Poetry

[Chulla 4,946]

The Dancing Competition

 

Last night I had a dream, I saw Nottstalgians dance,

Was I at the Sherwood Rooms, or was I in a trance?

There they were, one and all, in thrall of Terpsichore,

Straining at the leash, to give their all and more.

Familiar names from forums wide, the ladies and the men,

Did vie in competition, I'll give you all the gen.

 

nonnaB stepped on to floor, all Italiano,

Scusa, just watch me, and then she did the mambo.

Her arms and legs were all in sync, reminds you of Swan Lake,

With gingerbread, crumbs galore, strewed long her wake.

 

On next came Bubble-wrap, his whiskers all-askew,

With dancing-pumps and dickie bow, he hadn't got a clue.

He tried his best, he tried so hard, he really had a go,

Thinking he was waltzing, in fact 'twas fandango.

 

Up stepped the Rage of Radford, Melissa in her splendour,

Se-quins a-glint, mascara-eyed, a model of her gender.

'May I' said Stu, 'OK' she said, 'this lot we will beat',

And then without a warning, her stiletto stabbed his feet.

 

Then up sprang, Hippo Girl, a rose between her teggies,

With castanets and stamping feet, and skirt a-twirl her leggies.

She rocked, she rolled, jig and jive, she did the paso doble,

What a sight, was she tight, too much Beau-jolais?

 

Blondie so spectacular, cartwheeled on to the maple,

Misjudged her entrance by a tad, and landed on a table.

Quickly to regain new poise, she took it like a trouper,

Picked up well, scored some points, she's not a party pooper.

 

Next on floor was carni, fresh from all her pedalling,

With skirt a-flare, showed stocking top, as when young in Gedling.

Hubby Chris rocked side to side, and his gel she did frown,

'Cummon me duck' she said to him, and went and sat him down.

 

Dave48 and Wendy, got right into their stride,

Dancing to Led Zeppelin, no matter how they tried.

It didn't make a difference, it didn't change their fate,

The music played at 45, they danced at 78.

 

Loppylugs was organised, he'd done it all before,

By the time you'd said Jack Robinson, he'd commandeered the floor.

He thought he knew all the steps, could do them in the dark,

But to those who stood and watched him, his plight was worse than Bach.

 

MargieH and hubby Paul, all dressed up to the nines,

Did the hokey cokey but, were wary of the signs.

And sure enough a cry was heard, enough to m ake you weep,

'Me back! me back!' Margie yelled, and fell down in a heap.

 

katyjay, like any Yank, did don check shirt and jeans,

Dosey do-ing round the floor, as she did in teens.

But when it came to modern dance, and changed step into jive,

She bumped into everyone, her being left-hand drive.

 

Compo down from Jockland, did the highland reel,

Dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, it didn't have the feel.

No skirl of pipes, no swirl of kilt, no och-aye th' noo,

But luke-warm appreciation, from letsavagoo.

 

Next on floor was radfordred - middle name of Clough?

Tripped the light fantastic, but we'd all seen enough.

He dribbled here, he dribbled there, alone and wi' 'is sen,

Sent off back to sidelines, for him no ten from Len.

 

Moz and Micky had a go, but neither had the art,

No matter how hard they tried, they kept drifting well apart.

'Bit off more than they can chew' said mumbling in the crowd,

'Nul point! nul point! they all shouted out aloud.

 

As carni stood and watched, and chuntered to 'er sen,

'Cummon' she said, to her Chris, 'we'll 'av a go agen'.

You could see he wasn't happy, could see it in his eyes,

'I thought yum were boggered', he said amid his sighs.

 

Then Lizzie did the rumba, a sight so rarely seen.

Partnered with I Dawson, who promptly split the scene.

Quick as a flash, she altered tack, and now devoid of man,

Lifted skirt, kicked out legs, and did a great Cannes, Cannes.

 

Fynger and Martine performed, their tattoos all ablaze,

Sad to say their routine, had seen better days.

They tried the jive, they tried the creep, the foxtrot they just blew it,

'I have had enough' she said, and with that left him to it.

 

To sky-high cheers and clapping, up stepped Mick2me,

Surely our dear founder, would triumph, well we'll see.

But there was interruption, and disappointment large,

By phone-call from outsider, by name of N Farage.

 

All in all they dint do bad, considering their ability,

Big the gap from teenage sprite, to zimmer frame mobility.

All were game, though no-one won, and I say with pleasure,

Nottstalgians when they're up for it, give nothing but full measure.

 

Then cock did crow, dawn light awoke, its fingers they did spread.

What a dream had entertained, me as I lay abed.

Of one thing I am certain, don't think that I'm a mug,

Nottstalgians sure know how to, joyfully cut a rug.

[EileenH 496]

Now several hundred wallflowers,

Delighting in the chance,

Are twirling gaily by themselves

And sharing in the dance.

[MargieH 7,600]

Brilliant poem, Chulla. Thankyou

[carni 10,094]

What a Poet Chulla. Brilliant.

[katyjay 5,091]

I know it's a bit of nepotism to say this, but, bloody marvellous poem, bro.

[Trevor S 2,003]

T'WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,

HE LIVED ALL ALONE,

IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE,

MADE OF PLASTER AND STONE.

I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY,

WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,

AND TO SEE JUST WHO,

IN THIS HOME, DID LIVE.

I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,

A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,

NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,

NOT EVEN A TREE.

NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,

JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,

ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES,

OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.

WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,

AWARDS OF ALL KINDS,

A SOBER THOUGHT,

CAME THROUGH MY MIND.

FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,

IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,

I'D FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,

ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,

SILENT, ALONE,

CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR,

IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.

THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,

THE ROOM IN DISORDER,

NOT HOW I PICTURED,

A TRUE AUSSIE SOLDIER.

WAS THIS THE HERO,

OF WHOM I'D JUST READ?

CURLED UP ON A PONCHO,

THE FLOOR FOR A BED?

I REALISED THE FAMILIES,

THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,

OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS,

WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.

SOON ROUND THE WORLD,

THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,

AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE,

A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.

THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM,

EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,

BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS,

LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.

I COULDN'T HELP WONDER,

HOW MANY LAY ALONE,

ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE,

IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.

THE VERY THOUGHT BROUGHT,

A TEAR TO MY EYE,

I DROPPED TO MY KNEES,

AND STARTED TO CRY.

THE SOLDIER AWAKENED,

AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE,

"SANTA DON'T CRY,

THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;

I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,

I DON'T ASK FOR MORE,

MY LIFE IS MY GOD,

MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS.”

THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,

AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,

I COULDN'T CONTROL IT,

I CONTINUED TO WEEP.

I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS,

SO SILENT AND STILL,

AND WE BOTH SHIVERED,

FROM THE COLD NIGHT'S CHILL.

I DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE,

ON THAT COLD, DARK, NIGHT,

THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOR,

SO WILLING TO FIGHT.

THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,

WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,

WHISPERED, "CARRY ON SANTA,

IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE."

ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,

AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT."

This poem, so I am told, was written by a Peacekeeping soldier stationed overseas.

[Deeps 68]

Oh I wish I'd looked after my stomach

and not been so fond of the grub.

I wish I'd drank Schweppes slim line tonic

'stead of whiskey and beer in the pub.

I struggle to fasten my trousers

can't bend down to fasten my shoes

I haven't seen my old man for ages

Guess he's still hanging there loose.

When I walk on the beach in my swimsuit

People point to my stomach and grin

I keep holding it in till I'm breathless

then it flops out again -I can't win

So I think to myself-does it matter

I don't give a feather or fig

I'm resigned to the fact that I'm rotund

I'm a slob I'm fat I'm a pig

[Chulla 4,946]

The Dancing Competition - the play-offs

 

The competition over, the results were now all in,

Who would make the final round, who might go on to win?

The final six were chosen, dancing now with pros,

Russians, Czechs, Serbs and Brits; the sickle and the rose.

 

The first round had seen off, those with little hope,

Those that only shuffle, those that only lope.

Scores were low, but not all bad, the highest one was seven,

Unlike Eddie Cochran, no three steps to heaven.

 

Came the night all on edge, the butterflies a-flutter,

'Tally Ho, I'll do me best' one was heard to mutter.

Those that had a second chance, they realised the score,

From six hopeful contenders, would be a downcast four.

 

First on floor was Blondie, with partner Vladimir,

Onlookers did not like him, from them he got a jeer.

Nice hair-do, make-up smart, and dressed appropriate,

Sequins a-glint, lycro tight, what will be her fate?

 

Shaky start, then got the knack, from then on OK,

Dancing to the cha cha, was she timid, nay.

All was well, but near the end, disaster it did strike,

Foot caught in dress, ripping sound, the judges did not like.

 

She carried on, unperturbed, as if nowt did bother,

Applause there came from audience, and nods from one another.

Scores were low, but not all bad, the highest one was six,

A scowl from Vlad, who in his sulk, expected lots of ticks.

 

Loppylugs was on next, but prowess had to wait,

With Olga's chest a heaving, he couldn't concentrate.

The flesh the tassels threw him, never to regain,

His practised steps, his rictus grin, his attitude so sane.

 

But age was here no barrier, the two of them let loose,

Both possessed the will to win, accepting no excuse.

Holding partner's fleshy parts, his foxtrot sans compare,

She was Ginger Rogers, he was Fred Astaire.

 

When it was all over, the crowd's appreciation,

Was heard and felt by the pair, enjoying admiration.

Not a slip, no wrong steps, both danced as were possessed,

In the hands of judges now, for them to be assessed.

 

LizzieM all chic and svelte, her task was all and more,

She matched up with Mikhail, a Slovak Terpsichore.

He'd stubbled chin, a grip of iron, and seriousness of death,

But Liz was bending backward, to avoid his garlic breath.

 

Their dance routine was rock and roll, and to the beat of Haley,

With skirt a-flare, and beehive hair, she performed so gaily.

She whirled and swirled, jumped and jived, you'd never seen her better,

And at the last step taken, was perfect to the letter.

 

The crowd went wild with handclaps, with whistles and with chants,

She responded gratefully, amid her breathless pants.

There were those who thought she'd cracked it, why judge any more?

But all contestants deserved a chance, that's what rules are for.

 

Sporty, eager, radfordred, was running on the spot,

Him and Aliona, itchy feet they got.

Piracy was their theme, a roll-play that did thrill 'er,

She was dressed a pirate's moll, he was Long John Silver.

 

Self-conscious in his pirate dress, with dagger 'tween his teeth,

And parrot perched on shoulder, and peg-leg underneath.

The stomp of peg on maple, made bandsmen's tempo poor,

They were beating eight to the bar, the leg no more than four.

 

'Oo-arr, Jim lad'! the crowd did mock, avast behind to Ali,

The treasure chest before his eyes, made them as big as belly.

But judges nodded, gave thumbs up, clearly were impressed,

All they gave him their high scores; he too had passed the test.

 

Hippo Girl, Miss 1920s, dressed in flapper gear,

With Marcel wave, and string of beads, she had naught to fear.

Her partner he was English, and not a swarthy Serb,

Sadly his performance, was more noun that verb.

 

With knocking knees and outstretched arms, HG she showed them how,

Impressing all and sundry, with crowd exclaiming wow!

She shimmied here, black-bottomed there, onlookers were astounded,

He looked the part, but had no heart, as 'cross the floor they bounded.

 

But could this be the winner, could it see off the men?

It surely had a good chance, some judges gave it ten.

Her fans did gather round her, twixt sips of Beaujolais,

Satisfied she'd done her best, her fate with others lay.

 

But wait, what's this, not over yet, the final male contender,

It's our Compo, slick and smart, with talent now to render.

Bow tie and tails, hair slicked down, and patent leather shoes,

Dancing with Kristina, the St Louis Blues.

 

Oh what a pair, what a sight, what a great routine,

Gliding as the swans do, on the River Leen.

The crowd did cheer, the crowd did clap, the crowd did utter sighs,

Even judges hard to please, had tears within their eyes.

 

As if were glued together, they danced as if were one,

The glitter-ball above their heads, reflected job well done.

A spotlight caught her spangles, and shine on his black shoes,

Bathed in light they entertained, all of those who viewed.

 

Around the floor assembled, were those who'd been before,

Margie, carni, Ian et al, and those with limbs now sore.

Along with all the others, they thought the contest fair,

'Here's to the next time' some were heard declare.

 

And so it was all over, all had done their best,

Now the watching public vote, the judges take a rest.

It's up to you dear reader, the final needs two names,

Will they be the gentlemen, or will they be the dames?

 

The telephone lines are now open.

[Guest]

Very clever Chulla, a great use of words,well done!!

Scans nicely too!!

[Chulla 4,946]

Thank you Ian, particularly for saying it scans nicely. I will admit that for some it will be difficult/awkward to latch on to the flow of the rhythm. I have put commas in the places where the rhythm breaks, to help the flow. Normally, commas would not be there.

[Guest]

Benjamin 45 and jive

Loppylugs and jitterbugs

48 Banjo and tango

Michael booth and Latin smooth

Cranky pig did a jig

[Chulla 4,946]

Ian, you're a poet and don't know it.

[Chulla 4,946]

A family Tradition

 

When I was a lad, I went wi' me dad, down to the City ground,

On Satdy af'noons, straight off bus, down London Road we'd pound.

The journey could've been shorter, to Meadow Lane I meant,

But dad said 'nay lad, not same since Tommy Lawton went'.

 

Other side of Trent Bridge turn, clicking through turnstiles,

Oh, the thrill of what's to come, but wait for just a while.

Clacking rattles, partisan chants and scarves of red and white,

Then ref blows his whistle, will we win - we might.

 

Dad said if I'm a good lad, to an away game we'd go,

Never in my wildest dreams, and neither could he know.

It would be, to the game's, most holy, holy pitch,

Praying hard, that fate would not, deliver us a hitch.

 

Then came, the great day aye, in nineteen-fifty-nine,

Off we went to Wembley, in Skill's green coach so fine.

We won! we won! all did shout, I thought that I would cry,

The FA Cup, now was ours, we left the Smoke on high.

 

Now years on, just the same, on Satdy afternoon,

Holding hand of my son, whose face shines like the moon.

Wrapped in colours red and white, full of expectation,

His team will win, no doubt of that, and then the celebration.

 

I did smile, just like my son, I'd soaked the atmosphere,

Will the lad's son do the same, in some distant year.

Dad and lad, like many more, on football fields are found,

And often on a Satdy, on course for City ground.

[Guest]

Nice one Chulla captured the excitement just about right!

[Chulla 4,946]

Latent Ambitions

 

Had I the art, the skill, the ken,

To paint with brush, to write with pen.

Then I, perhaps, would be revered,

When long in tooth and grey in beard.

 

Oh to be that admired artist,

Whose colours have a canvas kissed.

Whose words illuminate a page,

That herald thee, a modern sage.

 

Oh to be a Monet, a Byron that'll do,

Me purveying beauty's, poet-lauded hue.

Galleries far and wide, would my work display,

In paint or printed essay, I would have my say.

 

I'd like to think that some fine day,

Such blandishments shall come my way,

But for now there's no confusion,

Just a whimsical illusion.

[DaveN 1,118]

Let’s take you back to your younger days
When there were loads of chip shops but no takeaways
At school girls wore gymslips
Went to Mablethorpe or Skeggy on a day trips
From a bottle of ink your pen you did refill
And listened to music on vinyl
No car lift to school –you had to walk
You didn’t have butter you had Stork
You did sums without a calculator
Walked up stairs – no escalator
At school if you were naughty or didn’t pay attention
You got the strap, cane, lines or detention
Had blankets and eiderdown – no duvet
Monday was always mums’ washday
You hated vaccinations and the nit nurse
But gas at the dentists was much worse
There were farthings, pennies, bobs and tanners
You were told to be polite and mind your manners
A Pac-a-mac to keep you dry in the rain
But the water down your legs did drain
Only one or two channels on the B & W TV
You went to the pictures to see a film not a movie
Chimney sweep, milkman and coalman
Two deliveries each day from the postman
Smith’s Crisps with salt in a little blue bag
Behind the bike shed you had a crafty fag
Stiff Izal toilet paper to wipe your bum
And even newspaper was used by some
Your mother darned holes in jumpers and socks
No such thing as radio alarm clocks
Shire horses pulling Shippo’s drays
Most shops were closed on Sundays
You sat at the table for every meal
Had to lick stamps – no self-seal
Football pools but no National Lottery
A kitchen was called a scullery
If you were good you got some treats
A chocolate bar or quarter of sweets
People went out without locking their door
Your mother always wore a pinafore
A tablet was something you took when unwell
There was a knocker on your front door not a bell
You had to have a licence for dogs
In winter there were peasouper fogs
No ATMs or vending machines
Or wide screen plasma TV screens
Didn’t have expiry dates on food
Never dreamt of being tattooed
Not many Credit or Debit cards around
So cash and cheques did abound
You took films to chemists for D & P
Which you’d probably taken with a Brownie
You had no computer, dvd or mobile phone
Many roads were still cobblestone
In winter to keep warm you did struggle
Around the coal fire you all did huddle
Under your bed you had a chamber pot
Where during the night you did squat
No junk mail through your door
No fitted carpets on the floor
In the street there were gas lights
Women wore stockings as there were no tights
Most telephones were on a party line
You listened to Luxemburg or Caroline
Empty glass bottles to the shop you’d take
So extra pocket money you could make
It took several minutes to warm up a telly
There weren’t many kids with a fat belly
Green Shield stamps and Co-op divi
You might have had an outside privy
Gift tokens were in some packets of fags
Whatever happened to the old string bags?
On your school clothes you had your name labels
Unlike today’s kids you knew your times tables
On School sports days you hoped for 1^st place
Either in egg and spoon, sack or 3 legged race
Antimacassars on the back of a chair
Smacks on your bum if you did swear
Unlike today no fancy underwear
Holes in clothes, mother would repair
Blanket, eiderdown and counterpane
Baths no showers unless they were rain
No doctor’s appointments, you had to queue
Hand up at school if you wanted a poo
You might have had a fridge but no freezer
Got hot water from an Ascot water geyser
You learnt to play tambourine, cymbals or triangle
On washday your mother probably used a mangle
So that’s the end of this ode
Hope yo like wot yoav bin towd!

[Chulla 4,946]

DaveN. You must be my age, because I remember well everything you describe. Nice poem.

[MargieH 7,600]

But Chulla, you are kind of famous already - your poems are on here for at least 5000 people to read, and will remain so for the foreseeable future for others to enjoy. Perhaps one day they'll be studied for GCSE or whatever!! Who knows...

[Chulla 4,946]

My poetry studied for GCSE exams? There's an irony for you. Failed the 11 Plus and have never attained any qualifications in my life, other than a 5 1/2-year trade apprenticeship.

[DaveN 1,118]

Nice to hear Chulla that you can recall all the things I mentioned in my poem. It's amazing what a 21 year old can remember!

[Annesleyred1865 137]

Local Golf

After reading Sea-side golf by John Betjemin

With slight persuasion I was made,

In my adult years to take up the blade

It’s quite energetic this outdoor leisure,

but I’ve dabbled before it’ll be a pleasure

Borrowed half set and a bag on’t first tee,

all present were more experienced than me

Addressing my ball to go straight as a die,

for some unknown reason its path went awry

It started off centre, then as it took flight,

ignoring the fairway went straight to the right

My trusty Six iron from its bag was withdrawn,

to get out of this rough which resembled my lawn

Pinward and scythelike I gave it some force,

she sat mid the fairway now I’m back on course

A dainty little chip and to land on the green,

have I overdone it my ball can’t be seen?

As if under a spell of a sorcerer or witch,

passed green and bunkers and settled in a ditch

Half a lifetime of hacking and chopping,

the little white demon came out of there hopping

It skipped by the pin and headed for sand,

with a mind of it’s own and out of command

Perched on the edge of the sand trap to

tease, my next was inches away with ease

My temples were throbbing, my pulse was a race;

sink this for five to save my red face

I’m losing my bottle for the task that’s afoot,

I fumbled and missed the easiest putt

I had got to get my chin off the floor

‘cos I knew I had to golf-on some more

My heart missed a beat as it went round the lip,

hallelujah, Hail Mary as it now took a dip

This mode went on ‘til the nineteenth hole

I’d rather be back down the pit loading coal

John Bet’ and you and your golf sea side

Can’t help thinking I’ve been took for a ride

Gary Roe 1993 ©

[Chulla 4,946]

Get your hankies out.

 

The Vigil

 

The news was bad, very bad, as bad as it could be,

The doctor he did shake his head, his worry plain to see.

The fever had its grip, the temperature so high,

The little girl so weak was she, with not the strength to cry.

 

Those there felt a lump in throat, the welling of a tear,

Will Fate decide the precious life, of the daughter dear.

The mother sobbed 'Dear Lord see fit, to spare my sick angel'

'She's all I've got, my only child, my lovely Annabelle'.

 

At bedside were her family, so struck were they with fear,

With little sign of movement, could death be lurking near?

The doctor slowly stood up straight, and cast across a glance,

'If she survives the night's dark cloak, she'll stand a decent chance'.

 

And from her curly forehead, did perspiration pour,

Temperature was way above, ninety-eight point four.

Such bleakness did pervade the room, the priest he gave last rite,

Would the strength of prayer prevail, would darkness turn to light.

 

'My dear God' the mother cried, 'why did you forsake'

'My little girl, at death's door, please make her wide awake'.

All around did say amen, and hoped the plaintive plea,

Would be heard by Him above, the one that held the key.

 

Her little frame, bathed in sweat, the fever at its peak,

The doctor a-gain sounded her, the pulse it was so weak.

Heads turned away, with covering hands, and choking back a tear,

They did not need the telling, that heaven's gate was near.

 

A ray of light then cut through gloom, and fell across her cheek,

And warmth did flow through the veins, of that young lass so meek.

Was this a sign, a talisman, to whom they were beholden?

Was it by His providence, that the ray was golden.

 

And then as if heaven itself, did touch her pallid lips,

They moved distinct, her mother cried 'Water! give her sips'.

And with that the crisis waned, a smile appeared on face,

Had she endured, had she pulled through, and had she won the race?

 

The doctor just, one more time, did check if fever free,

The sweating gone, the temperature, down where it should be.

Be it God, be it fate, to whom shall we thus deign,

Such miracles are unexplained, and may they so remain.

[Chulla 4,946]

Village Sunday

 

The light of dawn did show its face,

'cross fields and hedgerow it did race.

A cock did crow and cattle stirred,

And cuckoo call so clear was heard.

 

The morn begins so still and tranquil,

Then breeze it flits through vale and hill.

To a church bell's toll, forms congregation,

To kneel in prayer and meditation.

 

The farmer toils, his burdens many,

All hours God sends to earn his penny.

From sunrise east to sunset west,

For him Sunday's no day of rest.

 

The village wakes, the crows do caw,

Honeysuckle girds the cottage door.

A pigeon coos, and babbles the brook,

That reflects the sky and floats the duck.

 

The willow weeps, the heron wades,

The scent of new-mown hay pervades,

A village shows its well-worn face,

Our England is a lovely place.

[Chulla 4,946]

One to read to the grandchildren.

 

Farmyard Fur and Feathers

 

The creatures of the farmyard, they meet there every day,

Some to do their work, some to have a play.

Let us take a look at them, and see what they all do,

One by one we'll say hello, when they come into view.

 

Maurice Mouse and Mary, their whiskers all a-twitch,

Hanging on a corn stalk, growing by the ditch.

Dilly Duck comes waddling by, yellow are her legs,

Looking for her cosy nest, so she can lay her eggs.

 

Hector Horse gallops up, his hooves they go clip clop,

Came to get his bale of hay, then not long did he stop.

Hattie Hen, clucked and pecked, her colours brown and red,

Her beak picks up, bits of corn, for that's what she is fed.

 

The old black crow flutters down, and makes a frightful sound,

'Go elsewhere and make your noise', said all who stood around.

Dick the Dog did wag his tail, he likes a bit of fuss,

Rounding up the woolly sheep, and chasing Pat the puss.

 

Then up strolled Connie Cow, her coat as smooth as silk,

Going to the parlour, so she could give her milk.

Rex the Rabbit hopped along, his ears so tall and slender,

Nibbling at the lettuce leaves, and carrots oh so tender.

 

Shirley Sheep, eating grass, has wool like snowy fluff,

Her baby lamb, bleats and jumps, until its had enough.

The buzzing bees, in their hive, making all the honey,

For us to spread, on our bread, so sweet and so runny.

 

Pat the Cat, black and white, he loves to climb the trees,

Loves to eat fishy foods, without the chips and peas.

The farmer does his sowing, in rows that are so neat,

At harvest time, he reaps the crop, which makes the bread we eat.

 

The horse did neigh, the crow did caw, the sheep did baa so proudly,

The cow did moo, the hen did cluck, the duck did quack so loudly.

And so it is every day, in farmyard and in meadow,

Fur and feather, are our friends, and long may they remain so.

[MargieH 7,600]

I wrote the following poem a few years ago when I was reminiscing about the holidays I'd had as a child. The two places referred to in the poem are Chapel St Leonards, where we went for our annual holidays until I was 10, and Llangwnadl in North Wales. In Chapel, we stayed on the same site each year on Sea Bank Road and it was OUR place, as was the village. I used to feel it was waiting for us each year....

A few other notes:

My Mum used to say I had 'donkey feet' because I never wore shoes all holiday, even when walking on the road to the amusements in the village.

The stone slab on the dunes was the top of an old pillbox, I think.

No more explanations...

Growing up

‘She’ll be here soon ….

wonder if she’ll have grown ….

will she notice any differences in me?’

The village quivered with excitement and tried its best to look smart.

The donkeys on the beach felt the ripple of anticipation and turned their ears towards the road – was that the car?

‘I’ll be the first,’ said Tommy to the others. ‘She loves me best – she told me so.’ He nodded his head and brayed softly.

The deep, warm sand smoothly caressed herself and waited,

allowing the wisps of dry seaweed and mermaid’s purses to rest on the top

as a welcoming gift for her favourite child,

while the sea called out in the distance: ‘Is she here yet? Tell her I’ll be in soon’

The huge tilted slab on the dunes closed his big pebble eyes and thought contentedly of his adventures through the years.

He was once even a throne for the queen of the pirates as she ruled the world!

Would she remember which hot prickly path she had to take to find him?

Would she still burn her little donkey feet on his back?

Down the lane, by the dunes, the privet flowers opened their hearts

and the heavy scent hung in the air ready ……

for the very special child.

The afternoon wore on,

the sun sank lower in the sky

and the anticipation slowly turned into a dull tummy ache………….

“Now that you’re eleven

It’s time to have a rest

From annual east coast holidays.

We’ve booked a cottage in the west.”

The child felt quite excited

At the thought of pastures new

But she hadn’t fully worked out yet

That the east could not come too!

The car felt stretched on laggy bands

As they drove towards the west

Pulling further from the heartland

Which the child now felt was best.

The holiday was quite good fun

New beaches, cliffs and flowers

But magic times eluded her

Through all those summer hours.

She felt that she’d been cheated

But her thoughts she couldn’t share,

And she felt a traitor to the east

’Cos her friends were waiting there.

In her mind she promised them

She’d visit soon, and wept -

But four long years passed by until

That promise could be kept.

The village did think it had seen her somewhere before -

‘She does look a bit familiar, but people are just people aren’t they!’

The lead donkey, Tommy, led the trail of riders back to base

and nodded his head brusquely at the teenage girl reaching out to stroke him.

The sand was rough and used ….. dirty with cartons and lolly sticks

and the grey sea sulked and lapped aimlessly, saying nothing.

The dunes were fenced off –

“Too dangerous! And you never know who might be lurking there!”

The stone slab felt lonely sometimes. He felt there was something important he should remember about pirates and adventures and hot little donkey feet …..

It must have been something he’d dreamt once.

Just for one fleeting precious moment a privet flower in the lane recognised her

and breathed…..