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The dancing competition - the final round

 

The lines were closed, the votes were in, all over bar the shout,

   Who was in the final, who would be left out?

The music throbbed - dum-de-dum - the couples stared ahead,

   The paper in the compere's hand, awaiting to be read.

 

Who would be the lucky ones, who would get top prize?

   A thousand pounds, said the cheque, opened up the eyes.

Runner-up rewarded, even though they did not win,

   A week for two in Skeggy, with fish and chips thrown in.

 

The three men stood in dance attire, the ladies in their spangles,

   The men a-fidget with the wait, the ladies with their bangles.

Blondie, Lizzie, Hippo Girl, their patience be admired,

   Loppy, rad-red, Compo, enthusiasm fired.

 

The first one through is - wait for it - make them sweat some more,

   Blondie! shouts the compere loud, mid clap and verbal roar.

Jumping up and down with glee, a hug from Vladimir,

   Had never thought she'd get this far, and said goodbye to fear.

 

Dum-de-dum the music thumped, and quietness reigned again,

   Would it be another gel? perhaps one of the men.

Loppylugs! went the cry, the grin drained from his face.

   Had his prayers been answered, or would he fall from grace?

 

radfordred took it bad, unstrapped peg-leg and threw it,

   Balance gone, fell flat on face, knew that he has blew it.

All the others gave their smiles, shook hands, a hug and kiss

   Ne' mind the thousand pounds first prize, 'twas Skeggy they would miss.

 

So off they went, spotlights on, first on floor was Loppy,

   Band struck up but no-one moved, stood there looking soppy.

The music it was not the one, they had practised hard to,

   Error quickly rectified, to Chatanooga Choo-Choo.

 

At frantic pace they jigged and jived, created a commotion,

   Onlookers they, cheered and clapped, such was the locomotion.

Olga's tassels all a-flare, Loppy's steps precise,

   The whirling and a-twirling, all thought the routine nice.

 

No wrong steps, no trips and, strictly with the tempo,

   When he threw her over head, the crowd's response was 'Bravo!'

And so the man from Georgia, despite his advanced years,

   Showed 'em he'd still 'got it' he, slipped smoothly through the gears.

 

The judges they were happy, were generous with the score,

   Routine praised, smiles all round, couldn't ask for more.

Carni, Margi, Compo, gave thumbs-up, said 'fine',

   Lizzie, Hippo in salute, raised their glass of wine.

 

Interval now over, last couple hand in hand,

   Blondie and her partner Vlad, waiting for the band.

This would be worth watching, the crowd they moved in near,

   Dancing in Apache style, dress in appropriate gear.

 

She with lipstick red, beret and skirt so tight,

   He with trousers flared, striped shirt and fag alight.

The band played smoochy music, hands on hips she slunk,

   Then he grabbed her right leg, and to the floor she sunk.

 

He grabbed her, left arm tight, spun her round and round,

   Then let her go across the floor, into the wall she bound.

Up jumped the gel, dusted down, and said 'well here I am',

   Then swiftly gave, him a kick, where he'd not show his mam.

 

Quick did he recover, though tears did flood his eyes,

   Got himself a fresh grip, with hands upon her thighs.

Picked her up, spun her round, leg go into the crowd,

   You could hear the misogynists, whoop for joy aloud.

 

Did this faze her? not a bit, sprang back and in fashion,

   Pouted lips and stared hard, determined her expression.

They both danced their set routine, with rough-and-ready action.

   Splits and kicks and tumbles, were centre of attraction.

 

No smiles did pass between them, the fag stayed twixt his lips,

   His surly countenance purveyed, dominance sans whips.

Then the music stopped, the crowd went wild, ne'er seen a dance so hot,

   The butcher's gel from Cinderhill, had gave as good as got.

 

The competition ended, all done the final leg,

   Who would get the thousand quid, who would go to Skeg?

I had to leave before result, who won I could not tell,

   But heard as I departed, a Deep South rebel yell.

 

  

  

  

 

 

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Here's a cheerful one to start the new year.

 

Nearing the end

 

The waiting-room was full of folk; the cry for 'next' was late,

   Old Tom he just sat there, but waiting he did hate.

His time then came, and through doc's door, he went for diagnosis,

   Down he sat, attention paid, to hear the doc's synopsis.

 

He'd not felt well for quite some time; had played upon his mind,

   Was it something that would pass, that he could leave behind?

Or was it something more than that, gave pain from waist to neck,

   He didn't want to bother but, thought it best to check.

 

Test results in doctor's hand, very soon he'd know,

   Would the news be welcome, would Fate strike mortal blow?

The doctor's face gave naught away, but there again it wouldn't,

   Practised in the art of tact, give false hope he couldn't.

 

The doctor he then looked at Tom, his face was not expressive,

   But Tom could see behind the look, the disease was aggressive.

And so it proved, the worst of news, so hard to comprehend,

   His life-span would be shortened, no chance that he would mend.

 

Back home sat, down in chair, the news was hard to bear,

   He'd asked the doc how long he'd got, the answer was one year.

A year in which to say goodbye, and remember when,

   He wasn't one to grumble, he'd past three score and ten.

 

He'd lived his life, obeyed the rules, and done the best he could,

   With dignity awaits the ends, that comes to flesh and blood.

With happy heart he'll journey, from this world to the next,

   For he had always followed, the bible and its text.

 

Soon he will be able to - the scripture gave the clue,

   See his beloved Annie, the wife he'd loved so true.

Together they will re-new, their earthly golden days,

   Spending an eternity, in heaven's blissful haze.

 

 

 

  

 

 

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  • 3 weeks later...

A matter of the heart

 

'tis love that makes so fast the bond, twixt man and wife so strong,

   It binds the two with rings of gold, and vows of uttered tongue.

It weathers storms and crises, tells doubt it has no part,

   In its long-term endearment plans, in matters of the heart.

 

It overcomes all barriers, to bring two hearts together,

   Even when, under strain, and at the end of tether.

Sees through petty upsets, and quiets the strident tone,

   Ensures that heated argument, doesn't find a home.

 

Its strength may sometimes ebb and flow, but let's make one thing clear,

   Although the flame might seem extinct, the spark is always there.

The spark that holds together, where others fall apart,

   That's what love is all about, 'tis matter of the heart.

 

It withstands the test of time, and not for one weak moment,

   Does resolve ever wane, does its strong hold relent.

And so has been through ages old, unto this very day,

   When two hearts need to entwine, love will find a way.

  

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That's quite good Chulla. Are you in any way connected to Lord Byron? I just wondered, as he only lived up the road from you !

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Not that I know of, F2. As you may know I have written poems about a diverse range of subjects. I like to use my knowledge of our language to express myself in a descriptive manner and romantic poetry lends itself to this. I am a romantic I suppose but don't read too much into what I write by comparing me with the great poets. Despite being a devout atheist I have written some good lines of a religious nature because I can appreciate other people's feelings in that regard. I don't consider myself a hypocrite because of that. I have four or five more poems to post after which I will probably call it a day; the novelty is wearing off.

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I wrote the following in the early eighties and have wondered for a long time  whether  I should post it on here.  I know it has a Christian bias, so some of you may dismiss it immediately, but I hope that even the agnostics/atheists among you may appreciate the first few verses......

 

Sixth sense

 

Faces, smiles and colours bright –

how we enjoy our sense of sight!

But war and suffering, too, we see

in all its horror on TV.

Music and laughter all around –

how we enjoy our sense of sound!

But bombs and guns with deafening roar

cause screams of pain and then …no more.

Apples, bacon, almond paste –

how we enjoy our sense of taste!

But millions beg for just a crust.

Our world is neither fair nor just.

Sunday roast, mint sauce as well –

how we enjoy our sense of smell!

But the stench of death assaults the air

in warring countries everywhere.

Textures; shapes; there is so much

to help us use our sense of touch!

But hands that hold a baby tight

Can also hit and crush and fight.

 

So are the five senses all we need

to guide our every thought and deed?

No! For one sense still remains;

the sense to know that Jesus reigns!

 

When that sense overrides the rest,

then all the others will be blessed.

Our eyes will see with purer sight;

our hands will want to do the right;

our ears will hear that still, small voice;

our voice will praise him and rejoice

that there will be no hate or pain

when our Lord comes back again.

 

So taste and see that the Lord is good!

[Psalm 34 verse 8

 

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  • 1 month later...

Getting old

 

The years they come, the years they go, how quickly they pass by,

   Seems like only yesterday, was a school kid, aye.

Different now, decades on, fitness not A1,

   Joints so stiff and short-term, memory long since gone.

 

You can't recall who you met, just one hour ago,

  People's names swiftly gone, was it Jack or Joe.

Visits to the doctors now, regular and routine,

   Was a time when surgery door was, very rarely seen.

 

MR! and ECG, an alphabet of treatments,

   A bladder weak and regular, visits to the gents.

Wrinkles, baldness, hearing aid, teeth fixed to a plate,

   Par for course when getting old, put it down to fate.

 

Ailments, yes we've had a few, somehow we all cope,

   Injection here, a tablet there, where there's life there's hope.

Be gone you tiresome dizzy spell, clear off you dicky ticker,

   I intend to hang around, I'm not a bucket-kicker.

 

Keep away from stress and strain, steady as she goes,

   We don't mind a cough or sneeze, or  a runny nose.

But Father Time has his ideas, favourites he has none,

   His scythe will chop us down toot sweet, here one day then gone.

 

So dear reader watch your step, and not to spoil your fun,

   Eat, drink and you know what, all in moderation.

And then you'll live a lengthy life, in flesh and in gene,

   And through your letterbox will come, a card from H M Queen.

 

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  • 4 weeks later...

It's National Poetry Day today, so I'd better do my bit. An appropriate one for this time of year, perhaps.

 

Flowers

 

Nature's wonders in aplenty, 'round us they are bound,

   On stalk and stem their radiance, in petal form be found.

All the colours 'cept for green, from white to deepest blue,

   A kaleidoscopic palette, daubed in specked hue.

 

In springtime winter slumbers cease, we see the welcome bud,

   Slowly they will open, we always knew they would.

And then their beauty takes our breath, a feast upon our eyes,

   The perfect symmetry of shape, and colours fast as dyes.

 

First to poke its head out, the snowdrop shouts 'hello',

   Exquisite in its daintiness, its whiteness so aglow.

Then we get the crocuses, so pleasing to the eye,

   Clustered in our garden, admired by passers-by.

 

The flower that gives a vista, through the woodland glade,

   The bluebell takes some beating, a carpet nature-made.

Then summertime's upon us, awash with leaf and petal,

   For bumblebees to suck on, and butterflies to settle.

 

And then there are the scented, such joy when they arrive,

   Some will end their days as, Chanel Number Five.

Honeysuckle, sweet pea and rose of every hue,

   Nature's gift to nostrils, and our eyesight too.

 

Flowers in the borders, and hanging from a basket,

   And don't forget the lilies, on top of dead man's casket.

Some will follow sun as, it treks from east to west,

   Some will live but short lives, before they're past their best.

 

The flower and its blossom, to insect and to man,

   Is worth its weight in gold, without there'd be no jam.

Without there'd be no garland to, commemorate the brave,

   Without there'd be no 'miss you', to lay upon a grave.

 

 

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Another lovely thought provoking poem Chulla. The memories of happy childhood days come to mind, running through 'Greenies Cowslip Laden Fields' onwards to the Gedling woods also full of wild flowers, 'Violets, Daffodils, Bluebells, Primroses to name just a few. I always remember an aroma of onions, not knowing at the time, but realising now it was probably wild garlic? Thank you for bringing back those memories with your poem.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The problem never solved

 

There's so much hate in the world. why are some so vile?

   Always having sneer on face, hardly see a smile.

What makes them so I wonder, is it in the genes?

   Those who want their own way, by any violent means.

 

Ne'er a day goes by, without some news so tragic,

   Death by bomb and bullet, dispensed at will sans logic.

No use praying hopefully, to whom it is in heaven,

   The god that rules the war-torn streets. is AK forty-seven.

 

Tyrants rule for years on end, no-one votes them out,

   None take note of whisper, or indeed the shout.

Their gaols are full of people, with whom they disagree,

   Permanently behind bars, home they'll never see.

 

There are those we call racists, who to their disgrace,

   Judge a person solely, by colour of their face.

Or by religious leanings, or indeed where none,

   Politics are ground for hate, whatever side they're on.

 

Scriptures tell us was the same, two thousand years ago, 

   Despite the teaching ever since, hate ignores its foe.

And when mankind is down to one, a triumphant eye he'll cast,

   And shout loud and satisfied, 'My own way at last'.

 

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Brilliant poem, Chulla, and very true, but I still think it's good to pray (even for our 'enemies' - that they will change their violent way of life).   I don't understand why God allows such terrible things to happen....... but people have free will, which means that they can choose whether to do right or wrong.    I believe that one day we will all have to stand before God and our true colours will be laid bare......

But it really was an excellent poem about life in this troubled world.  Thank you.

 

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Thank you for another well thought out poem Chulla. It covers the side of life that no decent person wants to witness, but never the less, it happens and you managed to write it so well in verse. 

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#213

 

You're in cynical mode today, Chulla! My father, an arch cynic if ever there was one, used to say that if there were only two men left on earth, one in Europe and one in Australasia, they would never rest until they had met up in order to bash each other over the head due to political and religious differences! 

 

It may be true but we're all imperfect and we're all here to learn. Like any school, we all progress at different rates. When I leave here, I don't believe I'll be judged by anyone except myself because at a fundamental level, we all know what we've done wrong.

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  • 2 weeks later...

At twenty minutes to midnight tonight it will be exactly 105 years since the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg in the North Atlantic. Four hours later it was lying on the sea bed and 1500 people had perished through incompetence of one kind or another.

 

The interrupted voyage

 

Built in Belfast Yard, such opulence and magic,

   The White Star Line's flagship; R.M.S. Titanic,

On maiden voyage were, the wealthy and the poor,

   Little did some know that, their fate was heaven's door.

 

Through the night did race the ship, in waters icy cold,

   Captain's orders were make speed, so the bridge was told.

Then lookouts in the crow's-nest, yelled words that filled with dread,

   Too late, the cry rang out 'iceberg right ahead'.

 

The helmsman steered hard a-port, all eyes glued on the ice,

   Engines rung to full astern, would that be suffice?

A scraping glancing blow was struck, not bad it was assumed,

   But the blow was fatal; the giant ship was doomed.

 

Now stopped in her wake, time to assess damage,

   Crew gave their assurances, were confident in image.

Order given 'lifeboats stations', ladies, children first,

   Hopeful for their safety, but some did fear the worst.

 

By the boat deck's davits, people swarmed and stood,

   The band kept playing music, to calm the best it could.

But boats, their numbers were too few, the situation plain,

   The ice-cold water would so soon, its many victims claim.

 

The signal rockets overhead, lit up the dark night sky,

   Would they be observed by, a near ship's watchful eye?

And would the wireless transmits, that relayed their distress,

   Be picked up by nearby ships, which heard the S.O.S?

 

Water poured in, flooding decks, the stem now under water,

   With state of damage now revealed, nothing more could save her.

People prayed for rescue, in pyjama and in nightie,

   Surely He would answer them, the one they thought Almighty.

 

Then she raised to vertical, my God what a sight,

   The sound of boilers crashing, rent that frightful night.

Then all lights extinguished, surrounding all in black,

   Settling back at angle, she began her final track.

 

Graceful in her death throes, she slipped 'neath the wave,

   Her final plunge taking her, to an unmarked grave.

Her decks swept clear of mortals, the music's last note read,

   On flotsam-strewn ocean was, confetti of the dead.

 

And then it was all over, no sound, no sight, no motion,

   Where was once a splendid ship, now nothing but the ocean.

On millpond sea, lifeboats, and those aboard the rafts,

   But those in icy waters were, soon to breathe their last.

 

Full speed to the rescue came, Carpathia she was near,

   Taking hours to get there, as fast as it could steer.

She picked up survivors, their numbers low of reckon,

   But fifteen hundred others had, succumbed to Neptune's beckon.

 

Where to point the finger, and apportion blame?

   At the door of captain Smith, for want of a name.

And the lack of lifeboats, or warning shouts heard late,

   Any one or all did, seal Titanic's fate.

 

There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n,

All that Thou sendest me, in mercy giv'n,

Angels to beckon me, nearer my God to Thee,

Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.

 

 

  

 

 

 

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