Poems of 1989.
Hand bells at Davington Chruch Fete.
‘ Morning has broken’
The bell-ringers rang
The people they listened -
And sometimes they sang.
The sweet sound of summer
That lifted the skies
Bringing joy to my heart
And tears to my eyes
JACQUIE’S STORM WITHIN
The wind doth howl, the wind doth growl,
It brings discomfort to her bowel:
It grumbles, rumbles, round and round -
If only it would make no sound!
It moans and groans, and causes pain,
It goes away, then comes again.
So with her own accompanying thunder -
She lives in fear of making blunder!
With pinched expression, and a frown,
She struggles to contain the sound;
And sitting firmly in her chair
Attempts to stop escaping air!
The puzzled folk with whom she works
Just think that’s it’s her little quirk -
To see the way she shuffles around,
Emitting muffled, gurgling sounds.
At last, with gale force nine inside,
She heads for home - a place to hide;
And finds relief that makes her woozy,
As she creates her own Jaccoussi!!
LYNNE’S
LAMENT
I will leave in a while,
With a tear and a smile,
But must thank you all for your support;
Though with drinks on the table
I’ll try if I’m able,
To keep this oration quite short.
There was only one way
I could find words to say
‘Goodbye’ - that’s to do it in verse;
Though it’s not very good,
I did all that I could,
And it could be a bloomin’ sight worse!
You may think it absurd
To know I’M lost for words -
I hear Rosemary now shouting ‘ NEVER!’
Do not fear, when I’m gone,
My voice will go on
Forever …. and ever …. and ever…
As I boarded the bus,
With my usual fuss,
And I told the driver of all that I planed -
His glasses fell off,
And he stifled a cough,
When I told him I’d leave with a bang!
And you may think it funny,
Me shaving a bunny,
Or neutering the odd Tom or two;
But I’ll be in stitches
With a few silly bitches
That remind me, just slightly, of you!
But though your throats are bone dry
You must heave a sigh
For your ears will be glad of the rest;
And just who else is fit
To be called a right tit
And who else can you blame for the mess !
But despite all the humour,
The hints, and the rumour,
My private life revealed no shocks:
And in actual fact
Chris’ paddle’s intact
And I’m still hanging on to my socks!!
But thank you so much,
I am terribly touched,
(But then most of you’ve known that for years)
And I’ll now raise my glass
Before I’m flat on my …… face (!)
And I’ll bid one and all of you …..CHEERS!
Ode to
Brockhole
Dear Cath…..
Your friends at Brockhole Center
Would like to speak as one,
In wishing you the best of luck
And thanks for all you’ve done.
So as you move to other things
And leave us all behind,
This little rhyme will keep us
In the corners of your mind.
There’s Bob, who went to sign your card
And found he had no pen.
He went to get one from the basement
And was never seen again!
Now Andrew’ s good at climbing rocks,
And propping up the bar.
But he’ll also give you good advice
On how to prang a car!
And Edith - is that still her name?
Or Gill Huggon, as of old?
I think we need a press release -
I think we should be told.
Pete’s eyes reflect a boyish charm,
And Dave’s a perfect gent;
While Anne attends their every need -
Just like a mother hen.
So if your gullies need unblocking,
Or your footpath needs a stile.
Just remember - ring Park Management
And get service with a smile.
Now Jacquie is a legend -
And I think she should be next;
But although I tried I couldn’t find
A thing to rhyme with sex!
And somewhere in the cash room -
Hidden far from light of sun,
Poor Nigel sits, mesmeric,
Counting pennies - one by one
Now there’s a chap you know quite well,
“All right, Maestro?” - nod - nod
I will not mention him by name
But you can call him “God”!
And Tracey’s getting paranoid
About newspaper clips;
So she seeks revenge by sending
Threatening letters to her N.I.P.s.
One day, from deep in Laurie’s room
Came mutterings and sniggers.
They found her half demented,
Buried ‘neath a pile of figures!
And did you know that Ian
Pursues birds of any kind.
But unlike other men his age
They’re of the feathered kind!
Now Malcolm wears a knowing smile
And a twinkle in his eye -
For it’s said he has an orgasm
Each time a jet goes by!
And the secretary to the ‘boss’
Had no time for delays -
But then her Plaits caught in the shredder
And she was tied up for days.
Chris Whiteside claims to ride his bike
Where only eagles dare
While Sylvie talks of flying high
But we know it’s just hot air!
So now I’ve had a word with Justin
About his little quirk;
And in-between his snorts and grunts
He confessed it seldom works!
And Liz and Sarah work so hard
When Andrews’s in his chair.
But you just can’t imagine
What they do when he’s not there!
Now if you need a poster quickly -
Or want to re-design your plan.
Don’t panic - help is with you -
Just ring Nigel, Kate or Pam.
And poor Debbie, who has not been seen
For at least a week or two,
Was finally discovered
Firmly wedged inside the loo!
Now John’s a man I hardly know -
Perhaps it’s just as well:
For what the writer doesn’t know,
The writer cannot tell.
And the events Team are illusive -
Like the number fifteen bus;
You don’t see one for days and days
Then all three come at once!
And Warren’s good at losing things,
(Don’t trust him with your purse!)
While the way James fibs about his age
Is getting worse, and worse!
We don’t know where Mike Greatbatch is;
Last seen - harassed and pale.
He stopped to ask someone the way
As he followed his Town Trial!
And the Beast of Brockhole, Riki,
(Who has a keen penchant for cricket)
Thought he’d bowl a maiden over -
But instead she hit his wicket!
If in need of a memorial seat,
Or a desire to plant a tree;
Providing you can wait ten years -
Then Guy’s the man to see!
Now Tim, who has green fingers,
Tenderly nursed his flower bed.
He fertilised his thinning lawn -
Then applied some to his head!
But at the bottom of the garden
You’ll find Don in his store.
And of all the men at Brockhole
He’s the one we all adore.
Now Jean’s cooking is famous -
Her rock-cackes loved by all;
Especially as foundations
For a solid, dry-stone wall!
And Mike and Irvin drive their vans
Through traffic-ridden lanes;
While downstairs all the team pull well
With Charlotte at the reigns.
The Gardeners keep their heads down
As they plant, and sow and reap,
But one day they found poor David
Buried ‘neath the compost heap!
Now I apologise to anyone
Not mentioned in this rhtme -
But I scribbled, and I scribbled,
And I just ran out of time.
So as I write this little(!) verse
I know, when you are gone
That my voice will still be lingering
On….. and on…… and on…
Yes, my dear, you’ll miss us all,
Without our foibles and our quirks,
Our many meetings and our rotas
The way the printer seldom works.
But even if the last few lines
Are relatively true -
You can be sure it’s nothing like
Benstead House
It haunts like a dream
That desolate scene
And wounds my compassionate heart
For the loneliness there
With no one that cares
Will forever tear me apart
Where the waiting and crying
Of the confused and dieing
Falls most times on deaf ears.
For those unfortunate souls
Who are left to get cold
I leave my unworthy tears
If I could take it all on
And change how it’s done
With all my heart I would stay
But alas with head bowed
I must turn from them now
And ashamedly turn away
Blackberry blossom - humming bees
Dappled sunlight in the trees
The white cow parsley, with the green
The musty smell of woodland scene.
The robin chattering with his mate.
As we walk round the fishing lake.
Then me wee dog and I are homeward bound.
Now that natures bounty has been found.
I climb the wooden hill to bed
Just as the drink goes to my head.
Clutching my water bottle tight
To give me warmth throughout the night.
And snuggled ‘neath my quilt at last,
Contented glow envelopes fast.
So that - with well intentioned cheer
I bid the world a grand new year
SIX MINUTES PAST THREE
A whispered shout - a smothered sigh -
a silent devastating cry;
Hollow cheeks and eyes astare -
Hungry mouths, searching for air;
Bodies yielding with the crush
Before the onslaught of the rush.
United now, they must atone
for chanting ‘Never walk alone’;
and the terraces at Leppings Lane
will never feel their tread again;
Farewell players, pitch and ball -
You were the truest fans of all.
Now see the pilgrims as they flock
To pay their homage to the kop;
And Anfields turf, in sympathy
Now lies beneath a floral sea;
A splendid shrine of red and white
to honour those who lost thier life.
They assemble now at Heavens Gate
Please let them in. Don’t make them wait.
Thank you, Lord, for this most wonderful year.
I leave it, as ever, brimming with cheer.
(I face up to the new one - with hope and a prayer,
That the Lord is beside me to meet what it there!)
<
TIENAMEN SQUARE
Tienamen square
Now lies broken and bare
As a river bank after the flood.
But the carnage and slaughter
Leaves bodies - not water
So now it’s a river of blood.
As the new day is dawning
We find Peking mourning
And the rest of the world stands in shock.
So we weep with the crying
And pray for the dieing -
And the soldier who fired the first shot.
The Hero
Dressed in white shirt
and trousers of black.
He stood to attention
astride their tracks
The lone student hero
who humbled the tanks.
To Steve,
The hurried goodbyes
with tears in our eyes
as you kissed me farewell at the door.
But although we’re apart
you are here in my heart
‘Till my eyes can behold you once more.
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