Saturday, December 31, 2011

My Acrostic Wish!


Health and happiness be yours.
          And Good Luck knock on all your doors.........
Party on in party dresses;
Party on without excesses.
Years go by quick as a flash;
New Year lets us make a splash.
Eat and drink and all make merry
With the whisky, wine and sherry.
Yet keep one eye on tomorrow morning!
Each revelling night ends in a dawning.
As you wish this year goodbye
Remember,Twenty Twelve will fly!


So where did that year go to?
It's only just arrived!
Is it really twelve whole months
That I have just survived?
I'd swear that it was yesterday
I was singing 'Auld Lang Syne'!
Wishing everyone good luck
 And drinking too much wine!
Easter slithered past me!
Birthdays hopped on by!
The winter came and then it went!
The sun rolled round the sky!
There are a few more wrinkles
To mark the passing year;
Whatever happens in my life
They, without fail, appear.
But Twenty-Ten was meant to be
A year of such import,
So vital and so different....
At least, that's what we thought.
So we stumble into another year
Trusting that we can cope.
My best wishes to everyone!
Thank goodness we live on Hope!

Friday, December 30, 2011

The Yellow Brick Road

"You are young. It’s springtime and you find yourself walking down a dirt road with a cut on your knee…"
gives us a dual prompt.....both picture and words


It seemed I walked in Fairyland, with the yellow road ahead,
I daydreamed I was acting in a scene.
I was Judy Garland, and so I started singing;
I was happier than I had ever been.
'Over the rainbow' I sang out, in a voice that was merely loud,
And not the sort of voice that earns much praise!
'If pretty little bluebirds fly' I carolled to the heavens;
'Why can't I ?'...I rolled my tongue around the phrase.
The flowers bedecked the hedgerows and their scent hung on the air;
The birds were singing madly, fit to bust.
I was young and I was beautiful, as the young always are.
But my daydream was about to turn to dust.
I was gazing at the cloudless sky and warbling away,
When I tripped-up on a stone and fell down flat!
My lovely little daydream became a reality check
And my lovely song became the one word 'Drat!'
My knee was bleeding badly and I wished my Mum were there,
To help me and apply a soothing kiss.
How could such a disaster come about on such a day?
Completely gone my dreams of song-bird bliss!
I limped along just snivelling, feeling sorry for myself
As the blood ran down my leg into my shoes.
Gone was all my pleasure in the yellow road and birds;
Gone my appreciation of the views.
For a great bank of cloud had swelled and grown there on my left!
The drops of rain were bouncing off the ground.
Soon I was bedraggled and soaked right to the skin
As the thunder made a loud and threatening sound.
I was only thirteen but I learned a truth that day......
'Pride comes before a fall',  the Fates declare .
Still, I couldn't help rejoicing at the fact that, for a while,
I was Judy, I was singing, I was there!


Such a simple cover and yet it says it all!
We're certain that this pencil has been guilty of some scrawl.
We see the writer writing, then binning the result,
Lapsing into lachrymose, when he's longing to exult!
We see him grip the pencil hard, until it snaps in two;
No doubt he first attacked it with an agonising chew!
We see the eraser on the end! It's nearly worn away.
The wretched scribbler cannot find the perfect words to say! 
Is it an apology that occupies his mind?
Is it a guilty conscience that makes words  hard to find?
Is it a declaration of undying, endless love?
Is he requesting money? Is that what he's thinking of?
Is he intent on telling lies about some situation?
Is he involved in two-timing or some other complication?
Whatever occupies his mind this book will help him out.
He'll find the very words to write, of that I have no doubt.
'Words to the Rescue'! Yes, indeed! And he need search no more!
Inside the cover 'the answer' lies! Isn't that what books are for?


supplies the cover of this imaginary book.

Would this blurb encourage you to read it?

Sebastian Trollop
(Of the famous Trollop family)
Not your usual haunting!
Karl is a womaniser.
And proud of it.
The notches on his bed-post are many.
But he goes too far.
Alicia is purity personified.
She holds-out for marriage.
Early in this fascinating saga
A marriage is planned.
The bride's dress is white.
Pure white.
Karl ditches her at the altar.
Alicia kills herself.
Now the real drama begins.
Karl finds himself haunted by WHITE.
The colour follows him everywhere.
Read of his experiences in
The garden,
The betting-shop,
The cinema,
The hospital
And, finally,
In bed.
Most of all, in bed.
Every time he is haunted by white
He becomes weaker,
And nearer to death!
How will he be redeemed?
And who will redeem him?
You should be.

The Magimix Paint Company:A letter to the C.E.O; 'I feel very unwell and I put it all down to your white emulsion, which goes by the name of 'Ghostly Pallor'. You will be hearing from my solicitor. Signed: Karl Spiffington-Lewis


The well-known Australian reaction
Is called-for at this time.
Followed, as you'd expect from me,
By a little touch of rhyme.
Prince Philip has been outspoken,
Gruff and 'difficult' all his life,
Following a few steps behind
His charming royal wife.
He's been noted for saying the wrong thing,
And not obeying the rules,
Determined to be different
And never 'suffering fools.'
He may have had all the comforts;
Always pampered, never cold,
But he never was his own man,
And now it's too late; he's old.
The papers found it surprising
When he recently smiled and waved
On his way home from the hospital
Where his life had just been saved.
But I don't find it amazing
That he gloried in centre-stage;
At last crowds were cheering for him alone;
It had taken him till old age
To have his turn in the spotlight;
To be 'the one' for the day.
And he had to make the most of it,
Before it got away.
'Good on yer' Prince Philip,
The 'Greek God' of my youth.
Back then I was in love with you,
And that, old thing, is the truth.
You were wonderfully handsome,
Tall and blond and tanned.
No wonder the Princess adored you;
That was easy to understand.
Forget the man of ninety
Partly bald and marked by age!
It's the gorgeous hunk you see below
Who, for me, takes centre-stage.


For Your Own Good



I only publish this 'naughty' view
Because I want to preach to you.
It's for your own good that I do it!
( Just so you don't misconstrue it!)
I find this offensive, very!
It makes my New Year less than merry.
I blush when I look at this pinkish flesh
(He'd be tanned if he came from Bangladesh.)
Let me repeat, for all I'm worth.....
This doesn't raise the slightest mirth,
Not one giggle, or one guffaw;
For I am a person without a flaw.
I do not laugh at nudity!
And innuendo's not for me.
The 'double entendre', much in demand,
Is something I don't understand!
I do not mix with hairy blokes
Who tell disgusting dirty jokes.
No, I am pure, as all can see.
And I urge you to be pure like me.
It will be good for your constitution
If you make a New Year resolution
To cast aside all thoughts of smut
Tittle-tattle and scuttlebutt.
Daily read my blog and you
Will be a perfect lady too.
Unless, of course, you are a male
In which case my sermon's bound to fail!



Could anything have more elegance! Could anything have more charm?
Is anything more inclined to dazzle, fascinate, disarm?
The ballerina's tutu is the emblem of the dance,
Made to complete the picture, should she point or leap or prance.
But why is it called 'tutu'? When you learn its history
You'll find the reason reaches to the depths of banality!
Marie Taglione, in 1832,
Wore the very first ballet skirt, when the art was only new.
Rather than reach down to the ground, like the fashion of the day,
The hem was above the ankle in quite a revealing way.
This was considered daring, but it was so created
To reveal the fancy footwork the crowd anticipated.
Undergarments were revealed , never viewed before,
And reasons were quite dubious when folk called out 'Encore!'
The cheaper seats were situated where the crowds still could not see
A full view of the dancer's feet, and her great ability.
And so they used to crane their necks and lean and twist and peer
Until the fancy footwork became absolutely clear.
Now peering under ladies' skirts was considered very rude;
And some remarks the patrons made were verging on the lewd.
The private parts of a baby girl are called 'cucu' in France
And now this word was used to name this aspect of the dance!
So shorter skirts were made so all the patrons had a view
Of the pirouettes and other things that ballet dancers do!
But the shorter skirts were dignified with row on row of tulle
So that footwork plus decorum at last became the rule.
But the vulgar name persisted, as it does right to this day!
Though they changed it into 'tutu' .... a much purer word to say!
Who would think a such a pretty word would have such a sordid past!
(I hope my ballet dancing friends aren't looking too aghast!)

Fatal Footwork

(I, too, was a Children's Hostess, but this is not me. Her heels don't look too high, so I think she must be of a later vintage.)

asks us to consider our feet


My feet are rather run-of-the-mill, fairly small and almost neat,
As feet go in the run of things, my feet are hard to beat.
Except for a bony protuberance on the left foot, not the right
And, oddly enough, that's something that I view with some delight!
It is a constant reminder of days decades ago,
Which gave rise to the said protuberance causing it to grow.
I worked on a passenger ship for a year or two,
Looking smart in a uniform, sometimes white and sometimes blue.
The female officers were all advised that, to be really smart
Shoes with high stiletto heels had to play a part.
Imagine this, a rolling ship, out on the heaving ocean!
And girls in the highest of high heels copying the motion!
Sliding about the decks and looking pleasant, with a smile,
While tormented toes were screaming out in agony all the while!
At night I'd go to my cabin and really cry with pain,
Knowing that, tomorrow, I'd have to do it all again!
Mind you, there were compensations! A life of luxury,
Plenty of handsome officers, and the joy of being at sea!
The years went by, I left the sea, but I was to discover
That the bony 'thing' on my left foot would never quite recover.
'Yes' said a podiatrist in due course,'Yours is a typical case;
You've deformed your foot by wearing heels that were a medical disgrace.'
So now, when I see girls tottering on heels that are meters high,
I long to give them a warning.
Now you know the reason why.

(The fate of women after the Second World War.)

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.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

A Room Full of Candles

(Someone else's candles.)

asks us to describe the room in which we blog.


My study is a room full of candles,
Candles that keep on burning.
(In truth it's a little spare bedroom
To which I keep returning.)
I climb up the stairs to my study
Where the candles are always waiting,
Standing stiffly to attention,
Eagerly anticipating.
Some are burned down to the wick,
Ideas that are long out-dated.
Some remain unlit
And, oh, how long they've waited!
Some are burning brightly
They are nourishing my soul;
I watch for the tiny flicker
As a flame relinquishes its role.
Some are ancient candles;
I scarcely recognise the flame;
Others are candles that will never be lit;
My indolence is to blame.
I have warmed my heart at these candles,
Which are lit by the urge to write;
Their flames have sputtered and flickered
Well into the night.
To others it's our spare bedroom,
A dull little room for sure,
But for me it's a room full of candles,
And I couldn't love it more.

(An oldie. Blake is now 13)

We love the high ceilings
We've got in this place.
They give us such feelings
Of bountiful space.
And when I've done dusting
And sweeping around
I'm certainly trusting
No dirt will be found.
But Blake's eyes are youthful
(Our grandson, he's ten)
And Blake's very truthful,
At least, now and then!
"A cobweb!' he's saying,
Just looking around,
And I start in praying
Just one will be found!
So armed with a long broom
He's on Cobweb Duty!
The kitchen, the lounge-room;
And I'm looking snooty!
But he's been successful
Wherever he's been!
(I'm finding this stressful!)
He's found SEVENTEEN!