Once There Were Dragons
When I was a kid, there were Steam Trains, Fire breathing Dragons. We sat next to the tracks at Fowlers Park, Springfield, the low level into Wolverhampton. The Kings, Castles, Manors roared by, The ground shook, we were transfixed. Like us, they were alive, living, breathing creatures, as were we. As they passed, the ground shook and A Dragon's breath passed over us, that smell Oh! That smell, coal, steam, caster oil, that noise the Dragon's roar. Fire box glowing red... the Dragon's breath. When I was twelve I was carried by the Dragon to the Seaside for a week, That’s all my Dad could afford, it was wonderful. When I got older the Dragon's roar had died, Oh how I miss the fire breathing Dragon. Somehow, Electric Trains ain’t the same. Barrie Cooper |
I am angry...
They died for nothing. In villages across the Country they asked, “where are my children?" Their children died for nothing, they lay in rows, in piles eight feet deep in front the wire. They died for nothing, the bravest of the brave, politicians betrayed them. They allowed Hitler to start World War Two. They now allow Putin to declare World War Three. It breaks my heart, but they really did die for nothing. They were the bravest of the brave, they deserve better from the craven politicians of today Barrie Cooper |
A (Lady) Bridgerton too far
Hurrah! it’s back! The superb drama of Edwardian society that outdoes Austen’s scope for exposing the rife hypocrisy of families with far too many daughters to get rid of before they stumble into the shame of spinsterhood. In series one this Netflix series showed us a world of a stupid frivolous families, where fathers are very much in the background, like children still with nannies, seen but not heard. Mothers are, as they were in Jane Austen’s novels, ruthless and focussed on finding a rich, titled husband for all of their girls. But Julia Quinn’s matriarchs are more manipulative, bitchy, cruel and desperate than Mrs Bennet, who was by comparison, depicted as a little silly but ultimately kind in her quest to marry off her offspring.
In series one of Bridgerton the enigmatic Lady Whistledown reported on all the high society balls and soirées during the ‘season’ following the coming out of 17 or 18 year old girls. These lovelies were paraded in their hundreds before the monarch in gorgeous gowns, hoping and praying to be chosen as the Queen’s diamond of the year. Diamond young ladies were elevated to the very pinnacle of the pile, to the front of the queue, making them the most desired and allowed to nab the richest and most eligible bachelor. Quite naturally rejected debutantes join their Mammas in gossiping and spreading or inventing scandal about this chosen one. Lady Whistledown writes and produces a leaflet the morning after each sporting and social occasion pointing out all the salacious overheard gossip which fuels family feuds with their wit and shocking revelations. The sparkling gem has men queuing at her door, plying her with gifts, flattery and promises. Lady W observes the line up and points out the folly of choosing one suitor over another by digging the dirt on his family’s background and lineage.
But this big budget modern production with its delicious locations and beautiful frocks shows young ladies as feisty, intelligent and unwilling to be manipulated into a loveless marriage, for the sake of society and often to save her family from poverty. These girls do their own manipulating. Too long have they been told not to waste their youth on reading books, taking an interest in the lower classes or defying what is ‘expected’ of them. In the first episode of this new series one of these daughters was seen lurking in the shadows as a group of rakes laughed and congratulated each other in their agreement that young ladies were to be ‘led, bed and bred’ then they could carry on visiting whores and mistresses.
In one busy scene where mothers trailed their daughters around introducing them to any and every available Lord and Viscount, the background music was an orchestrated version of Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’.
I am hooked on this sexy drama. This is number two of an eight book collection. In these awful troubled times Bridgerton is the perfect escape.
Andie Green
Hurrah! it’s back! The superb drama of Edwardian society that outdoes Austen’s scope for exposing the rife hypocrisy of families with far too many daughters to get rid of before they stumble into the shame of spinsterhood. In series one this Netflix series showed us a world of a stupid frivolous families, where fathers are very much in the background, like children still with nannies, seen but not heard. Mothers are, as they were in Jane Austen’s novels, ruthless and focussed on finding a rich, titled husband for all of their girls. But Julia Quinn’s matriarchs are more manipulative, bitchy, cruel and desperate than Mrs Bennet, who was by comparison, depicted as a little silly but ultimately kind in her quest to marry off her offspring.
In series one of Bridgerton the enigmatic Lady Whistledown reported on all the high society balls and soirées during the ‘season’ following the coming out of 17 or 18 year old girls. These lovelies were paraded in their hundreds before the monarch in gorgeous gowns, hoping and praying to be chosen as the Queen’s diamond of the year. Diamond young ladies were elevated to the very pinnacle of the pile, to the front of the queue, making them the most desired and allowed to nab the richest and most eligible bachelor. Quite naturally rejected debutantes join their Mammas in gossiping and spreading or inventing scandal about this chosen one. Lady Whistledown writes and produces a leaflet the morning after each sporting and social occasion pointing out all the salacious overheard gossip which fuels family feuds with their wit and shocking revelations. The sparkling gem has men queuing at her door, plying her with gifts, flattery and promises. Lady W observes the line up and points out the folly of choosing one suitor over another by digging the dirt on his family’s background and lineage.
But this big budget modern production with its delicious locations and beautiful frocks shows young ladies as feisty, intelligent and unwilling to be manipulated into a loveless marriage, for the sake of society and often to save her family from poverty. These girls do their own manipulating. Too long have they been told not to waste their youth on reading books, taking an interest in the lower classes or defying what is ‘expected’ of them. In the first episode of this new series one of these daughters was seen lurking in the shadows as a group of rakes laughed and congratulated each other in their agreement that young ladies were to be ‘led, bed and bred’ then they could carry on visiting whores and mistresses.
In one busy scene where mothers trailed their daughters around introducing them to any and every available Lord and Viscount, the background music was an orchestrated version of Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’.
I am hooked on this sexy drama. This is number two of an eight book collection. In these awful troubled times Bridgerton is the perfect escape.
Andie Green
A Cry In The Dark
Today I saw an old Women, she could have been my Grandma,
in a line waiting For Bread, to feed her children, her grandchildren.
Today I saw rich people, models, flaunting their bodies, for their status, for money.
Today I saw the goodness in people, their kindness, their love , their strength.
Today I saw Hollywood people, how trivial they are,
my new bikini, my new lover, all when mothers and children are dying.
They should hang their heads in shame.
Who cares if some cosseted woman designs a new bikini, or their latest love affair is paraded before us?
Who are these people who sell their designer beachwear when kids are dying?
There are much more important things in this world than self serving celebrities,
Like the genocide of a people
Barrie Cooper
Today I saw an old Women, she could have been my Grandma,
in a line waiting For Bread, to feed her children, her grandchildren.
Today I saw rich people, models, flaunting their bodies, for their status, for money.
Today I saw the goodness in people, their kindness, their love , their strength.
Today I saw Hollywood people, how trivial they are,
my new bikini, my new lover, all when mothers and children are dying.
They should hang their heads in shame.
Who cares if some cosseted woman designs a new bikini, or their latest love affair is paraded before us?
Who are these people who sell their designer beachwear when kids are dying?
There are much more important things in this world than self serving celebrities,
Like the genocide of a people
Barrie Cooper
When I Was Ten
When I was a kid, I was ten years old, I had a paper round to help my Mum and
Dad to survive the week.
When I was Ten years old, I went to the coal yard 8 and 6 shillings for a hundred
Weight of coal, no slack, she said “ it weighs heavy”
When I was Ten, I knew what life was, a never ending grind, a never ending
Battle against, cold, hunger, the Brew Houses, my mum with a Dolly Tub a Boiler
To clean our clothes for School the next day.
When I was ten years old, I went to the Schools Christmas Party, our names on dishes, it was wonderful something different to eat.
When I was ten Father Christmas never came, I expect he was busy.
When I was ten there was no Christmas Tree, no Turkey in the Oven.
When I was ten my Mum and Dad did the best they could.
When I was ten I learned to be a man!
Barrie Cooper
When I was a kid, I was ten years old, I had a paper round to help my Mum and
Dad to survive the week.
When I was Ten years old, I went to the coal yard 8 and 6 shillings for a hundred
Weight of coal, no slack, she said “ it weighs heavy”
When I was Ten, I knew what life was, a never ending grind, a never ending
Battle against, cold, hunger, the Brew Houses, my mum with a Dolly Tub a Boiler
To clean our clothes for School the next day.
When I was ten years old, I went to the Schools Christmas Party, our names on dishes, it was wonderful something different to eat.
When I was ten Father Christmas never came, I expect he was busy.
When I was ten there was no Christmas Tree, no Turkey in the Oven.
When I was ten my Mum and Dad did the best they could.
When I was ten I learned to be a man!
Barrie Cooper
ANOTHER JULY BRAIN WORKOUT from "Creative Writing" by Stephen May
Write the word 'Autumn' on a piece of paper. Underneath list all the words that come to mind when you think of autumn. Spend a few minutes doing this. Now produce a poem that does NOT include any of the words on your list. It needn't be as long as Iain's poem and you can change the subject to any of the seasons. Why not carry on and write a poem in similar format about the other seasons.
Write the word 'Autumn' on a piece of paper. Underneath list all the words that come to mind when you think of autumn. Spend a few minutes doing this. Now produce a poem that does NOT include any of the words on your list. It needn't be as long as Iain's poem and you can change the subject to any of the seasons. Why not carry on and write a poem in similar format about the other seasons.
Autumn
by Iain Chrichton Smith. Autumn reminds me of heavy wardrobes large and mahogany, and of coal sheds with frosty locks on them. It reminds one of tenements with broken windows and dogs running through puddles to windy appointments. It reminds one of postmen humping their bags over fences and ditches towards a spectral house. It reminds one of Charity Shops with suits and shirts, and books from dimmed authors. It reminds one of those who have left to seek new countries and who gaze into glasses thinking of the old one. In autumn children play with a coloured ball beside the sea where the sand rises behind them in a fragile statue. |
Autumn
(after Iain Crichton Smith) by Linda Birch Autumn reminds me of uniforms pressed and shoes shining ready for new beginnings. It reminds me of dried flowers and seed heads fragile, skeletal shapes lovingly arranged. It reminds me of the sweet scent of apples ripening, of damson jam and onions plump for pickling. It reminds me of moths flitting in the half light and daddy long legs scurrying back to his safe corner. In autumn memories are sifted the frenzy of summer put away. Candles flicker and home cocoons. |
Autumn - As I See It
(after Iain Chrichton Smith) by Maggie Storer Autumn reminds one of the leathery smell of satchels and new shoes, of a paint box splash of colour in purples and blues. It reminds one of symbols clashing in an orchestra and the boom of a Bass in full voice. It reminds one of carpets smelling of dog and craneflies clinging to the windows, which steam up a whiff of last night’s dinner. It reminds one of a child practicing his piano scales in the front room over and over and over. It reminds one of lists to be made, fireworks and pumpkins, birthdays and parties. In Autumn congregations gather in churches, lighting candles, inhaling the fog of holy smoke. |
Autumn
(after Iain Chrichton Smith) by Betty Taylor Autumn reminds me Of screeching black crows Wearing wind ruffled feathers And desperate for food. It reminds me of Late afternoon sunsets with horizon aglow and cold bracing air trapping clouds of warm breath. Autumn reminds me of tractors and cow-snot slobbering over bales of fresh straw. Autumn reminds me of Cobwebs on hedgerows bearing berries for birds, and folk hurrying home to hug mugs of hot tea. It reminds me of Mother Earth sighing deeply As she settles to rest. It reminds me of sofas, warm blankets and baked potatoes for tea. Spring (after Iain Crichton Smith) by Linda Birch Spring reminds me of the joy I felt on finding coltsfoot and cowslips, seeing celandines smile at the sun and hearing cuckoos’ call. It reminds me of cobwebs wiped from boxes, compost pressed down firm, tiny seeds in drills and tender, loving care. It reminds me of the freedom to leave off scarf and gloves, when coats may not be needed but umbrellas surely will. Spring reminds me of year-end returns, taxes, profit and loss, balance sheets and budgets for a new year. In spring dreams are reborn. Forget the darkness, there’s a new way ahead, maybe now will the time. |
Winter - As I See It
(after Iain Chrichton Smith) by Maggie Storer Winter reminds me of atoms splitting, crackling in the atmosphere; of numb thumbs and fingers fumbling to function. Winter reminds me of dusty corners and cupboards holding treasures for tiny hands. Squeals of delight too early in the day. Winter reminds me of memories held and forgotten and time rushing forwards, plans to cross off that long list. Winter reminds me of surprises and warm greetings, round-robins to read between the lines, one less card on the mantelpiece. In winter we learn to enjoy the moment, accept the inevitable and move on. Spring - As I See It
(after Iain Chrichton Smith) by Maggie Storer Spring reminds me of coloured walking sticks to help navigate the path and a compass to do the same. Spring reminds me of shower-proof cushions on a Vienna two-seater hammock by a bubbling brook water feature. Spring reminds me of chorus chimes tinkling in the breeze, and Harlequin wind spinners with their dizzying display. Spring reminds me of bamboo bird boxes resistant to squirrels who ignore the label and find their way in. In Spring we all know that everything is possible. |
Summer - As I See It
(after Iain Chrichton Smith) by Maggie Storer Summer reminds me of other people on holiday, of endless queues and crowds on beaches; traffic jams and cancelled flights. Summer reminds me of great expectations, time to fill with hobbies and books to read. Summer reminds me of fresh air and open windows where flies and wasps crash against the glass, and moths forever searching for the light. Summer reminds me of tree warblers that arrive from Africa, flitting in and out of bushes, and native sparrows who have fought off magpies and crows, and earned their pecking order in the garden. In summer the worries of the world dim slightly; lurking, waiting to re-emerge with a ferocious fury. Summer
(after Iain Crichton Smith) by Linda Birch Summer reminds me of wishful thinking that the English weather will be summery. It reminds me of wide-brimmed hats, blisters and peeling skin and freckles blooming and too long walks. It reminds me of hardly worn dresses that no longer fit dredged with hope from wardrobes. It reminds me of insects buzzing, a frantic furious frenzy. No time to waste before autumn arrives. On summer nights curtains are drawn tight but still chinks of light filter through, disturbing the restless sleeper. |
Winter
(after Iain Crichton Smith) by Linda Birch Winter reminds me of fingerless gloves worn by conductresses on crowded buses with messages written on steamed up windows. It reminds me of shopping in warm, brightly-lit department stores, thronging with determined bargain-hunters. It reminds me of annual visits to far off relations stamping cold feet on dim platforms peering for the 6.30 pm to take us home. Winter reminds me of dogs in tartan coats, ice balls clinging to matted fur, of silly jumpers and sherry, and shortbread dipped in tea. It reminds me of garden sheds cleared out. Pots tidied, tools oiled and plant catalogues peddling false hopes of garden splendour to come. In winter one takes stock, recharges the batteries, makes lists and resolutions, then carries on as before. |
AN EXERCISE TO KEEP THE GREY MATTER ACTIVE: July 2021
Write a reply to Williams' poem 'This is Just to Say'
This is a poem that intrigues almost everybody who reads it, for reasons that aren't immediately clear. It seems to hint at something just behind the words that we can't quite catch. It also seems to do very well what Shelley asked of poetry, in that it makes the familiar strange again. Your reply must follow the same rhythm and layout as the original poem.
William Carlos Williams,''This Is Just to Say'' from The Collected Poems: Volume I, 1909-1939, copyright ©1938 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
Write a reply to Williams' poem 'This is Just to Say'
This is a poem that intrigues almost everybody who reads it, for reasons that aren't immediately clear. It seems to hint at something just behind the words that we can't quite catch. It also seems to do very well what Shelley asked of poetry, in that it makes the familiar strange again. Your reply must follow the same rhythm and layout as the original poem.
William Carlos Williams,''This Is Just to Say'' from The Collected Poems: Volume I, 1909-1939, copyright ©1938 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold |
This is Just to Say
(a reply) by Maggie Storer The plums you ate were mine but they were meant for us to share Now we have nothing to eat for dessert no reason for you to be here to stay here at all |
This Just to Say
(a reply) by Betty Taylor You are welcome to them I have more cooked gently no rush crumble and cream too perfect teatime treat and all mine to slowly savour Nothing else matters |
This is Just to Say:
(a reply) By Linda Birch You ate the plums that were meant for her because you think I like her much better than you But I bought cakes as well they were a present for you I ate them |
Big Grey Horses
I heard them, before I saw them, the rumble of thunder, the pounding hooves. I saw the Horses thunder over the crest, the big grey Horses, the Red Uniforms, The sun glinting on sabres, the French Infantry breaking, running away. I saw the Horses, their riders, heard the blare of trumpets, I saw them die, I saw what Is the best of England. I heard the roar of a Merlin engine, young men burning to death in their Spitfires Hurricanes, to save the World, I heard them. I hear you now, you call us racist. Our people gave their all to save the world. You should be ashamed, You will never se their like again, you do not deserve them their sacrifice. Before you decry us, judge us , think of the world if the Nazis had won, where Would you be? Treblinka “ the only escape is up the chimney” You ask me how these smart leftie university professors can spout their poison, their hatred. It’s because a young man died, burning to death in the cockpit of his fighter, Now today it seems he really did die for nothing. Barrie Cooper |
Plastic... a poem without rhyme
It’s coming home, It’s coming home. Football's coming home Hear the song, rock on. It’s coming home, football's coming home. But can you tell me why I can’t unwrap a cucumber? Why I can’t open a bag of carrots? Why I can’t open a cabbage? A bag of potatoes, sprouts, mushrooms? Don’t ask me about a carton of milk. Don’ ask me about chocolate for the kids. Why is everything wrapped in plastic I can’t open? Why is everything made so difficult? I am old, my fingers don't work very good. I don’t need more plastic. I don’t need an arrow, saying 'open here'. All I need is no more plastic. Why oh why is my food wrapped in plastic? A market stall now that’s fantastic. Three pounds of veg in a brown paper bag. That’s all that’s needed no more to be said. Please no more Plastic Let brown paper bags come home!!! Barrie Cooper |
Lost Year
A child lay on his big comfy bed, Put his thoughts on his pillow, Put shattered dreams out to nowhere, He was lost, not a mate in site. He ached for the freedom stolen from him, Sounds of nothingness echoed loud and clear With loss of real communication came fear. On the pillow the boy put What had happened during lockdown, Things he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t understand this pandemic, Who put it there like a bolt in the night? Those he loved spoke of distancing, putting a space between. He got up, washed his hands, this was the start, He left his mask on his pillow, Went down to the computer screen. This is ZOOMING madness, for a child Who should be out in the park. His chin held in hands he looks at his screen, He could feel his heart beating and the soft breeze in his hair. His feet tingled with the excitement of movement On the screen it told him The vaccine would give freedom His bubble soon would burst! Cora Boffey |
Hotel Grand Britannia
On a dark motor highway, cool breeze in my hair. Up there in the distance, a welcoming light. My eyes grew heavy, my body grew light. Had to rest for the night. Welcome to the hotel, Grand Britannia Such a pretty place, such a pretty place Plenty of room at the hotel “Grand Britannia” Any time of year, in it’s warm embrace. Last thing I remember is running for the door. Trying to be the place I was two years before. “ Alas” said the Scientists, we are programmed to receive. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave Welcome to the hotel Grand Britannia. Such a pretty place, such a pretty place Plenty of room at the Hotel Grand Britannia. Any time of year you will find me here. Barrie Cooper Luxury
Spring’s magnificence Buttercupping the senses With tastes of sunshine Andie Green |
Some People
Some people know what it’s like To be in the jumble sale queue To be short of clothes and shoes To be poor and know it Some kids know their parents are needy To be happier drunk more than sober To be miserable most of the time To be handy with his fists Some kids are constantly terrorised Some kids know how to be invisible To keep trauma out of the way To lie low and avoid more scarring Stop coughing, stop crunching, stop crying, stop talking, stop breathing Just Stop! You’re not wanted. Never were. To wait and wish for freedom To long for love, any love To see and understand the pain in others To long for justice To stand alongside Just Stop! Ann Bickley |
To Begin, Throw a Six
He walked down the Street, A party!! Three Bears, a Girl called Goldilocks, The Band played, a Musket Fife and Drum. The place was crowded, a Girl, a Wolf, Three little Pigs sat outside a Ginger Bread House. Mary Walked her Lambs to Market, Jack and Jill went up the Hill. A Snake slithered by carrying a ladder, the square threw six, the Snake said “Hiss” He came to The wall, an Elephant trumpeted, a Tiger roared and a Giraffe looked over the wall. He stumbled over some building blocks, lost Mayfair, gained a community chest, propped The ladder up to the wall, the square threw three, one step forward, one step back. He began to climb, the Monkeys chattered, the Elephant trumpeted, the Tiger roared. He reached the top, looked over the wall, slipped, tumbled headfirst over the wall, out of the toybox and onto the floor. Barrie Cooper |
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard , To give the poor dog a bone ; When she came there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none. Second and subsequent verses by me She went to the butchers To get him some meat When she got back He was given a treat She went to the tailors To get him a tie When she got back He looked a smart guy She went to the hatters To get him a cap When she got back He was having a nap She went to the barbers To get him a comb When she got back He was on the phone She went to the vets To get him some pills When she got back He was washing the sills She went to the station To get him a ticket When she got back He was stuck in a thicket And so on... Anne Bickley |
Lost
Dusk came quickly to the Souk. A soft touch of fabric brushed my shoulder. Fragrant perfumes wafted from spicy tagines. I tasted flavours of another land. I heard the Faithful being called to worship. Narrow walls enclosed me. Lost in wonder, which road to take? Lost in a place I don’t know well, a place far from home. Gillian Rawlins The Hug
Suddenly a hug comes over me and I’m giving it to you But I don’t want it… go away… keep your social distance. You endanger me with your impulse Keep it to yourself This is Covid 19 landscape now. Before we could touch and hug and kiss Now it is banned, Except for family and close bubbles. Behind the masks the eyes have it Like Su Ellen’s smouldering eye speak But when you hug someone You want it to be a masterpiece of connection Not now... you can’t give one away. Ann Bickley Dew Sunshine petals Hot scorched to fade Awake bejewelled Fresh showered by diamonds Slugs munch in the dark Precious leaves to lace But slime trails betray with Shiny sparkling tracks Nature's bling transforms Early moments to magic Solace for sad hearts Andie Green |
The Counties
But I want to write to a Cambridgeshire girl telling her she’s a great mother And to a lass in Staffordshire a little sister to the other. But I want to post a rose, to a Yorkshire lad, white, I’ll pick it And I want to write to a girl- friend in Buckinghamshire who’ll want to nick it. But I want to write to an aunt in Bedfordshire who makes a wooden hill of her stair. And I want to write to a distant cousin in Herefordshire in praise of the pear But I want to write to an in law in Perthshire in his Macmillan kilt With his Dundonian Caledonian Celtic lilt But I want to write to a Devonshire lass and her cream tea And I want to write to my Lancashire uncle from the Balearic sea But I want to write the counties down for the onward journey... wherever that may be. Ann Bickley |
Editor's note: of late we've all been moaning about the state of our lockdown hair. Maggie had a vivid dream about this very subject. We thought it so bizarre that we've persuaded her to share it....
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow I made an appointment at a ‘posh’ hairdressers. It was in a converted church. I arrived and was told to wait in the waiting room (prior to booking I had been told it was £20 to wait in the waiting room). I was shown eventually to this waiting room which was set out like a salon with loads and loads of tables where you sat opposite a stylist. A female stylist came over and examined my hair - she mentioned dull grey. I said it was fine and I didn’t want it coloured. She went away. A man, around 50 years old, came over and was showing me all these products. I said I just wanted a cut and blow dry and I had been waiting ages. He went away. I was finally shown to the shampooist - who changed persons twice. She went away, presumably to find a suitable shampoo for my ratty hair. Then another lady came and sprinkled some sort of perfumed gold dust or grit on my table. This was supposed to be part of the experience. I said I needed to be out by a certain time and would they just get on with it. It was 3.30pm and I’d been there since about 2.00pm. I finally decided to leave, finding my way through corridors until I saw the light and escaped through a side door. I took out my phone to ring my usual hairdresser and found my phone was broken. I started walking to the end of the road to catch a bus home (why no car?). I woke up. Maggie Storer |
Puzzle Poem
Check the beginnings of this riddle In which everything is back to front, Testing skills and silly forms Shaped verse, which this is not. Odes and pattern poems could fit, Reversing rhymes and rhythms too, Capturing the perfect poem Arranged upside down to baffle you. This poem has a name. What is it? Maggie Storer |
Lions led by Donkeys
He said, “Our lads hung bacon strips on their bayonets, the rats would come. Bang!” He smiled at me, his smile faded, his eyes dark. “They lay in front of our lines all winter; thousands of them hung upon the wire. A young soldier lay in a shell hole, his face splintered, his brains hanging out calling for his mother. My Lieutenant was killed trying to bring him in, a whizz bang.” He shrugged his shoulders, “happens all the time.” The young man threw up. “Sorry, Sorry.” My wife ran to him. “Don’t be, It’s alright” “I have to go, it’s my turn to be murdered tomorrow,” he said. My wife could not let him go, tried to hold him, love him, hold on to him. He smiled at her, gently removed her arms, kissed her, “I have to go.” He shouldered his pack, his rifle, nodded to me and marched out through the wall. Barrie Cooper Written to mark the first day of The Battle of The Some - July 1st 1916, the highest casualty losses in British Military history; 50,000 in the first few hours. We owe them a debt, a debt we can never repay! |
Memorial
Band standing on a hill, copper cladded Barr Beacon, where fires once lit the sky in times of impending attack; which came in the end, not from the Cavaliers or Roundheads, but twenty-first century vandals stripping copper roofing for what it was worth, in blind view of the neighbours across the Chase and Lickey Hills. Ramblers trek for miles to see a War Memorial shielded with zinc-coated panels and CCTV. Maggie Storer |
Money for Nothing
Money for nothing, your kicks for free, so wrote” Mark Knopfler” of Dire Straits. But nothing’s for free, at least not in this World, not at the moment. This thing, this virus has taught us the meaning of money for nothing. For money means nothing. What is more important, are your Mum, Dad, children, your grandchildren, your own life. So what is important? Money or life? Money or the loving arms of your family? The kiss of a child, the arms of a Grandma, the warmth, the love of your family and friends. I know what I would choose!! Barrie Cooper |
A True Story
I have been in contact with a young man 21 years old. He fled his abusive family to set up life on his own. He returned to collect his younger brother and sister from their abusive parents and became their carer. He worked for my Granddaughter's partner as an apprentice roofer, but because of this evil virus he has been laid off from his work. We send them a food parcel every week, me and my Brother. This young man has restored my faith. What a star the young man is, what a brilliant advert for the much maligned younger generation. Shame on the State for not helping them. If there is anybody more deserving, I don’t know who. But as long as we can , they will not go without Barrie Cooper |
Contactless
The old man proffered his coins, for his sparse groceries; “Sorry we don’t take cash," the assistant said. “Cards only or contactless." The old man stood confused, proffering his coins, his notes, “Cards only, we don’t take cash anymore. Next.” The old man put his Basket down, he no longer recognised this cruel angry World, he only thought of his Wife at home, the love of his life. “Put them back,” the young Woman said to him. “Put them back on the counter, I’ll pay for you.” He looked at her confused, faltering he said, "thank you, but I don’t know you." “Yes you do.” the young Woman replied. “ You are my Grandad and I love you” This is how the world maybe will be, People will be kind care for each other! Barrie Cooper |
Storm 2018
An overfilled airport simmering with frustration Bodies sitting, lying, dozing, sighing Down ceiling to floor plate glass the rain gushes, lightning forks, planes idly wait A tiny black baby kicks and coos at his beautiful parents, then falls asleep As the sky darkens, count seconds between flashes and crashes Fear must increase for passengers circling, waiting to land Count again, nine miles, eight OUR FLIGHT HAS BEEN CANCELLED Andie Green |
Storm 2020
A slow beginning, just another health scare. No need to panic, may as well stock the larder just in case Then the drip became a steady downpour that closed down life No shops, no work, no school, no fun Weeks became months of confused promises and death All emotions were pulled to snapping point But folk clapped and cheered for selfless kindnesses We became listeners, learners and valued each other OUR LIVES HAVE NOT BEEN CANCELLED. Andie Green |
Lockdown TV (My guilty pleasure).
Four-in-a-bed contestants try out each other’s B&Bs. They review and pay what they think it’s worth. The eye is on the prize; a treasured plaque
The search is on for curly hairs, dust, broken fittings or simply décor details not to their taste. And the view.
The host tests them with a challenge, each eyeing up the other for a pecking order.
Later, they dine out; questions and answers scrutinised; sides taken, testing the competition.
So to bed; pre-ordered breakfasts grudgingly given.
Bright and early, they bemoan the too soft, too hard, too small beds. Berate the traffic noise, the cold shower and the tight squeeze.
All smiles at breakfast as the host is put to the final test. Will the mighty sausage surpass expectations? Will the eggs run? Perfectly poached eggs the ultimate accolade for the hosting chef.
Scurrying back to their rooms, they fill out the questionnaire and score the facilities. No speck of dust, dirt or stain goes unreported. They place what they think the room is worth in an envelope to be opened on the last visit.
Guns have been drawn, the enemy sighted. It’s all to play.
Maggie Storer
Four-in-a-bed contestants try out each other’s B&Bs. They review and pay what they think it’s worth. The eye is on the prize; a treasured plaque
The search is on for curly hairs, dust, broken fittings or simply décor details not to their taste. And the view.
The host tests them with a challenge, each eyeing up the other for a pecking order.
Later, they dine out; questions and answers scrutinised; sides taken, testing the competition.
So to bed; pre-ordered breakfasts grudgingly given.
Bright and early, they bemoan the too soft, too hard, too small beds. Berate the traffic noise, the cold shower and the tight squeeze.
All smiles at breakfast as the host is put to the final test. Will the mighty sausage surpass expectations? Will the eggs run? Perfectly poached eggs the ultimate accolade for the hosting chef.
Scurrying back to their rooms, they fill out the questionnaire and score the facilities. No speck of dust, dirt or stain goes unreported. They place what they think the room is worth in an envelope to be opened on the last visit.
Guns have been drawn, the enemy sighted. It’s all to play.
Maggie Storer
HAIKU
BBC Radio Woman's Hour aired an item encouraging people to record these awful times we're living through in the form of a Haiku (Japanese verse form, 3 lines of 5 - 7 - 5 syllables. No title - try to capture a moment in 17 syllables. David has started the ball rolling.... |
Haiku
Our lives on hold. Every day the news worsens, Then a glint of hope. David Morgans |
Haiku
Birds sing their spring songs prompting blossom trees to bloom A virus thrives too Betty Taylor |
Haiku
We self isolate putting loved ones out of reach adds to our distress Betty Taylor |
Haiku
Precious time to think Look at life another way Hope out of horror Linda Birch |
Haiku
Numb from helplessness Searching for a better world Then a star shines out Linda Birch |
Lockdown limerick
Years ago a young girl called Mona Was addicted to a drink called Corona She popped and she fizzed Then burped till she bubbled Now she isolates home as a loner Andie Green |
A door painted Pink
What lies beyond a bright pink door? Maybe I have been in this place before. Pink, a singer, we cry out or more. There are no white flags at my door. Pink, a rose, a clematis plant. Pink, a lipstick, promise made instant, Cherry blossom, bright pink in Japan. How has this agony begun? Hold the children, hold them close, Think of those you love the most, For we are told we have no hope, Hold your children, hold them close. I cannot now try to understand, Death and love walk hand in hand, What lies behind that bright pink door? Seems to me, I have been here before. Someday soon, maybe, I think Love will blossom, it may be pink. Walk together, stay tall and strong, Walk with me, it's where we belong. Barrie Cooper Where am I?
Goggles... mask… black… dark...staring into velvet darkness, the soft folds of a warm blanket encompass my body. I feel a comfort I’ve never felt before, a relaxed, floating sensation overwhelms me, of being lifted, elevated, not seeing just feeling then a light shines somewhere in the distance. It grows and grows, a hand forms out of a cloud, it touches me then leaves, retreats and disappears into the shining light... gone... I feel a loss so profound, never to be forgotten. People dressed in white surround me, where am I? What is holding me down holding me fast? I can’t move, tubes linking me to machines with blinking lights. Please tell me where I am. Gwen Whitaker |
Covid-19, WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP!!
We went off to Spain although I had doubts, We’d heard of a virus that knocked people out. There’s no problem yet in UK or Spain, To travel or not? No venture no gain. WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! The hotel is fine we look over the sea, Our apartment is great with a nice balcony. Free Wi-Fi a blessing as we would find later As COVID took over we needed the data. WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! There’s boules pitch and darts down by the pool, And bingo at four, we’ll win wine, that’s so cool! Rifles and archery just round the corner, For me I’ll just laze and then pop in the sauna. WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! Hey ho to you Blackie, the pigeon we’ve named, He comes every day I think he is tamed. He sits on our balcony puffing his chest, He bullies the others he knows he’s the best. WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! The virus has come, we’re told we must stay, But Gov.uk says we must go today. To stay or to go a quandary we’re in The boarding cards ready are these for the bin? WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! Would you believe we’re all set to go When off goes a ping on my mobile you know. With trembling hands I look and just stare At the message displayed yes it says Ryanair. WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! They’ve cancelled us twice could this be a third, If I had wings I’d fly home like a bird! It’s only a message informing us that A claim can be made to get money back! WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP! I’m writing this down before we depart, I know before leaving deep down in my heart The road will be empty no cars to be seen And so I am hoping to say ‘I have been.’ WE ARE IN THE DANGER GROUP!! Gwen Whitaker |
The Blue Door.
I love my work; I’m a freelance journalist, writing articles for newspapers and magazines. On this particular day, in early May, I was contacted by the editor of a well-known Sunday paper to write an article about the Eastern Aegean islands exploring their potential for the coming holiday season. I was delighted at the prospect of spending a few days in the sunshine, and booked my flight; the expense account was generous! I sorted out my itinerary to visit the islands requested. A couple of days later the aircraft landed on time at Thessaloniki airport and I made my way to the first of my assignments, Kassandra, a peninsular on the westernmost tip of Halkadiki. From here I explored the less popular Sinthonia and sailed on a rigged schooner to the third peninsular, Mont Athos, home to a monastic community and one on which tourists are forbidden to land and can only be admired from the Aegean Sea. I wrote about the golden beaches and crystalline waters, green mountains and lush forests, not forgetting to include some of the accommodation available. |
Then I visited the islands of Chios and Samos. One late afternoon, after eating fragrant Saganaki, accompanied by the local fiery ouzo at a harbour tavern, I chatted to the jovial owner. When he knew my mission, he persuaded me, in his halting English, to explore a small village in the mountains. It was here after a long, rather dusty walk, I found a house, so full of character, situated proudly in the Mimosa-scented air. It’s facade was dappled by the late evening sun and the golden tones of the building and especially the blue door and shuttered windows, seemed to me to embody the very spirit of this fascinating part of the world. I was tempted to touch the grainy wood of the door, but was disturbed in my reverie by the rumbling of a passing farm cart. Reluctantly I returned to my hotel.
All too soon it was time to pack my writings into my briefcase and return to the UK, but the magic Eastern Aegean islands and especially the house with the blue door, will remain with me for a long time.
Gillian Rawlins
All too soon it was time to pack my writings into my briefcase and return to the UK, but the magic Eastern Aegean islands and especially the house with the blue door, will remain with me for a long time.
Gillian Rawlins
To My Friends
Do not leave me to die alone. Once I had a house, a home. Someone, somewhere, hold my hand, Stroke my hair, hold my hand. Do not leave me in this dark place. Hold my hand, we will walk to the light. I must leave this Earth, this mortal place. Hold my hand, we will walk to the light. Do not forget my mortal fight. I did not want to walk from the light. I need to tell you I could not stay. Don't turn your back and walk away. If love in this world can still be found Will you and I walk on hallowed ground? If I have lost this mortal fight, Hold my hand, and walk to the light. Barrie Cooper Spring 2020
I sit in my Garden what do I see? I hear the buzz of a hover fly or a bee. A soft wind blows through the trees. The scent of hyacinths on the breeze. Lilies thrusting their stems on high, Growing under a pale blue sky. Violets blue, forget-me-nots too, Winter's gone, warm days for you. Carnage and death, stalk our streets. Don't stay too close to the people you meet. Who or what lurks behind that mask? A person, a friend, do not ask. Bluebells still grow ,still flies the crow Nature goes on, the grass will still grow, Do not despair, nature will out, The human race will prevail, no doubt. Barrie Cooper (April 2020) This is how I felt, the day 700 people died. God bless them all and keep them close. |
Anticipating Easter
We’re all self-isolating To avoid the Covid thing We’re crawling up the walls And the doorbell doesn’t ring. We cannot come visit We can’t ask you round for tea We’re all stuck in lock down And unhappy as can be. To ease the utter boredom We’ve had a little think Found scissors and some paper And now we’re in the pink… We’ve made some silly cards And will pop them in the post A little Easter message For folk we love the most There’s a story for the babies And a funny picture too I wonder who’s the basket case Is it us? Or is it you? Betty Taylor (April 2020) written for a jokey Easter card sent to friends and family and these four little great-grandsons |
The Dormouse
When Katie saw the picture, it brought to mind when she was eight years old and lived with her mom and dad in their Grandparents house. Dad had just returned from the Army the war was now over. Her father had a motor bike with a side car shaped like a rocket Katie loved it, her mother would sit on the back of the bike holding on to Dad. In her mind she would be zooming away to the moon. When Hetty the cat next door had a little mouse in her mouth Katie opened her mouth and got the frightened little creature out. He was so cute with huge brown eyes and sticky out ears. Her mum had said its in a cat’s nature to hunt for food it’s not their fault. They had put the little fella in a bucket and when he seemed to be scampering around Katie took him to the bottom of the Garden and let him go. As he scurried away she recalled calling out, "please stay away never come back it is not safe for you here." Carol Hipkin |