The Poems on this page are not edited, other than to see if they are honest, decent, and have no obscene content, and come to you direct from the pen of the writer, warts and all. An approach that seems to work since readership and site visits; both from the UK and The World Wide Web have trebled in the last 12 months. However since you are the people that read our work, we would be more than happy to hear from you, so please let us know what you think.

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."

Francis 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.

FRANCIS 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.

____________________________________________________________

Classic: a book which people praise and don't read.

Mark Twain.

___________________________________________________________

Inspired by Larkin's poem 'Church Going'.

________________________________________

LARKIN IN CHURCH

Against the churchyard wall -

an ancient bike that rings no bells

until the crossbar-clinging clips

evoke a memory.

.

The ghost that glides among those graves

and melts into the nave once wrote of rood lofts:

of the two that Cromwell left unscathed

in Yorkshire, one is here.

.

Is this the shrine, then, where the poet 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

by triggering a shabby parting shot -

a sniping Irish sixpence in the offertory box.

Bryan Harbottle.

__________________________________________________________

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.

Michael Caine can out-act any, well nearly any, telephone kiosk you care to mention.

Hugh Leonard.

____________________________________________________________

IS THIS OK. FRED?

Right, said Fred, I've got to fill the website;

Write me a poem, Elizabeth . He said.

So I went on home and tried to write a poem

Cos I didn't like to disappoint Fred.

My husband was out and I had no key;

He didn't come home 'til half past three.

Then the door bell rang, followed by a bang;

Some crackers throwing crackers through the door:

Jumping up I spilt my tea, swearing loudly as could be,

When I tripped up and fell onto the floor.

Well my husband helped me up and I got another cup,

Then he cuddled me and gave me a kiss.

So I forgot about the poem, really glad to be home,

Life can't get any better than this!

What do you think of it so far? Rubbish!

But nice rubbish, eh Fred?

Elizabeth Burdis

___________________________________________________________

If Woody Allen didn't exist then somebody would have knitted him.

Lesley White.

____________________________________________________________

THE DYING BRANCH

Beached with the bladderwrack,

crab carapace and starfish husk,

I spurn the sand's false promise

of a rooted permanence I knew

when nourished by my mother oak.

I lie among the discards and the dead,

counting the weaker tides and longing

for the full moon's flood,

the new wave's rasping kiss.

.

At first the ocean bathed my weeping scar

and doused the terror in my heart

until the insistent swell fed me the truth:

no root, no soil -just breathing space

before obliteration to lament the gale

that tore me from the tree

and curse the cruelty of riddling

germ and fungus, bug and worm

beneath my bark.

.

Perhaps a higher consciousness

than mine can see a purpose in it all.

My waning fibres only sense

the universal round of birth and growth,

decline and death

and my small place

within the mindless whirl

as I disintegrate into the mould

that feeds the carousel.

Bryan Harbottle 24.03.08

On the day of victory, no fatigue is felt.

Old Arabic proverb.

____________________________________________________________

NOVEMBER 11th

It is over for another year

You can sweep the poppies away

Along with memories of long forgotten conflicts

To begin again a new torture to a heedless world

And erect new crosses to a forgotten God

Bob Mather

____________________________________________________________

When I want a peerage, I shall buy one like an honest man.

Lord Northcliffe.

____________________________________________________________

THE THREATENED WORD

December's phony war, the canting fray

of Winterval, once more is on the street

proclaiming Christmastide has had its day

and it's politically-correct to greet,

not Merry Christmas, but A Happy Holiday.

.

Yes, in town halls and other seats of power

a few agenda-driven nerds detect

their spurious sophistry begin to flower;

their spin on rights, equality, respect,

echoed outside by minions who glower

at Christmas rites they class as incorrect -

Nativity Plays and Carol-Singing Hour.

.

And there are signs the Christmas of the Soul,

of God Made Flesh, has passed its sell-by date.

While earthly treasures are the People's goal,

Churches succumb and feebly contemplate

the world rejecting their redemptive role.

As shrinking parishes amalgamate,

remnants close ranks and pray that light will conquer dole.

.

A lying face usurps the Babe's Estate:

a jolly mask, a fat and florid guise

stuffing itself from tankard, glass and plate,

the face of Ho! Ho! Ho! - present and prize,

gifts and giving often can't negate

the naked grab and get of selfish enterprise.

.

So are there any, save the faithful few,

who do not wield King Herod's killing knife?

Yes, Jews and Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus too

reject extremists and respect Christ's life.

Yes, even the carousing crowd, who swell

in dissipation's sty, still see, Heaven-Sent,

the Child and trust He'll make at last all well.

And though some cynics raise their hands hell-bent

on hurling darts at Faith's embattled keep,

most doubters stay their hands and are content

to let the strands of childhood memory sweep

them back to kneel with Hardy and the crew

of rustics with the ox and ass and sheep

and wish, suspending reason, that the tale were true.

.

It's premature to sing of God's demise.

Despite our cruel world and cold dead skies,

comfort will always outweigh truth for them

embracing the sweet crutch of Bethlehem.

Bryan Harbottle 16.12 2007

See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn. I wish I was a moron: my God, perhaps I am.

R. Fairchild.

____________________________________________________________

TO A JACARANDA TREE

Since you were cruelly cut down,

I've seen your brilliant kin

dressed for December's summer days

in the Australian sun.

Spreading their skirts, they flame,

but give cool shade to picnickers

in green Hyde Park.

They brighten dry suburban roads,

soften brown walls with blue

and bring to Oxford Street a Christmas cheer.

But you! You were the first one of your kind

to spellbind me with sad,

short-lived delight.

.

Surprisingly, I'd seen no blossoms on

the taxi-ride to leafy Paddington.

But when I drew the apartment's blind

and light poured in, I was dumfounded

by the blaze of blue that covered every inch

of bough and blessed three garden plots.

.

Early next day the loud machine-gun clatter

brought me from my bed to see

the chain-saw slaughter on the lawn next door.

Felled and in sections, in the dust you lay,

your vivid blue, though doomed,

still fresh and fair.

.

Strange

that for more than half a century

and half a world apart,

we'd safely lived our separated lives.

Then, quirk of fate, I came,

you dazzled with your blue

and then you died.

.

Until that day your grace had cloaked

the red-walled garden-end and roofs beyond.

But now, blue shade, you're gone

and there is no escape from the unyielding gleam,

the hovering metal waves and spidery struts

of Sydney's Football Ground.

Bryan Harbottle 17.01.08

______________________________________________________________

It's a small world, but I wouldn't like to paint it.

Steven Wright.

______________________________________________________________

IN THE MIND.

By Elizabeth Burdis.

No matter how old you become,

you will always be the brave young lad

who asked me for a New Year's kiss.

The outer image fades but the inner stays true

and the eyes of love keep steady.

So when the Muse deserts me and

the window becomes an interesting object.

Yellow brick houses blur and become sand dunes

with the wind carrying the sound of the waves,

the smell of the ozone.

We splash the shallows, hand in hand,

and where you are, there is laughter, always laughter.

It assuages the pain of growing older.

My head droops as Christmas reminds me,

another year has gone

and I feel so alone, but only for a moment,

until the door opens and you come in,

bringing laughter and the warmth of your love!

HEALTHY WEATHER.

The first snow of Winter had fallen through the night;

covering the murky streets;

sharpening up roofs and chimneys ;

squeezing the dirt from the air;

enabling everyone to breathe and cough

established germs from their systems.

Blood surged through jaded veins

and people worked for the sheer joy of it.

.

Sanitary engineers emptied Christmas rubbish

from re-gurgitating dustbins

The' Anvil Chorus' clanged across streets

where paths and driveways were shovelled clean.

People turned away from holiday brochures,

muffled up and sledged with the children.

Snowballs flew, finding their targets amid childish laughter;

and people played for the sheer joy of it.

.

For while touches of blue showed through

heavy leaden, hearts grew lighter,

Then the sky lost all light until white snowflakes,

twisted and twirled, gathered in clusters and came down.

Down upon a joyful city of citizens,

who because of 'Global Warming'

had thought never to see snow again;

and people rejoiced for the sheer pleasure of it!

Elizabeth Burdis

______________________________________________________________

The trouble with referees is that they just don't care which side wins.

Tom Canterbury.

____________________________________________________________

Gout

I've got gout, can't go out

I can't walk, can only talk

I'm in great pain, use a cane

I can't sleep, have red swollen feet

I wonder why as I sit and cry

This had to happen to me

Because I did not foresee

What drink would do to me.

Stella Rutherford

_______________________________________________________________

Every Tom, Dick and Harry is called Arthur.

Samuel Goldwyne.

_______________________________________________________________

MADRID LIMELIGHT

There's a photo in the Telegraph this morning

Of globe-trotting Tony and his modish wife.

Calculated faces, sombre for the mourning,

Sit on practised poses like a black still life.

.

Flaccid fingers, loosely bunched like bruised bananas,

Link a pair of worldly pros treading the boards.

While they masquerade before the press piranhas,

He's the Man of Sorrows; she's Therese of Lourdes.

.

Pausing on the sacred steps before procession

Into Almudena, premier church of Spain,

Do they have some qualms about their motivation -

Heart-felt pity, personal glory, worldly gain?

.

At the altar Mrs Want-it-All is praying.

Her devotions - are they hollow mummery?

For how can she square the words that she is saying

With her hocus-pocus new age flummery?

.

Scheming Mr Do-it-All lacks the perception

That the stricken mourners in this grieving land

Will tomorrow spurn his hollow consolation

When he's seen to shake Gadaffi's bloodstained hand.

Bryan Harbottle

THE THREATENED WORD

Christmas is under threat.

It's Winterval now with its

'happy holiday' and 'season's best'.

Selfridges and M and S

are displaying non-religious tableaux-

wigs, suspenders and mannequins,

watches, jewellery and highwaymen.

And though the familiar decorations

of holly, bells and reindeer are still there,

the shops have got rid of their mangers.

.

So who's trying to cut Christ out?

Not other Faiths who on the whole

tolerate each others' traditions.

Not the merry revellers,

not even the dissolute,

for they can see the crib

and keep their fingers crossed.

Nor is it the unbelievers

who remember the old carols

and can kneel with Hardy and the ox,

wishing it were true.

.

And while some angry atheists

keep poking away at religion,

the devout simply ignore them.

subtler attack comes

from greedy cynics in boardrooms

and politically correct placemen

in councils and town halls

putting their spin on human rights,

respect and equality, and trying

to keep God out of the equation.

.

But the obituary's premature.

People will always shrink

from the real bleak universe

and cling to the crutch

of God's love.

Bryan Harbottle

_______________________________________________________________

Fred Astaire was great, but don't forget that Ginger Rodgers did everything he did, backwards and in high heels.

Bob Thaves.

____________________________________________________________

19452005

Auschwitz, six decades on.

We've heard the sad orchestral strain,

seen the stark images again

but failed to nail the enormity.

.

Never again?

Ruanda, Bosnia and the Kurds!

Now Darfur tastes UN equivocation

and our complacency.

.

Final solution

didn't spring like a gross Venus,

sudden from an evil sea

to genocidal minds.

.

First, aberration

of a blond and blue-eyed

Aryan master-race and the inferiority

of other bloods.

.

Then sick extension

to the grave for stricken brains,

misshapen frames, the different,

the Jews.

.

Not here? Not now?

how near is the nightmare

when society holds life so cheap

it acquiesces to abortion on demand?

.

Not on a woman's right

to be relieved for rape or risk

but as a contraceptive travesty

or for elimination of defects.

.

The Law allows

a sentient six-month foetus,

glowing babyhood, to be ripped

screaming from the womb.

.

The excuse isn't hopeless monsters,

for the killing moves

to lesser deviations from the norm

like spina bifida,

.

while wig and scalpel pander

to the old eugenic siren song

that croons in crypto-fascist ears -

be shot of offspring with harelip.

Bryan Harbottle 28.01.05

Marriage is an attempt to turn a night owl into a homing pigeon.

Anon

____________________________________________________________

LIVING WITH A WOODEN LEG

I've red cheeks, red lips and jet black hair

On which a black bonnet I always wear

I once adorned the bow of a ship

I was found floating in the tidal grip

In the River Wear where I felt no fear

I was hoisted up and taken ashore

Painted, spruced and dressed galore

In a black dress and white starched pinny

Now I stand outside the Wooden Dolly

Where people stop and spend their lolly

I'm known locally as Peg leg Meg

Because I've got wooden legs

Stella Rutherford

_____________________________________________________________

English is called the mother tongue because father seldom gets a chance to use it.

Anon.

____________________________________________________________

BEES

Age-evolved senses, sharply honed,

guide the patrician honey bee

astounding moorland miles to find

epicurean nectar stores

map-referenced

by magic waggle dances

at the hive door.

.

Their lives - ephemeral puffs of smoke.

For while the queen can drop her

million eggs for a few years, the

worker's shorter span lasts only months

and stops exhaustedly.

.

A more plebeian furry throng

sip unselectively from garden flowers.

Fat and fuzzy, bright and buzzing

black and amber-jerseyed bumble bees

speed urgently from sprig to sprig

as if a second's dallying

will bring disaster in its wake.

A cycle of brief buzzes between blooms,

a quick clasp by black legs,

rapid proboscal probing

and swift nectar sip

spin on and on.

.

But then the fuel's spent.

One moment flitting vigorously on,

the next a laboured flight,

a shaky landing,

loss of interest in the lavender,

a slow blind weakened crawl

to curled up immobility.

A wing-beat between life and death.

Sunset sees three or four pathetic

clinging scraps that overnight

relax and by the morning

have been blown away.

Bryan Harbottle

I wear very simple shoes - it is not one of my weaknesses.

Imelda Marcos.

__________________________________________________________

Journey to work

A bright summers morning

Cockerel crowing three doors up

Sky is blue and the sun is rising

Kettle’s on, got to feed the hens

.

Dew in the paddock, soaking shoes

Bruno kicking at the stable door

Let him out, smell of manure,

Drink tea, Coat on, climb into car

.

Reverse the drive, turn in lane,

Motor echoes from village walls

Round the quarry, over the bridge

Threading the lanes towards the A1

.

Tractor on a distant field raising dust

A lone deer at the edge of the woods

Trees either side, flicker of dark and light

Squirrels chatter and pheasants strut

.

Around the bend where the rabbits play

back into the light leaving trees behind

Silence broken by a murmuring sound

Birdsong fades and the sound increases

.

Up the slip and into the traffic’s roar

Two lane carry me on to become four

Diesel and petrol perfumes the air as

Racing roaring madness carries me there.

Fred Watson

___________________________________________________________

I never drink water - look at the way it rusts pipes.

W.C. Fields. ____________________________________________________________

LOOSE IN MOROCCO

The wrinklies totter off the Saga Rose,

hell-bent on imminent reduction

of the funds their kids are banking on.

Blazers, cravats and floral dresses,

sandals and socks worn a I'anglais -

the ancient Brits are here.

Weighed down with all the latest gizmos -

mobile phones that can do anything

but boil an egg and cameras

with more properties than army knives -

they hit the quay where arab wide-boys

with their trays of diamond rings

and rolex oysters salivate.

.

'Bianca, guess where granny is!

In Casablanca! Walking through the souk!'

And Percy's so intent on snapping

that he has no time to watch and listen.

Still, he can see it all at second-hand

when he gets home to entertain

his dozing friends.

.

They're on the coach now showing off

their bargain buys of tat they'll never wear,

or if they do, will drop to bits

at the first wash.

Next stop - some desert town

where calculating guides will herd

them goat-like to predestined halts

to have more cash removed.

The softening up begins with tales

of the amazing argan nut whose oil

will beautify and cure all ills.

.

Through the bazaar they've browsed

and bought but now they're ushered

up a narrow stair to sit on captive pews

to sample argan oils and creams,

bath foams and body milks

that nourish, hydrate, sensualise,

melt wrinkles, cellulite and stress,

make eyes bright, nails new,

cut cholesterol, strengthen hearts

and banish rheumatism.

At last the hard sell's over

and the maid with calculating

nut-brown eyes has failed

to mention broken legs!

.

Laden with pots and potions

they descend and board the bus

to hear the guide's continuing

exposition on the argan fruit.

The desert goats, apparently,

devour the crop,

digest the stubborn flesh

and leave the excreted stones

ready for processing.

What's more the creatures find the leaves

so irresistible they climb the trees.

Expressions of surprise buzz round the bus.

They've heard of mountain goats

but not the arboreal kind.

.

Immaculately timed, the coach creaks to a stop,

How lucky! There's an argan tree!

With goats! As high as thirty feet

they browse contentedly.

Contentedly. Until the camera buffs

descend with flash and click

and closer flash and click.

The beasts, alarmed, jump down

and disappear across the waste.

Mission accomplished. Goats dispersed.

Blindly self-satisfied, the paparazzi

clamber to their seats with yet more

tales and pictured filed for future

delectation of the innocents back home.

Cash surreptitiously bestowed

upon the ragged shepherd lad,

the guide is last to board.

.

No further stops until the quay

where they discover the rear exit's barred

and all must at the front

negotiate the importuning hand.

The crafty mugger!

.

Never mind.

Soon it will be Sail-Away.

Tomorrow will be Lisbon's day.

Bryan Harbottle 16.02.07

I find that distance lends enchantment to bagpipes.

William Blezard.

______________________________________________________________

LOOKING BACK

Days of my childhood spent in poverty, were happy

through ignorance of how life could be.

School days were not so happy, times were hard

and contrasts of life-styles in the school yard,

opened my eyes to what I had not,

made me long for things I never got.

.

Starting work gave me money, happily to buy

clothes, books, entertainment at cinemas nearby:

Yet simple pleasures like a walk in Saltwell Park,

being whistled at by boys was such a lark,

down Newcastle Quayside on a Sunday morning,

with many a new romance dawning.

We would meet Sunday evening to see a big band show

at the Odeon and talk to boys we wanted to know

.

Then came marriage, with its ups and downs.

Two different characters learning to shake down,

into a loving foundation; adding children to swell the nation.

They are grown now and live away;

we are O.A.P.s happy to say

life is good when accepted at each level

and lived to the full, not all of it revel

but not wasted in moaning and looking back,

full of self -pity for what you did lack.

Think of what you have this very minute,

Use it with love and rejoice in it.

Elizabeth Burdis

____________________________________________________________

Sleep is an excellent way of listening to an opera.

James Stephens.

_____________________________________________________________

SALLY LUNN

Oh gay Sally Lunn, oh glad Sally Lunn,

We've had lots of thrills and we've had lots of fun.

Downhill we bob-sleighed on a bald rubber tyre

And jumped in the pond with our backsides on fire.

.

Oh brave Sally Lunn, oh bold Sally Lunn,

You rode field and fence in the point-to-point run.

It started when we saw those horses for hire

And borrowed a pair to fall off in the mire

.

Oh brown Sally Lunn, oh bronzed Sally Lunn,

Those days when we basked in the hot summer sun.

At first we lay roasting as if on a pyre,

The blisters, the flaking - the pain it was dire.

.

Oh chic Sally Lunn, oh chaste Sally Lunn,

To think that you once thought of being a nun.

We snogged on the hay with the cows in the byre

And hung out our underclothes on the fence wire.

.

Oh grave Sally Lunn, oh glum Sally Lunn,

Those days are all over, they're finished, they're done.

Your father is loading his ancient shot gun,

For I've been in your oven and baked you a bun.

Bryan Harbottle .

____________________________________________________________

If you think women are the weaker sex, try pulling the blankets back to your side.

Stuart Turner.

____________________________________________________________

THE COPPER TREE.

It dominated the street, glowed against the Autumn sun;

growing in a neglected garden that housed no-one.

The trunk straight and true lifted the copper leaves,

fluttering like blood red bats in the branches.

Later, while the watered sun sank, someone looked

out of a window and watched the blood bats dance,

while smoothing a silver knife.

.

Came the dark, the wind cooled and the tree was still.

High-heels clipped the pavement, then stopped sharp

and one single scream ripped the silence!

No door opened; no voice questioned.

Blood stained the tree trunk where she fell and lay all night

.

Discovered in grey morning light under the tree

standing denuded, a copper carpet at its feet.

There was weeping behind the curtain; the police crossed the street.

He was dragged away screaming; An empty street listened,

silent doors closed tight.

.

All this happened, in this pathetic place, five years past.

Now every autumn stark branches spread in horror,

the blood bats fall and die, people listen in terror:

Waiting as darkness descends, for their clocks to chime eleven

when a single scream paralyses and punishes them

for their silence on that night

Elizabeth Burdis

Education is a admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.

Oscar Wilde

____________________________________________________________

SMALL RED BAG.

A weird wrapped stranger stood in the church door,

bowed and hunched as many a one before.

There came two women passing by,

carrying boxes of chips and hot meaty pie.

The women to the stranger said,

"Would you like some food and a bed?"

The stranger to the women replied,

"Of course not. I have newly died."

The vicar came at evening bell;

The stranger told him ,"I come from Hell!"

The vicar, shocked, just shook his head.

One woman spoke out, "He's really dead!"

"His body is cold." shivered the other hag,

"And on his back is a small red bag."

The vicar, curious, tried to see:

The stranger cursed him, furiously.

They struggled for possession of the bag,

until it fell open, at the feet of the hag.

Out rolled a white finger, wearing a ring;

The stranger cried, "It points out SIN

And I have come to collect Satan's due,

Beware it could be you- or you - or you.

The finger writhed, then without a flicker,

Pointed straight and true— right at the vicar.

Elizabeth Burdis

____________________________________________________________

Life is far too important to be taken seriously.

Oscar Wilde.

__________________________________________________________

NEGLECT

A schoolboy's voice once rang

rejoicing in this summer meadow

where with the gang he roved and played

and later loved to lie and whisper

to the lasses sweet stupidities.

.

A lifetime later, memory-crammed,

the old man lingers in the lane

and contemplates the hawthorn hedge,

once clipped by caring hands

and sympathetic shears,

but now a victim to the recent butchery

of tractor-trim.

He senses trauma and a silent weeping

in the seeping twiggy fingers

slashed to the blanched quick.

.

Above the shackled reach of numb

robotic blades he sees defiant elder

and wild roses climb to mock machinery

and fancies that the swaying bracken

gives a fronded finger

to new-fangled farming ways.

.

He mourns the lingering death of fences

that decay and drop to bits but still conspire

with rusty wire to trap old plastic bags

that flap and clack in the thin wind.

.

Where whinney bush and gorse encroach,

he brings to mind a grazing dairy herd

that cropped the turf child-friendly.

He sighs at the lank knee-high grass

that's choked the rose-tipped ladies' fingers

while rank ragwort and knapweed have run amok,

nettles and thistles breed

and hedgerow hips and haws, unchecked,

have rooted in the field and spread

into impenetrable scrub.

.

He recollects the magic ponds,

which in the winter bore the joyful weight

of children's sliding feet

and housed the springtime song of spawning frogs.

But they have dried and gone.

Only the old man's thoughts and reeds,

erect as guards, remain

- a mute memorial.

Bryan Harbottle 31.08.07

Work is the curse of the drinking classes.

Oscar Wilde.

_________________________________________________________

Red Kite

Absent three-hundred years, your red-blurred stoop

Had vanished beyond memory in the vale.

But now you thrill again with turn, twist, swoop

And hover of swept pinion, deep-forked tail.

.

There's something spectral in your ashen head

And pallid flicker from beneath your wings.

Is yours a phantom visit from the dead?

Perhaps in deepest Wales the real bird sings.

.

Not what you seem? Six feet of wing, curved beak

Belie two puny pounds of body-weight.

Lacking aggression, muscle, you are weak.

Hardly a hawk, you just impersonate.

.

Though you just claw on carrion, mice and worms

Our hearts still lift to see you soar again.

We tremble your rebirth's on human terms.

Cling to that niche restored by fickle men.

Bryan Harbottle 16.09.07

______________________________________________________________

'Whom are you?'he said, for he had been to night school.

George Ade.

_____________________________________________________________

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

A tinkling of bells, over tucked - in sleepers

make tired eyes open with a plop, plop, plop.

Tousled little heads leave soft rumpled pillows

and feet into slippers begin to drop, drop, drop.

Fairies wave wands and the children follow,

Elves beat on drums with a bop, bop, bop.

Mid - Summer Eve and all children are invited

to a dancing in the woods ~ Fairies' Hop, Hop, Hop.

Elizabeth Burdis.