Yellow Brick Road

YELLOW BRICK ROAD

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.

*
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SMOG 1950


In my recollection
It was much worse than this!
I don't recall its coming.
One moment the air was clear;
The next we were enveloped
In a sticky yellow blanket!
Black. Yellow. And sticky.
Why yellow?
They said it was sulphur,
It certainly smelt like it!
It certainly tasted like it!
Clean Air was a long way off.
I have several clear memories
Of that unusual event;
The Great Smog of 1950.
I remember going to a dance
At the Kensington Town Hall.
Males and females sat
At opposite sides of the ballroom.
The 'ladies' waited to be 'asked.'
Only, on this occasion,
(And we were inside a building, remember!)
There was fog drifting between us.
I can smell it now,
I can taste it now.
And I can see it clouding the electric lights!
I can also remember trying to find my way home.
I couldn't even find the kerb!
I had to feel with my toes
For the edge of the pavement!
And great black bodies kept looming up
Right in front of me!
'I couldn't see my hand before my face'!
Not just a glib saying,
But a reality!
I recall hearing about the sheep.
There was an Agricultural Show
In progress.
Thousands of sheep died!
Finally, I remember the aftermath.
How the smell and taste lingered for weeks.
How all ones clothes were
Tinged with a yellowish grey.
How the 'fog' hung around in ones nose and ears
'For ever'.
It was a curse.
Yet it was a blessing.
After that, London became
Clean!
*

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PS

We enjoyed a very pleasant social event yesterday. Our friend Gwenda's daughter invited us to the launch of her first novel, 'Beyond Fear'.

It was very well attended and lots of our friends were there.

Malcolm managed to get himself in the picture of the author and her husband!
*

The Secret

WRITER'S ISLAND

http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/03/05/prompt-10-for-2011-secret/

'secret'

AND

POETRY TOW TRUCK

http://djvorreyer.wordpress.com/2011/03/05/poetry-tow-truck-11-the-books-the-thing/

'books'

THE SECRET

I'm attempting to discover

The secret of a successful cover.

The main ingredient, it seems to me,

Is to portray the Secrecy.

At least in the case of a famous book,

Which hardly needs that extra 'hook'. 

Here I offer just a sample.

The one above is one example.

Here we focus on the key;

Always a symbol of Secrecy.

Here the expression on the face,

Reveals the joy of a secret place.

Here we feel the girl is pining

For a place where the sun is always shining.

Here there's emphasis on colour

But the world outsude is not much duller.

There's an air of magic about this scene.

And secret trees that are ever green.

Here the bird takes pride of place.

See the joy on the visitor's face!

This cover is boistrous and everyday;

Just little children at their play.

While here the girl's not animated;

The secrecy is understated.

Sombre hues add a ghostly touch

But the garden isn't featured much.

And here is the one that I like best,

Head and shoulders above the rest.

No sign of a girl or a secret place

No sign of rapture on a face.

No keys, no other-worldly doors;

No mystery to give us pause.

But, ally that picture with that title

And this one captures something vital.

It doesn't give the game away.

Instead, it simply seems to say

'All is not as it may seem;

Enter the world of a secret dream'.

Choose your own, but it seems to me

This one captures Secrecy.

*

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A THOUSAND BLOSSOMS

A thousand blossoms fell today.

They lay there on the ground,

Still full-blown in a spring-like way

Though blemishes could be found.

Maybe the slightest tinge of brown,

Maybe a bruise or tear,

Maybe we saw them fluttering down

Looking neither rich nor rare.

There was nothing left for them to do

Except curl up and die.

*

But wait! Their beauty shines anew!

Admire, as you pass by!

*

The Watchers

Press Photo

WEEKEND IN BLACK AND WHITE
http://blackandwhiteweekend.blogspot.com/

THE WATCHERS

A sense of threat. A sense of doom.

The clouds a menace, too.

A rocky giant hovers close

And the sea is grey, not blue.

And, worst of all, two demon dogs

Keep watch on the giant's head!

Is it any wonder we scurry home

Feeling a sense of dread?

*

Take heart! It's an Art Exhibition.

No need for you to flee!

It's Sydney's yearly display of works,

'Sculpture by the Sea'.

*

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THE LETTER

The letter sat before him unopened and unknown,
Pristine, propped up against a mug.
Toying with his slice of toast, luckily alone,
He felt the letter looked a little smug.
It had arrived the day before; he'd eyed it with concern.
The address was typed; it didn't tell a thing.
Was the split for ever? Or could he soon return?
He felt the envelope. Ah! That was good! No ring!
The boarding-house repelled him, with its awful clientel;
He didn't think that he could take much more.
Would she have him back again? It was so hard to tell.
He dreaded what the future had in store.
His children wouldn't miss him! The dog just wouldn't care!
If she wouldn't have him back where could he go?
It was her fault as well as his! So! Life just isn't fair!
She hadn't got the right to tell him 'No'.
But if she told him 'Yes' that would be a great relief!
Life could go on as though he had never left!
His sojourn in the boarding-house might just prove to be brief!
He wouldn't have to feel so damned bereft!
He'd open it! The slice of toast lay cooling on the plate.
It had to be, it had to be, it had to be from her!
With shaking hands he tore the flap! He had to learn his fate!
Then he read the lawyer's formal words..........
'Dear Sir'.

*

Ageing Gracefully

THEME THURSDAY

http://themethursday.blogspot.com/

chose the illustration.

AGEING GRACEFULLY

Few things age as gracefully as books;

Though worn they still retain appealing looks.

Though their spines become more tattered,

And they're sometimes coffee-splattered

Or grease-stained by enthusiastic cooks.

*

I speak of books with character, of course;

Such as 'Fairy Tales Translated from the Norse',

Or 'Traveling in Persia',

'How to Overcome Inertia',

Or 'How To Send Your Messages by Morse.'

*

I don't include the modern paper-back,

Which may be written by a passing hack,

But books of ancient leather

Lined up on shelves together,

Alongside some historic Almanac.

*

I sometimes wish that I were such a book

And I could show that aged-but-lovely look;

That my wrinkles could prove charming,

And not quite so alarming!

But I'm the girl the book-look quite forsook!

*

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I'M BY THE FROZEN PEAS!

How did we do our shopping before the mobile phone?
(Yes, 'you' call it something different, that I know.)
But, how did we do our shopping without a dialling-tone,
In those dark, dark ages not so long ago?
I pass them in the aisles with 'something' glued on to their ears,
A look of strain upon their youthful features,
And I hear them snarling ' Make your mind up! Lemonade or beers?'
And my heart goes out to these poor anguished creatures.

'They haven't got the small size!'

'No! It's quite another brand!'

'Well, how am I to know your Mother hates it!'

'They've got tomato-flavour!'

'Hell's Teeth! Can't you understand?'

'Who cares how highly Uncle Freddy rates it!'

'The round one or the square one?'

' Well, you bought that sort last week!'

'Check in the kitchen cupboard, on the shelf!'

'Well, strawberry's my favourite'.

'Do you only want one leek?'

'To hell with that! You do the job yourself!'
*
In the days before technology we sort of worked it out.
When we shopped, there wasn't one thing that we missed.
Life was simpler, faster, neater, and more restful, without doubt,
In the days when Mother had a SHOPPING LIST!
*

Hopeless Case

HOPING FOR HUMOUR
http://www.madkane.com/humor_blog/2011/03/03/hope-humor/

Topic.... 'Hope'.

HOPELESS CASE

A young lady called Hope couldn't cope.

She said 'My Mum was clearly a dope!

She was to blame

For she gave me that name

And now I have given-up hope!'
*

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WHAT A SHAME!

The pretty galah's feeling small!

It's beauty does no good at all!

The thing that has mattered

And made him feel shattered

Is driving him right up the wall!

Of all of the bright birds in Australia,

And many have brilliant regalia,

This poor bird is named

And horribly shamed

By the fact that he represents failure!

If I have a slight prang in my car

Or I step in a mess of wet tar

Any Aussie who's near

Will shout out loud and clear

'Well! Aren't you a proper galah!'

To be called a galah is not nice

(I've been called one myself once or twice!)

But this parrot, I think,

With its feathers of pink

Should certainly not pay the price!

*

Comparisons 3/4/11

COMPARISONS ARE ODIOUS!

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!

*

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Although England is a small island there are tremendous differences in local accents. When I moved, as a child, from Kent to Staffordshire, my accent was considered very weird! (And vice versa!)

THE WEIRD WORDS!

* 'Cost kick a boh agin a woh, yed it and bost it?'

*

Can you read the words I've written up above?

It's a simple little phrase, you must agree.

But as someone from the South,

With a fat plum in her mouth,

The dialect was foreign as a phrase can be.

*

My father took a job in Staffordshire

So we all moved holus-bolus up from Kent.

And there, just as we feared,

Our accent was thought weird,

And we were laughed at everywhere we went.

*

I longed to speak the same as all my friends.

(Yes, peer-pressure was around in days gone by.)

So, to speak just like the others

With an dialect not my Mother's,

I gladly gave the phrase a little try.

*

I practised till it rolled right off my tongue,

As though I'd been a Midlander since birth,

Though, sometimes, my attempt

Was treated with contempt

And my school-mates couldn't quite contain their mirth.

*

My mother was appalled that I should try

To lose the accent that was mine by rights.

She simply couldn't face

A voice that wasn't 'naise'

And I'm sure she suffered many sleepless nights!

*

Now I listen gladly to the BBC,

And hear accents that have come from far and wide.

Voices don't have to be tamed,

They are welcomed and acclaimed.

And a dialect is now a source of pride.

*

*TRANSLATION!

Can you kick a ball against a wall, head it and burst it?'

The Rain in Spain

LOTS OF LAUGHTER

http://thelaughtersite.blogspot.com/
asks us to write a limerick about  'Rain'.

THE RAIN IN SPAIN

There was a young lady from Spain

Who went out for a walk in the rain

But a deluge descended

And she was up-ended,

And got washed-away down a drain!

*
(And my very old friend, Trevor, has already sent a sequel!)

That intrepid young lady from Spain
Last heard of when washed down a drain
She swam and she swam
'Til she came to a dam
And climbed out to start over again!
*
(So I respond)
 
The young lady must be a bit dense!
She hasn't an atom of sense.
She might think it ripping
To struggle out dripping,
But she'll soon find she's in the past tense!
*
(This could go on for ever!........It does!)

That young lady you tried to banish
She's not only wet but she's Spanish
You did not know she could swim
So you are out on a limb
As she constantly refuses to vanish!
 
(Finale )
 
Your finale was witty and clever.
We could write back and forward for ever!
The lady from Spain
I treat with disdain!
The prize goes to you, my dear Trevor!
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ONE MAN'S MEAT

'One man's meat is another man's poison!'

I've heard that said and I'm sure that it's true.

This sort of pattern does nothing for me!

It may be the last word in fashion for you!

I remember the seventies! Weren't they just awful!

The things that we wore were devoid of all taste!

The obvious colours competing for dominance!

The bright repeat-patterns we gladly embraced!

And now they've come back again! Can you believe it!

The High Street's awash with the same garish stuff.

I've lived long enough to see hist'ry repeated!

But the seventies! Surely just once was enough!

*