Poetic Potato

SIGNS SIGNS

http://signs2.blogspot.com.au/

POETIC POTATO

Strolling along Bar Beach one day I saw this written sign,

And it seemed to me that it portrayed an attitude quite fine.

Most people who are selling chips keep strictly to the point......

See 'Get your chips for fifty cents!' written outside the joint.

But here we have a poet who happens to cook chips,

Even while Keats and Shelley's words are hovering on his lips!

Hear his words! Hear 'burnished gold'! Surely, in your mind's eye,

You see a thing of beauty that you simply can't pass by.

Hear 'fluffy cloud'! And see, at once, a glorious chip-interior!

Long to sink your teeth in it, knowing full-well it's superior!

To have the soul of a poet yet be elbow-deep in oil,

Destined to spend ones waking hours in greasy, smelly toil!

I wonder....as he chops and fries does he let his soul go flying

Up into the azure blue, far, far away from frying.

I bought his chips, enjoying them far more because I knew

These words were not just poetry,

They were were definitely TRUE!

*

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WHISPERS

(A Nightmare)

Whispering .......and that whispering seems

Hushed, yet echoing in my dreams.

Intimate, it's very near

Softly speaking in my ear.

Patiently, throughout the night,

Ever murmuring 'Wrong is right'.

Repeating ever and again

'Submit, and you will feel no pain.'

A Short History

MY WORLD

A SHORT HISTORY

Australia's history is short, compared with the UK,

Where ancient buildings were the norm, almost 'everyday'.

The church I went to in my youth had parts immensely old;

Built a thousand years ago, and precious beyond gold.

And yet I hardly noticed them, they were a 'background noise',

They weren't the subject we discussed with the choir boys!

Of course the Aborigines have a history that's vast

But the European settlement is not far in the past.

But these are 'ancient' buildings in Newcastle, my town,

And there's a very real danger that they may be knocked down.

I went to a lecture recently and heard their history;

I found myself viewing their demise with a certain sympathy.

First they housed the military, back in the convict days;

Then they housed 'difficult ladies' who refused to change their ways.

Later on they became an asylum, where imbeciles received care;

The inmates tended the gardens while they were staying there.

 The Commandant's Cottage, the lower view, is now a small cafe,

And it was there we were lectured to, only the other day.

Compared with the Sphinx of Egypt, or even the Taj Mahal,

Our convict-built little buildings are really quite banal.

But I'd hate to see them disappear, maybe to be replaced

By a soulless block of offices, built without too much taste.

Sadly, they sit unoccupied, on a piece of Real Estate,

From which the view of the Ocean is absolutely great.

Let's keep our fingers crossed that they may possibly survive.

It's good to remember History and keep memories alive.

*

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HOW I INVENTED XMAS IN JULY.

Cast your mind back over the years

To when this festival appears.

In the nineteen-seventies, it seems to me,

I created this jollity.

Till then, July would pass un-sung,

All the other months among.

Since the month is rather chilly,

Celebrating July seemed rather silly.

July was as far as it could be

From Xmas Time. You must agree.

Although we sweltered on Xmas Day,

Things would always stay that way.

We'd down the turkey and plum pud

Convincing ourselves that it was good

To eat while temperatures would climb.

After, all, it was Xmas Time.

As a Pom, I found it strange,

But I was quite prepared to change.

Immigrants have to change their ways

And I'm the type that always obeys.

So several Christmases went by,

With the temperature very high

And me reduced to a small grease-spot.

After all, that was my lot.

Picture me, the submissive cook,

Knowing I couldn't get off the hook.

Now Malcolm and I had elderly mothers,

And we had no sisters, had no brothers,

So we were carers for many years.

(Does this tale reduce you to tears?)

Now on this certain December date

Both mothers were with us. Such is fate.

The weather forecast predicted heat,

And I, the cook, began to bleat...

'Surely you don't expect a hot meal!

Turkey? Plum pudding? How unreal!'

But the Mothers looked at me aghast,

Each aware of her English past.

'Goodness, Brenda! What a suggestion!

A cold meal? We'd have indigestion

If we didn't have the traditional fare!

It's something neither of us could bear!

Think of the meals we've cooked for you

Over the years! Now we are due

A right royal feast on Xmas Day!

You can't wriggle out of things that way!'

So I was trapped; I had no choice!

Ethel and Win spoke with one voice!

Xmas Day dawned hot, hot, hot.

Over 100 degrees it got!

I was in the kitchen, toiling,

In more than one way my blood was boiling!

I produced a meal that was delicious

Giving-in to the mothers' wishes.

Lunchtime came, the temperature climbed,

Being very badly timed.

The temperature climbed to one hundred and four.

I felt I couldn't take much more!

'Up to the table!' my voice rang out,

In a slightly churlish way, no doubt.

In paper hats we sat at the table;

Me smiling as much as I was able.

I served the food; it looked divine.

We may even have had a glass of wine.

The mothers weighed-in with a will,

But soon they started to look quite ill!

'Whatever's the matter?' I was perplexed.

What was going to happen next?

They picked at their food looking so downcast!

My beautiful food, my great repast!

'I'm sorry, dear' one ventured to say,

'But it's really much too hot today.

I just can't swallow another bite.

Maybe I'll try a little tonight.'

I can't remember what I said

But I do remember that I saw red!

And I do recall that I had my say.

'No more hot food on Xmas Day!

But I promise that, when there's winter weather

We'll enjoy a Xmas feast together.

When the temperature is low, not high,

We'll have our Xmas in July'.

Well, July came and I kept my word,

Though our children said it was absurd.

'Xmas in July!' they hooted,

When my little idea was mooted.

'You can ask some friends' I then suggested,

And that's when my patience was sorely tested!

'We'd be ashamed' they said to each other

'To confess that we had a peculiar mother!

We'll keep it secret. It's too bad

That our mother has gone completely mad!'

But we had our feast, the neighbours came,

They all took part in my silly game;

We had a good time as I recall,

With paper hats, and carols and all.

The children winced (they were in their teens,

And everyone here knows what that means.)

But all agreed it was a great success;

My bit of July silliness.

However, a well-known Terrigal Hotel

Offered Xmas in July as well,

The very next year! How about that!

Part of the year which had been flat

Now became a festival

Enjoyed and marked by one and all!

It's now become almost world-wide

Our own cold-weather Xmastide!

I've no proof it was my invention.

But its certainly my contention

That my domestic situation

Brought forth this yearly celebration!

Nobody here is allowed to deny

That I invented

Xmas in July!

*

This untimely Christmas festival is often ascribed to a group of Irish tourists who went for a vacation in Sydney's Blue Mountains in the summer months of July in 1980. Away from the summer temperatures in their country, they were overjoyed at the sight of snow there. It is believed that they convinced the proprietor of a local hotel in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales to hold a party called "Yulefest". The idea was an instant hit and caught on the imagination of everyone present there. The proprietor saw a golden opportunity in this and henceforth held a Christmas Party each year in July. 

BUT.......

since my party was held in 1978, I still think I was the inventor. I wish I could claim royalties!

All Is Vanity

SHADOW SHOT

ALL IS VANITY

An old brown fence is a mirror for a rather vain little tree.

It gazes with joy at its shadow and says 'Wow! Look at me!'

As it sways in the breeze it follows the movements as they're portrayed

Utterly distracted by the magic of light and shade.

'I'm so solid!' the tree announces, 'Look! I cut-out the sun!

I guess I'll dance for ever! Aren't I the lucky one!'

But, next day, it sees there are spaces; the day after there are more.

That's how it learns of mortality.
 It finally knows the score.

*

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SOLITUDE

To be alone is not, of course, to be lonely.

Solitude is a loneliness with charm.

Be in a place where one is the one and only,

And experience a sort of egotistical balm.

In my little room I find the pleasures of solitude;

Though in crowds I often feel all alone,

In my little room 'alone' is a sweet beatitude;

And true loneliness I have never known.

But imagination allows me to think and empathise

With the truly lonely who walk this world with me.

I can will myself into their minds and then I can fantasise

About how sorrowful loneliness must be.

To long for another and never see their face again

Is true loneliness that nothing can assuage.

It's like searching forever and never finding a trace again

It's like reading a book with nothing on every page.

*-------------------------

Cold Fish

THREE WORD WEDNESDAY

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

emotion/falter/ touch

COLD FISH

I'm not a demonstrative person;

I don't like to be kissed.

If someone lunges towards me

I, mentally, cry 'Desist!'

I came from a non-hug family,

One that never showed much feeling;

I think we all felt affectionate

But we did a lot of concealing.

So now, when I feel an emotion,

Maybe pity or sympathy,

I always feel rather awkward,

And act very warily.

Should I touch the sufferer?

Is that how I should behave?

Is a hug or even a kiss

Something that they crave?

So I falter and look embarrassed,

And don't do very much good.

I'd give some comfort and affection,

Honestly, if I could.

*

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My friend Margaret sent me a package of my old letters.As this one was in verse, I thought I'd inflict it on my blog-readers!

SCORCHED EARTH!

(1950; Brighton Training College)

"I now must confess that I got in a mess,

Last week things turned out to be dire!

I committed the crime, for the very first time,

Of setting the college on fire!

At least, let's say 'nearly'! It was my fault clearly!

After supper this last Monday night,

When I'd ironed my undies (as always on Mondays!)

I left the iron ON not UPRIGHT!

Think iron and think 'singe'. As for me, not a twinge!

But quite soon a peculiar stink

Invaded the hostel, in each little nostril

And that little odour was......think!

'What's that sickening smell?

'I really can't tell!'

As the odour crept higher and higher.

Then a thought came to me......'It surely can't be!'

But it was! The whole board was on fire!

They considered the crime, where I was at the time,

And (I blush) all the blame fell upon me.

Oh the grumbling I had! I felt horribly sad

For I felt the whole college would shun me!

But they all simply laughed saying 'Brenda! She's daft!'

And just gave me large helpings of teasing!

But I was assured I must buy a new board.

And that thought was not at all pleasing!

Even now my heart fails when I think of the nails

And odd bits of blanket to stuff it!*

No more will I try on a trick with an iron

I'll be good as a Little Miss Muffet!"

*

*Life was 'ard in the old days!

*

Prevaricate!

POETRY JAM

http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com.au/

asks us to use a verb

PREVARICATE!

(An Acrostic)

Perhaps I'll do it, perhaps I will.

Really, I ought to pay that bill.

Eventually I may stir myself,

Vacuum the floor or dust the shelf,

Arrange my affairs or make the bed,

Rearrange the garden shed,

Iron the shirts or wash the dog,

Cook a pie or write my blog.

At the moment I'm feeling frail;

Telling-me-off is to no avail.

Everything is too much for me.

I'll do it tomorrow, you wait and see!

*

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                                             In memory of  Gerald Gee

FITFUL SUN

A day of storm, of lowering clouds,

Of scudding winds and passing showers.

And yet the sun can pierce the gloom,

Such are its powers.

The hills reveal themselves, then hide.

The colours change from dun to brass.

Strange shapes appear and then re-form

Along the grass.

And, suddenly, a trumpet sounds;

A brilliance spreads itself around.

The sun has found its voice once more

And what a sound!

The yellow, gold, canary tones

Are dazzling to the grey-filled eye!

We greet the fitful sun once more.........

Then say goodbye.

*

Break-Out

BREAK-OUT

Follow/lead Usual/rare

Although, to me, it's a mystery,

Throughout recorded history

Males have always taken the lead!

Yes! It's very strange indeed!

Women have had to follow behind!

Yet it's been proved the female mind

Is quite as clever as the male.

Why, in school, girls rarely fail!

Yet it's usual for men to feel

That only 'men's work' is really real!

A C.E.O. in female form

Is very rare among the swarm

Of male executives and bosses.

Women merely count their losses.

It all comes down to the male physique;

Men consider women weak

Because their bodies are designed

To produce the young of human-kind.

This makes them vulnerable I fear;

And causes macho men to sneer.

But, in the future, when technology

Takes the place of our biology,

And babies are all test-tube made,

Then the women will make the grade.

Freed from bodily constrictions

They will burst from their restrictions,

Taking their places as the leaders,

And not the dominated breeders!

*

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BY ANY OTHER NAME!

Oh blog! Thou hast an ugly name,

For which I know thou art not to blame.

I know thou art Web Log in disguise,

But thy creators were unwise

To saddle thee with such a title

When attractive names are vital.

As a swear-word it's quite O.K.....

'Blog it!' is quite good to say.

But as a word to describe  delight,

It really, truly, isn't right!

*

Can'st thou see that charming wench,

Not sitting at a desk or bench,

But on the beach, beside the sea,

Blogging with intensity?

I, too, have that charm and grace

When I'm transported to cyberspace!

I, too, have seas of aquamarine

Adding beauty to the scene.

I tap thy keys with fairy fingers

And not a trace of reality lingers.

Whereas I think of a muddy bog

When I hear that harsh word 'blog'!

Thy namer should deserve a flogging

For calling such an experience 'blogging'!

*

Cornucopia

Rubens 


ABC WEDNESDAY
http://abcwednesday-mrsnesbitt.blogspot.com.au/
letter 'C'

CORNUCOPIA


When Zeus was a baby godlet, already  noble and brave,
He was kept safe from his father, by his mother, in a cave.
Cronus was his father, but he wasn't a great Dad,
For he desired to eat Zeus, the poor little infant lad.
Zeus ' mother nurtured him by employing friendly goats,
For Zeus enjoyed their warm white milk and their furry, friendly coats.
However, being playful, as a baby god can be,
He pulled-off a horn (he was pretty strong) accidentally.
Imagine everyone's surprise when, from the horn, came flowing
Wonderful goodies of every sort! The mountain just kept growing!
Since then everyone has wanted one, this 'horn of plenty' item;
We want what we want, what we want, what we want, etcetera ad infinitum.
We of the West (I'm Australian) have lived for many years
Watching goodies erupting from old goat's horns, or so it appears.
But we live in a Global Village; we've come to realise
That our way of life is finite; we can't live on French Fries.
Somewhere,  someone is starving, while we throw food away.
If we are chomping on goodies someone else is having to pay.
The cornucopia doesn't exist; one day it will run out.
And will Zeus come to our aid then?
That I very much doubt!
*
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TRAIL

(An acrostic)

The ivy clinging to the wall

Reaches its tendrils over all

And as it loops back to the ground

It casts its bounty all around,

Layering green where walls have been.

*