Night Terror

THREE WORD WEDNESDAY

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

chose the words in blue

NIGHT TERROR

The night is dark and starless

My mind is calm and free.

I'm sleeping like a baby

Black velvet surrounding me.

Steady is my breathing,

Morning is far away;

I shall sleep on undisturbed

Until the coming day.

*

RATTLE!

Something wakes me;

I'm sitting bolt upright!

I must push away black velvet.

I fumble for a light.

Somebody's in the kitchen!

Surely I hear a sound.

The night, once soft and friendly,

Is threatening, all around.

*

THERE!

That was a rustle!

Someone is on the stair!

I know that I should go and look

And yet I do not dare!

I'll pull the covers round me

And lie completely still.

My feet and hands are icy cold.

I feel a ghostly chill.........

*

Sunlight! On my pillow.

It's morning! And I'm awake.

Not only awake but living!

Well, for goodness sake!

*

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THE RED ROAD

If this looks like Fairyland......

I really think it was.

And it was a special Fairyland

For one young girl because

This was the view from my bedroom

When I awoke each day;

Rather like the  setting 

For some romantic play.

The Red Road ran by the Castle,

All overhung with trees,

A sort of secret passageway

To girlish fantasies.

I often walked that Road alone

Thinking foolish thoughts,

While other girls did healthy things

On municipal tennis-courts!

And never once did I think to ask

Why the Road was christened 'Red';

Much more romantic thoughts than that

Were circling in my head!

I saw an advertisement* today

Which caused my dream's destruction;

'New houses on the Red Road

At present under construction'!

They may be desirable residences

Built to top specifications,

And I'm sure Town Planners are noble men

With some excellent motivations.

But I feel sad to think it's gone,

The Red Road I once knew.

Oh well, that's progress, I suppose,

And there's nothing I can do.

*

* I Googled the Red Road and building adverts came up!

Ten!

                             Not me!

JENNY MATLOCK

http://jennymatlock.blogspot.com.au/

letter 'T'

We are told that a rule of this blog is to comment on the work of ten other writers!

TEN!

I simply cannot visit TEN! Visiting three's my limit!

That order will take my enthusiasm, and, very efficiently, dim it!

I visit about ten blogs a day, pursuing poetic themes!

That would make a hundred! Not in my wildest dreams

Could I find time to comment on a hundred blogs a day!

I'm too busy writing poems to spend my life that way.

I also have a house to clean and 'him indoors' to feed!

Domestic bliss would disappear very fast indeed

If I spent all day commenting! And how could I run my group?

(We put on plays and travel round as an entertainment troop.)

I get about six comments each day, with which I'm satisfied,

So anything in excess of that is duty multiplied.

So, if your 'Ten' is a serious rule, with which we must comply,

I'll simply have to write these words.....'Thank you and goodbye'.

I can only promise that I'll do my very best

To comment on three writers and simply skim  the rest. 

I hope I'll get dispensation and be allowed to be

That odd woman from Australia who only comments on THREE!

*

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WALKING BACKWARDS

A little house with blue paintwork on a friendly Australian street.......

I'll take step one into the city, Newcastle, hard to beat.

I'll retrace my steps to the immigrant ship which, long ago, brought me here;

It will take me back to South Africa, a country I hold dear.

A further step takes me to the ship I worked on, with fun on every hand

And back to the years in Rhodesia, then a green and pleasant land.

Now back to the bustle of London, where I first spread my wings,

Then  to my college in Brighton, and 'firsts' for so many things.

From thence to a beautiful village, full of historic charms

Then a further step into Wartime, with all its many alarms.

I'm very nearly home now, I'm at school, by the sea;

Back to the much-loved cousins and the joys of  family.

Then back, back, back to the cradle, with a sister, now long gone,

Yes, I'm back in Margate. What a lot to look back upon!

*

Walking backwards is pleasant; taking stock of each used-up year.

But I know where I'm happiest.....

It's here,

Right here.

*

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PS

Malcolm and I had a lovely day out with Max and Harry, our two young grandsons yesterday. We had a ride on the ferry over to Stockton and we enjoyed a lovely pizza lunch over there before ferrying home again. Summer suddenly arrived with a temperature of 31 degrees. October heat always exhausts me; I get used to summer as time goes on. But a lovely breeze was blowing off the river so it wasn't too bad.I was pleased with some of the photos I took of the two boys.

  

Waiting for the Ferry

Harry looking sultry.

Playing on the old anchor.

Cheeky as usual.

Max and Harry tree-climbing.

Here comes the ferry to take us home.

Timeworn

POETS UNITED

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com.au/

suggested the topic

TIMEWORN

(An acrostic)

Tell me tales of long ago
I love the sentimental glow.
Memories are very sweet

Even when they're incomplete.

Worn out? Ah no! Still fresh and new;
Old and yet still bright and true.
Remembering is such sweet sorrow.

*
Now to make memories for tomorrow!

*

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FIRST JOB

I was at Training College,

Learning how to teach,

And, in my summer holiday,

I went down to the beach.

There was a little cafe there

Right by the bowling green

And next-door to the tennis courts.

Quite a busy scene!

Most of the time it was quiet,

But all games come to an end,

And, when they did, the screaming hordes

Would suddenly descend!

Coffee white and coffee black,

Sandwiches, all sorts;

Ice-cream, bags of chips and such....

This was just from the tennis courts!

At the same time bowlers would bowl in,

Begging me to hurry;

Everyone asking for different things! 

It really was a worry!

But it was the change that stymied me!

I just couldn't get it right!

I grew more and more flustered

As they cried 'We'll be here all night!'

And, worst of all, was the sneering

Because I couldn't cope;

'Did you say that you intend to teach!

Good God, you haven't a hope!'

I truly hated the customers

And the insults that were hurled,

And it's made me really sympathise

With the waitresses of this world.

*

Washing-Day

WE WRITE POEMS

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/
asked us to write about left-overs

WASHING-DAY

I've eaten some glorious meals in my time

And some I would even describe as sublime......

Delicious roasts and mouth-watering stews

Chicken, prawns, so much to choose!

But the meal that lingers in my mind

Is one of the plebeian kind!

Left-overs that came my way

On my Mother's Washing Day!

We'd eat the roast the day before

And we would know what was in store.......

Left-over meat would be minced quite finely

Then mixed with vegetables divinely.

That all sounds dull and rather bland

But one thing made the mixture grand.

My mother added a pinch of sage.

(This wasn't a very exotic age!)

I only know I adored the taste

And wouldn't let one bite go to waste.

Left-overs ......hardly nouvelle cuisine!

Just part of the Washing-Day routine.

*

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VARIETY SHOW

The members of the human race

Are not alike in form and face;

We all exhibit odd peculiarities.

Look at the colours of the skin;

Look at each type of nose and chin;

They're different, though there are some similarities.

Right from the moment we are born,

And give that initial cry or  yawn,

Our features are in place for all to see.

It may be a baby nose at first,

But it will grow if you've been cursed

With some relation's large monstrosity.

But think how dull we'd find the world

If all hair was identi-curled

Or if all skin was of the self-same colour!

Rejoice in every oddity;

Rejoice in our variety;

Without it life would be a great deal duller.

*

Phantom Memories

                                                                                                               Felsing

PHANTOM MEMORIES

Memories elude us.

They are like

Dot-to-dot pictures

And we cannot quite

Join the numbers.

We think we remember,

But the edges of the memory blur.

Photographs deceive.

They fool our memories.

Our brains

Register a picture,

Nothing more.

'Do you remember?'

We say.

But how can he recall

What I recall?

He wasn't there.

Oh, he was in the room,

But he wasn't there in my place,

Looking through my eyes,

Feeling my emotions.

He looked East.

I looked West.

How can we share a memory?

Sometimes a colour does it!

Suddenly, a  fabric

Brings everything into focus.

We are there again.

It is unsettling.

Music does it sometimes.

When I hear Paul McCartny's 'Yesterday'

The nostalgia 

Overwhelms me.

But I am deluded once again.

Those are his memories,

Not mine.
*