Waterfront by Lyn Turner
I went to the Waterfront today. I wanted to dip my toe in, to see if it was cold, or welcoming and refreshing..
I was pleasantly surprised. With trepidation I tested the sand beneath my feet.
I could feel it moving as if the tide was ebbing and flowing, I could see the patterns made as I walked across the damp sand. The Waterfront accepted me, listened and encouraged me.
I will not be afraid to dive in again and enjoy the eddies. I will admire again the differences in style and content of the others.
No sharp pebbles there! Only soft warm sand of education, knowledge and education, knowledge and new experiences.
We are the Waterfront Writers by Carol Butson
We are very select in our writers group, our credentials are plain to see
Each member retains their full quota of brains
As they compose their poetry
Yes, we are the Waterfront Writers and we’re terribly proud of the fact,
For the writers elsewhere they make us despair
For their lack of literary tracts.
Every week we gather together, a mixed bunch of folk who love words
Mixed metaphors fly, pluck our rhymes from the sky,
As a group we just love the absurd
We chatter and giggle and comment, as our various tales are spun
We rework alterations and inscribe our corrections
Just two hours of literary fun
We give ourselves airs, at social affairs, we’re often in whimsical mode
With comments terse and risqué blank verse
We spout limericks, sonnets and odes
The Waterfront Writers are special, no age barrier here holds us back
Our prose is collectable our rhymes are impeccable
But a lot of the time we just chat
Two hours just fly by much too quickly when we meet every week as a group
We talk and discuss, we critique and adjust
When we cook up our literary soup
We conspire and admire, consort and report, by writer’s block we’re not deterred
But we never lose sight of the reason we meet,
We are friends sharing our love of words
Going Home by Carol Butson
As sunrise wakes the sleepy land, and life begins to stir,
I set off on my journey, for I must travel far
I prefer to use the back roads, to walk the leafy lanes
Where quietly waits my old life as I head for home again
As morning sun ascends the sky and heads towards midday
I am going home alone, after many years away
I will walk the old road, though it’s not the quickest route
A solitary journey, as with purpose I step out
It’s the pretty way, the hidden way, this ancient secret lane,
Where dappled sunlight filters through a canopy of green
The sound of my own footsteps, the birdsong in the tree
The smell of new cut grass from the far side of the lea
Pause to lean on five barred gate, and gaze across the fields
At distant hills and hedgerows, pure tranquility I feel
No sound of motor engine to disturb the peaceful scenes
I hear only birdsong and rustling autumn leaves
As sunset heralds evening, starlings gather overhead
The far horizon fades away to purple, gold and red
In silhouette against the sky a flock of black winged rooks
The smell of drifting wood smoke from distant chimney stacks
As twilight turns to darkness, my journey near its end
Past and present side by side, deep silence all around
If you prefer the busy highways, don’t you come along
If you won’t walk the back roads, then I’m going home – alone
Holiday in Margate by Carol Butson
We were off on holiday, in 1953
Mum booked up for a week, at a Margate B&B
In our ancient Austin Seven, with our luggage in the boot
Buckets and spades upon our knees, Dad in his best suit
As we drove along the road the journey seemed to fly
We were singing ten green bottles, and playing at “I spy”
At last we arrived at the B&B and entered the dingy hall
The smell of boiled cabbage, and a picture of the King on the wall
Scratchy sheets on lumpy beds, net curtains dull and grey
But we were kids, and happy just to be beside the sea
We woke up in the morning, the sun was shining bright
We headed off towards the beach, clutching bucket, spade and kite,
We changed into our bathers which were dreadfully ill fitting
They soaked up all the water because they were made of knitting
Emerging from the sea the crotch hung down between our knees
The icy water was so cold our toes and fingers freeze
Mother very daring tucked her dress into her drawers
And had a little paddle as she watched us from the shore
While Father sat in a deckchair, hairy legs in khaki shorts
A knotted hankie on his head, with the paper, back page, sports
It was such a struggle getting out of a wet cossie
Wind whipping at our towel, sand in every nook and cranny
Then out came the bucket, build a castle made of sand
Seaweed flag and driftwood drawbridge, we were kings who ruled the land
Up to the shop for a bottle of pop and a bright green fishing net
Searching rock pools, catching shrimps, our dresses getting wet
Mother bought us ice creams, and sticks of bright pink rock
We did not heed dire warnings that our teeth would start to rot
And then along the sandy beach we had a donkey ride
We watched the ships far out to sea and saw the incoming tide
We collected shells In buckets, to take home and keep for ever
Memories of a magic time that we would always treasure
In the restaurant the menu was excitedly perused
We were so excited ‘cos we were allowed to choose
Knickerbocker glory, cheese omelette, cod in batter
The waitress said, “You’re late, it’s off, we only have spam fritters”
We walked along the promenade, the brass band in the park
Then back to bed in the B&B because it was getting dark
Next day suitcase packed and loaded, ready to depart
Leaving our seaside paradise, with a heavy heart
Off we drove, a last glimpse of the sand and sparkling sea
But father said “Now cheer up kids, we’re back next year, you’ll see”
I now go to Majorca, where it’s never wet and cold
But I still remember Margate, when I was seven years old
Life – by Cally Starforth Hill
Life is mean and life is short,
something in which we all get caught.
It never meets you in the eye,
It’ll make you laugh, it’ll make you cry.
Life was never meant to be
a game of chance in which we try
to throw the dice successfully.
We were never meant to carve a path
so we could sign an autograph,
and prove our worth to all the world
to show we’re worth our weight in gold.
Living isn’t all a joke,
designed by some great God on coke.
nor is it suffering eternal,
meant to end in Hell’s inferno.
It sure ain’t one big slice of cake,
though sometimes we can take a break,
and find a way to make it work
so problems won’t drive us beserk.
And plague our days, our months, our years,
feed shamelessly upon our tears,
until we crawl up in a ball
and lose the will to face it all.
Life’s not life without a dream,
so keep believing so it seems
that dreams may never turn out true,
keep your faith, it’s good for you.
It’s not a hedonistic ball
where we can take, just take it all.
Though living in the moment’s wise
just make a wish and close your eyes.
You may never make ten out of ten
or rank up with the bravest men.
If your main goal is not achieved
don’t give up, break down or grieve.
You never know what’s round the corner,
no-one has the power to warn you,
turn your face up to the stars,
reach for the skies and reach afar.
And then you’ll see that life’s a wonder,
curiosity will find you,
who we are, from whence we came
will make you want to live again.
House on Henley Street by Jack Horne
Remembering a visit to Shakespeare’s Birthplace
I closed my eyes and wished him there.
My fingers traced the bricks and slate,
Exploring textures rough and smooth:
The wooden beams, the open grate.
I stepped on creaking floors he’d walked,
And climbed the narrow flight of stairs.
I stopped by windows where he’d stood,
And patted tables, beds and chairs.
The building held his tears and joys.
He seemed so close I hoped we’d meet.
I felt him etched upon the place:
He’d loved the house on Henley Street.
AFTER THE SUMMER by Jack Horne
In the summer we’d meet and we’d sip iced tea,
and the waiter saw kisses as people passed;
as I whispered my feelings into your ear,
I was sure in my heart that our love would last.
Now the winter is here and your heart has closed,
all the warmth that we shared is now frigid cold;
and I wonder what changed; why I lost your heart,
as I sit at our table alone and old…
No Rain by Annie Jenkin
A river bed lies dormant, bare
revealing scars of once was there.
Sand grains and dust move along its path,
catching in wafer thin crusted earth.
Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.
River banks shrunken, erode
withered bush roots protrude,
grasses hang insipidly pale,
bones of a once thirsty animal.
Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.
Further along the river bank,
an elephant raises his trunk,
flaps his ears and shakes his body,
conserving energy, ambles slowly.
Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.
The elephant finds what he’s looking for,
a remembered spot of years before,
using tusks and foot, he digs deep.
slowly, water begins to seep
He doesn’t hear, “no, no rain”.
EMPATHY AND BEYOND by Natalie Molyneux
Just a number, no one noting.
Stroke upon stroke, positive or negative.
Just a punchbag for others’ emotions
What about me? My needs I see
Bent, right-angled, head is dangled
Unsupported. Questions need framing.
Identity wavers, does me no favours.
Empathy with enemy, takes time to join reality.
What’s my head worth? body’s two penn’orth
of chemicals. Am I worth a six figure fee?
For my thoughts? Anger – psychosis?
Am I heard? Separation from reality?
Superego blinds. Consolation finds. Grapevine twines around the form.
Just a number. In the dole queue.
One hundred and fifty years of P&O by Natalie Molyneux
From Camden Town on a summer’s eve
I travelled to Greenwich Palace.
The park with revellers did heave
for a party given all for free.
Ships with bunting and light we saw.
The palace floodlit from the hill beheld.
An ambience created by a marine band
and then a laser show as we stand
in harmony against the population,
the celebration held for our delectation.
Steaming tea and cheery faces
as in bus queues we take our places.
All too soon we bid farewell
Homeward bound, London Transport’s coffers we swell.
The Kitchen at Christmas by Natalie Molyneux
Cards adorn the walls,
Candle and lights gleam
as evening falls,
flowers and clementines
the mood enhance
as the advent days advance.
Carols and classics:
of styles there’s a choice,
not only the voice.
Unto us a child is born,
for his head a crown of thorns.
Fragrance of cookery
from a book as she
dilligently makes for tea
cakes and curries, as you see.
Crumbles and compotes scent the air
as she works from her comfy chair.
A scholar she feeds,
calories he needs,
as he the courtyard scours.
It would have taken hours.
Virtual files he sorts.
Catalogues her thoughts.
MARRIED BLISS by Sylvia Parys
Early in the morning
busy as a bee
upstairs runs the housewife
with husband’s cup of tea.
Back again to fetch him
breakfast too in bed.
Hmm, he smells it cooking
As he stirs his weary head.
Shoes are waiting, shining
briefcase by the door
hat and coat to hand him
at the bus’s nearing roar.
Then, in desperation,
wife gives a shout
down the stairs he’s running
shirt is hanging out!
Now to do the shopping
food, he’s very keen,
quite the biggest eater
she has ever seen.
Steak and peas and onions
pickles, ham and cheese
stomach’s always empty
very hard to please!
Back home now to washing
shirts and socks and things
never stops a moment
kitchen clock has wings.
Throws her hat and coat on
– meets the kids from school
‘Daddy’s little angels’
– demons as a rule.
Now the bedroom tidy
clothes are on the floor
put them in the wardrobe
hang them on the door
listen for the kettle
have to make his tea
husband has been working
thirsty man is he!
While he watches telly
still she can’t relax
serving him and children
tea and biscuit snacks
but at last she’s finished
all her household chores…
…yes, at last she’s finished
all her household chores.
The Diet by Sylvia Parys
Oh dear, what have we here?
I said to my friend.
You used to be eighteen stone;
where did it disappear?
I did not know you went on a diet;
I know that you must feel very proud
of what you have achieved.
I am very pleased for you;
I would never have believed
that you could really do it.
I wish I could do the same
and get some off my belly;
It’s really not very funny
when I feel like a wobbling jelly,
so let it be an example
to all of them out there:
this diet can be done
in nine months clear…
Will that be all, sir? by Sylvia Parys
Now no names please,
I’m just a tease,
and just like having fun,
I know you really like my poems,
here’s another one.
Excuse me but I must state
that you have a very full plate
with your veg, roast meat and good wine
you really know how to dine.
What a delicious spread
with delicious jam and bread
and cakes so divine
I wish they were mine
also with caviar and oysters
foie gras, baguettes and cucumbers.
The toffee nosed and upper crust,
I think they are about to bust.
My Love by Sylvia Parys
He is my big blonde bombshell
and is sitting in the car
he is fantastic, so quiet and gentle,
good natured too
He will do whatever I ask of him
and do it without any fuss
I have never met anyone quite like him
he is so special to me
we go everywhere together
I could never be without him
that is why I love him so much
my big super softy collie.
Honey Bear by Sylvia Parys
This is your Honey Bear:
I love to look for honey everywhere;
in people’s homes, I do declare
that I will find some somewhere.
Hurrah! I’ve found a pot of honey;
It’s just the size for me.
Now I will try and see
how much there is inside.
Oh dear, silly me, I have fallen in,
and it’s nearly full of honey.
Oh dear, I seem to be stuck.
It’s all over my hair and derriere.
Help, now how can I get out?
Looks like I will have to eat it all;
don’t come to get me out just yet:
this is going to take a long time to eat
’cause I’m quite enjoying this:
life is very sweet, if some honey you eat.
Little Miss Muffet by Sylvia Parys
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey,
when down came a spider and sat down beside her, hoping
to scare her away
But up jumped Miss Muffet from her tuffet
You are big, fat and ugly, she said angrily
and I do not like you, so please go away
But the spider spoke to her and said
I am very hungry, I have not eaten for days
I like what I see you eating
with that he gulped the curds down
then he very quickly began to grow, and grew very big
with one quick sweep, with four of his feet
he picked her up and took her away
into his home of a web
He knew what he was doing
there were no flies on him.
Ode to a Glass by Sylvia Parys
I like coffee, I like tea
I liker to sit on a knee
I like red and white wine
Will he take me out to dine?
I like spirits and liqueur
but please don’t put me on the floor.
Don’t forget I like port and sherry
it’s no better than my Blackberry.
Now my glass is quite full and I’m sure that you are too
Do you know what I think?
That you have had enough to drink
Don’t you think that you had ‘oughta’
go and drink some milk and water?
I nearly forgot my beer on draught
when I tried so hard to make you laugh
What do you think? You’re looking quite tickled pink.
Attitude by Thea Bruten
We all know of people
who rely on attitude
they’re abrasive, evasive
and really rather rude!
Booting through the senses,
closing open doors,
cutting conversations, shout
when they should cut their claws.
Channelling bad attitude
can have a great result
conserving all that energy
instead of finding fault
pushing with the steaming mind
can sort out everything
It’s great what sated attitude
with a dash of care can bring!
Do it now by Thea Bruten
Phone a friend,
write that letter,
feel the sunshine
and look at the stars tonight.
Live each day
like there’s no tomorrow –
it could be the day
that you’ll be right.
Note to Editor: Anyone got an ‘E’? by Thea Bruten
Just one small adjustment
one writer’s tiny plea
while publishing our verses
please spell Bruten with an E –
now I have never been on drugs
although I yap at speed –
to keep my poems coming,
one E is all I need!
Another Wrinkly Rap by Thea Bruten
I am one of the deprived
although two years off seventy-five –
lack of easy mobility
over loaded memory
chemist controlled for each heartbeat
ankles turning to concrete –
overnight bags carried by my eyes
jaundiced already by life’s lies.
What is left to regenerate?
Too cynical, wised up, too late!
No longer fooled by wallpaper charm
with a two-edged tongue
that can do harm –
pots of tea –
sweet old lady?
Yeah! That’s me!
Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Thea Bruten
I am the Minister for Procrastination,
not a doer, but a thinker of ideas.
My portfolio is my imagination,
still blank and I’ve worked on it for years.
There’s no division bell to prompt an answer,
Mr Speaker’s out on his two-hour lunch –
I should be penning thoughts
of utter brilliance,
could I do so if it came to the crunch?
They say you should take time
to smell the roses,
but in depth of winter that is no excuse
so I sofa-loaf and plan
how I, tomorrow
will put my rusted brain
to some good use.
There’s a hole in my Bucket List by Thea Bruten
People, as they age a bit
start a bucket list
of places or experiences
they fear they may have missed –
skydiving or abseiling
no thanks! – not for me
I’d like to go alone, again
to wander Italy.
or back to Honalulu
though friends there will have died – they ran Greenhouse Hawaii
breeding orchids on the side.
They taught me corsage making
and asked would I like to stay –
I couldn’t, as my mum and I
were due in the UK.
Mr and Mrs NDA, in 1954,
grew orchids in California,
less than 10 years since the war.
They’d bred a new variety:
Vanda was its name;
flying corsages to LA nightly
and I could have done the same.
So at 22, what I had to do
was turn down a Hawaiian life
and freeze in English winters
through 60 years of strife.
Two marriages, two children,
Eight house moves, budget cares,
so many jobs: nanny to nobs,
florist, store guide, au pair.
So my days alone and working
before the Swinging London times,
I lost sight of my bucket list:
now I just list my life through rhymes.
Early Morning Jot by Thea Bruten
Between three and four in the morning
if the brain continues to burn,
a rhyming couplet forming –
will you never learn?
Addicted to the memopad,
always a pen in hand,
the light swiutched on,
all sleep is gone,
the Sandman’s run out of sand.
But dripping through the misty mind
the words find other words:
adjectives looking firmly on,
inspired or absurd.
What triggered off the subject?
How do you follow it through?
By now the rhyme takes over;
it’s no longer up to you.
Powering across the page,
the last line now in sight;
sunrise attacking your curtains –
what happened to the night?
Teardrop in the Sky by Thea Bruten
On the road home from Plymouth in the late afternoon
there’s sometimes the sighting of a silver balloon –
hanging, a teardrop against sun-setting clouds
away from the chaos of engines and crowds.
No long necklace of cars, no white vans up there,
no holiday caravans, no petrol-pumped air.
Just this silvery teardrop suspended in space,
looking down on the srtrung-out, tired human race,
hurrying home in their metal cans
pressured by time and bottlenecked plans.
Carloads of children complaining, confined,
drivers with patience accustomed, resigned –
and others who let you know what’s on their mind!
And there in the peaceful gold-dusted air
glides the lonely balloon free from angst and despair.
I’ve often wondered – where does it land?
Lucky pilot that owns it – by whom is it manned?
It’s seen parallel between Buckfastleigh
and over the farmland between there and the sea.
So the pilot an anyone sharing the flight
must have glorious views in the evening light
of green velvet acres and our heritage coast –
the full panorama encompassing most
of our piece of Devon, far more than we see
from our concreted causeway hurtling A to B.
Oh, to be up there to float unconfined
free from the strictures and structures of mind –
to have, laid below you the patchwork of fields,
the ribbon of rivers and, as eachg thermal yields
another clear vista of small village shops
clustered with cottages, some with thatched tops,
tiny back gardens, then further away
long lines of crops or piled bales of hay.
People so tiny, some waving to you
wishing, like me, they were floating there too.
As the sun disappears and our journey’s near end,
for the flight I have shared with you,
Happy Landings, my friend.
Stress by Thea Bruten
The toaster spat out burnt offerings,
the egg yolk split its sides,
the orange juice played fast and loose
a trickle, then full tide.
I was further stressed
while getting dressed,
worried and in haste –
just the day for the zip to stick
fighting a new inch on my waist.
I shot out through the front door
then found I’d left my keys –
give me a break
for heaven’s sake,
I’m almost on my knees.
What’s gone awry with my day?
What ruptured my routine?
I’ve just remembered:
today’s Friday Thirteen!
Gone by Thea Bruten
I lost a poem in the night,
it floated through my dreams
and like a dream, it seemed so real
but when I woke it seems
the sentences had come unglued
the lines all fell apart –
a scrap of paper and a pen
could have caught it at the start.
I felt a sense of loss because
it held such terms of phrase.
Oh, why don’t such good poems
come in our waking days?
Tally by Thea Bruten
All those things that you could have done,
that you would have done,
that you should have done,
that you long ago refused –
all those chances you didn’t take
for convention’s sake:
what a sad mistake
that your upbringing confused;
do they outweigh the better days
the unfettered days
when you changed your ways?
All the people who’ve been friends to you,
the interesting places you’ve travelled to,
the conversation with every view –
these are the treasures to hold on to
and your days are not yet used!
Plymouth Glass Galleon by Thea Bruten
Clean as the early new washed sky,
clear as the icy sea,
the glass of the galleon rigging
twists into history.
For then, the ropes and the oaken hull
gave speed to the merchantmen –
and now there are masters of molten skills
who can build us a ship, again.
From a blob of glass in the orange heat
of an angry furnace fire,
they can fashion a galleon in full sail
with glass spun fine as wire.
With sails lopped and hanging
from icicle-like spars
captured in frozen fragile form,
the pride of the ancient tars.
But this ship will never take to sea,
never wash her decks with spray –
for she’s missed the tide
so she’s moored inside
a landlocked wall display.
Haiku poems by Thea Bruten
straddling the river
reaching from the banks of time
paved in history
poems on a wall
expression freely offered
thoughts by concrete bound
Nightfall by Thea Bruten
Steely-grey, the cloudy fringes
losing grips on an evening sky,
burnished now with flames of sunset,
burning the day as it passes by.
High above, like a silver pendant,
hangs a slice of moon,
frozen beyond the far horizon,
riding the day that will die too soon.
TIME by Joyce Matthews
Time in loneliness stands still
Time has no meaning, when you have no will.
But time moves on, it’s you that stands still.
So move with the times, live your life get your fill.
Time hangs heavy for the man in the cell.
The days are long and the nights are hell.
He took a life when he did his crime
When he took that life, he took their time.
Time waits for no man it ticks on by.
There’s a time to laugh, and a time to cry.
There’s a time to sleep when darkness fall.
There’s a sometime a no time and a good time for all.
Come the end of your days where did it go.
All this time you had, you don’t know.
It slipped on by without a sound.
But time is eternal when you’re under ground.
A SCARY STARE by Joyce Matthews
I wondered through the city going from shop to shop.
All I wanted was a little black top.
Shop after shop, searching rail after rail,
Up and down each street I trail.
Feeling worn out and tired.
Some refreshment I required.
Sitting down enjoying the break,
With a cup of tea and a slice of cake.
A man stood by the next table looking at me.
“Well girl you’ve still got it” I thought with glee.
I look away and around the room.
By now he would have gone I assumed.
I looked back and he was still there.
His eyes on me with a stare.
Feeling nervous now, what did this imply.
Him staring at me. I wonder why.
A lady came, took his arm, and they turned to go.
Walking away careful and slow.
He carries a white stick for all to see.
And I thought he was staring at me.
I DON’T FEEL WELL by Joyce Matthews
Last evening I began to sneeze,
By bed time I was weak at the knees.
Today I’m laying in my bed,
A sore throat and a pain in my head.
I’m hot all over but shivering still.
My chest is tight and I feel so ill.
My nose is running and my lips are sore,
My muscles ache. I can’t stand much more.
A box of tissues near to hand.
A hot lemon drink on the stand.
For three days I’ll stay in my bed.
My friend will come to see that I’m fed.
Then a few more days to convalesce.
I’ll be off with my night-gown and on with my dress.
I’ll go out to places that I know,
Looking healthy and all a glow.
I wonder who’ll miss me while I’m ill in my bed.
I bet no one will, that’s another pain in my head.
THE POSH DO by Joyce Matthews
I’m going to a posh do tonight.
So what can I wear that’ll look just right.
I went to my wardrobe and looked through my gear.
Mouldy and moth eaten and no cashmere.
No silks no sequins, not a sparkle in sight.
Oh what can I wear to look just right.
Though all my drawers in desperation,
Looking for that little creation.
There was nothing there that I could see.
Then suddenly a brainwave came to me.
I ran to my bed and pulled back the sheet.
And there it was all folded neat.
My long black nightie trimmed with lace.
I’ll wear this to that posh place.
Then I remembered granny’s shawl.
Crochet in cotton with black beads and all.
With my nails all polished and my hair piled high.
For this posh do I now qualify.
So off I went and the evening went well.
I’m in my nightdress but no one could tell.
I looked very nice so everyone said.
When I got home I just jumped into bed.
WEIGHT AND WASHING by Joyce Matthews
Got to get the washing done
And it’s raining again before I’ve begun
I kneel on the floor to sort the washing .
You can guarantee there’ll be an odd stocking.
The washer’s crammed full, it never used to be.
It’s the same amount of clothes, they all belongs to me.
I think it’s to do with the weight I’ve put on.
My small sizes have long gone.
I’m now size eighteen going on twenty.
My chest was flat, now I’ve got plenty.
I look at my dress and think of a tent.
An homeless person would pay me rent.
THE BUS RIDE by Joyce Matthews
I walked to the bus shelter, the sort with an opening each end.
I joined the queue and wondered if I was at the beginning or the end.
The bus came right on time, I’m standing at the front of the line.
I show my pass as I board the bus, there’s only room for one of us.
One seat is all I see inside, next to a lady who’s very wide.
Just a little of seat is all there is for me, a one cheek job this will be.
As the bus cornered I felt I would drop. I hung onto the seat stop after stop.
“I want the next stop” said the lady next to me, a seat to myself I foresee.
I sat by the window when she’d gone, it felt so good ‘till the fat man got on
With only one seat to be seen, it’s next to me so against the window I lean.
He was not on the bus very long, I was glad when he had gone.
I sat back to enjoy the ride, when a mobile rang on the other side.
Answering the phone in a loud voice, we all had to listen; we had no choice.
Every word you could not miss, the conversation went like this:
“I’m on the bus I’ll be home by three, I’ve got you something for your tea”.
On she talked without a care, I think she’d forgotten that we were there.
At last she put the phone away, we were pleased she had no more to say.
Next all the school kids got on the bus, big bags swinging just missing us.
I thought a bus ride would be a treat, I was glad the next stop was in my street.
MY POOR FEET by Joyce Matthews
I dressed to go to town.
The shoes I wore were my very best brown.
When I put them on they did not feel right.
My feet must be swollen cause my shoes felt tight.
Then I remembered I’d worn them the day before
And I’d walked so far my feet was sore.
Now that’s why the shoes don’t feel right
Uncomfortable, and feeling tight.
The shoes matched my outfit so wear them I must.
Hoping the shoes to my feet would adjust.
I took the bus to town because my feet was so sore.
I did not want to aggravate them anymore.
Walking around town my feet got worse.
I looked down at my feet, them to curse.
Oh my what a sight.
My left shoe was on the right.
AFRICA by Miranda Lloyd-Gregg
Indigo – Dyed from the blue, emerges the deeper blue
Lemon – The disc of the sun through the morning mist
Orange – The African sky at sunset, vibrant as your first kiss
Violet – Deep is the purple, velvet are the petals which fall
Ebony – Darker than the night sky, fragrant is your skin
Yellow – Bright as the midday sun, shining on your house
Ochre – The feel of the earth beneath your feet
Umber – The banks of the river, where the elephants play
DOWN THE LANE by Miranda Lloyd-Gregg
We met In a silent place, as the dead lie undisturbed,
Our paths crossed and we both stood our ground,
Briefly, our eyes locked, one on the other, in a frozen stare.
I thought I saw the glimmer of a challenge in those yellow eyes,
Although I meant him no harm;
In this passing place,
He had as much right as I.
Then turning aside, the fox slipped back into woods and
I continued down the lane.