March 8, 2015

 

 

The Mirror Ball

whipped up a frenzy.

Such vivid colours;

outfits to envy.

 

Like nectar flowed

the pink champagne,

and squeals of laughter,

as ‘selfies’ reign.

 

And professional snappers

also capture the mood,

with their expert eyes

on the action, glued.

 

Such kindness shown

to keep hope alive,

as generous hands,

into pockets dive.

 

Another huge success,

how blessed to be,

part of the force.

What fun, what glee.

 

A ‘must’ in our calendar:

an event to treasure.

This worthwhile cause

gives so much pleasure.

 

 

 

March 5, 2015

 

 

And clouds grew lighter,

and slowly parted,

as if to say ‘we’re feeling

open hearted’,

 

‘and in magnanimous mood;

understanding of the need,

for skies of blue

on which you feed’.

 

The winter, long,

with short, cold days,

not helped by skies

of muted greys,

 

or black horizons

where claps of thunder,

followed electric sparks,

that made one wonder,

 

about what really

lies above,

the protective heavens

of hate and love.

 

And just how fickle

could become the mood,

when faced with darkness,

that made one brood.

 

And teasing, only,

for a while;

a glimpse of blue,

brought forth a smile,

 

when cast off were,

ones heavy coats,

as thoughts appeared,

of trips on boats,

 

and long and lazy

sunny hours ahead;

days at the beach,

warm sand to tread.

 

When a multitude

of budding trees,

would turn the landscape,

to bright green,

 

and winter’s bark,

and deadened leaves,

gone from the ground;

new life achieved.

 

Such happiness,

when the soul sings,

as returning birds

again take wing,

 

back to our land;

their second home,

though in truth, one knows not,

what other shores they comb?

 

But we can live with that,

when the bright sun shines;

our suspicious nature,

only on, a storm cloud dines.

 

Oh joy of joy,

the ever switching seasons,

the rebirth, the medicine,

for all good reasons.

 

The clouds, our boss;

our mood enhancers:

When questions asked,

they have the answers.

 

so one must not be fooled,

by summer skies of blue,

for in hibernation, clouds,

stir up a brew.

 

They will return and

catch one out, at will.

For they have the power;

a good mood to kill. 

 

 

 

 

 

February 25, 2015

 

 

To hear Harriet’s poem:

‘A Wee Blind Spot’

      – read live by Phil Sykes

listen to  LDOK.net   ‘Tonys Time Machine’

(The one and only -Tony Brierley)

Wed 11am – 1pm (live)

Thurs/Friday  1 am -3 am -UK time  or

Thurs Morning 8-10 am -UK time or

Saturday 7pm – 9pm  UK time or

Mon morning  11 – 13.00 UK time.

February 8, 2015

 

 

When ‘California Dreamin’

was at it’s height,

and ‘Monday, Monday’

set the week alight,

 

We drove to work

with spirits high.

No ‘lack-lustre’ feeling;

no ‘weekend’s over’ sigh.

 

When Procol Harem’s

‘Whiter shade of pale’,

rang out from the radio,

as we drove through the hail.

 

Our joy never dampened,

for we thought this way:

The weather never stopped Otis,

‘Sitting on the dock of the bay’.

 

When out on audit,

it depended who,

was in the car, that day,

to what, we listened to.

 

The ravers in the rear seats,

loving Pigmeat’s, ‘I am the Judge’,

whilst the front seat stalwarts,

from Engelbert, wouldn’t budge.

 

Their views fuddy-duddy,

but their choice, to select:

Aretha, not the only one,

shouting ‘Respect’.

 

So the volume turned high,

for ‘Up, up and away’,

by the Johnny Mann singers….

Hip hip hurrah, they would say?

 

But that was short lived,

and soon the volume back down,

when Smokey jumped in,

with ‘The tears of a clown’.

 

And then, at day’s end,

back on the motorway:

The Moody Blue’s, ‘Go Now’,

setting us on our way.

 

….to be continued.  

 

 

 

 

 

February 1, 2015

 

 

She often sits

and wonders why,

when as a child

she was so shy.

 

If asked a question,

she would blush;

in her pants, a wee,

came with a rush.

 

If asked to sing alone,

in the assembly choir,

A well rehearsed faint,

she would acquire.

 

A shrinking violet.

A timid tilly.

In navy knickers,

she felt so silly.

 

She hated school;

preferring not to have gone.

Dyslexia never recognised,

til she was twenty one.

 

 

January 16, 2015

 

 

‘The next stop will be

London Marylebone’,

taped words that echo

through the carriage.

The train mostly full of daily

commuters, who collect

their belongings in readiness

to go about their routine,

now swarm like a disturbed

ant hill onto the platform.

Some hail taxi’s, some queue

for buses, others melt away

in a filtered frenzy towards

Marylebone Road.

There’s a crowd gathered at

the rear entrance of the

Landmark Hotel, waiting to

catch a glimpse of footballers

climbing into their team coach,

before being whisked away for

another midweek game.

A few passengers hurry off

to the left into Dorset Square,

paying homage to Dodie Smith,

as they walk passed her home,

where a well earned blue plaque

appears on the wall. She, being

best remembered for her delightful

tale about a hundred and one tails.

A further trickle of passengers

walk out of the stations side exit

towards Lisson Grove, passing

the Seashell, notably one of the

smartest fish & chip shops in

miles, ( the possibility of a fish

supper, a thought that helps

get them through the day).

But for now, it’s business as usual,

and all is well in the Capitol.

 

 

 

 

May 1, 2014

 

 

She made Eccles Cakes

and Maids of Honour,

and spiced Tray Bakes,

when the mood was upon her.

 

She made Bakewell Tarts

and Coconut Squares,

and Vanilla Slices,

and Gingerbread Men in pairs.

 

She made Custard Pies

and Raspberry Buns,

and Chocolate Fondants,

that gave us the runs!

 

She made fruity Simnels

and Wedding Cakes,

and Lemon Shortbreads

and food for Funeral Wakes.

 

She made Brandy Snaps

and Treacle Toffee,

and Banana Bread,

long before Banoffee.

 

She made Fairy Cakes

with a Cherry glace,

and Christmas Puddings

that she set ablaze.

 

She made Currant Cakes

out of pastry waste,

and hot Easter Bunnies

topped with almond paste.

 

She made mini Trifles

and Wimberry Pies,

and Chocolate Donuts,

that hung around the thighs.

 

She made Apple Turnovers

and thick, nutty Flapjacks.

The aroma from her kitchen,

enough to give us heart attacks.

 

She made Coffee Cream Meringues,

and the best Parkin in town.

As a top class confectioner,

she was renown.

 

All this, she did alone,

as well as serving in her shop.

It doesn’t seem humanly possible,

but back then, work didn’t stop.

 

 

 

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