I love, Breaking my heart over and over
A party for elderly vicars took place at the 'Dog in the Wickers' - the things that they said made bar staff turn red, and then they revealed frilly knickers...
I miss you when we are apart For I've loved only you from the start, But what makes my soul sing Is the joy that you bring As I hold you love, here, in my heart.
Flat foot floogie with the floy floy, Flat foot floogie with the floy floy, But where the floy doy, floy doy stuff comes in is beyond me. Yalloping Hounds have got nothing on Joplin; Not Scott or Janice, But Joplin the puma cub, Who chewed my son James’s ear as he cuddled her. Not that he sang sit down next to me, As, at the time, he was distracted His arms full of puma cub And his mind was elsewhere. Of course, I liked her brother, Freddy, best. I had him plumped on my chest as a nineteen-day old cub. Puma cubs’ fur is so soft when you stroke them; And they wriggle a lot, Sniffing your fingers and nibbling at them.
There’s advantage in your years as a wrinkly, you can get away with murder now and then, because they think you’re past your sell by date now, opportunities arise to cause mayhem.
A heaven sent excuse for all your failings, so while you can, add an extra few, no longer do you have to suffer people who have for years irritated you.
Cast off any lifetime inhibitions, now is your moment changes can be made, pussy footing round an awkward subject is no more – just call a spade a spade.
For wrinklies can be anything they want to, attack the hobbies that you never tried, use your time to make new friends, enjoy them, achieve some goals, allow yourself some pride.
Although maybe your hands don’t grip well, ankles ache and lifting knocks you out, arrange your day to simplify your workload, your years of coping should give you the clout.
Get evil, now you’re a dear old person, who would suspect it of a nice old soul? Manipulate shop queues, get pushy with your views, rattle relatives till they are up the pole.
Wear a hearing aid, pretend the batteries fade, hype it up, employ your acting skills, so when you’re bored with chat, put the blame on that, for one sided conversation really kills.
If family ignored your needs and wishes, and use your sympathy to con you blind, the time they left their washing or the dishes now it’s your chance to show them you did mind!
So, suddenly you’re brain dead and pathetic, can’t remember when they ask you to fetch this or that, or feed the cat, or do some boring housework that they know darned well it’s something they should do!
Keep it up until they get the message, you’ve done your job in giving your support, and now your time has come, you are more than just a Mum, live it up and leave them with that thought!
I’m never going to live long enough to use, all these bags for life I’ve been given Before they wear out I’ll be gadding about, in a celestial shopping heaven No more St Michaels labels now, St Peters ones instead I’ll be surfing a cloud in my shapeless shroud, no choice but white when you’re dead
Nylon wings are the latest thing, they drip dry after showers A couple of shakes is all it takes, you can fly about for hours If you have got a halo you can bet, it’s been finished off with varnish If you fall from grace and land on your face, at least your shine won’t tarnish
Free travel is yours, wherever you like, if you fancy some quick cloud hopping Everything on line, what’s yours is mine, it’s a hive of partner swapping The doctors and shrinks are playing golf so nothing changes there Hitting a ball on the celestial links without a worry or care
No stringent rules, no jobs, no schools, it’s a politicians dream No Asbo hoodies, we’re all goodies, no middle of the road extremes In fact its positively boring, far too many good things So I’m slipping under the pearly gates and handing back my wings
We found our way that Saturday to the Waterfront barbeque With food enough for an army and lots of stuff to do On a lovely sunny summers day in the garden at Carol and John’s In such good company it’s possible for diets to go on the run
Out in the garden a perfect lawn set up for a game of bowls Keeping in mind Carol’s rhubarb pots were not the ultimate goals Everybody was teamed up into improbable pairs Some of us just hadn’t a clue, we hadn’t played for years
Then we got in a competition and aided by a drink The average Waterfront writer is more dangerous than you think John the barbeque king was doing his thing with sausages and kebabs With socks the dog in attendance hoping something was up for grabs
The table was quietly caving in, groaning under the weight Carol had thought of everything so we all heaped up our plates Contributions from everyone and a plentiful choice to drink With such good company its possible for diets to go on the blink
Groups in conversations and camera’s on the click Then our quiz took place, what a disgrace, two crosses to every tick But “Hey Nonny No”, we all had a go then John burst into song Musical entertainment and a chance to sing along
Other musicians began to play following John’s lead In fact nearly enough for a pop group if ever we felt the need The Wandering Waterfront Minstrels with a back-up choir in tow We have more words than music but we’re ready to have a go
So the barbeque was a great success enjoyed by everyone And a thanks to our hosts, Carol and John for the music, the food and the fun
Thus lack of knowledge doth make experts of us all. And thus a reasoned view from this confusion Is darkly covered by competing politics And arguments of wide and great import With this impact their currents turn awry And lose the name of science.
Common sense means maintain social distancing, Ordinary people perform small acts of kindness; Vigilance is everything, stay alert. Intelligence, application and research lead, Directly, to a treatment and a cure.
No-one should flout the rules, but so many do, I wonder what will be the cost of their selfishness. No-one knows, exactly, what is for the best; Everyone expects the Government to sort things out. Test and Trace is the answer! Oh yeah? Everyone thinks it won’t happen to them, Everyone could be wrong, No-one is safe until it’s over.
I wake, still tired, to a dawn chorus of yelping gulls, To a grey sky, a grey day, a grey world. I am alone, a prisoner, Freedom just a word that used to be, COVID-19 closes in, around me like a shroud, Heavier than a lead coffin And I close in upon myself. No present, no future, no hope, My life pointless.
Another Covid poem from Nick, but I'm pleased to report that he isn't really depressed!
In this year of Coronavirus, 2020, we decided to still hold our annual contest, The Jan Crocker Cup. As usual, the results and the winning entry are posted on our website, but we decided to post all entries on this blogsite.
The results were: 1st place - Jack Horne 2nd place - Roger Schiff 3rd place - Jack Horne & Sarah Tindall
The Great Getaway by Jack Horne
I yearned to leave the human race and holidayed in outer space. I toured a planet yet unknown - such utter peace: I was alone. The days were whooshing super-fast and all too soon it was my last. I feared I'd never see again each crater, mountain, hill or plain, and cherished all the time I had, so tranquil that it made me sad.
I skied on snow and skated ice and climbed volcanoes once or twice, the moons and psychedelic rain all added to my sense of pain. (Now back to Earth, the virus rife, a job I hate and nagging wife). I took a spacewalk - what a view! I couldn't leave, that much I knew. Then with the spaceship close to me, I cut my cord to float off freeeee...
Safe House (1) Come in my son, you are safe here, Unload your burdens, unload your fears. Be kind to yourself, sit down and rest, This is a good place, this secret address.
(2) Celebrities sadly destroying their lives, Singers, film legends, footballers’ wives. Sexuality, genders, fame people obsessed, This is a good place, this secret address.
(3) Chinese virus, thousands now lying dead, Guilt, death and Hell, at night in my head. Wicked sprout like weeds, political unrest, This is a good place, this secret address.
(4) Yoga, mindfulness may have their place, So much anxiety stalks the human race. No meaning, self, hard to love and accept, This is a good place, this secret address.
(5) Prayer is simple but hard for modern man, Much wrought by prayer, by praying hands. Humble yourself, you have done your best, This is a good place, this secret address.
Dr Sun, my therapist, welcomes me into his room, Chides me gently for missing So many sessions in the past months. I lie on the couch. He asks how I feel. Tight-buttoned, I hesitate and then it all floods out. Darkness of days, a fog of loneliness, Grey despair. The view from under the quilt. Mood swings from black to blacker. Sharp pains, dull pains, the constant ache Of disappointment. Scratchy discontent.
He sighs and says that I have been too long in indigo And need to embrace turquoise, sapphire, cerulean, I need to throw off penitent sackcloth And clothe myself in silk and breeze. I should change my perfume. Jasmine, rose, sandalwood replacing fear. Stop pacing and start dancing. His advice slides over my skin like warm honey. I am myself again. Dr Sun has healed me. I feel the light rather than see it.
Her colleagues thought she was a bore and found her easy to ignore, they smirked about her style of dress and said she always looked a mess. She pitched her tent upon the shore and hoped to hear the monster roar; the gal was praying for success on holiday beside Loch Ness!
A guy was also camping there - if people laughed he didn't care, they talked about his clothes and hair. At once they knew they were a pair!
At midnight as they shared a kiss and felt they couldn't know more bliss - the loneliness was at an end as each of them had found a friend (they'd waited all their lives for this) - the monster crept up with a hiss... too fast for them to comprehend, they died together that weekend.
Stretching away, the sky leaden into an indeterminate horizon Here and there, a break in the oppressive canopy and a marbling of Mother of Pearl.
Up close, grey-green and white peaked rollers Smash up against the gritted shore. The taste of desolation in every saltiness of every intake of breath The spiteful probing of the wind and the sharp slap of cold Against the cheek and tears forced from assaulted eyes
The crunch of sharp stones, beneath thin soles, soaked socks clinging like bone white hands to the ankles in an embrace as cold as death; the vacant shells like derelict houses, tenantless.
Pebbles, which whetted, shine like the glass beads of dolls eyes; The fishing boat, like a metal pan, tumbled in a vast washing tub - The cry of a solitary gull; I am neither dead, nor alone, in my ten- year Self, a muffled patch of scarlet, Measured against all that eternity.
Enjoying the space, no need to rush No hassles from anything; no fuss.
Time to cook, to walk and explore The limited-time that I 'should' go outdoors.
The reduction in work, the peace, the quiet The greenery, the sun, the starry night.
I 'should' join a choir, I 'should' ride my bike I 'should' go to the moor, for a stomp and a hike.
I 'should' go to the gym, do pump and a swim I 'should' do some aerobics, I 'should' drink less gin.
So many 'shoulds', now externally controlled My mind is now calmer; I observe what unfolds.
And yet, when I focus internally, or, apparent in my dreams There's an undercurrent of anxiety, or so it seems.
An insecurity, a sense of loss, a helpless desperation So, there is a cost, to the positives of the isolation, to the reduction in choice Unconsciously, there seems a pretty scared voice.
Old farmhouse nestling in the hills, hot July days spent round the pool surrounded by oleander and lavender reading a book or taking a siesta. Franki and Dave walk round bare foot, his ankles swell up. We go down to buy the bread, a short stroll in the heat. Charles buys a trilby, a Dirk Bogarde in Venice lookalike. At nightfall it's pitch black. Closed shutters keep mosquitoes out but there's always one! The smells of lavender bring it all back.
Windsurfers, kites, colourful umbrellas on the beach, along the promenade students tinker with bikes for hire. At Terlincks white tablecloths flap, waiters serve an aperitif, a Kir, mussels in white wine. In the main street trams to Ostend rumble by, silver reflects back from windows of chic boutiques. But you are too tired to stroll further than the statue of King Leopold. Your sand is running out.
Suffolk, Dunwich we see no more, Washed away from yielding seashore. Numerous examples we may yet see, Towns and cities die, as you and me
(1) Sailors, thinkers, men of God above us tower, Plymouth history find courage and empower. Blessed, hurting inside, wounded not falter, Pilgrimage begins by the deep deep water.
(2) Trees that never wither, bright and green, Nature so awesome what does it all mean? Blessed with understanding, fun and laughter, Roots reaching down,, joy in deep deep water. (3) Plymouth city of sailors, students, Ocean City, Pilgrim Fathers, John Hawkins, British history. Be blessed, but have we failed our daughters? 800 abortions, struggling in deep deep water
I thought this was appropriate as this blogsite has very definitely died : )
A lonely coffin, bleak and bare, with only undertakers there. The vicar, saddened by the sight, envisioned everlasting light, and prayed a lost and loveless soul could find salvation and be whole.
She didn't care about the scene - and if the churchyard trees were green, or wintry branches, void of life - she only knew she was a wife, a mother, granny, aunt, and friend. The loneliness was at an end, and now with parents, siblings, pets, her tears were over, no regrets.
The vicar turned and walked away; he'd three more funerals that day...
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWelcome!
DeleteI hope you're all keeping well (& sane) during the lockdown!
ReplyDeleteTo start the ball rolling, here are some poems from Carol:
Holiday in Margate by Carol Butson
ReplyDeleteWe were off on holiday, in 1953
Mum booked up for a week, at a Margate B&B
In our ancient Austin Seven, with our luggage in the boot
Buckets and spades upon our knees, Dad in his best suit
As we drove along the road the journey seemed to fly
We were singing ten green bottles, and playing at “I spy”
At last we arrived at the B&B and entered the dingy hall
The smell of boiled cabbage, and a picture of the King on the wall
Scratchy sheets on lumpy beds, net curtains dull and grey
But we were kids, and happy just to be beside the sea
We woke up in the morning, the sun was shining bright
We headed off towards the beach, clutching bucket, spade and kite,
We changed into our bathers which were dreadfully ill fitting
They soaked up all the water because they were made of knitting
Emerging from the sea the crotch hung down between our knees
The icy water was so cold our toes and fingers freeze
Mother very daring tucked her dress into her drawers
And had a little paddle as she watched us from the shore
While Father sat in a deckchair, hairy legs in khaki shorts
A knotted hankie on his head, with the paper, back page, sports
It was such a struggle getting out of a wet cossie
Wind whipping at our towel, sand in every nook and cranny
Then out came the bucket, build a castle made of sand
Seaweed flag and driftwood drawbridge, we were kings who ruled the land
Up to the shop for a bottle of pop and a bright green fishing net
Searching rock pools, catching shrimps, our dresses getting wet
Mother bought us ice creams, and sticks of bright pink rock
We did not heed dire warnings that our teeth would start to rot
And then along the sandy beach we had a donkey ride
We watched the ships far out to sea and saw the incoming tide
We collected shells In buckets, to take home and keep for ever
Memories of a magic time that we would always treasure
In the restaurant the menu was excitedly perused
We were so excited ‘cos we were allowed to choose
Knickerbocker glory, cheese omelette, cod in batter
The waitress said, “You’re late, it’s off, we only have spam fritters”
We walked along the promenade, the brass band in the park
Then back to bed in the B&B because it was getting dark
Next day suitcase packed and loaded, ready to depart
Leaving our seaside paradise, with a heavy heart
Off we drove, a last glimpse of the sand and sparkling sea
But father said “Now cheer up kids, we’re back next year, you’ll see”
I now go to Majorca, where it’s never wet and cold
But I still remember Margate, when I was seven years old.
Another Day in A and E - By I. M. A. Bedde.
ReplyDeleteAnother day in A and E, what will it bring I wonder,
I need a bit of a tidy up, there’s a bit of blood down under.
They need to wash my legs and my pillows need a plump,
My mattress needs a wash down ‘cos it’s feeling rather damp.
Oh good, here comes the cleaner, a cheerful soul is she,
Around my nether regions mopping up the drops of wee.
I must be spotless, sterilised, germ free and sparkling clean,
My next customer will be here soon, I wonder where he’s been.
Look out, he’s here, a little boy – he’s fallen off his bike,
And Mum is very worried ‘cos she thinks his wrist is broke.
A kindly nurse says “never mind, we’ll fix it don’t you fear”,
She brings a smile to his little face as she wipes away his tears.
A quick wipe down they change my sheets who will be next I wonder
I’m proud of what I do each day when their lives are torn asunder.
It’s my job to support them and keep them safe and warm,
I am their friend and carer until they can go home.
A homeless man is next to lie upon my pristine sheets,
Silent, sad, so shabby, it almost breaks my heart.
They warm him up and wash him, but I know he cannot stay,
And all too soon the poor old man is sent upon his way.
All day the patients come, then go, time schedules must be listed,
Heart attacks and broken bones, bruises, ankles twisted.
I’m a very important member of staff, here in A and E,
I am a bed, I see it all, what would they do without me.
Signed – I. M. A. Bedde.
(And his friend Carol Butson)
Waterfront Writers - Plymouth
Copyright (C) Carol Butson 2020
And a daft limerick from me:
ReplyDeleteShe went for a walk in the park,
although it was cold-ish and dark,
she needed to pee,
then noticed the bee,
and said, 'Bugger this for a lark.'
OK, I know bees would be safely tucked up in their hives when it was cold & dark...
Many thanks to everyone who sent me their poems today. Here's the first one from Nick, which had me laughing out loud & spitting coffee across the room.
ReplyDeleteCOVID-19 by Nick Spargo
The economy's wound up in bits,
That COVID-19 is the pits,
You can't be a rover,
Until you are over
Your fever, your cough and the shits.
Enticement
ReplyDeleteBy Annie Jenkin
A glimmer of spring
lay around the corner
shimmering with promises.
The day lengthens and entices
bluebells and harebells to waken
peeking out beneath heather's glow.
Meadows are refreshed
with new Timothy and Hair-tuft.
All winter long a red breast
stood on his field post,
now he scuttles around below
as a blackbird sings aloft.
Skies are cerulean blue
and seagulls sky-dance.
Upon the placid waterways
streamlined cormorant's race
as a sailor readies his craft
with a glimmer of spring in his eye.
By Claire Lodge
ReplyDeleteEnjoying the space
No need to rush
No hassles from anything
No fuss.
Time to cook
To walk and explore
The limited-time that
I 'should' go outdoors.
The reduction in work
The peace, the quiet
The greenery
The sun
The starry night.
I 'should' join a choir
I 'should' ride my bike
I 'should' go to the moor
For a stomp and a hike.
I 'should' go to the gym
Do pump and a swim
I 'should' do some aerobics
I 'should' drink less gin.
So many 'shoulds'
Now externally controlled
My mind is now calmer
I observe what unfolds.
And yet, when I focus internally
Or, apparent in my dreams
There's an undercurrent of anxiety
Or so it seems.
An insecurity, a sense of loss
A helpless desperation
So there is a cost
To the positives of the isolation
To the reduction in choice
Unconsciously, there seems a pretty scared voice.
Blessings is to all writers!
ReplyDeleteA Singing Sensation .
Unveiled in chords of harmonious
rapture. Pure innocence echoed
In the enchanted voice.
The blues and jazz in such sensual rhythm an outstanding portrayal
None to surpass of Ella Fitzgerald
the LADY of JAZZ.
Sue Gage March 2020
Copyright.
An Ode.
When you get old
And you cant touch
Your toes. and your
Belly drops to your
Knees.
Pretend it's not fat
and give it a pat and
Say this belongs to ME !
Sue Gage March 2020
Copyright.
Coughs and Sneezes by Carol Butson
ReplyDeleteCoughs and sneezes spread diseases
Hacking, spluttering, snot and phlegm
You get on the bus and you get coughed on
They sit behind you spraying germs
Noses dripping, hankies wiping,
Streaming eyes and chest infections.
All of a sudden a mighty sneeze,
And flu is sprayed in all directions.
Influenza germs are wafting,
Like toxic fumes from a jumbo jet.
Infecting the whole bus with their coughing,
At the next stop, off you’ll get.
The doctors surgery is not safe,
Sore throat, earache, feeling hot.
They sit beside you wiping noses,
With paper tissues soaked in snot.
Into the chemist to find a cure,
Aspirin, throat spray, menthol sweets,
Day nurse, Night nurse, Lemsip, Kleenex
You’ve spent ten quid before you leave
Stagger home and go to bed,
Rub some Vick upon your chest.
Inhale some steam and have a whiskey,
And then put on your thermal vest.
You had a flu jab in November,
The doctor said “you won’t get ill,
This jab will keep you fighting fit”
He was telling lies ‘cos you caught it still. Aaaaachooo!!!
Carol Butson Copyright (C) 2020
Give Me British Food by Carol Butson
ReplyDeleteWhat in God’s name has happened to our great old British food,
The roast beef and the pork pies and the steak and kidney pud,
Brown sauce with our sausages and vinegar on our chips,
Fish that’s fried in batter, as with greasy fat it drips.
Toad in the hole with Oxo gravy, baked beans on the side,
Liver and onions, mushy peas, a source of British pride.
Bangers and mash with gravy, and Spam fritters taste so good,
Bacon and eggs in a fry up and black pudding made with blood.
And what’s happened to our salad, with lettuce crisp and green
Tomato and some cucumber and a pickled onion seen.
Now it’s olives and weird feta cheese and the tomatoes are sundried,
And chorizo sausage, all fat and gristle, now that I can’t abide.
And what is wrong with white sliced bread that lasts a good ten days,
We don’t need those dry baguettes that are rock hard anyway.
And who wants Frenchy croissants for their breakfast, I still say
That a good stiff bowl of porridge will keep you feeling full all day.
The Scots they have their haggis, with minced heart and lungs it’s scrummy,
And the Cornish pasty is the best for filling up your tummy.
And if you come from London town you are in for a treat,
With jellied eels and pie and liquor, it’s all so good to eat.
Now we all eat foreign muck, the EU is to blame,
Everything is red and sloppy, and it all just tastes the same.
Chilli and fajitas and Spaghetti Bolognese,
Pizza and lasagne topped with strange Italian cheese.
Indian curry, made from meat that can’t be identified,
With day-glo yellow sauce so hot that your tonsils they are fried.
And what about the Chinese food that all just tastes the same,
An hour after you’ve eaten it you’re hungry once again.
Give me English food that makes me grow up big and strong
And good old British ale, now I can quaff that all day long.
You can keep your smelly garlic cheese and your gassy German lager,
It’s British food for me today, tomorrow and for ever.
Carol Butson © 2020
Another daft limerick from me:
ReplyDeleteA duchess was locked in the loo,
inhaling the smell of her poo -
she cussed and she groaned,
she muttered and moaned,
as others were stuck in the queue...
For 30er 65.
ReplyDelete65 is only a number
It accounts for the years
Of my life !
40 of them spent with you
As your darling wife !
2 off those years I washed
Your socks.and 3 of them did
the washing up!
It took 5 of them to make
the bed and that was while
You still read !
For 30 years I continued to work
And while the pubs were open
WHO ironed your shirts!
The 40 years i slept with you
I even showed you what to do !
Sue Gage
Copyright March 2020
Lifes Highway !
I looked for direction
But all I could see
Was a shadow of you
Walking beside me .
You took my hand and
Lead me on.to find a
Signpost which I leaned upon.
Each way pointed straight ahead
So I took the path from which
I read.
On lifes highway
Enjoy each day its
Only lent not here to
STAY.
Sue Gage copyright
March 2020
BOUNCING THOUGHTS by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteSitting on a bus, observing social distancing,
People with rubber gloves and facemasks,
And people with glum expressions.
The COVID-19 effect.
It’s really quite interesting,
Research shows that, unless you are in close contact,
Facemasks and rubber gloves are superfluous.
Of course, a study in the USA shows that facemasks are necessary.
Who commissioned the study?
Could it have been manufacturer of facemasks?
If you are old enough, you’ll remember a study on cyclamate sweeteners,
The study, carried out in the USA, showed that they were carcinogenic.
But the rats, who were the subjected to the study
Had to ingest ridiculously huge amounts of cyclamates
Before any effect was manifest.
Who carried out the study?
Could it have been the US Sugar Corporation?
I look out of the bus window
And a herring gull strolls past,
It’s toenails incongruously blue against pink feet.
Do herring gulls visit beauty salons?
Strange, I thought they were all shut.
“Pa’s Dying” and “The Wrong Trousers” by Nicky Bevan-French.
ReplyDelete“Pa’s dying” she said, feeling the words,
Acknowledging the weight of them, the sound of them.
They weighed heavy on her, each letter cutting into her,
Sharp edges piercing her skin and her mind.
They sounded dull, hollow, like an old cracked bell.
“Pa’s dying” she said again, tasting the words,
Metallically bitter, like blood when you bite your cheek
Or the taste of a 9 volt battery against your tongue.
She felt that she needed to keep saying the words
Aloud; in her head; whispered; to herself; to others.
She had to understand them, believe them, learn them,
Know that they were true and one day they’d be
“Pa is dead.” instead and those words,
They’d be barbed so viciously, tearing her
Ripping into her soul and bringing harsh salt tears,
Rolling fat down her cheeks, pooling at her throat.
It hurt her heart to think of a world without him in.
This man, this clever, funny man, with stories and tales
And such a way of telling them to you.
This man who knows so much about ancient times
And how those days gone by led to the here and now.
Where would all that go? Would it all just be gone?
It didn’t seem fair somehow, not only to lose the man
But to lose all that made him Pa. She wept.
--------------------------------------------------------
“Stop your mithering, woman” he chuntered.
“I’m wearing them and that’s that!”
Picking up his coat he added
“There’s nothing wrong with these trousers!”
His lips set in a straight line, disapproval shown
He went out of the house, holding the door for her
Because after all, he was a gentleman
And a gentle man, mannerly and kind.
Poor Pa, whatever trousers he wore, whatever occasion
They always seemed to be declared unsuitable.
Wrong colour, wrong style, too old, too new.
Pa couldn’t do right for doing wrong, it seemed!
But they were comfortably happy, these two.
Many years of companionable bickering,
The love between them like a soft blanket
Enveloping all who spent time with them.
I cherished conversations and time spent with him.
Not my Dad but still a father to me, loving and loved.
I learned so much from his wealth of knowledge,
Sharing, explaining, helping on endless topics,
Of his favourite, ancient times, he knew so much.
He once renamed some treacherous months for me
When year after year those months had hurt me.
Naming them for dead Emperors, to break the spell.
Gardening, another thing he loved and did so well
Apart from that time, I remember to this day,
He said the mint was taking over round the pond, cut it
And the heron came and took all the fish away.
And when my weeping willow got too severe a cut!
My garden is more beautiful because of him,
The plants precious and dear to me,
Living reminders of time spent with Pa.
His burial, I thought would be a heartbreak.
That it would overwhelm me to say that last goodbye.
But the day was kind, sun shone, birds sang.
He would have approved – perhaps he made it so.
We gathered round the grave that had received him,
And with goods for his journey carefully placed
Spoke precious memories with love. My voice caught
As I mentioned ………..The Wrong Trousers.
More offerings from me:
ReplyDeleteA cleaner was called Mrs Rue,
and spent all the day in the loo,
the lav her domain,
she worked on each stain,
her hands often covered in poo.
Proctologists, Rimmer and Ho
are delving in bottoms I know,
and smells often linger,
(I sniffed at a finger),
and sweetcorn adorned an elbow.
Meeting with a Mermaid
ReplyDeleteThe mermaid swimming in the sea
was scowling when she spotted me -
quite ghastly with her seaweed hair,
she wasn't rattled by my stare,
and hauled herself on board my boat
(despite her weight, we stayed afloat).
Her scaly tail and fishy smell
convinced me that this gal was Hell,
and then she shoved me overboard.
My shouts and splashes quite ignored,
she cackled loudly, yelled, 'Whoopee'
and left me stranded in the sea...
A witch on a journey at night
ReplyDeletewas gripping her broomstick in fright -
the batteries low,
a distance to go,
she wished that she'd traveled by kite!
THE FULL AND TRUE STORY OF HOW PRICES WENT UP AT THE CHIPPY ON OK CORRAL STREET by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteIt was the day that the fish and chip shop,
You know, the one opposite the Plastic Loofah pub
On OK Corral Street, two doors up
From the Mohandas Karamchand McGregor Indian takeaway
And three along from the Hearts of Oak Health Centre,
Caught fire.
It was only a small fire,
And it wouldn’t have happened at all
If William, the assistant, who’d been left in charge
By the owner, Isaac Abernathy,
Hadn’t take advantage of the fact that there were no customers
To nip off to the bog to give himself a quick five-fingered shuffle.
It must be said, that it wasn’t entirely William’s fault,
It was because his girlfriend, Matilda,
You know, her with the ginger hair done in dreadlocks
Who works on the chilled gateaux’s counter
Of the Away and Empirical shop-in-shop at TESCO,
Across from the Council Recreation fields
Next to the old gasometers,
Had gone to her mother’s for two weeks
Because her mother’s cat had become depressed,
Due to the fact that Tom and Jerry had been cancelled indefinitely,
And had taken to drinking her mother’s medicinal gin
And her mother couldn’t cope with a drunken cat piddling on the arms of the sofa,
So William wasn’t getting any.
The fire was spotted by Elsie Skullsworthy,
You know, her with the wooden leg
And a morbid fear of flames and Income Tax Inspectors
Who, once she had called the fire brigade,
Disappeared inside the Plastic Loofah
To drink brandy and lovage like it was going out of fashion.
When the fire brigade arrived,
William had already emerged and had put the fire out
With the vinegar from three large jars of pickled onions and one of pickled eggs,
And was contemplating washing his hands
And sampling a couple of the onions and an egg
With some of the chips that had been frying.
Not much had been lost,
Only two pieces of cod, one of plaice and three fish cakes,
Although William reckoned that one of the fishcakes would have been alright,
But he had to dump it, as he didn’t like vinegar on fishcakes.
The firemen were a bit pissed off at being called out for nothing,
And one of them, Egbert ‘Lardass’ Lillicrap,
You know, him with the wig and halitosis, who’s only a part-time fireman,
Continued:
ReplyDeleteHis real job is in the office at the pig fat rendering plant on the Alamo Industrial Estate,
And who doesn’t like William because the chippy only uses vegetable oil for cooking,
Called William a wanker,
Which, although it was true, touched William on the raw,
And he replied that Egbert could take his hosepipe
And shove it where the sun didn’t shine.
While the other firemen didn’t mind this,
Egbert not being the most popular of men,
When William said that there couldn’t be much to a fireman’s job
If a tosser like Egbert could do it, they became a little agitated.
From this point the situation deteriorated,
With the firemen threatening to put the pickled onions, eggs and the jars they came in,
Somewhere that William would find painful and unpleasant,
And from which location it would take several hours
And a team of proctologists to remove them.
William, rather more forcefully perhaps than was necessary, asked them to leave,
And when they had done so, he began to clean out the fat fryers.
While he was doing this, the firemen’s union rep, Arnold Breaksnap,
You know, him with the bandy legs and a wart,
Who came second in the Cleverlee all-comers tango competition,
Despite the fact he had a sore throat and flatulence,
Called them out on strike,
And formed them into an official picket outside the chippy.
When William had finished cleaning out the fryers,
He noticed the firemen turning all his customers away,
But being of an inventive turn of mind,
And knowing that people can cross picket lines for medical treatment,
He called Dr Alfie Wong at the Hearts of Oak Health Centre.
What exactly William said to Alfie, nobody knows,
But according to Hilda Armenfract, the receptionist,
You know, her with the lisp whose bosoms point in different directions
And who does the really crap karaoke in the Plastic Loofah,
Alfie looked really serious for a minute, then grinned his big, shark’s grin.
Then he rushed off to the computer
And printed off loads and loads of prescription forms.
Not National Health ones, but the Private Patient Ones that Gladys Obelisk,
You know, her with the nervous twitch
And eyebrows that meet in the middle,
Gets when she wants her special nerve tonic.
Then he put that big sign in the window.
It didn’t take long for the chippy’s customers to catch on,
They’d call in at the Hearts of Oak and give their orders to Alfie
Who’d write them down neatly on a prescription form,
The customers would then toddle off to the chippy,
Show their prescription to the firemen
And pass the picket.
Of course, William had been thinking,
Which was usually bad news for somebody,
And when the customers arrived, they found he’d taken all the prices down,
And when the presented their prescriptions,
William would cook it fresh,
And charge them the same as the NHS charges for a bottle of pills.
As a result Isaac Abernathy’s takings went up,
So he put William in permanent charge of the chippy
And branched out into hospital catering.
Dr. Alfie Wong set up a special team at the Hearts of Oak,
Nobody is quite sure what they do,
But Alfie’s just bought himself a new Mercedes.
After about four weeks the firemen gave up their picket
When the local newspaper accused them of putting patients’ lives at risk,
The chippy’s customers, after some initial grumbles,
Have got used to the new system,
And that is
The Full and True Story of How Prices Went Up at the Chippy on OK Corral Street.
If I had been there, seen the traitor's kiss,
ReplyDeletewould I have stuck around and called you Lord?
Or told the mobs their actions were remiss,
and took your side, to face the Roman sword?
If I had stood within the crowd that day,
to watch you suffer on the cross and die,
would I have wept and kissed you as you lay
upon the ground, deceased? Or hurried by?
Although my faith is painless, I've been blind,
and haven't always had beliefs this strong;
but now I know you love me - all mankind -
and doubts I had before were clearly wrong.
You rose to show the doubters of death's loss;
now those who love you bow before The Cross.
A panic buyer, name of Stan,
ReplyDeletewill grab each bottle, jar or can
and leave the supermarket bare.
(No toilet paper? Stan was there!)
His house is full...he buys some more,
and cannot squeeze inside his door!
It happened the first day of Spring:
ReplyDeletea cuckoo in drag tried to sing;
the lambs and the chicks
were getting their kicks
by bitching about all 'her' bling.
The cuckoo was in for a shock;
they pushed 'her' inside a big clock -
'she' pops out on springs,
with bells on 'her' wings,
and tells them, "It's creasing my frock."
THE REMAINS OF THE WOODEN BOAT by Michael Coombe
ReplyDeleteFor the umpteenth time
I pass the remains of the
Wooden boat in the Plym Estuary
Just off the Laira shore.
Whether the tide is
In or out the disintegrating
Hulk (an old fishing smack -
Although I am no expert
Seem to recall seeing
Something similar in a
Photograph in a Barbican pub)?
Strikes a chord with me.
When I am in a good mood
I feel its human equivalent:
Ageing gently but at least
In a place I know.
When I am in a dark mood,
Also feel its human equivalent:
A disintegrating wreck
Abandoned and wretched.
AM I BREAKING THE LAW?
Sitting upstairs on the bus
And the third one gets on -
A man of my age in his
Sixties, backpack slung
Over one shoulder and
Woolly hat that can be
Pulled down over the
Ears when it gets cold.
It is as if there is a law -
Men in their sixties
WILL carry backpacks
Over one shoulder,
WILL wear woolly hats
That can be pulled
Down Over the ears
When it gets cold.
Am I breaking the/that
Law? If so, when was it
Enacted? Don't recall Radio 4
News mentioning it...
Then I laugh at myself
As I write these words
But then again my Court Summons
Could be on the doormat
When I get home this afternoon
Sans backpack and woolly hat
To be pulled over my ears
When it gets cold!
On Days Like This by Michael Coombe
ReplyDeleteOn days like this on the bus,
The sun shining and a blue sky,
One could almost be forgiven
For thinking the city habitable
After all.
Then the old crones get on, shorn
Heads and miserable faces,
Sounding embittered at life and the
Young in particular. I hear at
One point:
'Young people these days!' The
Old men that get on are no better,
Sitting in gloomy silence with their
Similarly miserable faces, walking sticks or
Crutches positioned
To block anyone sitting down beside
Them. I think of Nancy Astor about whom
I have been reading, who was tireless in
Trying to help the good citizens
Of this city,
Whose reward now I suspect is
That most citizens of this city do not
Even recognise her name and those
Will do will probably abuse her memory -
'Meddling, wealthy Yank bitch!'
I once heard from someone who grew
Up here during the war. By now my mood
Has darkened and I notice once more
The rubbish strewn streets, graffiti on the walls
And the moss
Covered lamp standards. I close my
Eyes and dream of the Mediterranean
At this point - the very words 'the
Mediterranean' conjuring up sunshine
And warmth,
Elderly people who seem happier
(The climate perhaps ensuring less of them
Need crutches or walking sticks), good food -
Calamari or swordfish with salad and fries
And not (for me)
The dreaded British Fish and chips
And stodgy Sunday Roast, consigned to
British pseudo pubs, which one avoids
Like the plague and, above all, no
Stench of pasties
On buses or in the street. I know it's me
At fault, liking the sun, heat and food as I do,
So - unBritish! But the Mediterranean is
Paradise plain and simple. I would move
There tomorrow.
3 Haiku
Rain falls -
Washes my happiness
away.
Even at the 'Victoria'
Gloom and
Depression.
After a Woods at
The 'Victoria' -
Contentment.
Dad’s Stamps by Lyn Rowland
ReplyDeleteDear Dad, you endowed me with a great many things,
Sound ethics and values, and a perchant to sing
A wonderlust for travel, and a passion for dance
but why did you leave me your collection of stamps
twas in the mid sixties you took up your hobby
pictorial collections, new, franked or worn
you followed this up with some first day editions
from a seedy shop dealer on the dark side of town
long winter evenings spent harvesting envelopes
pooled in the lamplight you tended your spree
licking and sticking diminutive documents
whilst the rest of the family watched 60s TV
at the turn of the decade, your eye it did wonder
to more exotic specimens away from our coast
Rhodesia , Cambodia, the Congo and Burma
The poorer the country the prettier the post
Triangular novelties, a stockpiled obsession
by the mid 1970s your assembly expands
A uniformed page of serrated small stickers
a philately patchwork stitched by your hand
and so for a while I shared in your passion
increasing my knowledge of lands far away
the stark and industrial eastern block countries
contrast with the exotic of southern Malay
By the end of the decade stamp passion is waning
Its turned into a monster that gobbles up time
And soon your collection is consigned to the loft space
A window in history from a man in his prime
May be you felt that the next generation
Might covet the albums and feel just the same
But modern time collections for those that came after
Were pokemon stickers and electronic games
With time on my hands, I tidied your loft space
And discovered anew your sticky back treasure
mosaics of memories, of time spent together
A snapshot in time of a family at leisure
Pictorial records of commonwealth realms
Shared pages with countries which have rose through the ranks
Germanic unity, the great Russian break up
No euros, just drachmas , pesetas and francs
If these stamps could talk, what a story they’ll tell
Of world wars and politics, religion and race
if only our nations co-existed like my stamp book
the world would become a far peaceful place
And so dad I have taken up your much treasured booty
and regularly check all their values on line
but until I find the stamp that will make me a fortune
re-living our memories will suit me just fine
SOCIAL DISTANCING
ReplyDeleteBy Nick Spargo
Queuing in the Co-op,
The background muzak plays, eminently forgettable,
The suddenly, it’ Itchycoo Park!
The Swingin’ Sixties are back
And my youth returns as the Small Faces perform magic.
The woman behind me in the queue sings along,
She knows all the words,
Giving away your age, dear.
The Steve Marriott gets high
And I remember teenage Summers,
Girls, sunshine and a life without care.
“Next Please!”
And I’m back to the present,
Well, it was fun while it lasted.
IT’S ALL IN YOUR MIND
ReplyDeleteby Nick Spargo
There was a young fellow from Crewe,
Who desperately wanted a screw,
You’ve a real dirty mind,
It’s the woodworking kind,
The poor soul’s front door was askew.
NHS by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteSo often we forget you’re there,
Taken for granted, unappreciated, overlooked,
But not now.
The country in lockdown,
Its people in peril,
And you stepped forward,
Accepted the challenge and took control.
You dismiss praise,
Saying that you’re just doing your job;
You put your lives on hold
To save ours;
You care for us as if we were your own.
From cleaners to consultants,
Frontline to support,
You have our respect, our admiration and our love,
You are the NHS.
Just some silliness from my friend Carolyn Devonshire & myself in response to President Trump's remarks:
ReplyDeleteI wanted to follow advice,
but surely that wouldn't be nice -
no Lysol injection
or Clorax ingestion,
especially stuff that's half price.
* Lysol & Clorax are Domestos & Dettol to us
I am broken into a thousand pieces.
ReplyDeleteGrief swirls around me like a sandstorm,
Obliterating all light;
Making it hard to breathe.
My eyes ache, tears flow unchecked.
The loss makes me feel violated;
A thief has taken that which is dear.
His name is Death and he visits too often,
Stealing away those I love,
Breaking my heart over and over
Nicky Bevan-French
Cyberspace...
ReplyDeleteI wonder where messages go,
like travellers lost in the snow,
all night and all day,
they're sent and they stray,
so did you just get my hello?
A party for elderly vicars
ReplyDeletetook place at the 'Dog in the Wickers' -
the things that they said
made bar staff turn red,
and then they revealed frilly knickers...
FOR MY WIFE by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteI miss you when we are apart
For I've loved only you from the start,
But what makes my soul sing
Is the joy that you bring
As I hold you love, here, in my heart.
LOCKDOWN CRAZY by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteFlat foot floogie with the floy floy,
Flat foot floogie with the floy floy,
But where the floy doy, floy doy stuff comes in is beyond me.
Yalloping Hounds have got nothing on Joplin;
Not Scott or Janice,
But Joplin the puma cub,
Who chewed my son James’s ear as he cuddled her.
Not that he sang sit down next to me,
As, at the time, he was distracted
His arms full of puma cub
And his mind was elsewhere.
Of course, I liked her brother, Freddy, best.
I had him plumped on my chest as a nineteen-day old cub.
Puma cubs’ fur is so soft when you stroke them;
And they wriggle a lot,
Sniffing your fingers and nibbling at them.
Advantage Wrinkly by Thea Bruten
ReplyDeleteThere’s advantage in your years as a wrinkly, you can get away with murder now and then,
because they think you’re past your sell by date now, opportunities arise to cause mayhem.
A heaven sent excuse for all your failings, so while you can, add an extra few,
no longer do you have to suffer people who have for years irritated you.
Cast off any lifetime inhibitions, now is your moment changes can be made,
pussy footing round an awkward subject is no more – just call a spade a spade.
For wrinklies can be anything they want to, attack the hobbies that you never tried,
use your time to make new friends, enjoy them, achieve some goals, allow yourself some pride.
Although maybe your hands don’t grip well, ankles ache and lifting knocks you out,
arrange your day to simplify your workload, your years of coping should give you the clout.
Get evil, now you’re a dear old person, who would suspect it of a nice old soul?
Manipulate shop queues, get pushy with your views, rattle relatives till they are up the pole.
Wear a hearing aid, pretend the batteries fade, hype it up, employ your acting skills,
so when you’re bored with chat, put the blame on that, for one sided conversation really kills.
If family ignored your needs and wishes, and use your sympathy to con you blind,
the time they left their washing or the dishes now it’s your chance to show them you did mind!
So, suddenly you’re brain dead and pathetic, can’t remember when they ask you to
fetch this or that, or feed the cat, or do some boring housework that they know darned well it’s something they should do!
Keep it up until they get the message, you’ve done your job in giving your support, and now
your time has come, you are more than just a Mum, live it up and leave them with that thought!
And another from Thea:
ReplyDeleteBags For Life
I’m never going to live long enough to use, all these bags for life I’ve been given
Before they wear out I’ll be gadding about, in a celestial shopping heaven
No more St Michaels labels now, St Peters ones instead
I’ll be surfing a cloud in my shapeless shroud, no choice but white when you’re dead
Nylon wings are the latest thing, they drip dry after showers
A couple of shakes is all it takes, you can fly about for hours
If you have got a halo you can bet, it’s been finished off with varnish
If you fall from grace and land on your face, at least your shine won’t tarnish
Free travel is yours, wherever you like, if you fancy some quick cloud hopping
Everything on line, what’s yours is mine, it’s a hive of partner swapping
The doctors and shrinks are playing golf so nothing changes there
Hitting a ball on the celestial links without a worry or care
No stringent rules, no jobs, no schools, it’s a politicians dream
No Asbo hoodies, we’re all goodies, no middle of the road extremes
In fact its positively boring, far too many good things
So I’m slipping under the pearly gates and handing back my wings
Carol’s Barbeque - July 2011 By Thea Bruten
ReplyDeleteWe found our way that Saturday to the Waterfront barbeque
With food enough for an army and lots of stuff to do
On a lovely sunny summers day in the garden at Carol and John’s
In such good company it’s possible for diets to go on the run
Out in the garden a perfect lawn set up for a game of bowls
Keeping in mind Carol’s rhubarb pots were not the ultimate goals
Everybody was teamed up into improbable pairs
Some of us just hadn’t a clue, we hadn’t played for years
Then we got in a competition and aided by a drink
The average Waterfront writer is more dangerous than you think
John the barbeque king was doing his thing with sausages and kebabs
With socks the dog in attendance hoping something was up for grabs
The table was quietly caving in, groaning under the weight
Carol had thought of everything so we all heaped up our plates
Contributions from everyone and a plentiful choice to drink
With such good company its possible for diets to go on the blink
Groups in conversations and camera’s on the click
Then our quiz took place, what a disgrace, two crosses to every tick
But “Hey Nonny No”, we all had a go then John burst into song
Musical entertainment and a chance to sing along
Other musicians began to play following John’s lead
In fact nearly enough for a pop group if ever we felt the need
The Wandering Waterfront Minstrels with a back-up choir in tow
We have more words than music but we’re ready to have a go
So the barbeque was a great success enjoyed by everyone
And a thanks to our hosts, Carol and John for the music, the food and the fun
Apologies to Nick - I left off the last line of his poem. Here it is in its full glory!
ReplyDeleteLOCKDOWN CRAZY by Nick Spargo
Flat foot floogie with the floy floy,
Flat foot floogie with the floy floy,
But where the floy doy, floy doy stuff comes in is beyond me.
Yalloping Hounds have got nothing on Joplin;
Not Scott or Janice,
But Joplin the puma cub,
Who chewed my son James’s ear as he cuddled her.
Not that he sang sit down next to me,
As, at the time, he was distracted
His arms full of puma cub
And his mind was elsewhere.
Of course, I liked her brother, Freddy, best.
I had him plumped on my chest as a nineteen-day old cub.
Puma cubs’ fur is so soft when you stroke them;
And they wriggle a lot,
Sniffing your fingers and nibbling at them.
Strange how an old song in lockdown can trigger even stranger thoughts.
CORONAVIRUS – APOLOGIES TO HAMLET
ReplyDeleteThus lack of knowledge doth make experts of us all.
And thus a reasoned view from this confusion
Is darkly covered by competing politics
And arguments of wide and great import
With this impact their currents turn awry
And lose the name of science.
by Godfrey Ackers
I dated the astronaut, June
ReplyDelete(the woman who lived on the moon);
on telly she said,
'It messed up my head' -
I guess you could call her a loon...
My craziest time under water
ReplyDeletewas diving with Godzilla's daughter -
she spotted a whale
and gnawed at its tail,
and ruined the snorkel I'd bought 'er.
COVID NINETEEN by Nick Spargo
ReplyDeleteCommon sense means maintain social distancing,
Ordinary people perform small acts of kindness;
Vigilance is everything, stay alert.
Intelligence, application and research lead,
Directly, to a treatment and a cure.
No-one should flout the rules, but so many do,
I wonder what will be the cost of their selfishness.
No-one knows, exactly, what is for the best;
Everyone expects the Government to sort things out.
Test and Trace is the answer! Oh yeah?
Everyone thinks it won’t happen to them,
Everyone could be wrong,
No-one is safe until it’s over.
GOING DOWN
ReplyDeleteI wake, still tired, to a dawn chorus of yelping gulls,
To a grey sky, a grey day, a grey world.
I am alone, a prisoner,
Freedom just a word that used to be,
COVID-19 closes in, around me like a shroud,
Heavier than a lead coffin
And I close in upon myself.
No present, no future, no hope,
My life pointless.
Another Covid poem from Nick, but I'm pleased to report that he isn't really depressed!
In this year of Coronavirus, 2020, we decided to still hold our annual contest, The Jan Crocker Cup. As usual, the results and the winning entry are posted on our website, but we decided to post all entries on this blogsite.
ReplyDeleteThe results were:
1st place - Jack Horne
2nd place - Roger Schiff
3rd place - Jack Horne & Sarah Tindall
The Great Getaway by Jack Horne
I yearned to leave the human race
and holidayed in outer space.
I toured a planet yet unknown -
such utter peace: I was alone.
The days were whooshing super-fast
and all too soon it was my last.
I feared I'd never see again
each crater, mountain, hill or plain,
and cherished all the time I had,
so tranquil that it made me sad.
I skied on snow and skated ice
and climbed volcanoes once or twice,
the moons and psychedelic rain
all added to my sense of pain.
(Now back to Earth, the virus rife,
a job I hate and nagging wife).
I took a spacewalk - what a view!
I couldn't leave, that much I knew.
Then with the spaceship close to me,
I cut my cord to float off freeeee...
Safe House
ReplyDelete(1)
Come in my son, you are safe here,
Unload your burdens, unload your fears.
Be kind to yourself, sit down and rest,
This is a good place, this secret address.
(2)
Celebrities sadly destroying their lives,
Singers, film legends, footballers’ wives.
Sexuality, genders, fame people obsessed,
This is a good place, this secret address.
(3)
Chinese virus, thousands now lying dead,
Guilt, death and Hell, at night in my head.
Wicked sprout like weeds, political unrest,
This is a good place, this secret address.
(4)
Yoga, mindfulness may have their place,
So much anxiety stalks the human race.
No meaning, self, hard to love and accept,
This is a good place, this secret address.
(5)
Prayer is simple but hard for modern man,
Much wrought by prayer, by praying hands.
Humble yourself, you have done your best,
This is a good place, this secret address.
Roger Schiff
In Therapy
ReplyDeleteDr Sun, my therapist, welcomes me into his room,
Chides me gently for missing
So many sessions in the past months.
I lie on the couch. He asks how I feel.
Tight-buttoned, I hesitate and then it all floods out.
Darkness of days, a fog of loneliness,
Grey despair. The view from under the quilt.
Mood swings from black to blacker.
Sharp pains, dull pains, the constant ache
Of disappointment. Scratchy discontent.
He sighs and says that I have been too long in indigo
And need to embrace turquoise, sapphire, cerulean,
I need to throw off penitent sackcloth
And clothe myself in silk and breeze.
I should change my perfume.
Jasmine, rose, sandalwood replacing fear.
Stop pacing and start dancing.
His advice slides over my skin like warm honey.
I am myself again. Dr Sun has healed me.
I feel the light rather than see it.
By Sarah Tindall
LOVE ON THE LOCH by Jack Horne
ReplyDeleteHer colleagues thought she was a bore
and found her easy to ignore,
they smirked about her style of dress
and said she always looked a mess.
She pitched her tent upon the shore
and hoped to hear the monster roar;
the gal was praying for success
on holiday beside Loch Ness!
A guy was also camping there -
if people laughed he didn't care,
they talked about his clothes and hair.
At once they knew they were a pair!
At midnight as they shared a kiss
and felt they couldn't know more bliss -
the loneliness was at an end
as each of them had found a friend
(they'd waited all their lives for this) -
the monster crept up with a hiss...
too fast for them to comprehend,
they died together that weekend.
Winter Beach - February 1964
ReplyDeleteStretching away, the sky leaden into an indeterminate horizon
Here and there, a break in the oppressive canopy and a marbling of
Mother of Pearl.
Up close, grey-green and white peaked rollers
Smash up against the gritted shore.
The taste of desolation in every saltiness of every intake of breath
The spiteful probing of the wind and the sharp slap of cold
Against the cheek and tears forced from assaulted eyes
The crunch of sharp stones, beneath thin soles,
soaked socks clinging like bone white hands to the ankles
in an embrace as cold as death; the vacant shells like derelict houses,
tenantless.
Pebbles, which whetted, shine like the glass beads of dolls eyes;
The fishing boat, like a metal pan, tumbled in a vast washing tub -
The cry of a solitary gull; I am neither dead, nor alone,
in my ten- year Self, a muffled patch of scarlet,
Measured against all that eternity.
Miranda Lloyd-Gregg - 01/08/2020
Enjoying the space, no need to rush
ReplyDeleteNo hassles from anything; no fuss.
Time to cook, to walk and explore
The limited-time that I 'should' go outdoors.
The reduction in work, the peace, the quiet
The greenery, the sun, the starry night.
I 'should' join a choir, I 'should' ride my bike
I 'should' go to the moor, for a stomp and a hike.
I 'should' go to the gym, do pump and a swim
I 'should' do some aerobics, I 'should' drink less gin.
So many 'shoulds', now externally controlled
My mind is now calmer; I observe what unfolds.
And yet, when I focus internally, or, apparent in my dreams
There's an undercurrent of anxiety, or so it seems.
An insecurity, a sense of loss, a helpless desperation
So, there is a cost, to the positives of the isolation, to the reduction in choice
Unconsciously, there seems a pretty scared voice.
Claire Lodge
Covid-19 Insomnia
ReplyDeleteInsomnia again
No idea why
Sleep is so elusive.
Over and over
Minutes turn to hours
Night after night.
Inching towards sleep.....
Alarm goes off.
Nicky Bevan-French
Lavender and Oleander
ReplyDeleteOld farmhouse nestling in the hills,
hot July days spent round the pool
surrounded by oleander and lavender
reading a book or taking a siesta.
Franki and Dave walk round bare foot,
his ankles swell up.
We go down to buy the bread,
a short stroll in the heat.
Charles buys a trilby,
a Dirk Bogarde in Venice lookalike.
At nightfall it's pitch black.
Closed shutters keep mosquitoes out
but there's always one!
The smells of lavender bring it all back.
Heather Lucien-Grange
La Panne, Belgium
ReplyDeleteWindsurfers, kites,
colourful umbrellas on the beach,
along the promenade
students tinker with bikes for hire.
At Terlincks white tablecloths flap,
waiters serve an aperitif,
a Kir, mussels in white wine.
In the main street trams to
Ostend rumble by,
silver reflects back from windows
of chic boutiques.
But you are too tired to stroll
further than the statue of King Leopold.
Your sand is running out.
Heather Lucien-Grange
Deep, deep water
ReplyDeleteSuffolk, Dunwich we see no more,
Washed away from yielding seashore.
Numerous examples we may yet see,
Towns and cities die, as you and me
(1)
Sailors, thinkers, men of God above us tower,
Plymouth history find courage and empower.
Blessed, hurting inside, wounded not falter,
Pilgrimage begins by the deep deep water.
(2)
Trees that never wither, bright and green,
Nature so awesome what does it all mean?
Blessed with understanding, fun and laughter,
Roots reaching down,, joy in deep deep water.
(3)
Plymouth city of sailors, students, Ocean City,
Pilgrim Fathers, John Hawkins, British history.
Be blessed, but have we failed our daughters?
800 abortions, struggling in deep deep water
Roger Schiff
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI thought this was appropriate as this blogsite has very definitely died : )
DeleteA lonely coffin, bleak and bare,
with only undertakers there.
The vicar, saddened by the sight,
envisioned everlasting light,
and prayed a lost and loveless soul
could find salvation and be whole.
She didn't care about the scene -
and if the churchyard trees were green,
or wintry branches, void of life -
she only knew she was a wife,
a mother, granny, aunt, and friend.
The loneliness was at an end,
and now with parents, siblings, pets,
her tears were over, no regrets.
The vicar turned and walked away;
he'd three more funerals that day...