Saturday, March 31, 2012

Is It?



Everything's up-to-date in Kansas City,
According to a certain well-known song.
And, if that's in a lyric from my girlhood,
I know for certain that it can't be wrong.
If you're in a party-mood in Kansas City,
And you don't know when you'll be that way again,
You can travel all night long just having high-jinks
In a yellow bus that calls itself a train.
With thirty bosom-buddies you can caper,
And drink and fool around and shout 'Yippee!'
And the neighbours can't complain because there are none,
As you don't stay long in one locality.
I'm not a party-goer, I admit it,
But there's one thing I would really like to know.........
Does the Driver shout, if things become too 'heated',
'You've gone about as fer as you can go!'


Clouds have inspired poetry since way way back in time.
We've seen the silver citadels, as they've changed their shape, to climb
Up into the ether, rolling around on high,
Creating scenes of dazzling white on the background of the sky.
Delicate streaks, evolving whirls, little rabbits' tails of puff,
Or darkly menacing blanketings when the weather's turning rough.
Clouds have been things of mystery, sometimes with human faces;
Clouds have been things of movement, scudding and running races.
To better gaze at them on high, we lie in the summer grass,
Watching in fascination as they loom and, billowing, pass.
Now man and his little aeroplane has got in on the act,
But the patterns he's creating are dead boring, that's a fact.
His straight-lined imitations quite honestly don't rate.
The geometry may be passable but the poetry isn't great!

Foreign Body

suggests the prompt 'bodies'


She had a Foreign Body in her eye;
She couldn't get it out though she did try.
She dabbed it with some ice
But although it felt quite nice
The Foreign Body wouldn't say goodbye.

She tried to do contortions with the lid,
But the Foreign Body burrowed in and hid,
Till she shouted 'I'm in pain!
I believe you come from Spain!
Foreign Body, please go back there!
And it did.


The teacher saw the little chap was fighting with his shoes
And she saw it was a battle that he was sure to lose.
He was tugging, he was pulling, he was sticking out his tongue
And the teacher went to help him because he was very young.
‘Come on Freddy!’ Teacher said, ‘We’ll soon get these darned shoes on!
It’s very nearly home-time and soon you must be gone!’
So she also started tugging and pulling, really hard,
While all the other children were already in the yard.
At last the shoes were on and Freddy, who was very sweet,
Said ‘Teacher! They’re still not right! They’re not on the proper feet!’
And indeed, the right was on the left and left was on the right.
Thought the teacher ‘If I don’t work fast I won’t get home tonight!’
She duly pulled the shoes off and started once again,
Tugging, pulling, wrenching them with all her might and main!
‘At last! They don’t fit very well!’ the exhausted teacher said.
‘Well’, said Freddy,’They’re not my shoes.They belong to my brother, Ted.’
The teacher wasn’t very pleased but she tried hard not to scold
She said ‘Now we must find your mittens, The weather’s very cold.’
And this was when she decided teaching wasn’t the job to choose!
‘My mittens?’ responded Freddy, ‘I stuffed them in my shoes!’

Friday, March 30, 2012

A Little Night Music

asks us to consider Music


Wakeful, in the night
I seek solace from the radio.
I have tossed and turned with my own thoughts,
Long enough.
Surely music will soothe
This oh so 'savage breast'.
The classics.....
I will let them wash over me.
Orchestral music flows.
For a while I am exalted by cadence and rhythm.
I picture a gentle walk
By a softly-flowing stream.
For a while........
But painful thoughts intrude.
I must have words,
Someone else's words.
I turn the dial.
A nostalgic program;
Tinny voices from long ago
Singing sentimental songs
About 'moon' and 'June'.
Too painful!
Reminders of a time
Before I became disillusioned.
Before I realised that all love dies
In the end.
Congreve was wrong....
Music can be so painful
That every hurt is multiplied
And every yearning made more desperate.
Maybe crying into the dark silence
Is easier.

(A triolet)

The days draw in, the air grows cool,
The sun has grown a paler yellow.
A mist lies on the garden pool,
Where brilliant blue has been the rule;
The earth rewinds it's yearly spool,
The air is gentler, soft and mellow.
The days draw in, the air grows cool,
The sun has grown a paler yellow.

Thursday, March 29, 2012


Tibouchina mutabilis2
The Robbie Burns Garden in the Domain, Sydney

asks us to use the words in blue


Queen of Australia's Autumn, the tibouchina grows,
A mass of purple flowers to greet the eye.
A South American visitor as everybody knows,
But happy to live beneath our alien sky.
Various shades of royal colour  jostle for a place,
Each tree a remnant from a summer gone,
Fragrant in a subtle way but full of glorious grace
And wonderful for us to look upon.

Face the music! You can't get free!
At last you must confess!
Conduct yourself with dignity
Even though you're in a mess
Too many lies you've told I fear!
Here comes the reckoning!
Even if you shed a tear
My response is sure to sting!
Useless to keep up a facade!
Stand tall though wreathed in shame!
I know the telling will be hard!
Confess! And take the blame!

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Stranger Than

gives us the prompt 'Fiction'



Stranger than fiction
This so often describes Life
It surprises us



I dreamed I was a Martian, with a normal Martian look,
Chancing upon a picture in a Natural History book.
A Human From Outer Space' it said, and I viewed it once or twice,
Because the ghastly creature really wasn't very nice!
It's ears were little curled-up flaps, it had a pink blob for a nose;
It stood up on its back legs in a very curious pose;
It had furry stuff on top of it's head, and also in its ears;
And its eyes were permanently washed by sort of ever-dripping tears;
It's hands were quite deformed with digits, ten of them, all splayed!
Was it any wonder that this 'thing' made me afraid?
I found myself repelled! This creature didn't look like me!
What an awful alien for anyone to see!

Kitchen Klutter

                                        William B Hoyt

letter 'k'


This painting captures the mood I'm in.....
Finding glamour in the mundane.
A kitchen scene, but a candle lit
Against a window-pane.
The view outside is mysterious
In a chilly, wintry way.
 And why was THIS scene special?
Life happened and he said 'Stay!'
The kettle boils, the tea-towel lies
Casually where it fell.
Each egg lies waiting to be used,
Still in its pristine shell.
I wonder, was the scene arranged?
Or was it left to chance?
Was he alone when he painted it?
 What was the circumstance?
I'll never know and yet I find
Such pleasure in this view.
(The internet has introduced
So much I never knew!)



'Dream on! For dreams are sweet'.....for those who dream.
And nightmares wake some folk to sob and scream.
But there are some, and I am one of those,
Whose nights are blank, just nothing-filled repose.
Think of black velvet, that is night for me,
Except I cannot feel or think or see.
I close my eyes, then open them. Night's gone!
And I have nothing to look back upon.
I have dreamed once or twice, that I admit.
I didn't like my dreams one little bit.
One left me with an awful sense of loss;
The other left me inexplicably cross!
Not only that but all the ensuing day
Was coloured by the dreaming, in a way.
The strange emotions seemed to hang around
Unsettling me, causing my heart to pound.
I'm  happy that I 'never' dream, although
It means I miss good stories; that I know,
Judging by the dreams some friends repeat!
I sleep on! For black velvet nights are sweet

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

In Too Deep

asks us to eschew 'surface' poetry


Some poetry is, oh, so 'deep' I cannot understand it!
Though I admire the minds of all the poets who have planned it.
I find myself exhausted by the endless metaphors
And the flowery similes (no, of course I don't mean yours!)
My poetry is 'surface', that I must admit,
But at least it's understandable, every little bit.
And I know there is a movement that's quite appalled by rhyme.........
I try to get away from it but it crops up all the time!
Somewhere between the 'deep' stuff and the doggerel that is mine,
Lives perfect, delicious poetry, which intoxicates like wine.
How I long to write it, but I have a frivolous Muse
Who insists on my involvement in the topics that I choose.
I really am quite 'deep' (I think); I consider life and death,
And what will that moment feel like when I take my final breath.
I consider politics, and I consider war,
I consider love and hate and what the two are for.
But like a little insect, flitting above a pool,
I tend to write quite flippantly, when I'm blogging, as a rule.
If I tried the 'deep' stuff, like the poets of renown,
I'd soon slip beneath the surface and then, I fear, I'd drown!


We feel 'blue'. But why 'blue'.
Surely any colour would do!
Why should such a peaceful colour
Be alluded to as duller,
Sadder, and more distressed
Than red or green or all the rest?
Big blue storm clouds come to mind;
They make us feel more tense, I find.
But is that just a sort of fear,
Brought on by danger lurking near?
Strangely enough, it's in the eye
That the answer's said to lie.
Depression causes the eye to see
Colours much less vividly!
Recovered depressives often say
Brighter colours have come their way!
They remark that the world seems brighter
Once their hearts are feeling lighter.
So, since shadows are often blue,
That must be what's alluded to.
Somewhere, someone, coined the phrase,
Describing one of his 'colourless' days,
When everything seemed dull and shaded,
Drab, depressing, and down-graded.
Maybe he said 'I'm'.
And now the whole world says it too!


supplied the prompt


It was ever thus; the cry 'Cut down the trees!'
Always precedes development, disregarding pleas.
Britain was a country with woodlands far and wide,
Where song-birds could be carolling and where animals could hide.
The beauty that it now displays is of an artificial kind,
With rolling pastures everywhere, by green hedgerows defined.
We're accustomed to this transformation, by generations viewed;
We enjoy the fields of produce, all lush and many-hued.
But, before the 'picture postcard', a massacre took place,
And this has been the habit of all the human race.
'Cut down the trees!' has echoed back and forth across the world
Wherever a new nation has seen its flags unfurled.
How many trees is 'China', at present, chopping down
In order to create another huge and concrete town?
Some time into the future, when the world is filled with leases,
Maybe we'll enjoy the trees as old museum pieces!
Fathers will take their sons to see ' a good old-fashioned tree'
Sitting in a big glass case, a relic of history.


Everything depended upon this single card.
It should have been so easy and yet now it seemed so hard.
For twelve long years on Valentine's Day she'd sent a card to him,
But no response was forthcoming; the future was looking grim.
She'd signed herself 'Anonymous' throughout the twelve long years,
And the result was always sad, with her in floods of tears.
But today she signed herself  'Louise' and added her address.
And here he was coming up the path! Oh joy! Oh happiness!

End of Story

File:Stone Marcus The End Of The Story.jpg 
      Stone Marcus


gives us the theme 'the rest of the story'


Everyone says I have no faults!
I grow better as I age!
But there's one thing I can't resist 
And that's that final page.
I love to read the last page first;
I love to be in the know.
I love to know if the heroine
Will marry her Romeo.
If I find out she's jilted,
And marries the butcher instead,
I'll then start reading from page one
But I'll urge her to use her head!
Every time she's in a clinch
And prepared to give her all,
I'll whisper 'You silly idiot!
Love comes before a fall!'
And when he whispers blandishments
I'll mutter 'Watch out, kid!
Can't you see he's a charlatan!
Please don't flip your lid!'
And if she mutters dreamily
'His eyes are a gorgeous blue.'
I'll quickly retort 'Silly madam!
He isn't looking at you!'
It makes me feel so powerful,
Knowing the best and worst,
And you, too, can have this sensation
If you read the back page first!

A Free Spirit with a Limpit! I don't care for your chances!
Taurus wedded to the home while Gemini spins and dances!
Gemini is spontanious, Taurus likes routine.
Taurus loves the tried and true, Gemini a change of scene.
While Taurus yearns for hearth and home, and everything secure,
Gemini's galivanting! How can their love endure?
For sure it's love right at the start, in spite of differing modes;
Your love-life is tremendous! The energy explodes!
Taurus loves to flatter and Gemini loves flattery,
While Gemini's bubbly, flighty ways re-charge the Taurus battery.
But Taurus is a jealous beast, too soon the eyes turn green,
'Outgoing' now becomes 'untrue'. Where has Gemini been?
Taurus tries some pinning-down, with little gifts and things,
But Gemini is restless; 'Don't try to clip my wings!'
Offer Gemini possessions, and there wont be a reaction;
While Taurus feels that married life brings ultimate satisfaction.
Taurus offers life-long love. Gemini says 'What for?'
And before you can say 'Jack Robinson!'
Gemini's out the door!





'Write about a 'moment' that's all I had to do.
'It's a simple subject, possibilities are few'.
'It will only take a moment'.....that was my very thought.
'I'll write about a 'minute'  or something of the sort.'
But when I Googled 'moment' I really got a shock
For this little concept is quite divorced from 'clock'.
It isn't a neat concept, that's what I have found;
It isn't a simple idea one can get ones head around.
For more than just a 'moment' I tried to write in verse,
But I started off as 'awful' and ended up as 'worse'.
So here it is in Google-talk, it's tricky, goodness knows!
If you want to know about 'moment'........
Here it is in prose!

Moment  is the tendency of a force to twist or rotate an object; see the article torque for details. This is an important, basic concept in engineering and physics. A moment is valued mathematically as the product of the force and the moment arm. The moment arm is the perpendicular distance from the point of rotation, to the line of action of the force. The moment may be thought of as a measure of the tendency of the force to cause rotation about an imaginary axis through a point.[1] (Note: In mechanical and civil engineering, "moment" and "torque" have different meanings, while in physics they are synonyms. See the discussion in the "torque" article, or the article couple (mechanics).) 

So now you know!


And did I prance in those wild, wild waves?
And did I have a glorious tan?
And did I wear a bikini
Hoping to attract a man?
Did I throw a beach-ball
And drink pink lemonade?
When did Time say 'Rest yourself.
Find a seat in the shade'?

Monday, March 26, 2012

Magic Mist

The Wordle


asks us to use all the wordle words


When I watch geology 'stuff',
It all seems rather crude and rough.
Volcanoes spurting violent flames
And crashing planets with Latin names.
I like to pretend this earth of ours,
With all its rivulets and flowers,
Developed out of a gentle mist
With the help of a genial alchemist.
I like to think of a tender touch
With sprinkled juices and other such
Harbingers of joy and calm,
And nothing bringing pain or harm.
The alchemist's craft would sweep away
All things unpleasant; they would not stay. 
With his acumen he'd gauge our needs,
Planting only flowers, never weeds.
He'd massage the world with scented oil;
There'd be no such things as pain and toil.
We would be supple, and know no pain;
There'd be no such thing as acid rain.
But, sadly, I'm told by geologists,
There were no such things as magic mists;
We evolved from flame and slime,
Bang and crash for aeons of time.
Brute force, loud noises, heat and cold,
Nothing pleasant, so I'm told.
But I still prefer my alchemist
To the no-holds-barred geologist!


Call that a crest, Old Codger!
That white thing on your head!
If I had that
Silly looking  hat
I'd really rather be dead!

Now this is a crest, Old Codger,
This glorious yellow thing,
That points and furls
And crisps and curls
And makes me look like a king!

With a natural glory, Old Codger,
You cannot ever compete!
I'm feeling bolder
On your shoulder!
Quick! Gimme something to eat!

Our friend, Angus, had his 70th birthday today and we were privileged to be invited to his party. We met-up with his five grandchildren, none of whom we'd seen for some time. Julie and Susan organised the feast. Here are some photos of the occasion.

Favourite Things



asks us to work on our Favourite Things

An case you hadn't noticed!

Tea-drinking sessions with people I treasure,
Happy hours lazing, enjoying my leisure 
Eating strong cheese with a biscuit or two
Singing old songs; I don't know any new!
Entering houses where friendship's residing,
Answering questions, when I am confiding;
Reading good books, though I don't do that much;
Enjoying a fabric that's soft to the touch.
Ambling along when I should be fast-walking;
Finding the right words when I feel like talking;
Editing writing when it's not too tiring;
Watering the garden. It can be inspiring.
Opening letters from well-loved old friends;
Finding I'm coping with modern new trends;
Moving the furniture into new places;
Yodelling, aided by tenors and basses. 
Finding lost socks at the bottom of drawers;
Attempting some Scrabble and writing the scores
Visiting sick people if they don't moan;
Offering Banjo a biscuit or bone.
Using up left-overs, feeling quite thrifty.
Reacting to characters who look quite shifty.
Icing large cakes! (That's completely untrue!)
Thinking deep thoughts that I won't tell to you.
Echoing statements, sometimes in reverse.
Telling folk stories, quite often in verse.
Hanging out washing that has a nice smell.
Ironing the same, though I don't do it well.
Noticing oddities when I'm in town.
Giving a smile in response to a frown'
Succeeding in writing acrostics sometimes.
A lot of it's rubbish but I'm glad that it rhymes!
*I actually don't yodel!


It wont lead you Over the Rainbow,
Or even to Munchkin Land,
But just to the local Swimming Pool,
Blue sea and golden sand.
But it's a magic pathway
For all who care to climb
This Yellow Brick Road in Newcastle
When summer's at its prime.
My two youngest grandsons came round yesterday to wish Malcolm a happy birthday. They were in their sports uniforms so I thought I'd take them together. But the best photos of them turned-out to be single ones, so I had to crop. Little boys like making funny faces!