April 22, 2015

 

 

She sold Lemon Bon-bons.

She sold Liquorice sticks.

She sold Chocolate soldiers,

and popcorn for the flicks.

 

She sold Sherbet fountains.

She sold Penny Arrow bars.

and Uncle Joe’s mint balls,

kept in screw-top jars.

 

She sold tubes of Love Hearts.

She sold Wagon Wheels.

She sold Fry’s Crème bars,

and White Mice, at special deals.

 

She sold Cadbury’s Fruit And Nut.

She sold Nestles Milky Bar,

and Sarsaparilla Drops,

and treacle toffee that stuck like tar.

 

She sold Rowntrees Fruit Gums

She sold Mivvi Lollies,

and Jammie Dodgers

to pensioners with their trolley’s.

 

She sold Sticks of Rock.

She sold Barley Sugars;

often clipping the ears,

of thieving little buggers.

 

She sold monster Gobstoppers.

She sold Pontefract Cakes,

and frozen Jubblys,

and Nutty Toffee tray- bakes.

 

She sold Linctus cough drops.

She sold Spangles too,

and Wrigley’s Gum,

for an all day chew.

 

She sold Dolly Mixtures.

She sold Walnut Whips,

and Murray Mints,

with ‘too good to hurry’ quips.  

 

She sold Flying Saucers,

before saying goodbye,

to open her new sweet shop,

high in the sky.   

 

 

 

 

The need for time off;

we all heave a sigh,

and flee to the sea,

or take to the sky.

 

The need for a change,

as we wave goodbye;

Never looking back,

now no rules apply.

 

We are free at long last,

to do as we please;

no ‘yes sir, no sir’,

now life lived at ease.

 

We are free from restrictions,

and slowly wind down;

enjoying days of laughter,

and nights out on the town.

 

But how good it will feel,

to be on our way back.

The strain feeling heavy,

from our loaded knapsack.

 

And how good it will feel,

to have structure once more,

and assistance to cope with,

what the day has in store.

 

The ‘build up’ to going;

an adrenalin rush.

The ‘build up’ to returning;

life’s fickle ambush.

 

The ‘build up’ to anything;

the excitement, the urge.

The ‘build up’, the ‘build up’;

let blood pressure surge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The door flung open

to the sound of a muttering man,

announcing to himself,

‘We are eight, including Gran.’

 

But no-one listened,

no-one heard.

They all stood there gormless

without another word.

 

No-one came to greet them,

or ask what were  their needs,

or tell them about the conservatory

which from the bar leads.

 

In disgruntled frustration

the leader turned around,

as another hurricane of draught

swirled in from the ground.

 

He then led out his party;

no more could he take.

The women tutting and saying,

‘It would have done for tea and cake.’

 

No sooner had they gone,

than the door opened once more.

This time five Chinese tourists

hovered; too polite to explore.

 

And in their own language,

had a doorstep debate,

as inside the temperature plummeted,

before their decision, not to wait.

 

Next, a very young couple,

came in and sat down

at a table for two,

but were soon wearing a frown,

 

when no-one came to them,

and no sign could they see

saying’ queue at the counter

for coffee and tea.

 

So after many minutes,

they too up and went;

making fifteen folks in total,

this place, never again to frequent!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deft of finger,

slight of hand;

the impossible seen

at a moments command.

 

They question how

in a blink it’s gone?

The eye not quick enough

to see how it’s done.

 

Took some convincing

did ‘doubter Don’,

but exclaimed ‘bloody hell’

as the trick moved on.

 

Sitting open-mouthed

he nudged his old mate, Jez,

then said ‘This guy’s much better,

than that bloke with the fez.’

 

Jez, stunned to silence,

couldn’t reply,

but nodded in agreement,

as a woman collapsed nearby.

 

‘Held her breath too long’,

Jez then said to Don,

as she was removed,

so the show could carry on.

 

Deft of finger,

slight of hand;

the impossible seen

at a moments command.

 

They question how

in a blink it’s gone?

The eye not quick enough

to see how it’s done.

 

 

 

 

April 11, 2015

 

 

This week was different,

‘rain suddenly stopped play’.

The world of cricket wept

for an icon, lost today.

 

This week left fans stunned,

to lose one so revered.

A top man, a legend,

a colossus, so endeared,

 

who came through the ranks,

to captain his country’s side.

A man of integrity,

rarely bowling a wide.

 

And who, when playing days over,

perfected the art,

of commentating on the game,

and recaptured our heart.

 

Both on and off the field,

he had things in hand.

His voice, a joy to listen to,

he took full command.

 

He could do the job blindfold.

He read the game well,

never missing a ball, and enriching,

a sometimes dull spell.

 

Dear Richie, we applaud you,

you were one of a kind.

Cricket won’t be the same,

now you’ve left it behind.

 

And as the bails are removed,

after this, your last test,

we say ‘Goodbye Richie Benaud’,

you were ‘simply the best’.

 

by Harriet Blackbury

 

 

April 4, 2015

 

 

Dear Elvis left us Gracelands;

his private home, to tour.

And for his loyalist fans,

music from his heart, so pure.

 

And Freddie proved his point,

that the show must go on,

when he left us all the anthem,

that forever will be number one.

 

Michael too, the complete package,

lived and breathed his art.

The master of perfection;

his passing broke our heart.

 

And Witney with the gift;

the greatest love, and voice, of all,

taught us how to love ourselves,

before her curtain call.

 

Whilst earlier, Billie and Janis,

and also Tammi Terrell,

all too late had come to realise,

with high’s, came low’s as well.

 

And Marvin, oh god, Marvin;

the undisputed king of soul,

shot from his troubled world,

after life took on it’s toll.

 

And Otis, just like Buddy,

at the height of their fame fell;

both losing life the same way;

the pain too sad to tell.

 

And Jim with all the songs

that our Granny always hums,

also headed ever closer

to those, not so distant drums.

 

And John’s sudden departure,

sent us into a trance,

when all he ever pleaded,

was we give peace a chance.

 

Then lovely George, through illness,

played his final chord,

when he departed early,

to visit his sweet lord.

 

And Amy, our new sweetheart;

we thought on her way back,

but the angels knew far better,

and took her back to black.

 

So many more were taken,

so many, I could name;

it comes with liabilities,

this fickle game of fame.

 

So many idols lost;

sudden death hard to digest.

Their music, their legacy;

our gain, at their bequest.

 

Written by  Harriet Blackbury.

 

March 30, 2015

 Tony will be reading 

‘Pitch Perfect.’

a special ‘tribute’ poem

at the top of his show

————

This week, also on

Tonys live show

( back by popular demand)

is the vibrant

DENISE FIELDING.

She will be reading two poems

by 

Harriet Blackbury

‘Hypochondriac’

and

‘For The Love Of Music’

and

not forgetting

Tony’s unique

top of the show

intro –

 Big Ben chimes,

and

Yes, Yes, Yes – Great music too.

–

Give yourself a

brunch-break

and 

tune in to this

unmissable show. 

  

March 29, 2015

 

 

When all is lost,

it hits the spot;

that something which

one quite forgot.

 

During idle time,

in quiet repose,

it drifts unannounced,

passing the nose.

 

In the form of a feather,

causing a sneeze,

or a draught from a door,

caused by a breeze,

 

or a sudden flashback,

that takes one by chance,

so much so, that it prompts

a second glance.

 

The past, never far

from the surface, it seems,

cold comfort and yet,

nice reliving those dreams.

 

 

 

 

An awakened moment.

A sudden flutter.

A window of opportunity,

as fast, as a camera shutter.

 

A welcome sigh;

that renewed attraction,

lost in the subconscious,

surges forth, with prompt re-action.

 

An emotional flood

of overwhelming power,

when the petals return,

and daffodils flower. 

 

 

March 28, 2015

 

 

Where he goes,

we know we go to;

brother’s in arms,

we’ll make it through.

 

Where he goes,

we know we must be;

this holy trinity,

just us three.

 

Where he goes,

wind blows, on his trail,

and true to form,

we’re on his tail.

 

Where he goes,

on whatever whim;

into damnation

we’ll follow him.

 

Where he goes,

we know we must be,

joined at the hip,

for all to see.

 

Where he goes,

we two have to say;

‘come hell or high water,

it has to be this way.’

 

 

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