Pale white Gull

Pale white Gull

Rare and welcome, to our shores a welcome

Pale and delicate like a dove.

Graceful in the air, graceful as she swoops

Blanched plumage fits like a glove.

An Iceland Gull, winters in Iceland

But clean and white strolls the strand.

Against white cliffs, her gentle white gleams

A ghostly shade, gull made from moonbeams.

A laughing note, notes long and staccato

She calls out a name to another albino.

A sighting just off Portland Bill, an Iceland bill so cool

An apparition on the wing, or just an April Fool?

The Iceland Gull, lands on icy land alone

Camouflaged, the colour of bleached limestone.

She waves to the lighthouse, beyond the waves she ascends

And she gone, a glimpse, in Cumulus as she blends.

By Linda Prince

The World's most comfortable Chair

The World's most comfortable Chair

Designed in 1962, a symbol of its time

With wings enclosing whispered secrets in your ears.

The ultimate in comfort, ahead of its time

Buttoned down but free thinking, it withstood the years.

Bloefeld and the white cat gave Bond a hard time

Rock and swivel, like a supervillain, the keeper of your fears.

Iconic, ironic, renamed simply the Sixty-Two

Retro, metro, acclaimed and strictly brand-new.

By Linda Prince

Test your Survival Skills Here

Test your Survival Skills Here

What unspoken words do you whisper in my ear?

Why are you calling me loud and clear?

Why do you draw me in to your summit

For that one brief moment when I call you mine?

What ancient magic delights to goad me on?

Why risk my life, Everest high or jungle Amazon?

What brave new world do I seek to conquer

For one solitary instant I can say I have won.

I have considered the rules of three: air, water, food and shelter.

I have frozen crossing the ice or migrating over dunes did swelter.

Foraging for food and wilderness navigation,

Lost, mind paying tricks, high temperature and starvation.

Panic? No - prioritise. I need to beat the elements.

A debris hut or nature’s cave, before mind game developments.

What unspoken words do you whisper in my ear?

Why are you calling me loud and clear?

Why do you draw me in to your summons

For that one brief moment when I call you mine?

By Linda Prince

On Chesil Bank

On Chesil Bank

Stone after stone, one step forwards

Feet sucked down and two steps back.

Sinking in the gravel, security feature

Nature’s driveway hears your approach.

Feet submerge under round stone rattle

Dragging you back for the rematch battle.

Stone after stone, one step forwards

Feet sucked down and two steps back.

Stone after stone, one step forwards

Feet sucked down and two steps back.

Eternal surge comes crashing down

And stones roll round and round.

Toes engulfed under smooth cobble clatter

Dragging you down and muscles batter.

Stone after stone, one step forwards

Feet sucked down and two steps back.

The sinews ache as you stumble around

Legs sinking as you scramble,

then the sound, as exhausted you sank

in the quicksand like pebbles, Chesil Bank. 

By Linda Prince

Le Carré

Le Carré

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy

Author, novelist, who am I?

5 and 6, pick up sticks

writing espionage just for kicks.

Pat-a-cake, pat-a cake baker’s man

Tell me story, adopted G-Man.

Wire tap dance, do me a twirl

Is it a mole or is it a girl?

Undercover agent in overcoat

Suave spymaster never, antidote.

A-Tisket, A-Tasket, counterintelligence

Crack the code, this is fictional irrelevance.

Named Cornwell born in the county next door

Joined the Circus and won the cold war.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy

George is smiling, no Goldeneye.

By Linda Prince

Labrador Dreams

Labrador Dreams

My friend and I

Curled like a ammonite

Settled for a snuggly night

Labrador Dreams.

Idly twitching to deep sleep

Rapid eye movement secrets keep

Labrador dreams.

Slipping into story and fabulous tale

Creeps the animal wagging the tail

Labrador dreams.

Catching a ball, chasing a swift,

Memories of biscuits and happily drift

Labrador Dreams.

Walking on the fells, rolling in the mud

Into deeper reverie, head falls, gentle thud.

Labrador Dreams.

Chew the soft, squishy toy that squeaks

“Welcome to Dreamland” the bitten playmate speaks

Labrador Dreams

All is not what it seems.

By Linda Prince

Lab Dip

Lab Dip

He gazes down. Time for a make-over perhaps?

Life has been cocooned in winter warmth

And now it is time to take out the palette and paint.

His eyes are incomprehensibly ancient and stare at the globe

He created a just few years ago by His calendar.

White blanket slips and new hues acquaint.

A benevolent hand sweeps over the hills and dales

Sheep dip cream, gin clear stream and emerald gradient

His brushstroke sweeps colours vivid and feint

And the toile of speckled meadows inter-link,

Jigsaw swatches and season change, matching

Shades of life without constraint.

The colour wheel creaks as it slowly turns

And winter gives way to spring in tones tried and tested

Applauded by Angels, prophet and saint.

Countryside turns to patchwork of greens

Lawn and teal, lime and shamrock climb the heights

Land and property change hands without distraint.

He smiles the smile, compassionate and benign

A new green He creates, this master builder

Lab dip shade, vibrant, viable with a hint of quaint.

He stirs the pot, He inspects the brush and sweeps valley with hand unseen,

Lab dip shade, shadow and subtle, the grand Creator nods to Dorset Green.

Years go by, seasons change as the land is overwhelmed by shade and sheen,

And still we ask, Has He gone away? Look, look and see Him intervene.

By Linda Prince

Jura

Jura

Dark, dank, the woods know what lies beneath.

Half-moon hills arc betwixt Frankish and Romansh

The land of the forest is waking.

Leaves rustle like crinkled paper compressed around a gift,

Fridge’ chilled spring water dances over stones,

Moving curtains of water falling breath-taking.

The lumber mines grind, demanding and shrill

As saw circles around with its shark teeth grin,

Whilst crystals salty are slowly baking.

The Frenchman enamels the ornament in Sèvres

Modest in nature, he studies the landscape

And records every detail painstaking.

Rock mass and minerals that glint to the eye,

He captures them all and reptiles observes,

Arranges geological form ground breaking.

Brongniart studies the Jura with an eye for the classic

And from fossil bearing strata baptises the Jurassic.

By Linda Prince

Gorgons V

Gorgons V

Durnovaria, fine homes for rich families.

Tessellate the mosaic to remind you of home

Warmer days and wine jugs pouring.

Small chips of colour that bring Rome right to your door,

Pictures of brave gods that look up from your floor.

Durnovaria, on the edge of the Celtic Fields.

Map out the aqueduct to bring civilisation home

Crystal cold and water jugs splashing.

Small drops of rainbow that bring Rome right to your house,

Scenes of bath-time rituals the rich come to souse.

Durnovaria, superior town house out Colliton way.

Ornamental antefix to roof your lovely home

Anthemion frond, terracotta jug firing.

Small flowers and faces that bring Romans to your villa,

Centurians, Satyrs, Gorgons, Nyphs or Scylla.

This antefix protects your house with snakes

that swirl above the forehead

of the red clay face of the gorgon.

In winter it shivers and in summer it bakes

but fills enemies with anticipated dread,

a silent scream, pain within, anguish in every organ.

Do not look her in the eyes

or everlasting stone will paralyse.

By Linda Prince

Death in Dorset

Death in Dorset

30^th March 2017 an ex-Dorset council employee is killed

By her husband aged 62.

March !3th 2017 and the Dorset Echo headlines says ‘Ethiopia

Death toll reaches 62’.

January 9^th just two years ago and a cyclist is killed near Dorchester

By a driver aged 62.

October 15^th 2004 and man, aged 62, attempts to kill his neighbour

Who is also 62.

But then – there people pass on by and reach eternal slumber

And many don’t reach 62 or any other number.  

By Linda Prince

By the Pool

By the Pool

Glass in hand, smiling, slightly tanned,

Welcome nibbles, friendly animal dribbles.

Work the crowd, music too loud

Party by the Pool.

A seat for Dad, debating, with the local lad,

Bar-b-que sauce, safety rules enforce.

Mingle round, distant cousin found

Party by the Pool.

Champers tall glass, confessing, tomorrow at Mas,

Garlands flickering, relatives bickering.

Play the hostess, conversations engross us

Party by the Pool.

Swimsuits ready, inebriating, neighbour unsteady,

Canapes with mushroom, squeezing in not so much room.

Network with friend, but after all in the end

Party IN the pool.

By Linda Prince 

Out of Date

Out of Date

1720 and it’s the 13^th of June and the first Duke has earned his ermine.

Previous Earls, Barons and a Marquess or two glance down upon the vermin.

A spirited Celt, a Saxon Fair and some Romans who landed at Poole harbour

Are looking on and looking down, sighing in the shady arbour.

Alas, alack their reign was short and gone they were in a blink

Like fellow Pliosaurs from Weymouth Bay, the line became extinct.

From 155 million years ago or in 1843 in verdant Dorset they briefly did flourish

Families of dusty dinosaurs or progenitors the lovely county did nourish.

An asteroid hit or reptiles caught cold, a peer dies without his wish,

It is hard to chart events that might have snuffed out gentry or fish

Anachronisms now that once were fashionable wave ‘au revoir’

To a glorious family motto ‘Either never attempt, or accomplish’.

A family motto, the simple maxim they lived by

and both dinosaur and man join the extinct Dorset Society Alumni.


By Linda Prince
 

Radical 2 in 60 seconds

Radical 2 in 60 seconds

Deep in the bowels of the Collection

Beneath the stars and stripes

Another dynasty stirs and breathes

A City State, an empire brutal, the largest city and holy place.

Babylon whispers and scholars debate,

Shifting sands under stars in a desert sky.

Imperial jewels glint, tangled in jet black hair

That drapes over royal shoulders.

Others herd sheep or offer them up to the sky.

Grain merchants sweat, beads that gleam against a wet brow

and count in the sacks to pay the man.

Some measure the heavens, others pore over maps

Eagerly jabbing with slimy finger where war and destruction will prosper.

In the cool the Curator touches the disc.

Sexagesimal numeral system still measuring angles

And co-ordinates across similar states that differ

For one did not possess a zero whilst the other

Sprang out the ground, swirling in smoke and tearful pain.

The tablet is small and crude to the eye

But concealed from those who glance briefly

And shy away, are secrets that reveal themselves

To the guardian of number from Babylon to tomorrow.

Already possessing an algorithm seeking out approximations

To the square root of 2, a radical.

Calculating, quantifying with beautiful art, yet

The origins of mathematical reasoning held in his hand

The curator closes his eyes and goes back in time.

Another is adding and taking away from the conquered,

Vying for control, demanding tribute and wealth,

Homage and taxes. Life and Death.

And in his hand he holds the small brown disc from the beginnings of time

And across time the golden disc burns down over a previous war crime.

The conquest of mathematics, sequences of events, number so pure

Is one side of the coin, another empowers an Empire to procure.

The armies are on the move, clanking forward between the two rivers

The calculations are done, logistics re-checked, the mathematics delivers.


By Linda Prince 

Sixtytwo Hotel

Sixtytwo Hotel

Gastro hotel surrounded by glamour

The most exclusive fashion designs.

Sits the bijoux hotel, boutique and élite

Steeped in history, a chronicle of the past

Where obsolete meets eternity.

The Casa Batlló, the dragon that’s slain

The scales that are slipping from your sight.

The House of Bones shoulder to shoulder

With Sixtytwo measures of luxury.

Contemporary and bygone cheek by jowl.

The elegant and palatial sit side by side

Breathing in the scent of Mediterranean petals

As they catch the wind and sigh.

Antonio’s masterpiece, visceral, blinks in the evening light

And eager sightseers drift back in the magical night.

St George sleeps with the dragon until warm light of day

And pilgrims are welcomed to the smart hotel by its owner,

And all is at peace, both ancient and modern

In the Passeig de Gràcia, secret Barcelona.

By Linda Prince 

Survival of the Fittest

Survival of the Fittest

Cold rain beats a sad tune upon her back

Crinkly noise below the plastic sheet.

Tartan bag shredded and torn

On the streets. Please take me back.

Leave the house for the 7.58 on the track

Standing upright behind the yellow line.

The train snakes in. He doesn’t move.

Nowhere to go. Please take me back.

He had a good job. He got the sack

And now everyday he acts out a past

With briefcase and shiny laptop.

The family won’t guess. Please take me back

She was a successful student until the crack

And the boys pressured her to perform,

Then the one she thought loved her

Pushed her away. Please take me back.

The cold rain quickens on the makeshift mac

Shoes squelch as she trudges the streets.

One indiscretion he could never forgive,

Homeless mum. Please take me back.

So many people, only the fit survive.

Push your elbows out and fight to the front

For those in the queue may never arrive.

But then, maybe take a minute and confront

You only get one chance, avoid the backtrack.

Tell those that you love that they are forgiven

And help the weak and those who stumble

Before it’s too late. Because you can’t go back.

The fittest may survive they say

But then remember this.

Tomorrow is another day

And you may receive misfortune’s kiss.

By Linda Prince 

Survive

Survive

He is survived by his wife and children.

But he is gone and how will they survive?

He is survived by his wife and children

They are waiting for the black car to arrive.

He is survived by his wife and children.

Once he was laughing and alive.

He is survived by his wife and children

The pension is in place but they still deprive.

He is survived by his wife and children.

They tried to save him and revive.

He is survived by his wife and children.

And the consume nibbles and imbibe.

He was young and fit and gave his life for the cause

His girls don’t understand that ‘Daddy won’t be home any more’

The flag, the band and loud applause

He gave his life for the brothers, the band, the corps.

And lives of women are changed in one fleeting moment

No condolence eases the pain, no cause justified by the proponent.

He is survived by his children and wife.

And today they start a new life.

At what cost?

By Linda Prince 

T-Minus

Almost Midnight

T-Minus

10. Backward counting to ignition and launch

what goes through your mind?

What goes through theirs? What if all goes wrong?

In seconds I could be atoms free floating through the universe.

9, 8, 7 skim by with relentless speed. It’s like New Year but all alone.

Backwards counting.

The home plate umpire calls the balls and the strikes

And life looks different from the pitcher’s perspective

Everything reads backwards today.

T-Minus 6. Too late to abort and run for the hills.

What if the can blows up?

Too late to argue balls and strikes and get ejected from the field of play.

T-Minus 2. Counting backwards I count you in
I don't remember him
I don't remember .. did some Muse throw me a life line?

An epitaph or a voyage?

And somewhere in the distance an outfielder says ‘we have lift off’.

But they don’t. They are rooted to the earth whilst I, yes, I have lift off.

A home run in flight, heading out of the park.

Another hundred fingerprints I hear but they grow ever dimmer

And the black void beckons.

T-Minus 6. T-Minus 2.

Counting backwards. Happy New Year to you.

By Linda Prince 


image obtained from:
http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=152537&picture=almost-midnight 

T-Rex

T-Rex

As old as the hills, Jurassic in fact.

A star of stage and screen.

The tyrant lizard from the reptile age,

Extinct but no has-been.

I can beat a sprinter, with Olympian thighs.

The largest land carnivore of all time,

With terrible teeth to tear you apart

As you fight to escape your primeval slime.

Mock the length of my arms, the size of my skull,

how long to change direction,

but I’ll break off your limbs and bite off your head

and then we’ll discuss natural selection.

Call us Sue or call us Stan, don’t think that you can mock us

I see you quaking with my binocular vision.

The name is T-Rex and I smell you and your fear

You can’t beat me only using derision.

I will crush your will, make your heart rate soar

As I thunder up, hover over you in the famous stoop.

There is no escape from a mouth agape

So go back to your primordial soup.

And leave the powerful to roam the imagination

And pay the king of the dinosaur age due respects.

Most feared. Most revered. Oppressive and cruel

But none more famous than T-Rex.

By Linda Prince

The Ice Cream

The Ice Cream

Stir it up. Swirl the colours: cream, pale yellow or dainty pink

Stir it up. Gyrate the streaks, earthy brown or black like ink.

Spirals agitate, a geology of Neapolitan dessert, different but with a link.

The spoon excavates the ice cream, making whorls of flavour

Gently, imperceptibly the patterns fade and die, but savour

The chill, the thrill, a summer’s day, a rest from daily labour.

The dog runs free across the bay, splashes in salt water the colour of Turkish delight.

The ice is melting, a vortex of sweetness, gone the shades of the traffic light

One creamy muddle, round and round, a sundae whirlpool ammonite.

Ketton cream or German brown, oolitic pink cliffs formed in ice,

Sedimentary streaks of colour, volcanic ice cream bombs sprinkled like silver rice,

Rocks that shine, or glint or fragment, or metamorphic gneiss.

Wandering aimlessly along strata, ice cream tub sticky, lost gradation

The Jurassic Coast looms large against aquamarine sky, white jewelled encrustation.

The dog, in joy aloud she barks, the ice cream drips and breaks the contemplation.

Striations of history, rock striped through and through, keeping us safe and watertight,

Pillars of rock brooding and towering down, awe and inspiring Heritage Site

Jurassic cliffs that have stood the tests of time, keep us safe by day and by night.

By Linda Prince 

The View

The view from my bedroom.....

The View

The blue grey mist is an opaque veil across my eyes,

I know the valley is there, I have walked the hazy hills.

Today, cock-crow early, the blurred picture still forms

Countryside is waking slowly from its sleeping pills.

The orb in the sky tries breaking through obscuring fog

And for brief second the dale appears

An illusion, a temperate rural soft mirage

Concealed behind nature’s tears.

The pitter-patter raindrops relax, less tense,

A fracture in Mother Nature’s smoke screen

A golden fissure separates glistening shroud

The summit, the farms, a picture box scene.

The schism is working, sunlight breaks through

And the View hoves into eye-line at last

Bright colours of country, radiant rain on a leaf

The View cheers whatever weather forecast.

Ink black night, no street lamps here

Along ribbons of valley roads comply.

The View enfolded in darkness once more disappears

But tomorrow and tomorrow it waits on stand-by.

Dawn chorus is waking in the Cathedral of nature,

Fox pricks up his ears strolling down country lane.

Somewhere, out there, my View is waiting

To reveal itself, through my window pane.

The View has been there for ever, an eternal life line,

Shared by villagers and visitors but is always just mine.

By Linda Prince