Monday, June 30, 2008

44. Dreamtime

Here, in Newcastle, we rarely see a full-blood Aborginal person. No doubt we see many people of Aboriginal descent, probably from our local Awaba tribe, but we don't recognise them as such. The plight of the truly Indigenous people in Australia is dire and no-one seems to know exactly what to do about the problem. We all fantasise about the 40,000 years during which various Indigenous tribes held sway over this country, and, no doubt, we tend to romanticise their lives. By the law of averages they must have been as flawed as human beings as we are, but, as my poem suggests, they did seem to inhabit a Paradise.

We intend to master
Everything that's faster,
Wider, taller, bigger, more bombastic.
We have set our sights on
New ways to turn our lights on
And technology grows more and more fantastic.
But there was once a race
Who had regard for place;
For whom the laws of nature still held sway.
They live among us yet
And we must not forget
The lessons that they still teach us today.

Took a walk one sunny Saturday, through Awabakal Reserve
And the gums were cool and shadowy where the bush-track made a curve.
And it seemed that I was all alone like a Koori from the past,
With all the world my oyster, before the die was cast.
There were fruits and nuts surrounding me, there were insects by the score,
And I had no need of credit cards: I could just take more and more.
And the sea was full of fish for me, and the rivers ran so pure,
And the laws were just and certain and the way of life secure.
Should the winter winds assail me, there were furs to wrap me round,
There were native birds to call to me and make a cheerful sound.
And the rubbish in my middens soon returned back to the earth,
And my 'place' was all I needed and I understood its worth.

But I came back to reality! Once again I was just me,
And I missed the great tranquility of the days that used to be.
Though I'm wedded to my way of life and I know I can't return,
In my heart there is affinity with the bush-track and the fern.

We all know the world's gone mad
And we yearn for what they had,
And we can't help thinking back to way back then.
In Awabakul a stroll
Has the power to ease a soul.
In Awabakal we learn to live again.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Blowing his Own.


'I'm learning the membranophone!' my grandson said with glee.
"My teacher says the very best in all the class is me!'
'My boy!' I cried, delighted, 'I'm so very, very proud!
I always knew that, one day, you'd stand out among the crowd!'
Next day I went up to the club, still puffed up with my joy,
Feeling quite sure that little Ben was truly Grandpa's boy!
And as I walked up to the club I felt I had a mission
To tell the world about my genes and my family ambition.
'He'll go to University!' I chuckled as I strolled,
'And all the great professors there will say he's good as gold.
He'll no doubt go to Italy to study with the best,
And it's certain he'll be head and shoulders, way above the rest.
The Membranophone recitals will always feature him,
And his Grandpa's cup of happiness will fill right to the brim.
I can see him at the Opera House, or else Carnegie Hall,
I'll be there in the audience and I'll feel ten feet tall!
I must tell Charlie Arrowsmith; he always like's to boast
How his repulsive grandson, Tom, plays Soccer for the Coast!'
Into the club I made my way and quickly looked around.
Yes, there was Charlie Arrowsmith! How lucky he was found!
'Guess what!' I said to Charlie, as my pride began to swell,
'Ben's playing the membranophone! He plays it very well!'
'So what!' said Charlie, looking bored, 'I used to play one too.
Another name for membranophone is .....wait for it.......KAZOO!'

Saturday, June 28, 2008

42. Mandela

Sorry to inundate you! But there's only one window of opportunity to write this little offering.

At twenty
He raised his voice,
He thumped his table,
He wrote powerful letters,
He hammered on the walls of his prison.
He was a leader,
And an orator.
And the world didn't hear him.

At ninety, when he spoke,
The whole world hung on his words.

41. Comeuppance!

Now I've started this Blog every little event seems to be grist to my mill! This has just happened! And I can't wait for you to share it!


I went up to the pharmacy to buy some little pills.
(For even perfect specimens can suffer minor ills!)
I was feeling lithe and limber, and only about sixteen;
The creaks weren't over-creaky (and you'll all know what I mean).
My back was fairly youthful; I had done a mirror-check
And the widow's hump was covered by a scarf around my neck.
The hair-dye was still evident; there wasn't too much grey,
And I almost skipped along the path as I made my merry way.
I bought the pills. ( And now I know you're straining at the bit
To ascertain my 'problem'. Well, darlings, this is it.....
I want to make a Satay dish this-evening for our tea
And I sometimes get all swollen from a peanut allergy.
I was buying anti-histamine! Not terribly exciting!
But tonight that Chicken Satay will be safe and so inviting!)
I chose the pills, I paid the young assistant with a smile,
Feeling youthful and attractive and quite lovely all the while.
I left the shop and checked my docket, standing in the street
And what I read demoralised me! Knocked me off my feet.
My bill had been discounted! I nearly hit the roof!
'Pensioner discount' written large......

Toy Boy!

To the tune of 'One Day When We Were Young'.
I'm such a charming boy, the ladies all fall at my feet,/ Adoring,/ Imploring,/ And telling me I'm sweet./ They think that I'm the tops and I think the very same way;/ I render/ Them tender/ And they're prepared to pay./ They touch me/ And clutch me/ And gaze deep down in my eyes./ I charm them,/ Disarm them/ And tell some flattering lies./ They treat me as a pet and I simply smile and agree./ I fashion/ A passion/ For I'm in love with me./

I'm such a gorgeous thing the ladies just see me and swoon./ They nab me/ And grab me/ Most every afternoon./ Doubtless, I am divine; my mirror declares that is true./ I'm honey;/ They're money/ And worship must be due./ They simper/ And whimper/ And ask for kisses as well./ I tell them/ I sell them/ And they buy all I can sell./ Don’t you admire my face? The contours are fine as can be./ Adore me;/ Yearn for me./ We're all in love with me./

Friday, June 27, 2008

39. Debacle!

Definitely not a day to remember! Last year we went down to the Opera House in Sydney to a concert followed by lunch on the water. We had a great day! The music was easy-on-the-ear (Tchaikovsky and Haydn as I recall) and the lunch was a success, on a well-appointed restaurant ship in glorious weather. Today was a different story! I, for one, found an hour of very modern music hard to cope with, and our Lunch booking had been overlooked! As you see, I can't be bothered to waste too many words on it!
(Just one photo on Clickpicks, taken before the day went pear-shaped!)

Our excursion;
A diversion.
Up at five,
Half alive.
'On your mark!'
In the dark.
Chilly breeze
Round the knees.
On the train.
What a pain.
Concert choice
Choral voice.
Straining throats,
Discord notes!
Not much heart
All too smart.
Off to cruise.
Awful news.
Not booked in!
Couldn't win!
Lunch in caff
Rather 'naff'.
Hours on train
Home again.
Straight to bed
Feeling dead.
Hear us say
'What a day!'


Thursday, June 26, 2008

38. The Deflowering

I'm publishing two poems today because I'm off on a spree tomorrow! (Do young people ever go off on 'sprees' I wonder.) Anyway, this idea came to me from WORD TOSSER's Blog and I couldn't resist an immediate reaction. I'm hoping my new Blog contact doesn't think I've taken liberties!

Such a sexy sort of title! Giving hints of bygone days
When a lot of innuendo was contained in such a phrase!
One thinks of damsels in distress and virgins white as snow,
And fiesty little maidens shouting out a brave 'No! No!'

One thinks back to our young days when innocence held sway
And we kept our girlish purity until our wedding day.
Then at last came the 'deflowering'........ but we'll simply let that pass.
(Was your deflowering glorious or was it just a farce?)

But today I read a Blog (look up 'Word Tosser' when you can)
And 'deflowering' was covered with no mention of a man!
This lady says she sallied forth to weed her garden bed
Only to find she'd pulled, not weeds, but all her flowers instead!

The weeds, she says, clung manfully to the soil in which they grew,
While the flowers simply just relaxed! One pull and out they flew!
So her garden's been 'deflowered' and the weeds are going strong!
(If you thought this was a naughty rhyme I hope I've proved you wrong!')

37. Toddler Translation

A snippet of real life from way, way back. The Greg in this little story is now nearly forty years old! And the story's not precisely true. Rejecting the Family Cat Name, my daughter, Rebecca, insisted on calling her grey cat 'Ashleigh' which I thought rather pretentious. Pookie is a great name for a cat, and when Sat is added it sounds quite nobly Asian!
(See Clickpicks for an historic etching of a cat.)

When Greg was three
He said to me
'I want a pookiesat'
I scratched my head
At what he'd said.
What was he getting at?
I'd never heard
This funny word
But he knew what he meant.
I fetched a book
So we could look
And find out his intent.
For quite an age
We turned each page
Then he shouted 'Pookiesat!'
Without a doubt
He'd pointed out
A little Pussy Cat!
And so the name
Has been the same
For every cat we've owned.
We've turned down flat
All names but that
'Pookie's' never been dethroned.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

36. Blog!

The word BLOG has a lovely explosive quality that reminds me of some swear-words. I can't tell you what they are because I'm too 'naice'. But since becoming a BLOGGER (and even that sounds a little rude!) I've been able to vent my feelings verbally without causing any offence!


I've always longed to swear but been too scared to,
I've longed to spit and snarl but never dared to.
Though I've been consumed with wrath
Like some elemental Goth
To lose my gentle image I've not cared to.

But I've become a Blogger only lately,
I'm no longer calm and ladylike and stately.
If I'm bitten by a dog
I scream 'Blog! You Blogging Blog!'
My frustrations have all gone, quite consumately!

So, all you Bloggers, learn to swear unfettered
For BLOG's a word that simply can't be bettered;
It's explosive, it has punch
And I've got a kind of hunch
That it sounds like something worse to the unlettered!

Don't offer any grovelling apology
You haven't voiced some hint of rude biology.
And they'll never hear you utter
Those expletives from the gutter.

Now I'll close before I eat my own tautology!

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Zimbabwe Sunset


Once upon a time there was Camelot.

Once upon a time there was Rhodesia.

I am looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
And there, far away,
In a country that no longer exists,
I see a group of young girls
Whose youth no longer exists.
We are teachers.
The children we teach are white…..of course.

We are sitting on the stoep
Drinking Sundowners.

Life is good in Rhodesia……
On the surface at least.
And the surface is where we live.

This Breadbasket of Africa
Is abundant in everything;
Sunshine, soil, rains, manpower,
And goodwill.
Yes, goodwill.

But even the name is an insult
Named after a white man,
Cecil John Rhodes.

Do we care about that?
For we are apolitical,
Careless, unimaginative
And wrapped up in ourselves.

Are we aloof?
The black men with whom we come into contact
Are friendly and so are we.
We laugh together
We joke together.
But we never eat together.

For they are servants.

Heady stuff for silly little white girls
From the lower middle class.

'Here in Rhodesia, Mum, I'm waited on hand and foot'.It is all so intoxicating.
The wide, wide African skies, the baobabs,
The chongololos, the flame trees, the kopjes.

And the possibilities of romance are thrilling;
Romance with a white man…….. of course.

So here we sit on the stoep
Drinking our Sundowners,
A handsome servant in a snow-white uniform
Hovering near.

But hey!

There's a young African standing in the dusty road,
Looking at us!

Could his name be Robert Mugabe?

Monday, June 23, 2008

34. The Game of the Name.

A shorter one today; once again it's not my original joke. Just the verse format is mine. As we age we become more and more obsessed with our 'declinations', the signs of our decline. And our memories worry us as much as anything else. So what's to do but laugh? Let's hope George and Fred saw the funny side!


Fred and George sat playing cards. They were friends from way, way back.
And. like a lot of older folk, they couldn't quite keep track
Of times and names and places and of peoples' birthday dates.
So picture them...... Fred plays a card and George just contemplates.
After five minutes silence Fred notices the pause.
He looks up at his old friend just to ascertain the cause.
'It's your turn, George' he tells him. 'What's taking you so long?
You're looking sort of puzzled. Are you sure that nothing's wrong?"
George looks a mite embarrassed; you can see he's thinking hard,
He still shows some discomfort and he doesn't play a card.
'Come on, old chap' Fred almost snaps, 'We haven't got all day!'
George gulps and says ' My dear old friend! I don't know what to say......
I hate to sit here puzzling when I should enjoy the game,
But you see it's like this.....I'm afraid I can't recall your name!
It seems absurd to ask your name when I've known you all my life,
But please , old mate, tell me your name. I really am in strife....'
George looks up from the table ; his words are rather slow....
' One question, George' he finally says..... "How soon do you need to know?'

Sunday, June 22, 2008

33. The World's Oldest Blogger!

Now for something special. As some of you may have noticed, I mentioned 'the world's oldest Blogger' in one of my introductions. And today I have discovered that Olive Riley, aged 108, lives only a short distance away from me, here in Australia! The gentleman who helps her with her Blog has asked me to write a poem for her and here it is. It's based on her own description of Washing Day a hundred years ago. Here is her Blog address:
Please write to her.

The World's Oldest Blogger.

Sometimes, I hear the young complain of all they have to do.
But I am sure that their complaints should really be quite few.
Take Washing Day, for instance, all they do is press a knob,
And then machines go whirling round and quickly do the job.

They throw in powder, maybe bleach, and softener as well,
And dirty clothes are whirled about, then spun around, pell-mell.
And then, to follow up, I hear, they set the dryer spinning,
They've hardly raised a finger to the end from the beginning.

But things were very different in the days of long ago,
When Olive Riley's mother washed her clothes as white as snow.
And Olive well-remembers that, when it was Washing Day,
Daughters had to do their bit; there was no time for play.

First Olive looked for firewood, which was sometimes hard to find,
She had to hunt for broken twigs or sticks of any kind.
Sometimes she found a fruit-box that was thrown down on the floor.
She chopped it with a tomahawk, though it made her fingers sore.

After filling up the copper, her Mum would light the fire,
And the water would start heating, as the flames grew ever higher.
Then she threw in some soap chips, followed by Reckits Blue,
(That was a clever little bag that made things look like new.)

Next she got the Sunlight Soap to scrub at all the stains,
And, sometimes, if she scrubbed too hard, there were blisters for her pains.
The corrugated board was rough, her hands were roughened too,
Ruined by years of scrubbing, but what else was there to do?

Then, she threw in the dirty clothes, and gave them all a stir.
The steam rose up in clouds and very nearly smothered her.
She was splashed by boiling water, and the bubbles stung her eyes.
And a line of snowy washing was to be her only prize!

Yet, now, would come the starching, of the collar and the cuff,
And, however hard she starched them, it was never quite enough.
For Father must look perfect when in his Sunday Best,
He mustn't look inferior, measured against the rest.

At last, the clothes were clean and rinsed and the fire had lost its heat.
Mother was quite exhausted, after so long on her feet.
But the hardest job was yet to come, an energetic trick,
For she had to get the clothes out with a hefty copper-stick!

Imagine sheets all water-logged and weighing half a ton!
Her back was nearly broken by the time that job was done.
A soggy mass lay, wetly, in a tub, somewhere nearby.
The washing was as clean as clean, but not the least bit dry.

Now Olive had a job to do, though she was scarcely grown,
For Mother couldn't mangle all the washing on her own.
Between the wooden rollers Mother fed the dripping clothes,
While Olive turned the handle, standing on tippy-toes.

The mangle squeezed the water, it came quickly pouring out,
But the washing was still wet and heavy, that I do not doubt.
But Olive and her Mother had to drag it to the trees,
Where a line was stretched, so washing could be dried off in the breeze.

When all was safely pegged, they stood and eyed the white perfection.
But a flock of noisy magpies swooped and swirled in their direction!
They aimed for Mother's washing, causing splish and splash and stain!

'Oh well' said Olives mother, 'We must do it all again!'

32. Credit Rating

On my Playlist (see the bottom of this page) you will find a recording of 'The Greatest Love', one of my favourite songs. Please play it. I find it very encouraging. As a teenager I was dumpy, bespectacled, and pushy. I was unpopular with my extended family and boys rejected me. I can remember the exact moment when I decided that if no-one else was going to love me, I'd better love myself. And I got into a habit that has never left me. In Australia that's called, rather crudely, 'being up yourself'. Believe me, it's a comfortable place to be. I wish you all lots of self-love.(Incidentally, the statistics quoted below aren't exactly scientific!)


Of all the folk you meet today
Ninety percent will forget you.
They'll wander on their merry way
Not recalling that they've met you.
Which merely leaves you ten percent,
That's not an awful lot.
They hardly make the slightest dent;
They hardly hit the spot.


Half of ten percent, my dears,
Will find you overbearing;
Your chat will leave them close to tears
And they'll hate the clothes you're wearing.
If you tell a joke they'll move away
With that look that's called 'askance'
While your cheerful chirruping 'G'Day!'
Won't rate a second glance.


Half of ten is only five
Our numbers look quite slim.
Only five percent to like you!
The future's looking grim.
For of those five percent, I fear,
Half are luke-warm at best.
'Oh, she's O.K.' you'll often hear,
So what about the rest?


It's only two-and-a-half percent
Will think you're really great.
With that you'll have to be content,
For that's how well you'll rate!.
But those few will show affection,
And be close as a hand in glove,
So keep looking in their direction;
They bring a special brand of love.


Make sure you love yourself, my friends,
For there's noone just like you,
Treasure a love that never ends,
And stick to yourself like glue.
Every day try to savour
A love that has no end.
Be One Hundred Percent in favour
Of yourself, your one Best Friend.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

The Optimistic Pessimist


I wake up every morning with a dreadful sense of gloom
And I view the day as someone who is heading for the tomb!
Today, I'll surely break a leg or have a heart attack!
I'm certain, when I make the beds, I'll hurt my lower back!

Those stairs! They do look tricky! And I'm bound to take a fall!
Or I'll meet a home-invader! Yes, one's bound to make a call!
If I make a cup of coffee I'll be scalded, that's for sure!
And today's the day I'll trip up on that well-worn bit of floor.

A bus! One's bound to hit me, if I cross the city street!
And a mugger's sure to get me; it's a cinch that we will meet!
That tree-branch looks unsteady! Will it topple on my head?
Who knows, this time tomorrow I may be, untimely, dead!

My imagination pictures every peril known to man,
The world is full of obstacles and I'm an also-ran.
Life is full of trip-wires bound to trip up the unwary.
Let's face it! Life is very, very, very, very, scary!

But an optimistic pessimist (or should that be reversed?)
Who has struggled through each fearful day, escaping from the worst,
Earns a reward at bedtime.Then I snuggle in my bed,
Rejoicing that I've not been maimed! I'm not the least bit dead!

Then my spirit soars ecstatically to think I have survived!
That I've travelled through the mine-field and in one piece I've arrived.
I've looked Death in the eye and Death has cowered at my gaze.
I feel that 'Blessed of the Gods' is not an idle phrase.

I purr with my complacency, and my self-satisfaction.
Suddenly the coming day becomes the main attraction.
I pull the covers round me and I'm smiling as I say.
"I can't wait for tomorrow! Another lovely day!'

Friday, June 20, 2008

Cowboys Are Cool

(A phonic poem for children)
I'm Casper Cox, the cowboy, and I ride a cowboy horse,
Cantering over the countryside, in cowboy clothes, of course.
The cows are my companions; the coyote often calls.
I'd rather have a cowboy's life than live in castle walls.

I'm Casper Cox, the cowboy. The cactus leaves are thick,
And, if I'm not too careful, they will give me quite a prick.
A cottage may be cosy and a couch may give me ease,
But I'd rather have a cowboy's life than comforts such as these.

I'm Casper Cox, the cowboy, and the desert nights are cold.
I curl up by the campfire, as the cavemen did of old.
I drink my cup of cocoa and I contemplate the stars.
I'd rather have a cowboy's life than a million motor cars.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

29. Basket Case

A trifle of Grandmotherly nostalgia today. Actually,this is a true anecdote and it is my lovely daughter, Rebecca, Harry’s aunt, who is relating it. Harry has since had his fourth birthday and is growing up fast. You can admire him (you're sure to!) on my Clickpicks page.


Harry is my nephew. Harry is still three.
He’s sitting in the laundry-basket playing happily.
He rocks around, making a sound and smiling up at me.

‘Communicate with him!’ I think. ‘That’s what a toddler needs,
Before he really understands; before he ever reads.
Who knows where stimulation from a loving Auntie leads?’

‘Are you in a plane,’ I say, ’Flying in the sky?
Wow! Your wings are very big! You must be very high!
Look! A flock of pretty birds! See them flying by!’

Harry turns and looks at me.
After all, he’s only three!

‘Oh now I see! You’re in a car and the wheels are going round!
Brrrm brmm goes the motor car! What a lovely sound!
You can go so very fast, you hardly touch the ground’.

Harry turns and looks at me.
After all, he’s only three!

‘No! My mistake! You’re in a ship, with lovely bright red sails.
You’re sailing far out in the deep, among the sharks and whales.
There must be dolphins over there! I can see their tails!’

Harry turns and looks at me.
After all, he’s only three!

‘Better still, you’re in a train, having a lovely ride!
I can see the great big trees and the beautiful countryside!
Duck-ponds, houses, bridges too and other things beside!’

Harry turns and looks at me.
After all, he’s only three!

‘Now whee! You’re in a spaceship! I’m sure I’ve got it right.
You can see the world below! What a lovely sight!
Don’t bump into any stars or you’ll turn out the light!’

Harry turns and says to me
‘It’s a laundry basket! Can’t you see!’

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

It Stands to Reason

IT STANDS TO REASON!She was driving through the countryside, a lovely luscious blonde,
Heading for the bright lights and the thrills that lay beyond.
In her zippy little sports car, she was well above the limit,
But her mood was so ecstatic that no thought of speed could dim it.
When, suddenly, a cop appeared and flagged our Blondie down.
She smiled at him seductively but all he did was frown.
'You're going way, way, way too fast! I fear you must be booked!'
'Oh Officer' she twinkled then, 'Can't it be overlooked?'
'Show me your licence, Madam!' ; the cop was quite severe!
' I can't do that' she giggled, 'For I haven't got it here!'
'What is your reason?' The Policeman yelled ' There will be hell to pay!'
''How can I have it,' she replied, 'When you took it yesterday?'

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

27. A Very Fine Vintage

I have always been jealous of wines. Why? Because they have been allocated some of the most delicious adjectives known to man. I'm also filled with envy because vintage wines are treated with reverence, while 'young' wines are not respected. I want to be a wine! The Hunter Valley, renowned for its vineyards, lies very near Newcastle and is one of our tourist attractions. It was here that James Busby, in the early days, introduced the vine to New South Wales. But every time I visit the vineyards I feel, as an elderly woman, a member of a very unappreciated species! (View the Hunter Valley on my Clickpicks Blog.)


James Busby was responsible, or so the legends tell,
For descriptions of the local grapes. He described them very well.
But it was reprehensible that all that flowery fuss
Was wasted on some greenery when it so-o-o-o applies to us!
No not to those still young and cute, for that would be absurd,
They should describe maturer fruit! Witness this old bird!

My glass is oh so roundly curved, so comforting to hold
And the wine that's flowing through my veins is made of liquid gold.
Yes, mine is a very fine vintage, circa nineteen-thirty-one!
And yes, that was 'a very good year', (though threatened by the Hun!)
Of course, I'm 'plump and generous', the years have seen to that,
And it's quite clear when I effervesce that they'll never find me flat!

Gentlemen who sample me may try to guess my date,
They'll remark on my maturity and that's absolutely great.
With my earthy taste and my zesty nose (!) I'm elegantly sleek.
There's just a whiff of last year's rose and a tiny hint of teak.
I'm refreshingly unpretentious and I linger on the tongue
I'm a collector's item for I'll never be described as young.

I'm a forward little drop with the depth of plum and even a little spice;
I may be slightly more tart than some, but good value at the price!
My colour is rich and splendid and my bubbles big and bright.
Imagine something syrup-sweet with a sexy, zingy bite!
So look for an ancient vintage when you're hell-bent on a spree.
For, if you are a connoisseur, you're certain to choose ME!

Monday, June 16, 2008

26. Architecture 1948

I wrote all my school exam notes in verse! Other girls used to laugh as I muttered poetry under my breath during every examination! The following is all that remains of my Architecture notes from


Once, long ago, I used to learn something of architecture.
I always wrote my notes in verse as soon as there'd been a lecture.
It may not have been great poetry, but it stood me in good stead,
As I managed to get the salient facts stored inside my head!
"The Normans, like the Saxons, used a style half-romanesque.
East ends, at first, were apsidal and the carving was grotesque.
The work was often ponderous, but pleasing to the sight
And sturdy central towers were built…… the wayfarers' delight.
The rounded arch again was seen but only splayed inside,
While painted walls and ceilings were cathedrals' special pride.
The church plan was still cruciform and very long, the nave.
The piers were short but flutings a barbaric grandeur gave.
Walls with arcade, triforium and clerestory, were seen.
The chisel came more into use, where once the axe had been.
The normal types of vaulting were the barrel or the groined,
And the Normans liked their rooves of wood, though vaults of stone adjoined........
Etc etc etc"

And so on and so on and so on! And a lot of good it did me!

Sunday, June 15, 2008

A Tree is a Tree


I have seen trees before
Many trees
Many times

Marching down highways, plumping up hills,
Straggling behind fence-posts,
Colouring-in far horizons.

I have relaxed in their shade,
Scuffled in their leaves,
Enjoyed their fruit.

I have looked up to them in awe in Canada,
Noted their military precision in Finland,
I have depleted my store of numbers
Counting the shades of green they offer.

I have swooned at the sight of an English chestnut,
Marvelled to see an African baobab,
Delighted in the silver-birch subtlety of the Australian gum.

Millions upon millions of trees.

But a tree was a tree was a tree.
Until yesterday.......
When I walked through the bush, with two little boys,.
And we gazed, and we chattered,
And we looked way, way up to the sky,
And then round and round at the rope-like vines,
And then squinted into the deeper bush
Where, surely, 'something' was moving!

We touched new green shoots with our tippy-fingers
And slashed away at the grass with our dry old sticks.
And, all the time, the water in the creek gurgled a tipsy song,
The ferns rode riotously up hill.
And bell-birds tinkled like an orchestra of timpani.
Memories-to-be indeed.

But for me, the fondest memory of the day will be the little hands.
Hands dragging, slashing, stroking, fondling, exploring;

But, most of all, holding mine.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

24. Scuppered!

I once worked on a passenger ship, but this purloined joke is definitely not autobiographical!


Larry was a conjuror on the liner 'Ocean Swell',
And Polly was a parrot in her cage.
And, each night, she used to taunt poor Larry, really give him hell,
As he did his little tricks up on the stage.
'He's got it in his pocket! He's got it up his sleeve!
It isn't real, it's just a plastic one!'
Each night she really spoilt poor Larry's efforts to deceive,
And the audience laughed loudly at the fun.
Then, one night a dreadful storm came up and the ship was smashed to bits;
All the passengers and crew, I fear, were lost.
Larry survived, but all alone, going right out of his wits,
As on the mighty ocean he was tossed..
But, suddenly, a plank bobbed up and, on it, Larry saw
Polly the Parrot, looking pretty sick,
And Polly said one thing to him, as she clung on tooth and claw,
'Just tell me Larry……. how did you do that trick?'

Friday, June 13, 2008

23. The Collector

This is a true story, and the last line must be spoken with feeling! Philip is the dear friend in question and he has just been awarded the Order of Australia for his community work, so I'm not his only admirer. This poem is a token of my regard. If one wants to wear ones heart on one's sleeve, a Blog is the ideal place.


There are folk who save memorabilia.
Some collections just couldn't be sillier.
There are feathers and stones
And old dinosaur bones
And some other things not so familiar.
There are some who collect antique toasters,
Or various whiskey-stained coasters.
Some collect plaster pigs
Or glass thingummyjigs,
Or tattered theatrical posters!
But Philip collects vintage fans.
Not brooches or catamarans.
His fans are electric;
His choices eclectic,
And they loom very large in his plans.
Some are silver, some blue and some red
And he stores his fans out in the shed.
They are frequently dusted
Although some have rusted,
And they're neatly lined-up overhead.
The collection continues to grow
And he's happy to put it on show.
For he once felt a breeze
From old fans such as these
And that was a long time ago!
The Revelair's one he's desiring
And a Brinsmead he's often admiring,
He thrills to the blow
Of a lovely Airflow,
And an Elcom would stop him perspiring.
He would like an American Eck,
And he doesn't care if it's a wreck.
He puts out his feelers
To buy Crocker-Wheelers
Although he must write a large cheque!
Now Philip, you know we agree
You're as dishy as one man can be.
So increase your collection.
I'm here for inspection!
I'm a fan of yours! Please collect ME!

Thursday, June 12, 2008

22. In Mumorium

I belong to a Speech-Making group and the other day we were asked to speak about what we intended to do with our last ten minutes of life! As part of the speech I wrote this snippet ……tongue-in-cheek, of course. But, on reflection, it says about all anyone needs to say. And I hope I have enough breath left at the end to recite it …… and astound everyone! (There's not much one can do about death but laugh at it!)


Dear one and all,
Don't stand and bawl
Because I'm on my way.
Dear treasured friend,
Life has to end;
Night always follows day.
Remember Mum,
In days to come,
As one who did her best.
I'm nackered now!
I'll take a bow.
I deserve a damn good rest!

21. Communication

Max is eighteen months old but he has decided that speech is superfluous! 'Ugg!' has to express everything. But, as every grandmother out there knows, there are more ways of communicating than by speech!


Max is not yet two years old but I am quite astounded
At our communication: it is open, free, unbounded.
Which is really quite amazing, for all he says is 'Ugg!"
Yes, all my little grandson says is 'Ugg!'

Max says ' I'm sorry Grandma; my banana's on the rug!'
He says 'I'd like a drink of milk in my own special mug!'
He says 'My jacket's on too tight; I'll give the zip a tug!'
He says ' Come see my little train and see it go chug-chug!'
He says 'Look at this tiny thing, this pretty little bug!'
He says ' Come out and see my dirt and the great big hole I dug!'

We have long conversations with our smiles and with our eyes.
He's not yet two years old and yet he's very, very wise.
And when he says 'I love you, Grandma; can I have a hug?'
I know the only word he needs is 'Ugg!'

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

20. Baby and the Bunyip

A Bunyip is the Australian equivalent of a Yeti or a Bigfoot. No-one knows what a Bunyip looks like 'in reality' so my description will do as well as any other! I suggested methods of treating these 'educational' poems as phonic aids when I introduced 'The Average Alligator'.


Baby met a Bunyip and said 'How do you do!
I never, never, never, saw a creature such as you!
You buzz just like a bumble bee; you're brown just like a bear;
You sit beneath a banyan tree and brush your bushy hair.
Your eyes are bright as buttons and you bark just like a bird!
Your nose is like a buttered bun! Now isn't that absurd!
You're made of lots of bits and bobs and none of them agree!
But let me tell you, Bunyip.... you look beautiful to me!

19. A Remembered Romance

Here is another parody from my book of melodramas called 'Mix Me a Melodrama'. I have used a comparatively modern (?) tune for this one, so copyright laws have to be considered if the song is performed. Singing in the shower is permitted, of course! In this song a servant recalls his love-affair with the lady of the house and the subsequent birth of a daughter, a child he can never claim as his own! Heartfelt stuff indeed!

To the tune of 'You Always Hurt the One You Love'.

Spoken Introduction
Why should I care, I hear you ask
Why should I take the boy to task?
Because, my friends, his case was mine,
I, too, knew love that was divine.
Ann, the Colonel's wife, oh yes,
She, too, was a vision of loveliness.
But that villain treated her so badly,
While I, who truly loved her madly,
Had to watch his foul behaviour,
Longing to be my darling's saviour.
Yes, from afar, I admired her charms,
But, one night, she fell into my arms.
The lightning flashed. She was scared of thunder……..
Then….. that whole night was filled with wonder.

Time goes so slow,/ But, years ago,/ I loved a girl; her name was Ann./ But she was tied,/ A loveless bride,/ And married to a hateful man./ We glanced, we spoke,/ Our love awoke./ We said what we were thinking of./ So we became,/ In all but name,/ Two partners in the game of love./

A child arrived,/ The child survived,/ And Eva was that baby's name./ That hateful swine/ Took what was mine/ And I could never make a claim./ Though Ann has gone,/ I still dream on,/ Of the happiness that came to nought./ My daughter's here,/ And brings me cheer./ My love's of the paternal sort./

Nelson Bay

(New South Wales)

Nelson put his spy-glass to his eye …… his good one.
One wouldn’t want to let a chance go by ….. well, would one?
‘They can keep their Nelson’s Column’ he was heard to say;
‘My top-of-the-range memorial is up at Nelson Bay’.

'I could wake up in the morning while the mist was on the sea.
I could go out on my balcony to sip a cup of tea.
I could watch the spouting whales among the billows far away’
That’s what Horatio would say.

'I could stroll down to the water, where the yachts are moored, perhaps.
Maybe pelicans would greet me and accept my proffered scraps.
While dolphins swimming near enjoyed a harbour holiday.'
That’s what Horatio would say

'I could wander down the jetty and enjoy a fishing chat.
I could take my silken hose off and discard my tricorn hat.
I could let my big brass buttons come undone in disarray.'
That’s what Horatio would say.

'I might dare to go hang-gliding and just drift around the sky.
Or read an old sea-faring book about that Captain Bligh.
And the petty little worries of the world would slip away.'
That’s what Horatio would say.

'If the sun became too hot I could seek out a patch of shade.
I could watch the passing people as I sipped a lemonade.
And if the postman brought me bills I’d throw them all away.'
That’s what Horatio would say.

'I could stroll down to the water as the moon began to shine.
I could sip a pleasant glass of that delicious Hunter wine.
And passers-by would greet me saying ‘Hi there mate! G’day!’'
That’s what Horatio would say.

I admit that the locality
Was unknown in reality.
He never got a single look,
Unlike that well-known Captain Cook.
He had to live his life, I fear,
Up in the Northern Hemisphere,
Never knowing, never guessing
How his name had blessed a blessing.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


( I wasn't THAT grateful! I had a cataract operation shortly after I wrote this!)

I stand on the balcony at night;
A moonlit night of a billion stars.

All things are crisp, outlined,
Solid and picturesque, neat and orderly;
Everything in its appointed place.
Houses, trees, pathways and the horizon beyond
Cut out in cardboard.
I am entranced.
Such beauty!

Suddenly a moth invades my hair!
I flurry my hand across my face!
My glasses fly off the balcony, to be lost in shrubs below!
I am, for a second, bewildered, disoriented,
Enmeshed in white light.
I cannot see!
Then, magically, I see!

My eyes become accustomed to glory.
I am a swimmer
Swimming through pale swathes of liquid luminosity.
Each star is a huge white chrysanthemum.
The multitudes fudge and fuzz and seem to fuse.

Below me, pale green billows
Disappear into the mist, dancing.
My eyes widen; my fingers splay with longing.
I feel bleached, like a skull.
Tendrils of hair are silvered against the immensity of sky,
So close that I can see them clearly.

I am drawn up
Toward the puff ball cloudiness of a new moon,
That is, indeed, a brand new moon,
One never seen before by these eyes.
Limpid lispings of light spiral down to me.
The light is like white wine, spilling over my face;
Sweet, exotic, tasting of starlight.

And I say a heathen prayer of gratitude
To that obscure goddess, Myopia.
She of the semi-sight has given me a vision.

Monday, June 9, 2008

16. Ah! Nostalgia!


I bet you have mornings, the same as me,
When you slouch out of bed and you slurp your tea,
And your throat is sore and your mouth is dry,
And you look at life through a jaundiced eye.
And you pick your clothes up from off the floor,
Where you'd thrown them down the night before.
And you pull on your jeans, and you can't escape
from the fact that the zip has started to gape!
And you drag a comb through your lifeless hair,
And you pull on a shirt that needs repair,
And you look at that row of double chins,
Brought on by too many pies and gins.
And you have a cough and you wobble and flop
Down the street to the local shop.
And you know you're not going to win a prize.
You're not even a sight for the sorest eyes……..

I had a day like that last week,
When I was feeling way past my peak,
And I knew, as I stood in the checkout line,
That I'd never be anyone's Valentine.

And then I turned! And it was him!
I felt my senses start to swim!
Oh yes it was him! Oh yes it was Ray!
I knew him as though it were yesterday.
He was tall, distinguished, smart and slim;
Grey at the temples, but taut and trim.
His dapper little moustache was daring!
He had an erect and elegant bearing.
His piercing eyes were a brilliant blue!
Well, I did what any girl would do………..

'Its me, Elvira,' I whispered low,
Back in the days of long ago.
The line of shoppers passed us by.
He looked bewildered, a little shy.
'It's me!' I said 'It's me! It's me!
We met when I was twenty three!

You must recall the night we met!
Its magic lingers with me yet!
It was there, at the Hammersmith Palais de Dance,
That you threw me that provocative glance.
I wore that dress that was cut quite low;
I think that was why you said hallo.
'Do you come here often?' I heard you say,
And I knew Romance was on its way.
My perfume was called 'Drums in the Night!'
The revolving ball above was bright.
You squeezed my waist, you squeezed my hand
As we danced to Billy Cotton's band.
'I'm feeling rather warm.' you said;
' I vote we go outside instead!'

I went on 'And, in that darkened lane,
We kissed and kissed and kissed again!
And into my hair you whispered low.
You said 'Is this for ever?' and I said ……..'No'

Bill had a solid apprenticeship;
Bill was steady though a bit of a drip.
You looked exciting; my blood ran hot;
But marriage material you were not!
Yes, oh yes, I married Bill;
We've had six kids and we're married still.
It's been a struggle; we're on the pension.
But that’s too sordid for me to mention.
But I know now you were my true fate!
You were destined to be my mate!'

The look on Ray's face was rather strange!
His whole expression seemed to change!
'Excuse me,' he said, 'We've never met;
Yours is a face I'd never forget!'
And then, under his breath, as he turned to go,
I'm certain he said 'Thank god she said no!'

I gave him a look, a look that could kill!
'Please yourself!' I said. 'I much prefer Bill!'

15. Missing Inaction!

I'm wondering whether to leave my body to science and I've been considering whether any of my ancient organs would be of the slightest use to anyone! This has led me to think about how much of a person's life can be deduced from the remains. I realise that my greatest pleasure, writing, wont show up at all! A bit sad, really!


I might leave my body to science,
And that fact has inclined me to muse
About which parts may be of some interest,
And which they'll decide not to use.
Will they look at my feet and discover
That the bones have received some hard knocks ,
From when I twirled round in my high heels,
And my beautiful petticoat-frocks?
Will they look at my knees for a moment
And give my past actions some thought.
Will they say 'Well, they're not too bad really;
She certainly never played sport!'
Will they glance at my hips, which are skinny,
And will one of them say 'How on earth
Did such a poor piece of equipment
Play a part in the business of birth?'
When they get to my chest they'll discuss it;
'Ah! She made up her mind to adjust
From a rather top-heavy arrangment
To a much more amenable bust!'
When the neck-bones are reached they'll look fragile.
Will they work out which ones have caused pain?
Will they say of my email obsession
'It'll never cause neck-ache again.'

Then they'll come to my brain, but its secrets
Will be hidden away for all time.
They'll prod and they'll pry at the grey stuff,
But they'll never know I made words rhyme.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Payment in Advance!


She was gorgeous! She was lovely! She was sweet as apple pie!
And I told her that I'd love her till the two of us should die.
But she was a special lady and she only liked the best
And, on my meagre pittance, I couldn't pass the test.
So I told her, in all honesty, that one day I'd be wealthy;
That my father was quite elderly and really quite unhealthy.
I said that if she married me we'd manage for a while
On a promise for the future…… and she smiled that lovely smile.
She made me very happy. She made me very glad.
She kissed me very gently,
And went off and married Dad!

Saturday, June 7, 2008

13. An Average Alligator

Just to prove that I'm not entirely obsessed with bodily functions, I'm including the first of my alphabetic rhymes for children. I'll be dotting them in here and there, in sequence, if anyone cares to collect them to use, maybe with a special grandchild. Note that it is the sound of the letter that is emphasised and not the name. And don't worry about the 'hard words'. Just explain them once then keep on using them. That's the way a child increases his or her vocabulary. Ask the child to listen for the sound. And don't forget to POUNCE on the last word!


I'm an average alligator and I amble on my way,
Absolutely affable and happy every day,
Nibbling on an apple pie or something of the sort,
But I'd rather eat an astronaut!

I'm an average alligator and I amble in the sun,
Never causing aggravation; having lots of fun.
Nibbling on an avocado, getting nice and fat,
But I'd rather eat an acrobat!

I'm an average alligator and I amble to and fro.
My appetite is ample and its quite inclined to grow!
Nibbling on some little ants and abalone stew,
But I'd rather make a meal of YOU!

Friday, June 6, 2008

12. And Lo!

As a child I had a lovely old book which had as its theme 'There is no joy unmixed with woe.' (It was about crows. I'd appreciate information from anyone who's ever heard of it.) Well, the following is a variation on the same theme. It's the result of my having had a cataract operation yesterday!!!


I thought my skin was youthful
With just some laughter crinkles.
But now my cataracts are done
I see I'm full of wrinkles!

Thursday, June 5, 2008

11. Community!


Community is dead they say but is it?
Alright, I'll be a little more explicit….
I've made a friend in space;
We may not meet face to face,
But that is not the point I'm making, is it?

She is young and I am older, quite a lot so,
But we do have things in common is that not so?
She's a Blogger of renown,
I am still a clueless clown,
And I'm dazzled by the Blog that she has got, so …….

In the vast and neverending cyber spaces,
Where we pay no heed to ages, colours, races,
As two Bloggers we can meet,
Calling 'Hi!' in Cyber Street,
Which is quite the most delectable of places.

Long ago we might have lived in the same town,
Me in calico and her in silken gown.
I'd have been that old Dame Brenda,
Sitting close up to the fender,
With her workworn fingers old and gnarled and brown.

She'd have come to bring some victuals and good cheer;
She'd have said a charming '"How are you my dear?"
She'd be known for paying heed
To the villagers in need
And I'd be so touched I'd shed a little tear.

Community! It flourished in those days!
And we've moved on to more enlightened ways.
The concept's changed its type
And now the time is ripe
To realise that Blogs aren't just a craze.

We may not live as close as just next-door,
And yet we all are closer still, I'm sure,
For our magic finger tips
Can make ether-crossing trips.
So! Community is back with us once more!

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

10. Loo Queue!

This one is unashamedly outspoken, but I'm sure many of you out there will find yourselves in tune with it's sentiments! The word 'loo' is a common one in Australia. If your culture prefers some other word for lavatory I'm afraid you'll have to find your own rhyme!


The lights go up! It's interval!
And, as all ladies do,
I give a little squirm
And then I rush out to the loo.
But other ladies, fleet of foot,
Have headed there before me!
And no-one, not a single one,
Has left an opening for me!
So I am at the very back,
Trying studied nonchalance,
As I am forced to girate
In the well-known bladder dance!
You know the one, that little twist,
That shuffling of the feet,
That clenching of the buttocks,
That is terribly discrete.
I am stuck out in the foyer,
As the people pass me by,
Looking very obvious
And feeling very shy.
Now is the time to fix a smile
Of patience on my face,
With, all the time, the bladder-dance
Continuing apace.
Oh Lord! There's Ruthie Higgins!
Such a gossip! Such a cat!
I never liked the woman.
Now she's going to stop and chat!
I hear myself responding
'Yes, a really lovely show.'
She smirks and says 'I'm lucky, dear,
I never need to………… go.'
With a ghastly arch expression
She goes back into her place.
The bladder of a camel!
And a very similar face!
Ah! Now I'm in the doorway ,
A much more modest spot,
Shuffling in a chain-gang
With others of my lot.
Are these ladies all afflicted
With a problem such as mine
Or are they 'just-in-casers'
Taking my place in the line?
That one in front looks comfy,
So I give a baleful glance;
She's standing sraight and easy,
Not a trace of bladder-dance!
And what about that banshee
Shrieking out from just behind
'My child will wet her knickers!
Let us through, if you don't mind!'
Ah, lady, you can't fool me!
You're the one whose legs are crossed!
My expression, as I wriggle,
Has more than a touch of frost.
I am inching to Nervanah,
Sometimes known as bladder bliss,
There are few delights in all the world
As wonderful as this.
But as relief draws nearer
So my dance becomes emphatic,
Smiling, twisting, squeezing,
I'm becoming acrobatic!
Now, slam the door! Let out a sigh!
This is the glorious bit.
I can simply let it all hang out
And have a little ……. sit.
I feel I've suffered long enough;
I deserve a little rest.
Who cares about the waiting line.
I feel I've passed a test.
I feel relaxed. I lean right back.
It's Heaven after Hell.
I close my eyes. I drift a bit.
Oh damn and blast……the bell!

9. Cockles and Muscles!

This parody was inspired by my Probus Choir's rendition of the original Irish song yesterday.In the middle 'Alive alive o etc' the word 'mussles' suddenly altered it's spelling in front of my very eyes. From then on I couldn't concentrate!

To the tune of 'Cockles and Mussels.'

Stan went to the gym
To get himself slim
For he'd met a beautiful lady on-line.
A glorious sweetie
Who lived in Tahiti,
Her name it was Nina and she looked divine.
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles
Must be up to scratch when I ply her with wine!'

A picture she'd posted
And how he had boasted
Of all her alluring and uncommon charms.
He felt quite a hunger
For someone much younger,
But the sight in his mirror had raised some alarms.
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles
Must be at their best when she's here in my arms!'

Stan puffed and girated
And felt quite elated.
For certain his manhood was burgeoning well.
Each day he weight-lifted
Till all his fat shifted!
He'd soon have his lady-love under his spell!
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles,
They can't let me down when I'm ringing her bell!'

Poor Stan overdid-it,
But who could forbid it
When he was so set on a life of romance?
Right from the beginning
His hair started thinning,
And he never rated a feminine glance.
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles
Are things I'm not leaving entirely to chance!'

The more he exerted,
The more strength deserted,
His pecs started drooping as gravity won.
His face grew more ashen
Pursuing his passion,
He made twenty push-ups but not twenty-one!
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles
Are quite overworked and not having much fun.'

(In a minor key) Came the day she was landing
And poor Stan was standing
A poor broken creature exhausted and thin.
He felt quite defeated
By life he'd been cheated,
For she was worth winning and he'd never win.
'My cockles and muscles
And my red corpuscles
Are letting me down now the fun should begin!'

When Nina's plane landed
He knew he'd been handed
A problem so vast things could never come right.
Those hours at the gym
Had made him look grim!
He knew that his chances of romance were slight.
His cockles and muscles
And his red corpuscles
Just gave up the ghost and abandoned the fight.

So dishy was Nina,
That now he had seen her,
He knew he could never step up to the mark.
Her figure, alluring,
When seen, was ensuring
That his contribution would be rather stark!
His cockles, his muscles
And all his corpuscles
(slow) Along with poor Stan just crept off in the dark.

8. Waiting in the Wings

How's this for political comment? Naive? Of course. When it comes to politics, I'm a babe-in-arms. But woudn't it be nice!

In the battle, one is wrinkly, one is female, one is black.
Representing someone somewhere; John, Hillary and Barack.
But a candidate is waiting; her tale hasn't yet been told.
But she's out there, that's for certain; someone FEMALE, BLACK and OLD!

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Hannah's Banner

Being a feminist, I'm rejoicingly conscious of the improvements in the lives of women, at least in our culture. When asked 'Which is your favourite era of history?' I always reply 'Now.' This poem recalls that time in World War Two when women proved themselves capable of more than housework, only to be shoved back into their box once more when the war ended. I dress up as a munitions worker to perform this one.


My name's Hannah, and I'm handy with a spanner.
I can saw and plane and rivet with the best of them.
I can dig some dandy ditches,
And I get dirt on my breeches,
And I work, from dawn to dusk, just like the rest of them.
But when the world is free
They'll say 'Hannah! Make the tea!'

My name's Hannah. I've a firm and forthright manner,
And, every day, my attitude is toughening.
I may not be a man,
But I'm not an also-ran,
And it makes me proud to see my hands are roughening.
But when they end the war
They'll say 'Hannah! Mop the floor!'

My names Hannah and I wear a bright bandana.
See! My curls are tucked in neatly and proficiently.
Yes, even though it hurts,
I've abandoned frilly skirts,
And these trousers keep me safe at work, efficiently.
But, when victory flags unfurl,
They'll say 'Hannah! Be a girl!'

My name's Hannah. I'm a thinker and a planner,
And what's inside my head, you wouldn't dream about.
I could be a big tycoon!
I could blast-off to the moon!
These are the things I lie in bed and scheme about.
But, when planes fly back to base,
They'll say 'Hannah! Know your place!'

My names Hannah and I'd sing a loud Hosannah
If the powers that be could recognise equality.
If they'd take note of my brains,
And my skill at building planes,
And not treat me as some silly, sweet, frivolity!
But, when the guns fall mute,
They’ll say 'Hannah, you're just cute.'

My names Hannah and, one day, I'll be a Nanna,
And I'm happy that there's motherhood in store for me.
But I know that, even then,
I'll be an underling to men,
And they'll throw me crumbs,
Like opening the door for me.
Yes, isn't it a farce!
They'll put me out to grass!
All this will come to pass
Under ceilings made of glass.

6. That Biting Remark!

Sometimes I play around with ready-written jokes. The story may not be mine and the author is probably ANON , but the doggeral approach can turn a little quip into a reasonable short monologue. I find such treatment has often saved the day. Today my Probus Choir is performing at a Retirement complex. I think I'll try this one out!


Two ladies of a certain age were sitting drinking tea,
Sophisticated ladies, or else trying hard to be:
Both of the pearls-and-twin-set type, a fashion quite outmoded.
Suddenly Muriel questioned Maude and, my, was the question loaded!
'Those pearls…..they can't be real, dear! They're much too big and bright.'
'I assure you' tartly answered Maude,'These pearls are real all right!'
'I simply don't believe you! They're fake, of that I'm sure!'
'Of all the mean remarks!' snapped Maude 'I just can't take much more!'
Said Muriel 'Let me bite one; biting a pearl is best.
I wonder if you're brave enough to put it to the test!'
Smiled Maude 'I'm sorry, darling! The pearls are real, it's true:
But, you see, my dear, to bite real pearls, only real teeth will do!'

Monday, June 2, 2008

Villainous Version

I enjoy writing parodies, so I'm including one today. I write them for inclusion in my melodramas, so that the audience can sing-along. Most are pre-1926 so there are no copyright problems. Contact me if you'd like to know more. I publish on-line with Lulu. There! I said I wouldn't do any more advertising, and I fall at the first hurdle! Imagine this parody being sung by a very villainous villain!

To the tune of "Let the Rest of the World Go By."

You must be aware/ That I have a stair,/ That leads up to the rooms above,/ And that is where/ We'll grow more fond / And form a bond./ You'd be foolish to abscond./ If I lead the way, / I know you'll obey, / And learn the little rules of love./ With me as a guide,/ And nowhere to hide,/ You'll soon find out what I'm dreaming of./

For now is the time/ For we two to climb,/ And find our special paradise./ It's so sublime./ You're only young / And highly strung,/ But you'll see my etchings hung./ So come take my hand. / I've got it all planned./ Yes, now's the time to pay the price./ So, don't hesitate./ I'm your ideal mate./ You'll discover I'm awfully nice./

4. Let the Games Begin!

A friend introduced me to KIVA yesterday. I'd never heard of it, but I had heard of the system and it thrills me that I may become part of such a delicious scheme. And, let's face it, the fact that, in some small way, I may be able to help other women is an added bonus. This isn't a commercial, but my new-found interest has inspired today's rather-more-serious-than-usual poem. It's still a bit tongue-in-cheek though. I had no idea of advertising when I started this BLOG and I may never advertise again. I just couldn't resist this, though.

There was a time when games were played by children;
When the adults were too occupied to play,
For their noses were pressed hard against the grindstone,
As they toiled till they were old and bent and grey.
But we're the really lucky generation,
With our health, our strength, our playing games on-line.
Arthritis may bedevil us, but we're still having fun
And 'second childhood's' something rather fine.
There's 'FREERICE'? What a site for sore eyes!
One's vocabulary grows, each day, more grand.
And each added grain helps ease another's hunger
And we feel a glow each time we lend a hand.
We may not be rich enough to make much difference,
And we may not be do-gooders in the least,
But, by playing games, we ease some little burden,
And a million million grains is quite a feast!
And KIVA seems to be another answer:
' What does charity achieve?' we often say.
Now, without a trace of any condescencion,
We can help someone, somewhere, in some small way.
And there must be other ways to play life's new games,
To have fun and, by so doing, feel that glow
That, maybe, millionaires have felt before us,
As our largesse helps another's small change grow.
The 'circuses' of ancient Rome were foretastes
Of the sad decline the empire would endure;
Some say our taste for modern 'beer and skittles'
Is a sign that we are in decline, for sure.
But I prefer to think that we can harness
Our childish little urge to have some fun.
After all, our selfish wish to live in comfort
Can be the goad for harnessing the sun.
So why not turn our backs on politicians,
With their wily ways and never-ending drone?
Humanity, it seems, loves to be playful.
Let's rule the world by having fun, alone!
The Eurovision Contest world-expanded,
Could decide the outcomes while mere mortals bet!
I wish I had a few more years of living!
It may happen one day, but, I fear, not yet.

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Thank Heaven!

(To the melody of 'Thank Heaven for Little Girls.')

Thank Heaven for little boys!
They grow up in a disappointing way.
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They turn out to be wrinkled old and grey.
Their eyes of baby blue were so disarming,
But now they're kind of pink instead and not so charming.
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Though their physique has gone to pot,
And though their blood's no longer hot,
Without them what would little girls do?
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They have a bit of trouble with their knees!
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Their heavy breathing comes out as a wheeze!
Their hair was once so curly and seductive,
But when you stroke a balding bloke it's unproductive!
Thank heaven for little boys!
Though their passion, you will find,
Is often only in their mind,
Without them what would little girls do?
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They haven't aged as well as vintage wine!
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Are these the boys that said we were divine?
Their teeth once flashed the way to mad adventures,
But now they lack a certain knack without their dentures!
Thank heaven for little boys!
As the years pass, it appears,
They grow long whiskers in their ears!
But without them what would little girls do?
Thank heaven for little boys!
How fortunate that we've not changed a bit!
Thank heaven for little boys!
We're still so slender, beautiful and fit.
We have no need of hair-dye or of make-up:
We look so absolutely perfect when we wake up.
Thank heaven for little boys!
Yes, all of us agree
That we still love your company,
For, without you, what would little girls do?

2. My Midriff!

Day two and I'm in reflective mood. In my youth I yearned for perfection. As you can see, I never achieved it! But now, in my old age, I can rejoice at Life's delicious little bonuses. The little triumph of which I write, here, is a secret pleasure!
I'll never have a mottled midriff.
My diaphragm is white as snow.
For I never wore a brief bikini
In the days of long ago.
There were huzzies who displayed their glory
With a little strip of this or that.
Whose bosoms were all small and cheeky
And whose stomachs were completely flat.
How I envied them their long tanned bodies,
As they glistened and they baked and boiled!
While admiring men hovered round them
Making certain that each limb was oiled.
Every one of them was so appealing.
Their bikinis were so ......... almost-there,
And the sun shone down on every midriff
As it showed itself all taut and bare.
And their midriffs glowed a honey colour
With a healthy, oh so sexy shine.
While one unhappy little midriff
Was covered and that was mine!
I could say I was shy and modest,
I could say that my thoughts were pure,
I could say I was saving my beauty
For a love that would endure.
I could say that I wasn't jealous
I could say that I didn't care.
I could say when they bared their midriffs
That I didn't turn a hair!
But, would you believe my story?
Or would you merely snort,
Knowing that I was freckly
And plumpish and dull and short.
How I longed to be oiled and worshipped!
How I yearned to be tanned and lean,
But my midriff was rather flabby
Not the sort that should be seen!
So I wore a neat little one-piece,
Shirr-elastic was the craze.
And I kept my podge of a midriff
Away from the public gaze.
Now I see them when I'm out shopping,
Those goddesses of the past,
And I realise godess status
Isn't designed to last.
I can't see beneath their jumpers
Or their track-suits or their frocks
But I bet their glorious midriffs
Have taken some hard knocks.
I bet they're looking wrinkled
And mottled and past their best.
I bet they're secretly happy
That they're not displayed undressed!
The bathroom mirror reveals mine
Still a vague sort of untanned beige.
But I realise I was saving it
To enjoy in my old age!
It is Perfect, just like alabaster,
Still flabby but smoothly designed,
A little bit creased and dimpled
But innocent, young and unlined.
Whereas theirs are all freckled and wrinkly,
All mottled, a sun-scarred disgrace.........
If only I'd worn my swimsuit
Pulled right up over my face!