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Love's young dream.

Thomas Moore.

__________________________________________________________

Plain White Teeshirt

He touched my arm.

I recoiled, stung, spilling my wine.

His smile was as white as his plain cotton teeshirt.

His warm skin was golden beside the bright cloth

And beads of jet snaked dangerously round his throat.

But I left with the quiet man who stood by the door

And we chose the path of duty.

Sometimes it was hard under our feet,

But we trudged through seminars and interviews,

And if there were few moments of beauty,

I tried not to care.

But, sometimes, I wish that clocks would reverse,

And I could run, run, run through time,

Back to the man with the shining white teeshirt stretched

taut on his shoulders,

Or left in a heap on the floor by the bed, where we could

make love all day.

.

He touched my arm.

I fell towards him, spilling his beer.

His smile was as white as his plain cotton teeshirt,

His warm skin was golden beside my pale flesh

And beads of sweat snaked dangerously down my spine.

So I left the quiet man with his eyes to the floor.

And we chose the path of pleasure.

Sometimes it gave way under our feet,

But we rolled through barrooms and bedrooms,

And if there were few gains we could measure,

I tried not to care.

But, sometimes, I wish that clocks would reverse,

And I could run, run, run through time,

Away from the man with the grubby white teeshirt

stretched over his belly,

Or left in a heap on the floor by the bed, for someone to

tidy away.

Joyce Phillips

_____________________________________________________________

Speak softly and carry a big stick.

Theodore Roosevelt.

__________________________________________________________

The Murder of Sir Ponsonby Purdy

The body was found

outside in the grounds

the case for murder was clear.

There was a bullet in his head

he was obviously dead

an inside job, it would appear.

.

Sir Ponsonby was known

for not having shown

decency, honour, or affection.

An inspector who called

was confused and appalled

saying this one will take some detection.'

.

Lady Violet was unmoved

and possibly approved

when she heard that her husband was shot.

She said, 'He was a cad

unprincipled and bad.

If you think that 1 am sorry - well., I'm not.'

.

The parlour maid agreed

She murmured, 'Yes indeed,

one day I'd be rich, is what he said

but 1 never got a penny

on the days - and there were many

that I found myself a captor in his bed.'

.

The gardner had a grudge

he said 'As God's my judge

as man and employer 'ee were worst.

'Ee were nasty, 'ee were mean

worst there's ever been.

I'm sorry someone else 'as got 'im first.

.

The chauffeur's name was Wade

and allegation that he made

concerned the nature of the man that he had served

He was a bully and a cheat

a master of deceit

and in the end he only got what he deserved

.

And there were others he'd offended

who were glad his life had ended

which meant police were really spoilt for choice

until at last an honest man

confessed, and so began

his explanation in a quiet voice.

.

'I am the butler and 1 done it

my life was not much fun, it

was ruined by Sir Ponsonby,' he said.

'For him I aided and abetted

which I've very much regretted.

So I shot him - and now I'm glad he's dead.'

Bob Proud.

__________________________________________________________

Marriage is a wonderful invention, but then again, so is the bicycle repair kit.

Billy Connolly.

_________________________________________________________

SEASONAL MUDDLE

Do winter days of steely grey

Crown February's snowdrop, king?

Do once-scarce golden daffodils

Made common by municipalities

Now wave too loud?

Are rose beds garish, over coloured

Do they vamp like vulgar call-girls?

Daisies in their lawn-filled constellation

Die each year through human annihilation.

Does a Christmas Rose, by association

Go to heaven with all good souls?

John Frostick.

The moving finger writes and having writ moves on.

Omar Khayyam.

___________________________________________________________

PHOENIX OF LEARNING.

It is made of glass; yes, mostly glass

with a whack of wood, some stone and lots of metal.

Six floors of magic for the mind.

A colourful piece of celluloid gives admittance to space,

light, comfort and the presence of like- minded people.

Lifts will carry speedily

to books galore and musical C.D.

and a floor of computers place the world

on the doorstep of Newcastle.

Parents watch their children find fresh worlds

among the latest, colourful books and remember their favourites.

Everyone's hunger for knowledge is satisfied here and when it is,

the cafe will satisfy with comfortable seats. Good food

and excellent service from a good staff. Newcastle be proud !

Your people flock through its doors already,

as risen steady from the ashes of the past,

this building of light, warmth and glass

captures the people's admiration.

ELIZABETH BURDIS.

___________________________________________________________

I have nothing to declare but my genius.

Oscar Wilde.

______________________________________________________________

WHY DO I NEED TO WRITE? .

IT'S A PART OF MY LIFE

THOUGHTS SWIRL INSIDE MY HEAD

AS I LANGUISH IN BED

SILENT TEARS SOAK MY FACE

MY HEART BEGINS TO RACE

AS I STARE AT THE FACE

IN THE FRAME WITH THE LACE

BLACK CURLY HAIR, FLOWING

TWIRLING CLOAK, EYES GLOWING

COBWEBS, BATS AND BEETLES

CANDLES BURNING, SMOKE, LETHAL

FIRE. FIRE. THE YOUNG BOYS CRIED

HELP. WE DON'T WANT TO DIE

MEN RUSHED IN, PULLED BOYS OUT

SAVED THEIR LIVES, NO DOUBT

IT'S SHOCKING WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

ON THE NIGHT OF HALLOWEEN

WORDS TRIP OVER THE PAGE

THAT'S WHY I NEED TO WRITE. .

STELLA RUTHERFORD

The child is father of the man.

William Wordsworth.

______________________________________________________

WORDSWORTH. WE ARE HERE

In our sooty city he brought fresh air with a poem about daffodils;

now we are here, where he was once thrilled to see flowers dancing,

beside the lake. Between these majestic mountains lies a timelessness

that seals the soul in tranquillity.

The silence that can be cracked by the scrape of a boot on gravel,

yet does not offend the ear.

We are here Wordsworth

Mesmeric countryside draws the eye while the hum of the engine lulls;

we reach our destination and alight with leaded limbs

on soft grass and gravelled roads which the poet's feet, in his own time trod;

Soon, blood surges, cheeks glow, our legs keep step with Dorothy, Coleridge

and you, Wordsworth.

Elizabeth Burdis

________________________________________________________

Procrastination is the thief of time.

Edward Young.

___________________________________________________________

The Journey.

When youth's bright light first shines,

It guides the future's way;

The road is clear and straight . No traffic to impede

The journey, or

Change life's intended path.

.

The bus runs swiftly on,

The scene is pleasantly

Unfolding before us.

Sometimes, not so pleasant-

But life's like that;

We must grin and bear it.

.

Imperceptibly, light

Begins to fade, with youth

Slowly waning. And bends

Appear, sometimes causing

Us to slow down:

Deviate from our course

.

The journey's almost done,

Great Conductor says.

You're at the terminus.

Darkness replaces sun,

The Final Phase

It's time to get off the bus.

Jay T Kay

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Bulwer Lytton.

_________________________________________________________

Perfume from the Moon

Perfume from the moon drapes over me.

The scent of the stars fills the air,

As the fragrance of the night drenches over me,

I lie on grass with not a care.

The darkness hangs heavily around me.

Like a cloak wrapped tightly from above,

As the mist of the night envelops me,

I close my eyes and dream of my love.

Nikkilee 16 June 2009

________________________________________________________

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

Alfred Lord Tennyson.

____________________________________________________________

BLUE BOXES, WHAT'S INSIDE?

Cylindrical boxes

Made of wood.

Large, medium,small.

Two of each.

Painted blue,

A curious hue.

.

What's inside?

No idea.

Not a clue.

Makes you think!

Bonnets or hats?

Furs stolen from cats?

.

Dishes and plates or

Wedding cakes

That mother bakes?

Which break into flakes

When the Blue Box shakes,

And the lid falls off

On the table cloth?

Whats inside?

I give up.

Jay T Kay

__________________________________________________________

The child is the father of the man.

William Wordsworth.

________________________________________________________

HUBBERHOLME

(Inspired by Larkin’s Poem “Church Going”)

Leaning against the churchyard wall,

the old bike rings no bells

until the crossbar-clinging clips

evoke a memory.

.

A ghost glides past the graves to slide

through solid stone into the nave and lifts its eyes

up to the rood loft - Larkin wrote of them –

and of the two in Yorkshire, one is here.

.

Is this the shrine, then, where he doffed

his cynic's hat in ‘awkward reverence’

for the silent stones, yet claimed

‘the place was not worth stopping for?’

.

Why the denial after deference?

Did he, who'd long relinquished heaven's hope,

stand close to Priestley's ashes in this holy place

and yet again receive not bread but stones?

.

And was it here the riven man, provoked

by altar peddled lies, short-changed himself 1

by triggering a shabby parting shot –

a sniping Irish sixpence in the offertory box?

Bryan Harbottle

To err is human, to forgive divine

Alexander Pope.

_________________________________________________________

A TIN OF BISCUITS

A tin of biscuits in my den.

It's been there since I don't know when.

Leering at me from the shelf,

Tempting me to risk my health.

.

All my homework, yet to do.

No harm would come if one or two

Should pass my lips; it's inspiration.

Not giving in to mild temptaion.

.

Surely two won't make me fat.

And when they're missed, I'll blame the cat

So, just a couple I shall take.

Two Gob Stoppers, and a lump of cake

.

Dieting is such a pain.

Loss of weight is all you gain.

And feeling smug, when you stay thin.

So what the hell, hand me that tin!

Jay T. Kay.

_________________________________________________________

O what a tangled web we weave whe first we practise to deceive.

Sir Walter Scott.

_________________________________________________________

SUPERMARKET SONNET

My trolley sulks, its wheels refuse to steer

passed little ladies prodding cut-loaf bread.

A buggy-mum with child whose face glows red

as nappy fills despite parental glare.

One teenage grazer eats without a care

then drops ajar to satisfy street-cred.

Staff smile at little man they all call Ted

who leaves because his wobbly wheels won't steer.

.

A meeting place where high-fly lovers leap

down aisles of instant food the couple crave.

Established, jaundiced pairs in silence creep

to bicker through the knock-down veg marked,'save.'

Your restless supermarket knows no sleep

its TV eyes ensure we all behave.

John Frostick.

Corruption and hypocrisy ought not be inevitable products of democracy, as they undoubtedly are today.

Mahatma Gandi.

_______________________________________________________

APORKALYPSE

What's the fuss all about

What comes out of a snout?

Or what comes from a sneeze

It's some sort of disease

That is causing unease

It is now Pandemic

Is it Aporkalypse?

What a hullabaloo

It's called the Swine Flu

Stella Rutherford.

__________________________________________________________

The difference between tax avoidance and tax evasion is the thickness of a prison wall.

Denis Healey.

__________________________________________________________

THE SIX

It was a sticky glue-pot of a pitch

and after twenty overs he was seeing them

as big as cannon balls.

But tight spin and a skinflint field

had skittled seven scratching batsmen

while runs refused to flow.

.

Ball after ball his textbook shoulder

faced the wily spinners

and his patient bat kept tapping out a hollow

just behind the whitewashed crease.

At last the loose one came.

Too full, it hovered on the sight screen

like a radar blip - a shiny rolling apple

of a ball, just pleading to be plucked.

.

A nifty three-step skip was good enough

to beat the bounce.

It hit the meat and sank

into the linseed-supple blade

for a split second

till the lofted drive despatched it

to the thin blue edge of air.

It hung an age before it fell,

a carillon of clang and clatter down

the corrugated tin pavilion roof,

ringing defiance at the fielding side.

.

He carried his bat for twenty-seven –

and twenty-one were singles.

It was the only six that Stonewall

in his single season ever hit –

to him a long-remembered joyful stroke,

but nothing to the world,

only a fading pencil mark

hid on a mouldering score-book page

locked in a never-opened drawer.

Bryan Harbottle.

AFTERMATH

Birds sang while men died in the murderous fire,

whizzbanged into eternity in bits,

lungs boiled by gas, guts hanging on the wire,

brains bullet-spilt, skulls emptied of their wits.

Those who survived - the limbless and the blind,

the paralysed, the physically unmarked

who suffered violation of the mind –

were shadows of the men who had embarked.

Some found Immanuel in the trench and vowed

to follow Him. Some spurned a God on High

and sought respite in transient vanity.

The monstrous maimed, far from the cocktail crowd,

were hid in hospitals to rot and die –

forgotten wrecks in shared insanity.

Bryan Harbottle.

An editor is one who separates the wheat from the chaff and prints the chaff.

Adlai Stevenson.

_________________________________________________________

SKYLARK

In Flanders as men fell the larks were singing.

and while the human loss was mourned

who thought about the birds?

Was it too whimsical to weep

for little scraps of life, like pit canaries gassed

or torn apart by random shot;

too fanciful to think on those still singing

when the guns were silent

and to wonder if they'd built their nests

and mated, raised their young and sung again

as in bright days before the war;

too weird to ponder if the slaughterhouse

had made them sing a sadder song

or if- glad thought - the cannon

shot refining fire into avian hearts,

filled them with pity for a fallen world,

raised them on blessed wings

and made them better birds.

Bryan Harbottle.

_______________________________________________________

Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?

Mark Twain.

__________________________________________________________

WICKED WONDERFUL WORDS.

Like burnt out starlight that shines in our galaxy

long after the star is dead.

So poetry will last and bring laughter,

long after your head empties, your heart stops beating

and you are gone. Someone will be repeating the words

that came from your innermost soul.

Bringing happiness to lots of unknown people

who will with curiosity peruse

the long gone words and find a use

for them, To ease the pain of lost love or lost health.

Laughter is a tonic and tears self-purging

So give thanks for the urging of all poets

to give pleasure with wicked wonderful words.

ELIZABETH. BURDIS

They shot too many pictures and not enough actors.

Walter Winchell.

____________________________________________________________

By SHIRLEY THOMPSON

Tempted by good looks and charm

She gladly took his proffered arm

They dined and danced and yet she knew

Such meetings would be very few

This handsome gigolo full of pride

Showed nothing of the man inside

No secret need for her to find

Or guess the workings of his mind.

.

There was no future for her here

But leaving filled her heart with fear

And vain temptation beckoned still

As he moulded and bent her to his will

She tried but could not break away

Nor contemplate that awful day

When he would say they must part

And leave her with a broken heart

.

He did these things because he could

His way of life his drink his food

Courted by many but loving none

Yet always searching for just one

To hold his attention and make him care

To worry If she wasn't there

Could such a woman ever be found

To bring him crashing to the ground.

.

A woman with charm and beauty gifted

Crossed his path and his cold heart lifted

He worshipped her giving all he could

Not knowing her heart was made of wood

She toyed with his feelings and he was bereft

When the very next day he heard she'd left

A temptress true a breed apart

Had robbed him of his cruel heart.

________________________________________________________

It'a a funny old world - a man's lucky if he gets out of it alive.

Walter de Leon and Paul M Jones.

_______________________________________________________

By F.Dodds

Willie Smith and Edmond jolly,

suffered much from melancholy.

They saw the doctor down the lane,

and told him of their awful pain.

He gave the usual advice,

which mostly wasn't very nice.

You should have eaten porridge oats,

and walked each year to John oGroats.

It seems to me your nervous tics

suggest that you are lunatics.

I'll make a bore hole through your ear,

I'm sure I'll find the trouble there.

I'll lock you up through March and April,

but leave your money on the table.

These two then grabbed this awful fellow,

and locked him up inside the cellar.

He did escape it must be said

through the hole that loomed on the top of his head.

Our friends however did really well.

They played their part and no one could tell.

To all his patients they were amiable,

who left large sums upon the table.

Unfortunately they never saw

the white coats knocking at their door.

The game was up, but no, it seems,

they were rich beyond their wildest dreams.

They took a plane to Khatmandhu!

A wise precaution! Wouldn't you?

In Khatmandhu the wise men say,

two grand old fellows live today.

They ride their camels the wrong way round

in hopes that one day they might be found.

But I'd keep it dark if I were you.

Just let them dream in Khatmandhu.

Drawing on my fine command of language, I said nothing.

Robert Benchley

_________________________________________________________

BENEATH THE SKIN

Gone are the days of baiting bears

And bulls in ancient market squares.

.

Yet still today, cloaked by the night,

Throwbacks set dogs and cocks to fight

And dig out badgers from their setts

To spill their blood with no regrets.

.

And in broad daylight on the moors

Stand unashamed insensate boors,

Smug toffee-nosed aristocrats

And nouveau riche in feathered hats

Blasting obscenely from the sky

Cartloads of birds that need not die.

Though some are eaten at the Ritz,

It's not for food they're blown to bits -

The grouse and pheasant bite the dust

To satisfy primeval lust.

.

Huntsmen in pink with packs of hounds

Daren't kill the fox - that's out of bounds.

But still they hunt Reynard for fun,

Corner and drop him with a gun.

And while they barbarously smear

The nearest child from ear to ear

With the dead creature's still warm blood,

They claim it's for the rural good:

The vermin can't stay uncontrolled;

They only cull the weak and old.

But underneath their mask's the fire

Of antediluvian desire.

.

The angler gets a decent press -

Epitome of gentleness,

He sits at peace by murmuring streams

And dreams the most sublime of dreams

Of dace and gudgeon, perch and pike

(But sublimates the cruel spike).

His premise that fish feel no pain

Is one that research won't sustain.

And if fish flesh tasted of mud,

He'd still torment tench, roach and rudd.

Stubborn and blind, he can't disguise

The truth behind his worms and flies:

It's nature red in tooth and claw,

It's barb impaled in victim's jaw,

It's mastery of fin and gill

that gives him prehistoric thrill.

.

Last week my window was ajar

Like a pillbox slit during the war.

And as I gazed, into my view

Down from the roof a jackdaw flew.

He landed on the garden fence

And stared at me with impudence.

A perfect target there he sat

Not welcome in my habitat.

Up from ancestral depths there rose

A reflex I could not oppose:

Before my thought had time to run,

My hand dropped for the phantom gun.

Yes, I to men of blood am kin.

We're killers all, beneath the skin.

Under the rind lies bitter fruit.

Just scratch it and you'll find the brute.

.

Though tainted by familial slime,

We can confront the swamp - and climb.

Bryan Harbottle 29.10.08

__________________________________________________________

Mother is far too clever to understand anything she does not like.

James Matthew Barrie.

________________________________________________________

It's sometimes a pleasure to roll back the years, to glimpse our childhood again.

To remember those times and the people we knew, to reflect on the joys and the pain.

Tho we cannot forget those precious years, those seasons have come and gone,

All those storms, and sun, and mists and snows, we have weathered them all in their turn.

.

But I treasure a memory of long ago, when I was very small.

Of a lovely field of golden corn where poppies grew by the wall.

And this old gray wall had an old fashioned stile, with stones set in like a stair.

Just right for little feet like mine, and a well was also there.

An iron man stood over the well, and the water came from his mouth,

Both clear and sweet it splashed our feet, our very own water spout.

.

And the hedges had secret places where nuts and gooseberries grew

But only the children found them. Our treasures were very few.

And the people were very English, You must behave well they said,

We could play for hours quite safely, and only come home to be fed.

But now it seems the field has gone, and the stile I cannot see

The Iron man has vanished. He belongs to antiquity.

.

The haystacks after harvest, where rabbits leapt with glee.

And the farmers wife making butter, all passed into history.

On Sundays we went to chapel, or church just for a change.

The singing was quite melodious, and new hats were all the rage.

At school we listened carefully to all the teachers rules..

Obedience was demanded, and woe betide the fools.

.

And now, we have survived it all, and learned to play the game.

We were taught by rote and we could spell, we got through just the same.

We were so much protected, our parents seemed so strong.

They kept us all both safe and sound. Where did it all go wrong?

But time must overtake us all, and we did not see it coming.

We must just try to pass along the gifts that we were given.

Frances Dodds.

I buried a lot of my ironing in the backyard.

Phyllis Diller.

__________________________________________________________

Faith.

"It's not time already," the old man said

to the angel who hovered above his head.

"I can't go yet without a word.

It's much too soon. The idea is absurd.

Why there's racing at Haydock and my pint's on the Bar.

And it's sunny outside. No! You are going too far.

There's life in me yet. Ninety Nine isn't old.

Why I'm still in my prime, or so I've been told".

The angel spoke softly but made it quite clear.

"You must make your peace. Your time is quite near.

I've booked you a seat on the heavenly train.

So this is your chance and it won't come again."

The old man said, "No, I'm not saying my prayer."

And he jumped out of bed, but then tripped on the stair.

"Old man," said the Angel," We'll soon be there

and Peter will ask you about that prayer.

Now you still have time, it isn't too late.

Confess your sins and tell it straight."

"How much time have we got," the old man said.

To the Angel who hovered over his head.

"I'm a sinner! I'm Sorry! Let's just leave it there.

I know I'm a failure but Jesus won't care.

And Peter will smile when he opens the gate

"Come on, you old sinner, it isn't too late."

Frances Dodds

___________________________________________________________

My second favourite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk until I faint.

Erma Bombeck.

____________________________________________________________

BLEACHED WHITE BONES.

Dolefully the bell tolled from the hilltop

as rain clouds darkened the sky.

Coaches came to the sacrificial stone where

a figure with bell, book and candle, stood by.

Low cut voices battled the winds,

clothing and hats over gravestones were blown.

Rats ran around, scratching and squeaking

predominant colours, black and greening,

covered inadequately, bleached, white bones..

Bent heads raised and invisible eyes gazed

as black plumed horses arrived with horns blowing,

the raining now snowing: confetti for the anorexic bride.

The groom grasped her fingers and both chanted the words

that bound them together, never to be alone.

" You may kiss the bride !" While he sank his fangs in her neck,

from the guests came loud halooing, yoo-hooing

and ecstatic rattling of bones.

Elizabeth Burdis

He listens to his Psychiatrist, and then draws his own confusions.

_________ ? _________

____________________________________________________________

CHANGE OF HEART

Although I'm just a girl of eight,

For one so young I'm rather smart,

I never cared about my fate.

.

I've lived life at my fastest rate,

But there were times I fell apart,

Although I'm just a girl of eight.

.

They didn't know about my state,

My secrets I would not impart.

I never cared about my fate.

.

The doctors said I could not wait.

With surgeons poised to play their part,

Although I'm just a girl of eight,

.

Another day would be too late.

Now I shall make a brand new start-

I never cared about my fate.

.

But now I'm well and feeling great!

You see, I've had a change of heart:

Although I'm just a girl of eight,

Now, I care about my fate.

Jay T Kay.

___________________________________________________________

Life is some thing to do when you can't get to sleep.

Fran Lebowitz.

____________________________________________________________

STARLING

Down to the garden gate expectantly.

The signs are promising.

A fine warm morning -

and he's there,

perched high on next door's gable-end,

his quivering blue-green iridescence

fit companion to the bubbling song

that stops my heart and step.

.

There's a poetic sentiment

that falsely thrusts into the throat

of thrush and nightingale

anthropomorphic messages

of hope for future cheer.

But there's a stark utility

behind birdsong that's masked

by its perceived sublimity.

.

My starling's driven by instinct.

Nothing else. He knows no past,

no ftiture - that is man's domain.

Down the millennia his song's

been shaped and honed for optimum

performance in the grisly game

when weak go to the wall

and just the fit survive to procreate.

.

I hope his warbling's good enough,

amid the hidden war of field and wood,

to get himself a mate

and then consolidate his tenuous grip.

Meanwhile I'll for a moment bask

in the sweet serendipity that springs

from stark necessity.

Bryan Harbottle

__________________________________________________________

Conscience is the inner voice which warns us that somebody may be looking.

H. L. Mencken.

__________________________________________________________

RENOVATION

Outcast, evicted, today and tomorrow;

Carried in comfort, a new place to borrow

A bungalow residence, next to the park:

All facilities included. What a lark!

The waiting all over; the worry no use

Gateshead Council is up-dating our house

.

Away from the scream of drillings;

scarring the walls with new switchings.

The knocking, the sawing, the installation

of bathroom, electric points and new kitchen

Workman singing amid the ordered CHAOS;

Gateshead Council is up-dating our house.

.

We are not finished yet, weeks could pass by

until workmen return, their skills to apply.

New windows, new back and front doors

And someone to cover the bath and kitchen floors.

It will be a joy if we are finished by Christmas,

Gateshead Council are up-dating our house.

.

We thank Mick, his Team, the whole blooming chorus

And Gateshead Council for up-dating our house!

Elizabeth Burdis.

I used to be excellent. Since having a baby I couldn't tell you what day it is.

Gwyneth Paltrow.

____________________________________________________________

NEIGHBOURS.

She watched him through the vertical slats of the blind,

slanted to thwart the sun; her bright eyes waiting .

He would pop out of his front door and close it

then sit on the doorstep and light a cigarette;

jump up and pull a weed or two from the border.

Such energy and vitality, beautiful to watch:

his auburn hair, a bonfire in the strong sunlight:

his quick limbs full of stretchings that made her

long to be gathered close to them.

No sign of a woman yet the caravan spoke to her of holidays for two.

He cleaned it regularly, soapsuds swallowed in the gutter,

And a ginger cat slept on the bonnet of his car.

She had moved here a month ago, for her health

And already she felt better. Her hair grown thick again.

Tomorrow she would open her door and call across to him.

Elizabeth Burdis

___________________________________________________________

I tried to commit suicide by sticking my head in the oven, but there was a cake in it.

Lesley Boone.

___________________________________________________________

A RAVEN IN THE TOWER OF LONDON

As black as night am I.

and mine is a hideous cry.

I'm king in my own high tower

where I bring good luck and power.

When my enemies come I take flight

and become as one with the night.

In the woods I search for prey,

then I leave at the dawn of day.

For I must not forget the owl.

in whose kingdom no one may prowl.

But I love the wind, and the air. and the sun.

and the peace when the night is done.

On my river great ships may lie.

From my tower they catch my eye.

I see where the great and good,

and the monarchs of England have stood.

In England's most dangerous hour,

the ravens must stay at this tower.

No storm, or plague. or tear, may exclude

this symbol of English fortitude.

FRANCES DODDS

Freedom of the press is limited to those who own a newspaper.

A.J. Liebling.

__________________________________________________________

IMAGES

Images in black and white.

Mum and Dad on wedding day,

Wrong was wrong, and right was right.

In between, no shades of grey.

.

Mum and Dad on wedding day.

But now, a different hue;

In between no shades of grey.

Just Serge, Khaki, Navy Blue.

.

But now, a different hue,

Ma and Pa look older.

Just Serge, Khaki, Navy Blue,

Days are grey and colder.

.

Ma and Pa look older.

Peace at last is here.

Days are grey and colder.

Winters more severe.

.

Peace at last is here,

Wrong was wrong, and right was right,

Winters more severe.

Images in black and white

Jay T Kay

__________________________________________________________

Men and women, women and men. It will never work.

Erica Jong.

___________________________________________________________

RUDE AWAKENING.

In the far distant darkness of a coastal cave,

shadows moved against the flickering flame.

Round rosy face, framed in dark spikelets

Gazed into eyes that worshipped her frame.

Innocence asked a question, blue -eyed;

Macho arms squeezed her tiny waist in reply,

'I need you, I want you,' his tongue in her ear:

Innocence shivered but responded with passion

and dawn found them sleeping to the ocean's lullaby.

Macho rose up nonchalantly:

Innocence lifted her lips to be kissed:

Macho turned away, donning leather jacket,

Sweet fourteen could not see him thru' the mist.

Wiping tears away with a scrub of her fingers

she watched Macho's studded-back walk away

Sound of a motorbike filled the cave

Roaring along the promenade overhead.

Harsh sunlight fell on cold grey ashes

and curling foetal, she wished she were dead.

Elizabeth Burdis.

A journalist has no ideas and the ability to express them.

Karl Kraus.

___________________________________________________________

A WATERY TALE

Falling always from the skies

I am the rain, hail or snow

The wind carries me wherever it flies

Where I will land I do not know.

.

Flowing past the leafy trees

I am the loving gentle stream

Watching the children paddle with ease

Midst little frogs and fish that gleam.

.

Rushing furiously without pity

I am the ocean of hate and pain

Killing and maiming in every city

Causing buildings to buckle and strain.

.

Confined within my borders short

I am the boating lake in the park

Where young couples come to court

Who have yet to make their mark.

.

While the lighthouse beckons in the distance

I am the nightmare sea of sorrow

Drowning men with cruel persistence

Ending their hopes of life tomorrow.

.

Lapping by the sun drenched shore

I am the friendly sea in the bay

Catering both to rich and poor

The moon controls my every sway.

.

I have power over all the fates

Of fauna flowers and men

Whether loved or loathed all must wait

Until I come again.

Shirley Thompson.

___________________________________________________________

No self-respecting fish would be wrapped in a Murdoch newspaper.

Mike Royko.

___________________________________________________________

A GOOD OLD MOAN

I still have a memory of when I was small, when my father stood at the garden gate, and a neighbour came by whose name was Will, and they talked about vegetables, weather and fate.

.

I see the rhubarb is doing well; it comes up like a weed. I daresay it till be useful if it doesn't go to seed. The rain has never really stopped; my garden is like a mire. It's coming down the chimney and putting out the fire.

.

I'm getting just a bit fed up of cabbage, parsnip and leek. I'm going to plant some cauliflours beginning from next week. I see old Neds' gone" said my dad, mind he was getting old. Such a pity he had to go when his leeks were winning gold.

.

His wife is getting on as well, and the neighbours are starting to chat. She's taken to going to church I hear, no good can come of that. I sometimes wonder how it will end. The winter will soon be here. My wife is knitting woolly socks and a helmet to cover my ears.

.

I dare not mention the socks are misshaped. At Christmas they'll be quite a treat. If you know a man with his feet screwed on wrong, but I'll take my chance with bare feet. The seasons of life must take their course. We all must die in time And it's not for us to harass, says Will, but wait for our turn in the line.,

Frances Dodds.

This book fills a much needed gap.

Moses Hadas.

___________________________________________________________

PIECES OF LIFE ON A BEACH

The sand stretched away beyond mortal sight

A figure walked the beach in the shadowed moonlight.

A thrown down haversack lay higher than the tide;

One footprint left from the sea's hungry glide.

Someone had poked it with a branch from a tree.

Spilling out a book of Walter De La Mare's poetry.

In a torchlight's glow he read what he could

And dropped it at the page, saturated with blood!

Elizabeth Burdis.

____________________________________________________________

Neurotics build castles in the air, psychotics live in them, My mother cleans them.

Rita Rudner.

___________________________________________________________

THE ANSWER IS YES

Can one fall in love with a mass of metal;

A neutered figure with arms outstretched?

Metal plates forged with fiery passion

from designs by Antony Gormley's version

of an Angel.

.

The Angel looks to the distant horizon

Amid green fields at bonny Eighton Banks.

Visitors at the feet, crick in their necks,

wonder what it is that demands their respect

of the Angel

.

Because it is faceless, the features are perfect

The strength of its stance gives a unique thrill.

Uplifting all hearts, in hopeful sensation,

people believe in the magic dispensation

of the Angel.

By Elizabeth Burdis.

If you don't say anything you won't be called on to repeat it.

Calvin Coolidge.

__________________________________________________________

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

Anchored to last forever and a day,

just ten years on those iron feet

have shivered and are turned to clay.

The stiff meccano wings are draped

across the hill in broken disarray.

That bronzed impassive face

that seemed to say,

'Come Armageddon and I'II still be here,'

lies blind and buried by the silent motorway.

.

The icon that put Gateshead on the map

is felled by nature's mocking hand.

A victim of the awesome thunderclap,

with shattered Sage and Baltic

and a town reduced to scrap,

the Angel waits dissection by acetylene.

The stricken townsfolk wonder which God's lap

they've fallen in but plead for mercy

from whatever Power it was that sprang the trap.

.

Till now the insulating TV screen

has kept at bay the distant quake,

the whirlwind, tidal wave and the obscene

destruction visited on far-off humankind.

These locals haven't felt the real keen

heartache until now. But now,

now in their midst the unforeseen

has dropped and now they know

first hand a catastrophic scene.

.

Another cry goes up. 'Why, God? Why me?'

Bishop and priest weakly reply,

'A helpless God once suffered on a tree.'

But down the ages all the elements

in earth and sky and sea

proclaim from China, Burma, New Orleans

through Krakatoa back to old Pompeii,

'Nature's indifferent to mankind

There is no loving Deity.'

.

If this old world's a ship, believers say,

'It's God who makes it float.'

The evidence, if we're brave enough to look,

is that He isn't even on the boat.

Bryan Harbottle 19.05.08

___________________________________________________________

Motherhood is mind-blowing.

Britany Spears

___________________________________________________________

A POLICEMAN'S LOT

Curious that the light still shone

out of the kitchen window, at a quarter to one,

the policeman paused: Should he investigate?

The old lady that lived there, went to bed at eight.

He drew near to the window, shrugging off the cold;

The sight he saw there, made him feel a hundred years old.

Blood ran down the walls and pooled on the floor.

The Persian carpet covered in blood galore,

where her twisted figure lay, mouth silently screaming:

The policeman pinched himself to see if he were dreaming.

Some horrible nightmare, this, confusing his thoughts apace

then a cold hard feeling took its place;

whoever had done this was no member of the human race!

He vowed he would bring this criminal to face

justice, prison and the scorn of fellow men;

Never to be released to do this crime again.

Elizabeth Burdis

She is the best man in England

Ronald Regan.

_________________________________________________________

TO THE FUNDAMENTALIST'S GOD

Designer God, I'm curious about a lot of things,

Like why You cursed the ostrich with such puny flightless wings.

.

Light of the World, on the First Day You said, Let there be light.

Why then did sun and stars not shine till the Fourth Day and Night?

.

Creator of the Universe, Who saw that it was good,

Why did You rant and wipe it out with forty days of flood?

.

Love so Divine, why was Creation's blueprint based on pain,

On talon, fang, on hook and sting, on slayer and the slain?

.

Maker of All Mankind, why did You bless at Jericho

That wholesale slaughter when the blood of babes was made to flow?

.

Father in Heaven, when Adam ate that little bit of fruit,

Why brand his seed for evermore as guilty, dissolute?

.

And when I say you don't exist and play the infidel,

Oh God of Mercy, will I spend eternity in Hell?

Bryan Harbottle.

__________________________________________________________

The child is the father of the man.

William Wordsworth.

__________________________________________________________

CURIOSITY.

Curiosity killed the cat?

Now don't you worry, it was not that;

Actually its tail was bitten by a rat,

so the family thought—that was that;

but out in the garden, its body lay:

Nobody wanted to move it away;

eyes down, by-passing it every day

weeping continuously with nothing to say.

Then one rainy morning the cat was gone.

Somebody must have moved it, but which one

of the family? Was this some sort of 'con'?

For there was Pussy, cleaning her whiskers

in front of the warm hearthstone.

Elizabeth Burdis.

A man who has never gone to school may steal from a freight car; but if he has a university education, he may steal the whole railroad.

Theodore Roosevelt.

___________________________________________________________

NEW WEATHER GIRL.

Hello everybody, I'm weather girl today,

'Cos your regular weather girl Susie has run away

with that dashing Peter Smith, who happens to be wed

to the Senior Co-ordinator who kicked him out of bed.

I've been promoted from being a gopher.

Nobody else took up this brilliant offer.

What? Get on with it. Sorry, I forgot;

Boys and girls and everybody else, it's going to be hot.

That Susie was giving you thunder and rain,

but I've borrowed the weather from Benidorm Spain.

What? Tell it how it is? People travelling together,

are always complaining about your miserable weather.

Why can't you show pictures of sun sea and sand;

Have music, people singing and a band.

I have a great voice — could sing the weather fine.

What ? Finish off? Well folks hold this line

and I'll give you all again, a glorious tomorrow.

I wonder whose lovely weather I can borrow?

What? You are giving me the sack but why?

Oh, well, sorry folks. Looks like it's good-bye.

Elzabeth Burdis

__________________________________________________________

The poems of Seth will be remembered long after those of Homer and Virgil are forgotten - but not until then.

Richard Porson.

___________________________________________________________

THOM GUNN

Your death, Thorn Gunn, is mourned.

The experts lay their wreaths

and call you great They say your work

was fed by Donne and Herbert - though

the pioneering furrow that you ploughed

has buried deep the God-based ground

of those old Jacobean priests.

.

Your clearest and most poignant work,

provoked by Aids, came late.

Despite shared needles and promiscuous

bath-house couplings, you beat the plague.

But, scarred and haunted by irrational guilt,

you mourned a decimated generation

and wept at the demise of friends.

.

Artistic merit never hung on life-style,

but on talent: the deeds of Caravaggio

are eclipsed by his great canvasses

and from his dubious depths, sublime

Sinatra is still singing. So Thom,

posterity will judge, not your incontinent

inconstancy, but your poetic worth.

.

Once, pitmen, ploughmen, artisans

imbibed immortal lines from Shakespeare

to Sassoon and used them as a leaven

in their daily speech. You write in cipher

for the acolytes of a new exclusive gnosticism

and leave a mass of poetry-lovers cold.

Who in tomorrow's street will quote Thorn Gunn?

Bryan Harbottle.