December

The make-believe December

FREE WRITE FRIDAY

http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com

inspired this nostalgia

DECEMBER

December? That means Christmas, but the meaning, in my case,

Is coloured by the factors of a different time and place.

For more than a full third of my life December meant winter weather

And a time when all the family could gather all together.

In England, where I was living, there was rarely Christmas snow,

Only grey skies and sleety rain and icy winds that blow.

So we stayed in our cosy houses, played games and ate a lot,

And enjoyed the lovely Christmas fare, which was always piping hot.

On Christmas Day 'The Queen's Speech' was the highlight of the day,

And we'd huddle round the radio to hear what she had to say.

They weren't Christmases of fairy-tale, maybe they were mundane,

But I would give an awful lot to live one of them again.

The Queen's Speech

So does that mean I'm miserable when December comes around,

And the birds are welcoming Summer with a cheerful raucous sound?

Why, not at all! Australia is a very happy land

And having a Christmas picnic is really rather grand.

My grandchildren are Aussies, and they thrill to the season,

And family get-togethers are one particular reason.

Hot Christmases seem normal to the rest of the family;

Only Malcolm and I feel a twinge for the days that used to be.

The chicken salad is probably cold and so, of course, is the beer,

But we share with the rest of the world a time of Family and Good Cheer.

By the way,The Queen's Speech is broadcast,  although snow-flakes don't glisten;

But I wonder, in this day and age, does anybody listen?

The Australian Picnic

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FELLOW FUMBLERS!

Oh ye that are fumble-fisted!

Oh ye that can't catch a ball

Oh ye that dabble

In a little Scrabble

Or maybe nothing at all!

Oh ye that suffer embarrassment;

No-one wants you in their team!

You who're chosen last

Very much outclassed!

Ye who can only dream!

Oh ye that gird up your loins

Determined to play the game,

And who constantly miss

While others hiss!

Oh ye who are heaped with blame!

Hang on for a few brief decades!

Your day will come, you'll see;

When others moan

And howl and groan

You'll be arthritis-free!

Oh how their knees will trouble them!

Their shoulders how they'll throb!

With embrocation

They'll seek salvation,

But it wont do the job.

I, too, was so fumble-fisted

That I hung my head with shame.

I was the sort

Who failed at sport.

I never could play the game.

But now that I'm over eighty

And my knees are in excellent shape

I realise

I won the prize.

I had a great escape!

So hang on till you're eighty

And you too will live to see

That the last-laugh's ours!

We conserved our powers!

Lucky you! And lucky me!

*

The Lure of Symmetry

PINK SATURDAY

THE LURE OF SYMMETRY

Things that are not symmetrical

May have their own appeal,

But a deep-down need for symmetry

Is something we all feel.

The perfection of these flowers

Lies in their replication,

A balance that is natural,

A botanic multiplication.

This is enhanced by the varied pinks,

The pale inside the dark;

With the small green central button

As a punctuation mark.

These flowers are actinomorphic,

They show radial symmetry;

Everything's repeated 

With regularity.

Mandelbrot knew all about it,

And even our limbs obey

Nature's law of duality,

In a biological way.

And symmetrical faces please us;

Think of those well-placed eyes,

Lips that are evenly curvy......

Hear the besotted sighs.

But we, the asymmetrical,

Need not sulk or brood for hours;

Even those distinctly flawed

Can enjoy the pretty flowers.

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BULAWAYO

I'd been two years teaching in the bush and I fancied the bright lights;

Somewhere with a bit of life and sophisticated nights.

I'd left London and its bustle to live a different way,

Somewhere in the sunshine; I couldn't wait to get away.

And my two years in Rhodesia had been pleasant, as a rule,

But a teacher in her twenties chafes, living in a boarding-school.

Bulawayo, compared with London, was a hick-town, that is true,

But the weather was perfection; the sky a continuous blue.

And the city had a friendly air, with lots of bonhomie.

The Africans were happy, or at least they seemed to be.

In all my years in Africa I never saw dissension;

I never walked the evening streets with any apprehension.

Bulawayo means 'place of the killing' but this never seemed to fit;

The Wars had happened long ago and that was the end of it.

There was NO APARTHEID! Although  true 'equality'

Was something not considered by silly girls like me!

I lived at a lovely guest-house called 'Banff Lodge', a pleasant spot,

Where all the guests were white, but a cosmopolitan lot.

As a teacher I taught children who had white, but not black, skins,

And never questioned how things were; that's how prejudice begins.

Today things are less happy in the land that I once knew

And hope against hope Zimbabwean dreams will, one day soon, come true.

I offer some shots of the city and I hope that you'll agree

That Bulawayo, Matabeleland, was a pleasant place to be.

*

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PS

This little girl (the same height as me though only eleven!) won my Public Speaking contest on Thursday. Her name is Martha and her Mother took this photo and emailed it to me. Unfortunately, my computer couldn't cope with the format it came in so I just photographed my computer screen; hence the wavy lines.

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Truism

SIX WORD FRIDAY

http://melissacamarawilkins.com

an adaptation

six letters, six words, six lines

TRUISM

(An Acrostic)

Truth in a small nut shell!

Real thoughts in a few words.

Used a lot by law men,

If not a lot by nerds.

Some words can say a lot;

Most of our words do not.

*

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THE MAGIC TREE

Once upon a time, not long ago,

The lands of heat and the lands of snow,

Were separated at Xmas Time

By more than just the seasonal clime.

America and my home of Oz

Were strangers, each to each, because

Without the wonderful internet,

Spaced-out inhabitants never met!

America was 'over there',

A long long way! We didn't share

A single thing! Maybe a card,

But sending that was rather hard,

Involving envelopes and such,

And so we rarely kept in touch.

Yet here am I, (look and you'll see),

Up there on Patty's Xmas Tree!

'It's a small world', Patty, that's oh so true!

Just look what the internet can do!

*

All Good Things

WE WRITE POEMS
http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com
supplied the subject


ALL GOOD THINGS


'All good things come to an end'!
Could any thought be more dreary?
Say it and you suddenly find
That your'e sad, disheartened, weary.

But 'All good things have a beginning'....
Those are words of a different sort;
Suddenly your brain's diffused
With an optimistic thought.

If 'a thing' never has a beginning

It cannot continue on

So why should we be bemoaning

The day when it will be gone?

Yes, all good things come to an end;

All bad things end as well.

Why concentrate on death and decay

On the grave and the funeral knell?

Why make so much of the ending

When beginnings can be so great?

Why not wake up with hope in your heart

And cock a snook at Fate?
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OPTICAL ILLUSION

It's an optical illusion but your eyes are not aware

That the dips and swirls and sudden humps simply are not really there!

I couldn't walk acrosss this room without getting vertigo!

It seems as though some parts are high and others way down low.

I'd trip over my own feet and then sprawl across the ground

And other people would do the same as I would, I'll be bound.

Soon there would be a seething mass of people feeling ill!

Though some people might enjoy it I wouldn't get a thrill!

*

Shimmer Shot

WATERY WEDNESDAY

SHIMMER SHOT

In a window, shine and shimmer,

All heat-hazy and all glimmer.

Summer's suddenly arrived;

A chilly winter's been survived.

Mrs Photographer! Here's a warning!

When you look in the mirror in the morning

The back of your neck will be bright red!

And shouldn't a hat be on your head?

We'll have to watch out for the sun

From now until the summer's done.

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DAFFODIL DAY

In Australia, in the Springtime, there's most important date;

Daffodil Day is marked on every hand.

It's in aid of the Cancer Council and here's a helpful pair

Out collecting money at their special stand.

Daffodils are exotic plants, and so they don't grow wild,

But in gardens we may still see one or two.

But we like these artificial ones; they remind us of the Spring,

And the good that helpful folk like these can do.

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Mob Rule

THREE WORD WEDNESDAY

http://www.threewordwednesday.com

'mob, jettison, behave'

MOB RULE

A crowd can become a mob, in the twinkling of an eye;

And a reasoned argument can become a violent cry.

A corporate brain takes over, as the banners wave;

People normally meek and mild riotously behave

As though compelled by circumstance to jettison all restraint.

The voice of reason, once so strong, becomes wavering and faint.

I could never demonstrate about anything, alas,

Because I fear humanity when involved in it en masse. 

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GRAVIT-ASS!

Once we were governed by gentlemen with beards

Who exuded very noble gravitas.

That was in the days before everything Wiki-leaked

And descended into comically crass!

We were the Little People; what did we know of life?

We must be led by Specialists in the know;

Those venerable persons, who, of course, were always male;

From above came Wisdom to 'the rest' below.

And, oh, it was very comforting to feel that we were led

By Diplomats and others of renown!

To know that there were Teachers, Priests, Policemen and the Law

And, above them all, the glory of the Crown!

We grovelled and submitted  and admitted we were weak;

The unenlightened looking 'up' with awe!

'Behind closed doors' was not for us, the proletariat!

The bushy beards were all we really saw.

Now Wicked Mr Wiki has revealed the whole charade!

The blindfolds have been torn off all our eyes!

We find that we are ruled by Gossips, chattering away,

Not, as was once the case, the Strong and Wise!

Talk about 'feet of clay' my friends! Talk about 'hit and miss'!

Talk about 'them and us', my friends! What rot!

We thought we'd voted in the very noblest of souls,

And look at the load of rubbish that we got!

I gossip.... I admit it! I talk behind peoples' backs!

I like a little juicy bit of scandal!

But I thought They were different; a cut above the rest!

It's all a bit too much for me to handle!

Do I thank you, Mr Wiki, for opening my eyes?

Yes, I think I do; I have the right to know.

We're all just human beings, simply muddling-along

And that applies to the high as well as low.

No doubt the Bearded Gentlemen were as tainted in the past!

Maybe the world we knew was a mirage.

But at least we all felt SAFE then, and I'm damned if I do now!

I want some Bearded Gentlemen in charge!

*

Pop Art



                                Warhol

POP ART

This sort of art is known as 'Pop';

It's pretty ancient now.

It was in in the 1950's

When Andy Warhol made a bow.

It was terribly unusual

When first it came to light;

Lots of duplication

And colours immensely bright.

We all know 'The Can of Soup'

And 'The Marilyn Monroe'.

They really caused a terrific stir

When first they went on show.

I can see they have shock value,

But I, being none too smart,

Cannot truly appreciate

That they are really art.

They have advertising impact,

That, of course, is true,

But surely they're just commercial!

(Am I shocking you?)

The flowers featured up above

Are reasonably nice,

Worthy of duplication once,

But do we need it twice?

If we need to be educated

To understand this art,

I prefer to remain, as now,

Ignorantly un-smart!

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RED HOT SPECIAL

If I were a Millionaire........ I'm not, and more's the pity,

I wouldn't invest in buildings in the heart of any city.

I'd put millions into Hot Rocks, because I'm fascinated

By the endless possibilities that soon may be created.

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If I were a Scientist.......... I'm not; I'm rather dim,

My chances of solving 'everything' would be extremely slim!

I'd concentrate on Hot Rocks, because it seems to me

That Hot Rocks will enable us to prevent calamity.

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Way, way down and down and down, and way, way down some more

Hot rocks can be located and the energy that they store.

In very simple terms, it seems that pipes can be injected,

Then water poured down to the rocks and, when it's hot, collected.

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When the boiling water's up again it will convert to steam,

Creating the pristine energy that is everybody's dream.

If I were a Millionaire Scientist I'd give all I was worth

To the people who're Hot-Rocking, the saviours of the earth.

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