Captured!

MAXINE ON SATURDAY
http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/

CAPTURED!

In the days of old there were nasty things

Designed to catch the flies.

They hung from cottage ceilings

Without thought of a disguise.

'Fly Papers', we used to call them;

They were yellow, long and thin;

Deceitful yellow ribbons

To draw the insects in.

The Fly Papers were sticky;

The flies were trapped and died;

Fluttering and squirming

With nowhere they could hide.

And their bodies simply hung there

Till the ribbon was obscured

And the sight of a mass of decaying flies

Could hardly be endured.

*

Today we have computers,

With Bloggers in their thrall.

All over the world are the victims,

Bloggers, wall to wall!

The Maxine's, busy blogging,

Are attracted to their screens,

And like struggling flies they cling there,

Masses of Maxines!

See, in the illustration,

How her hands are surely stuck

To the keyboard which restrains them;

Obsession run amok!

We try to ignore the attraction,

But we're drawn to that silver screen.

We'll never never be free from it,

Give up the struggle, Maxine!
*
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*

SHADOW SHUFFLE

Down at the Olive Tree Markets
On a Saturday in Spring
There was quite a rush,
Almost a crush,
As each searched for 'that little thing'.
And the shadows were stirred like a pudding
Underneath all the scuffling feet.
And we met and talked
And sat and walked
And searched for that special treat.

*

Not Myself!

MAXINE ON SATURDAY

NOT MYSELF!

When we say that good old phrase 'I'm not myself today'

It often means we're feeling rather down.

A little vague, a little drab, a little old and grey,

A little like a kitten we should drown.

 So what we're really saying is 'My normal self is pert,

Beautiful and vibrant  and erect;

Normally I'm comical, creative and alert

Good company and very circumspect!'

Only Maxine is quite honest; her imperfections rule;

She doesn't give a damn about pretense!

The Maxine who says she's 'herself' isn't anybody's fool.

Once again, Maxine, you speak a lot of sense!

*

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YELTSIN

Remember Boris Yeltsin? Russian boss?

Part hero, part buffoon as I recall.

Born at Yekaterinberg, so I have heard,

And destined first to rise and then to fall.

When he was baptised, so the history goes,

The priest was very, very, very drunk.

He dropped poor Boris right into the font,

Giving him a much more-than-usual dunk!

Throughout the winters in Siberia,

He was lucky if he even had a coat!

The children would be huddled round, not flames,

But the body of the family pet goat!

As a rebellious youngster he once stole

A hand-grenade from a nearby army store!

As he held it, it exploded in his hand

And his thumb and a single finger were no more!

He worked as a construction-worker first;

He had the strength, he also had the build.

But he was ambitious for much greater things,

Being determined, gruff and quite strong-willed.

Communism was his chosen creed,

He rose to status working in the Party.

He was part politicians' man,

And partly boozer, always rough and hearty.

In time he worked his way to power,

And became the chosen ruler of his land,

Though his mix of politician and buffoon

Was something very hard to understand.

He's remembered for the good and for the bad,

But his bravery was seen by everyone

When, in the thick of riots he spoke up,

Balanced on a tank and near a gun.

Towards the end he was drinking to excess

And he sang and danced his way upon life's stage;

One minute telling very silly jokes;

The next exploding in a mighty rage.

*

Boris Yeltsin, let me tell you, was my twin!

Old England's daughter and Old Russia's son.

For both of us were born on the same day,

On the 1st of February 1931!

Aquarius was ruling at the time;

It should have influenced all our deeds and words!

I have a sneaky feeling that that proves

That Astrology is really for the birds!
*
I don't drink and I'll never rise to positions of great power!
I'll never make a population praise or maybe cower!
Moreover, I'm a female and not Russian that's for sure!
(I don't think I'll bother with horoscopes any more!)

*

Generation Gap

MAXINE ON SATURDAY

http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/
GENERATION GAP!

I am sure Maxine, like many old dears
Has to cover up her ancient ears
When she hears the really terrible noise
Called 'music' by young girls and boys!
Does she cower down inside her room
As their cars drive by with their 'Boom boom boom'?
Every 'song' sounds just the same
To the ears of this so past-it dame!
*
As for tattoos, they're quite obscene!
And yet the 'wearers' seem to preen!
They seem quite proud of the inky scrawls
That are like graffiti on city walls!
Even a rosebud on a shoulder
Is going to look strange when a girl grows older.
Then there's the all-over sort.....
I cannot think of a retort
To express my positive dismay!
I simply turn my head away.
*
True, when the time comes for confessions,
I admit to youthful indiscretions
But mine have died the death discretely;
Now they've disappeared completely!
Tattoos are something made to last!
They'll still be there as time goes past!
Imagine the ink in all the crinkles!
Tattoos overlaid with wrinkles!
As for the hearing! All that din
From songs about sex and lust and sin
Will have brought on deafness with the years.
As mother said 'It will end in tears.'
Oh well! As the Bible says 'So be it!'
At least I wont be around to see it!
*
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MANCHESTER

(An Acrostic suggested by Acrostics Only)

Manchester meant 'breast-like hill' in the days of long ago.
And the Celts once had a fort there as old diggings clearly show.
Normans took the city in The Harrowing of the North'
Castlefield still has a fort from which the Normans issued forth.
History says Flemish weavers settled there in time
Establishing an industry, creating wealth and grime.
Since then the city's flourished as a centre for all trade.
This was where the bulk of all the cotton goods were made.
Eras change and now the city's modern and up-beat.
Resolve to visit Manchester! Give yourself a treat!
*

Vocal Variety

MAXINE ON SATURDAY
http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/

VOCAL VARIETY!

Maxine has got this right at least!

Men haven't got a clue!

When it comes to things to talk about

They're not like me and you!

Sport dominates, that's obvious,

And they like some dirty jokes,

And they may embark on politics

When they're with the other blokes.

But that's about the end of it,

Unless, of course, they're old;

In which case there's a litany

About their latest cold!

Whereas we 'gals' are well-aware

Of why vocal cords were formed!

We're bursting with information

And dying to be informed!

Name a subject, and we'll cover it,

Even though it is obscure!

Philosophy? We'll have a go

Even though we're not too sure......

As for Knitting, Remedies and Wine,

Discipline, and the Tropics,

Films, and Books, and Magazines!

There's no end to the topics!

Not only that but we can chat

About ways of getting Thinner,

Even while we're rustling up

A huge calorific dinner!

It started way back in the caves

When the men were hunting game,

And the women and their children

Started giving things a name.

The men came home and grunted

(Which is what they're doing still)

While the women used their voices

As they organised the kill.

We're descended from those ladies

And the scientists have found

That the conversations of females

Really DO make the world go round.

*

More on the same topic here:

http://rinklyrimes.blogspot.com/2009/05/not-so-small-talk.html

Riposte!

c John Wagner
Hallmark Inc.

MAXINE ON SATURDAY

http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/2010/02/maxine-on-saturday_19.html
RIPOSTE!

Maxine never suffers, like the rest of human kind

Wishing she'd responded with a quip.

She never thinks 'I could have told her......' this and this and this.

Maxine never deigns to lose her grip.

'The books on self help?' I'd have said, as I looked around the store,

'You'll find them on that top shelf over there.'

But Maxine finds the pithy words that leave us all dumb-struck;

She's wicked and she doesn't seem to care!

How often do the smart responses come into our minds

Only seconds after we have been polite!

We long to turn the clock back and re-run a little scene,

In order to inject a little spite.

But time, they say, just does not wait for feeble minds to work;

'The moving finger writes' and all that jazz.

How I'd love to be as devilish and witty as Maxine,

And have the savoir faire that Maxine has!

*

More Maxine here:
http://rinklyrimes.blogspot.com/2010/01/sisters-under-skin.html