Glorious Poems

West Country Brew

Rosy, russet, green they be

Freshly picked from yonder trees.

The farmer and her family

Gathering fruit down in the Lea.

 

Worcester Pearmain, Bramley, Cox,

Assorted others in a box.

Handling should avoid the knocks:

Here comes the farmer; the girl, the fox.

 

She brings another apple sack,

Heaves the contents from her back:

“These for cider, they’ve been attacked

By the wasp – it is a fact!”

 

Apple juice now is flowing

The farmer has a way of knowing

It’s a good year, her face is glowing,

Content, her happiness is showing.

 

Soon the cider-making’s done

And helpers rest beneath warm sun,

Drinking last year’s brew, the fun

Of apple picking has now run.

 

The farmer gives them all a kiss,

Her head spins round in rising mist:

Menfolk, and the little Miss,

Brothers and her darling sis.

 

Rosy, russet, green they be

Freshly picked from yonder trees,

When dew was dripping lusciously,

Delicious fruit and cider see.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The batty biologist

 

Down the path, bringing shade,

A line of poplar trees parade.

They stand so tall like lolly-pop sticks,

Until in a dip a little house sits.

Its roof is slate, its walls white stone,

An old Professor called it home.

 

She lived alone with all her cats,

Her papers, books, and lots of bats.

She sang and liked a jolly dance

When writing to her son in France.

Then watched the bats come out at night,

Skimming low in pale twilight.

The line of poplar trees alive,

As busy as a bees’ beehive.

 

The lady thought it very fine

Studying creatures all the time –

Writing books and giving talks

About her epic wildlife walks.

 

One day she went, long, long ago,

To a cave down deep below

A valley entwined nearly in green,

Filming bats, as yet unseen.

Swooping, diving, around her head,

Screeching like the real un-dead.

Professor Clare loved every second

“I’ve found a new sort of bat,” she reckoned.

 

This bat was then named after her,

She was so proud, but did prefer

Climbing mountains, sailing seas,

She studied creatures while on her knees.

But never did she find another

Animal waiting to be discovered.

 

She looked and looked, saw many things,

Including mammals with reptile wings.

When she retired to the countryside,

Her talks drew folk from far and wide.

They listened to her daring tales

In England, Scotland, and in Wales.

 

She talked about her love and passion

For animals, in everyday fashion.

Now people are very much aware,

Of tree-dwelling bats, and those named ‘Clare’.

 

Children’s children

 

The thunderstorm panics the dogs

The cows, the sheep and the hogs.

Crashing spikes of white

And rain with all of its might.

The thunderstorm comes overhead.

There is shelter in an old shed, as

Pellets of rain fall on down,

Belting the roof and the ground.

Counting the time in-between

The rumbles and lightning, it seems

To show us five seconds or more

Between them, down here on the floor.

 

 

Suddenly, a bolt from the sky

Passes outside, and I try

To search for a bucket. You see

The bolt has set fire to a tree,

Splitting the trunk to the core

Like a sharp axe-head or chainsaw.

But, the torrential rain lashes hard

And douses the fire near the yard.

The storm passes by and we see

What is left of our smouldering tree.

 

 

Standing a century there,

Burned down without any care.

Silhouetted as the night falls

Like a ghost that just simply appals.

The Oak might not grow any more

But the sculptural timber is sure

To be crafted into beautiful things –

Wooden bowls, and cups, even rings.

Now sunshine starts very bright,

Sparking life in the saplings that might

Take over from our old tree

For our children’s children to see.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Spider’s Prey

 

October sees the spider try

And catch some insects passing by

In its dewy mesh of silk,

Tight as rope -  especially built –

The spider wraps around its prey

A cocoon so fine, it will delay

The insect corpse from going far –

Like locking it in a little jar.

 

As slow mists rise, sun appears,

The birds sing sweetly, bringing cheer.

The spider sucks its catch here dry

And waits for something else to fly

Into the web when passing through,

Sticking legs, like in a glue.

Struggling makes the body stay,

Another insect has had its day.

 

The cunning spider ties up its catch,

Repairs the web, and notes the match:

This insect is too large to eat

In one go, but what a treat!

Cocooned in silken threads it lasts

A week or so as a cast.

The spider hides down in its web

As passing insects float and ebb.

 

This dewy web is stretched and torn,

The spider spins again at dawn.

Repairs the silk between two stems,

This trap is primed once again.

Another morning, mists are still,

The cunning spider up for a kill.

Small flying creatures will beware

The spider and the spider’s lair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snakes in the sand

 

There was a massive boa constrictor

Who had a brother and a sister.

Kept by Trevor and his son

In separate tanks, as they were long.

 

They had plenty of good food to eat –

Little mammals were a welcome treat.

Squeezing tight and gulping down,

Mice and rabbits from outside of town.

 

Trevor let them out sometimes

Each snake could slither and it could climb.

But, one day as the sun shone brightly

The constrictors slithered all too sprightly.

 

Outside the house, to the long grass,

Down the path, they didn’t ask.

They moved beyond the garden gate,

Three snakes who really could not wait.

 

Into the street, and to the park,

Waiting there until the dark.

But the boa constrictors then got cold

As the moon came out, so they dug holes

 

In the sand of the park sand pit –

Three snakes huddled and did sit.

Meanwhile, Trevor was so distraught:

“Where have they gone?” was his only thought.

 

He searched his garden and all his house,

Tempting them with a dead white mouse.

Until the sun came out next morning,

The snakes awoke without warning

.

Little Ella was digging in the sand,

With a bucket and spade clutched in her hands.

She dug and dug, and dug up the snakes,

Before realizing her mistakes,

 

Six steely eyes looked at her, still,

Their forked tongues flashing fast, until

The police and an ambulance were called

As Ella was shaking, she was appalled.

 

Crying now, the girl did plea:

“Those snakes were much bigger than me!”

A warning went out in the town

Trevor and his son came on down

 

To the park, and there they did spot

Three Boa’s who, like it or not,

Were climbing up upon the slide,

To come on down for a good ride.

 

Trevor had brought a big brown sack

And bagged the snakes to take them back.

The children all cheered him, before

Trevor took them to his door.

 

He put them each back in his house

Under warm lights, with a dead mouse.

And the boa constrictors did stay

And feed and drink for much of the day.

 

Now then, the massive boa constrictor,

With his brother, and his big sister

Stayed quietly looking for some peace,

Not waiting for another release.

 

As they settled down to sleep,

The snakes had memories to keep.

Remembering how they got so cold

The Boa’s didn’t have to be told.

 

They’d stay there in their cosy warm tanks

Be fed quite often, and not play pranks.

Satisfied snakes not wanting more,

The community now secure, for sure.

 

 

 

Dreams

 

I want to sing, I want to cry

Every time you catch my eye.

I want to kiss, I want to love

Your very essence passing by.

 

I have missed you all these years,

Five hundred miles apart it seems,

But every day glad thoughts appear

And every night you’re in my dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

Timothy Blake fell for Catherine Morton

 

Timothy Blake fell for Catherine Morton

When he was out shopping, as leaves fell, in Autumn.

Timothy Blake bought a couple of shirts,

While Catherine tried on a new skirt.

As they emerged from their changing compartments,

They bumped into each other and both were startled.

Timothy Blake knocked Catherine’s skirt from her hands,

He picked it up like a chivalrous man.

Catherine Morton felt love at first sight,

She thanked him and gave him a smile so white.

He looked deep in her eyes and wanted to kiss her,

He too was smitten, he knew he would miss her.

So taking her hand, he asked for her number,

She coyly told him, her heart raced like thunder.

Now Timothy Blake loves Catherine Morton,

He doesn’t regret going shopping in Autumn.

They have a baby called little Rose,

A name that Catherine’s mother chose.

They live in a flat quite near to the park,

So the three of them walk there until the dark,

Then go inside, put baby to bed,

Open some wine and toast cheese on white bread.

Timothy Blake loves Catherine Morton,

Yes, Timothy Blake loves Catherine Morton,

Young lovers together, since leaves fell, last Autumn.

 

 

 

 

 

Scurrilous deception

 

Michael likes to bathe in the sun,

Kerry rubs cream on his chest,

Michael lays on a sunbed for fun,

While Kerry says reading is best.

 

In Majorca, this month it boils,

Kerry and Michael agree,

It is best to be covered in oils,

Or to bask in the shade of a tree.

 

Michael sips gin and cool tonic

And Kerry likes passion fruit fizz,

These hard toiling Cambridge accountants

Working for folk in show biz.

 

Kerry and Michael are lovers,

He hopes this news doesn’t travel.

If his wife in Cambridge discovers

His partnership here will unravel.

 

He taps out a quick email

Saying: “I wish you were here.”

Deception on a grand scale, he

Kisses Kerry’s mouth and her ear.

 

His wife back in Cambridge taps back:

“Yes, I miss you more than lots!”

Then she quickly puts on her thin mac,

Rushing out to collect the young tots.

 

 

Kerry is Michael’s work partner

Who is also sharing his bed,

A big bosomed girl with red garters,

Not caring where she lays her head.

 

Michael and Kerry start caressing:

“This business trip is such fun,

Majorca is never depressing,”

Says Michael before he is done.

 

Michael and Kerry are lovers

They slowly tan in the rays.

His wife will soon discover

That he is a slob who betrays.

Derek and the fog

 

Looking out onto murk and fog,

A man is walking with his dog.

The few street lights in a long line

Giving the pavement an orange shine.

The dog is panting, walking fast,

His little legs going, he’s aghast.

The man pulls up his raincoat hood,

The fog encloses him well and good.

He hurries on to a lighted shop,

Its lights a-glowing, a welcome stop.

He buys some mints and a daily paper,

Looks at the headlines – the usual capers.

The terrier waits outside the door,

Resting his backside on the floor.

The dog looks and yaps a bit,

“Good boy,” says Derek, “Good boy to sit.”

They disappear into the fog:

Derek and his little dog.

 

 

Walking slowly in a loop

Derek’s thoughts of warming soup

And white cut bread made into toast

Overcome him quickly, like the most

Exotic place that he’s ever been,

Or watching TV when the Queen

Gave stirring words and nearly cried

Soon after Princess Diana died.

 

 

He leaned down, picked up his dog,

Unlocked his house there in the fog.

“Come on now, we’re home again.”

He called the terrier by its name.

Charlie yapped, waiting to see

What Derek and him would have for tea:

Some crunchy biscuits for the dog, and some

Oxtail soup  -  to shut out the fog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunflowers

A gift of sunflowers

To brighten up an Autumn day.

Orange shining sunflowers

Gleaming on my shelf.

I never expected sunflowers –

Or anything.

Your kindness brings sunshine

As the rain falls.

So thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yes, thank you, for the gift of sunflowers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Titan Arum

 

On Saturday evening, an almighty pong

Hung in the air – but what was wrong?

Smelly feet or rotten eggs?

Sulphurous tints or drainpipe dregs?

The Titan Arum caused quite a stir,

Thousands of people overheard, that

This was the time the lily flowered

At Cambridge Botanics. The crowd perspired,

But caught a glimpse, and one large whiff

From this rare horticultural gift.

A phallic tower; gargantuan spathe,

Is what this plant grew to save.

Pollination by some trusted flies

Before the flower withered, then died.

So, on Saturday evening, the outrageous pong

Proved the contrary; there’s nothing wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wonderful Emma

 

I saw her reading the Sunday Times,

An elegant lady just in her prime.

She smiled and muttered several words,

The café was full, but I listened and heard, that

She worked as a writer for the Daily News,

Dressed in a smart suit, and her stunning red shoes.

She said to me she was late –

Her deadline was coming – I could just relate

To that, as I am a writer too,

She left her coffee, reached for her shoe.

She picked up her bag from under the table

And combed her hair, and adjusted a label

At the back of her jacket, for it could be seen,

She put on some lipstick, and towards me she leaned.

Speaking so softly: “It’ll be published tonight,”

I nodded and thanked her: “Yes, fine, alright.”

 

Packing up her laptop and saying ‘goodbye’,

The journo left with a tear in her eye.

Our meeting had gone so very smooth,

But my harrowing tale had left her quite moved.

 

Next day in the paper I read the feature –

A double page spread with a really good picture

Of me and her chatting over a drink,

The piece was so gripping, it did make me think.

She captured my tone, and with her really sharp views

Brought the story to life, this interview

Couldn’t have gone better, it’ll be a best-seller

Thanks to the News writer – the wonderful Emma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reminiscences

 

Alice and Lulu met at secondary school,

Now it is all over, they sit and recall

How they talked French in their Spanish classes,

To annoy Ms Stevens in her horn-rimmed glasses.

Soaking loo paper and moulding some balls

Before caking them on the school toilet walls.

Alice and Lulu liked to play tricks

On Mr Mac Donald and Mrs Jane Pitts:

Their science lessons were spiced up one time

By doing experiments with acid and lime.

And as for the monotonous Geography teacher

Who on Sunday mornings was a church woman preacher,

The girls fell asleep a number of times

Then were abruptly awakened and told to do lines.

 

Now, sitting in a café with a hot skinny latte,

Alice and Lulu, just out of Pilates,

Reminiscing on school days, when who should appear,

But their old Form Mistress, now an old dear.

Saying ‘Hello’ and shaking her hand

The women can now really understand

What a handful they were, how they used to be,

Having told Miss Mullen, she also agreed.

 

Alice and Lulu now have girls of their own

Going through school, and starting to moan.

It seems teenage girls are much worse than boys

“but, my how quick they grow out of their toys!

From little princesses prancing around,

To horrible madams ruling the ground.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Miss Mullen replies,

She wants to smile but tears well in her eyes:

“I saw you both as time passed along,

From childhood to grown-up, your innocence gone.”

 

Al