203. I Remember Sylma.

I REMEMBER SYLMA

I remember Sylma.

It was hot, very hot.

We had driven from San Francisco

On our way to San Diego.

We were approaching Los Angeles;

It's sky-scrapers were rearing up, menacingly.

I said 

'Let's go round the back.'

On the map it looked green and inviting.

The thought of an enormous city

Was not attractive.

'Round the back'

Meant bearing left and going up into those green hills.

By the time we got to Sylma

It was dusk

And we were hungry.

We walked the main street

Looking for somewhere to eat.

We found a restaurant 

With a number in its name.

'Three Fiddlers'?

'Ten Green Bottles'?

'The Seventh Son?'

I can't remember now.

But I can remember how cool it was,

And the tasty food,

And the pleasant waitress.

Though not her name.

I hope she is safe.

Driving on the 'wrong side of the road'

Can be exhausting.

We needed ease.

We needed Sylma.


Now Sylma needs us.

But we are on the 'wrong side of the world'.

202 Red-Hot Rooster!

         Norma Wilson

Another little poem for children published for ABC WEDNESDAY. This  week's letter is R.


A photographic 'R' can be seen on my PLUS blog.

RED-HOT ROOSTER!

The Rooster rules the farmyard, 

Perched high upon a rail.

Feathers ruffle, 

Chickens scuffle,

 When the Rooster spreads his tail.

The Rooster rules the farmyard; 

He raises his voice on high. 

But, one fine day,

 That rooster may

 End up in a pie!

The Rooster rules the farmyard.

  He lifts his royal head.

Running rabbits

Know his habits;

See his comb is glowing red!

The Rooster rules the farmyard

 with a 'Cock-a-doodle-doo!'

But, one fine night,

 That rooster might

End up in a stew!

201. Tricky Vicks!

My friend, Barbara Schubach, sent me this handy-hint today. I thought I'd publish it straight way in case there are coughers out there who don't realise that help is at hand! (Sorry if your attitude is the same as Malcolm's!)


TRICKY VICKS!

Friend Barbara knows a myriad tricks;

The latest one's concerned with Vicks....

The VapoRub that stops congestion 

(But doesn't do much for indigestion!)

As my picture above suggests,

Mothers have rubbed it on the chests

Of wheezing children for years and years,

Lulling to sleep the little dears.

The vaporous fumes have cleared the nose

And brought about a night's repose.

Little Delias and Dominics

Have gone to sleep to the smell of Vicks.

Now Barbara's made a discovery

And she has passed it on to me.

When you're gripped by a cough that's hacking,

And dreamless sleep is entirely lacking

Smother Vicks on the soles of your FEET

And find out that it works a treat!

Wear your bedsocks!  Yes, you must!

Sorry, we can't mix Vicks and Lust!

Wait a few moments and you'll find

You're seduced by warmth of a different kind.

Creeping up along your frame

A langorous heat that knows no shame!

Soon you'll find you're nodding off

Without a cough! Without a cough!

Barbara tells me it feels sublime

What's more it works each and every time!

One hundred percent is what she quoted.

( Scientific data that should be noted.)

Undisturbed you'll sleep all night,

Waking to feel relaxed and bright.

I'm waiting to host a passing germ,

One that may make me feel infirm.

So that I can test this credo.

Though it wont do much for my libido!

(Oh dear! I hope this isn't a bore!

Malcolm says he's heard it all before!)

P.S.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Mickey Mouse! How can it be 

That you have aged much better than me?

At 77 I find years weighty,

But you still look superb at 80!

Listing!

LISTING!

When your Ship of Life is listing

And likely to capsize,

And Sleep wont pay a visit

Even though you close your eyes

You must take heed of a trick of mine

That, maybe, you have missed.

It's that all-important, self-destructing,

Ever-decreasing  List.

I, too, my friends, have tossed and turned

And thrashed about in bed,

Thinking of things that must be written,

Telephoned or read.

Imagining the chaos

That will fall about my ears

When the next day dawns and I'm caught out!

It's sure to end in tears.

Get out of bed and take a pen

And write your 'Things to Do'.

Already you'll feel better;

I know, for sure, it's true.

There may be fifty items,

Or even fifty-six!

But seeing them in black and white

Makes them a cinch to fix!

Now number them. Find Number One,

The MOST IMPORTANT task.

And follow it with two, then three.

It's not too much to ask.

Now, there and then, be resolute

And concentrate your mind

On that vital Number One alone!

And I know that you will find

That, already, you feel better,

For your tired brain's been tricked!

It thinks you've only one concern!

The Number One you've picked!

Decide on a course of action

Then cross that devil out!

You'll feel that you've achieved your goal

Without the slightest doubt.

Go back to bed, exhausted.

You've wrestled with your life,

But now you're tired and satisfied

Not full of stress and strife.

Try this little ruse of mine!

Don't end up round the twist!

Write that all-important, self-destructing,

Ever-decreasing List.

Distant No More

DISTANT NO MORE

Time, which was once a wide, unbounded sea,

An ocean stretching far into a dream,

Is now down at my feet, a little stream,

The 'distant shore' now very near to me.

When, as a child, I viewed eternity,

And saw the water's brilliant colours gleam,

'Forever' was a very simple theme,

Unending time a certain destiny.

But, now, one step is all I need to take

To cross the stream and reach the other side.

How is it that Forever's shrunk so small?

That step, will it be very hard to make?

And, at the last, will Time once more seem wide?

And will I ever understand it all?

Extra! Extra!

My artist friend, Margaret Gosden, in New York, has asked me comment on her 'Janus' art-work, in verse. My cropping has been less than successful but maybe the poem will capture something for her.

THE NOW

How to capture the Now.

It does not exist.

As soon as one says the word

 Now has become Then.

 Janus looks to the past.

 Janus looks to the future.

And, in between, nothing,

Try to isolate that seeming line

And it will prove itself to be

Thin air.

There is nothing between past and future,

Except Now.

And Now does not exist.

All we can do is try to capture it,

In a poem,

Or a print.

With artificial thumb tacks

We can pin it down

As word or paint.

And say

'Gotcha!'