Friday, November 30, 2012

City Sunset




After a day of dubious weather
The clouds drifted off at last,
And a blaze of golden sunset
Told us the storm was past.


He was lying there, blocking the gangway, refusing to get to his feet,
When he should have been watching a Shakespeare play from the comfort of his seat!
'Get up, please, Sir' said the Usher in a tone that was very polite,
'You're causing a bit of a problem on a very important night'.
The man lay still and silent and uttered not a word
And all around the theatre mutterings could be heard.
The usher fetched the Manager, whose tone was rather worse,
'Get up at once sir' the Manager said 'You're ruining Shakespeare's verse!'
Still the man lay silent, not a whisper, not a sound,
Lying there upon the floor with people all around.
'I'll call the Police' said the Manager 'We can't put up with this!'
And some of the angry patrons began to boo and hiss!
The Policeman came with some back-up, and he was heard to say
'I'm afraid we'll have to arrest you if you jolly well don't obey.!'
At this the man gave a whimper to show he was awake
And everyone said 'Well where's your seat? Tell us, for goodness sake!'
Yes which row have you come from?' they cried with asperity.
Groaning the poor man blurted out 'I fell from the balcony!'

Fantasy in Blue



Fantasy should come from within
It's in the brain it should begin.
Other peoples' imaginations,
And their dreamed-up situations
Are merely fantasy second-hand
However gruesome great or grand.
When it comes to  a film or video game
That brings its originator fame
His fantasies are up for sale
And your ideas seem rather pale

By comparison. This is sad.
Your ideas may not be bad.
They may not be good enough for the screen
Or the cleverest thing you've ever seen
But at least they belong to you,
And to yourself you're being true.
If we just take in from left and right
And merely give in without a fight
Our minds will shrivel  and atrophy
And that seems an awful shame to me.

(We were asked to wrote about our names.)

Brenda...... a name that labels me
As someone approaching senility!
Along with Pamela and Gwen
I personify the way-back-when.
Gladys and Hazel are also fated
To be considered old and dated.
My mother's name was Ethel May;
Names we don't hear at all today.
Her sisters were Mabel and Violet;
They were part of the 1900 set.
My name was a 1930's Wow;
But it isn't heard too often now.
Except that the illustration shows
A Brenda everybody knows.......
(All except me; the name was new
Until this shot came into view!)
 I'm intrigued by how Pat and Vera
Signify a certain era.
Chelsea and Taylor no doubt await
A similar chronological fate.
I've never really minded 'Brenda';
(It's Brendan in a different gender)
It means 'sword', or so I'm told;
So it doesn't suit me; I'm not too bold.
It was just a name, not good, not bad,
Decided upon by Mum and Dad.
But I married a 'Bryant' and then my name
Became one I was proud to claim.
Six letters in both ! How very neat!
And two 'Br's to make the match complete!
Brenda Bryant;
You must admit
That these two names appear to fit.
Had I married a Mr Smith or Small
I wouldn't have liked my name at all!

Thursday, November 29, 2012



We, ourselves, are bridges
Between the now and then.
Some things are in the future,
Some we'll never see again.
Everything seems in its place
So normal,  and so set
As things are they will always be
But we must not forget
That change is always happening
We are just an interim
Between a curious future
And a past that's growing dim.
The London bridges I remember
Looked like bridges look,

But that was very different
From those in a history book.
And very very different from
Those that may one day be
When designs will be, for certain,
Of amazing modernity.
And people are also bridges
Between the old and new.
You are just a go-between.....
Yes, dear, even you.

A futuristic design for a London bridge incorporating a farm!


Forget about picnics beneath the trees,
A glass of wine and a hunk of cheese.
That the word has a certain similarity
Is certain to give rise to hilarity.
For 'pyknic' means 'to be short and stout'!
Not tall and lissom, without a doubt!
Take your trusty measuring tape
And if you are of a 'pyknic' shape,
You'll find, when measured overall,
You're just as wide as you are tall.
This condition is far from harmful;
It means that you're a cuddly armful.
You may wobble a bit it's true
But that simply adds to the charm of you.
Although you are not slim and slinky
Remember that you're plumply dinky.
It will come as no surprise
To learn that many folk like your size.
Tired of women who always diet,
They like you because you wont try it.
As for height, I've found, myself,
That when things are on the topmost shelf,
A packet or a sardine can,
I can find the nearest handsome man,
And, with youthful agility,
He will reach it down for me.
And, merely by saying a 'pretty please'
I may get a parting squeeze!
This doesn't happen often, mind you,
But who knows when romance will find you.
So never moan and never gripe.
Be glad that you're a 'pyknic' type.



Let's face it, you see neither a rabbit nor a duck;
And whichever one you chanced upon was just a matter of luck.
Either one is possible, either one is quite unreal;
Anatomically, both of them have very little appeal.
And we can't see both at the same time! Our eyes say no to that,
As though they are bewildered by what we're looking at.
That's the way of illusion; the struggling brain is tricked.
We're worried by our decision, whichever one we've picked.
Of course there are much cleverer ones, artistic ones as well,
But every sort of illusion casts its own special spell.

(An Acrostic)

Fantasy of water gliding down the mountain side
Idyl of a lazy river where the fat fish hide.
Solitude and dreams of plenty fill this heart of mine.
Heaven is myself for company and a fishing-line.
In the depths the fish are lurking; scales flash in the light.
Numerous and yet elusive; quickly out of sight.
Guessing.....will an empty basket be the final story?
I care not for the day has been one of peaceful glory.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Team Spirit


Letter 'T'


Two old ladies sat side by side . They were chatting about the past.
Said Flora ‘Ah they were good days, but we knew they couldn’t last.
Do you remember the schoolroom we sat in every day,
And the wonderful games of softball that you and I would play?’
‘I’d love to play softball again’, said Fran ‘ I really, really would.
Will we get to play softball in Heaven? That would be really good.’
‘I tell you what ‘ said Flora, the first one to….. you know….go.
Must send a message to the other, still lingering here below.’
‘That’s a great idea! said Fran. So the ladies made a pact;
Whichever one reached Heaven first knew exactly how to act.
Flora died first and Fran was sad but she waited for a sign;
If people played softball in Heaven that would be really fine.
In due course came a voice in the night and Fran pricked up her ears.
Sure enough it was Flora, so Fran soon dried her tears.
‘I’ve good news for you, Fran dear! We’re going to realise a dream!
They do play softball in Heaven; there’s a really top-notch team!
And now I’ve some bad news for you’……. Fran waited for her to speak….
‘I’m very sorry to tell you this but……. you’re on the team next week!’


In a corner of the foyer
The desk stood isolated
But a glorious golden window
A magic place created

Big Ears


Big Ears and Noddy were great friends.
Enid Blyton's tale depends
On their spending time together.
But someone started wondering whether
They were gay! Such idle chatter!
And, honestly, it doesn't matter.
But rumours perpetuate themselves
And the books were taken off the shelves!
Look for problems and you will find them;
Sometimes nothing at all's behnd them
But I think it was rather shoddy
Casting aspersions on dear little Noddy.
In any case he's been reinstated.
Gay aversion is rather dated.


What an intriguing piece of work!
Was the artist 'seeing red'?
Bodies, expressions, googly eyes,
And every type of head.
The patches of black between the reds
Add menace the scene;
The whole thing would have seemed benign
If they'd been painted green.
Then we'd have seen a fairy tale
With hobgoblins and elves,
Sporting in some leafy glade
And enjoying themselves.
But, because the background's deepest black,
This seems a scene from Hell,
With souls in torment thrashing about
And not getting-on too well.
Some of them look quite cheerful,
Despite the mess they're in.
Ah well, I know there are some folk
Who like a little sin.
All in all a painting
That's filled with mystery.
I'm intrigued. I'd like to ask
'What is your history?'

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

The Red Chair



So now I sit in this chair, my love,
And brood about the past.
We had a great relationship;
We expected it to last.
We found this derelict house, my love,
It took all that we'd got,
But both of us saw a future here;
It seemed the perfect spot.
We'd hardly got a sou, my love,
Our cupboard was quite bare,
But then you suddenly laughed and said
'Let's buy a scarlet chair!'
Symbolic, that's what it was, my love,
Of a future that would glow.
Scarlet ! The colour of vibrancy
And a love that would, surely, grow.
Then both of us lost our jobs, my love;
We both felt life wasn't fair;
There was nothing else we could afford
To add to our scarlet chair.
Then bitterness crept in, my love,
Recriminations, pain.
When you left you slammed the door
And we haven't met again.
I have a chair, I have a house,
And I have a memory.
What use, my love, who is still my love,
Is a scarlet chair to me?


At first I thought 'it' was Barbie!
But no, she's really real!
She's a human-being
Who can laugh and sing and feel!
All of us know the sensation
When a waist-band's a bit too tight;
We enjoy the release from 'bondage'
When we go to bed at night.
Imagine how this lady
Feels when she swallows a pea!
It must feel like a boulder;
A real monstrosity.
Her innards must be squashed-up
Like sardines in a tin.
Supposing she feels like some pudding!
How will she get it in?
This is my idea of ridiculous.
Whatever will she do
If, one day, she bends down quickly
And simply snaps in two?



Stretching for ever
Only a mirage ahead

Never-ending sand.


Gosford is on the Central Coast in the state of New South Wales.
And we moved there nearly thirty years ago.
We had a mid-life crisis and we purchased a motel
A foolish move, but how were we to know.
Gosford is nearer Sydney , it's a dormitory town,
But it has a lot to offer as we found.
We lost a lot of money but we made a lot of friends
And we still go back at times to look around.
The area is hilly but water is the theme
As it lies between a large Lake and the Sea,
And we'd have loved our lives there had everything gone right,
But, sadly, our success was not to be.
A view of the area showing lake and ocean.
The town nestles in the hills.
The surrounding countryside is attractive.
The marina is a feature.
The Town Centre.

Fishing in Brisbane Water.
(Which has nothing to do with Brisbane City!)

The ocean beaches are popular.

The Japanese Garden at East Gosford.




Rain is sweet and gentle
When it falls upon the earth.
When the soil is dry and lifeless
Rain brings new life to birth.
We could not live without it;
We welcome its gentle  touch,
But oh what a different story
When the sky sends down too much!
Crops are drowned in silver ,
Rivers break their banks;
We race away from the element
For which we once gave thanks.
Destructive, horrifying,
Dealing death along the way.
Something sweet or terrible........
Another rainy day.


The colour trumpets brilliance;
The shades make us alert. 
Sometimes it is so vivid
That it almost seems to hurt.
Restful? I hardly think so!
Soporific? This I doubt.
How can ones spirit whisper
When surroundings seem to shout?
Ah, but think about 'cosy',
Think again about 'snug',
The warmth of the colour orange
Is something like a hug.
And, then, consider waking
In an orange-coloured room.
When the curtains and the covers
Seem to drive away the gloom.
Outside it may be raining
The skies may be dark grey
But a bedroom splashed with orange
Creates a sunny day.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Too Much Swooning

(We were asked to use all the word in blue)


The lake lay still beneath the moon
And all of nature seemed to swoon.
The scent of flowers filled the air
The wild birds skimmed the water there.
I watched the trees sway left and right
And held my breath  to watch the sight.
My mood was so intense and deep
I tripped and fell all of a heap!
I really thought it was the end
But, luckily, I'm on the mend!
(I couldn't manage load or fleck!
I bet I get it in the neck!)


I sit up in my citadel,
And look down with disdain.
I send you wind when you want calm,
And heat when you want rain.
I play my games with the lot of you;
I raise your expectations,
And then I fill your silly lives
With awkward situations.
You are the pieces on the board
Of my great game of chess;
You are but pawns, for all your pleas
For wisdom or success.
For some time now I have been bored
With my repetitious games;
Tired of seeing simple floods
And forests burnt by flames.
'Ho hum' I say 'Another drought,
Another storm of ice'.
I ponder long to bring to mind
Some novelty device.
So now, the best game ever!
This one is really rich!
When you wake up tomorrow
You'll find I've made a switch!
I've decided to swap them over...
The sky and the rolling sea!
Tomorrow morning both will be
 Where the other used to be!
When you look up an ocean
Will be rolling over your head.
When you look where the sea was
There will be space instead!
Oh what a great calamity
I am about to present!
You'll, loudly, beg me to change my mind
But I will not relent.
Why should I listen to your cries,
When all is said and done?
You are only flesh and blood
And I'm having too much fun.