Post poetry month

Well, April, Poetry Month, is over and LINES has published the required 'poem a day' and is was really enjoyable - we hope you enjoyed reading them. We took three themes - the first was Trees (our whizzy JJ had taken some pictures of trees in North London which provided the stimulus for a set of poems), the second was related to World War 1 and our thoughts and memories about it and the last set was just a mixed set of things. JJ is now going to publish all three sets as 3 booklets (as we did last year). We hope you like them.

Lest we Forget

Lest we Forget

A quarter of a million underage young British soldiers

Fought in World War One.

Each one, one in a million – each one gone.

Journalists arrested or outlawed at the front,

Threatened with execution

For publishing unpatriotic pollution.

Over a quarter of a million women working on the land,

An army in the landscape.

Each one, one in a million – a new role taking shape.

Nurses arrested and executed saving other’s lives.

Medicine in its early days,

Moving into another phase.

A million horses sent over to the trenches,

Mules and dogs on guard.

Each one, one in a million – a life that is scarred.

Objectors, pacifists, those with different views.

Too old, too young, or simply disinclined -

Labelled by society - some heroes, some maligned.

Disabled, grannies or mothers waiting for the news,

Scientists and engineers expanding knowledge and the mind,

Shop-keepers, farmers, all those who were left behind.

Over 37 million casualties – civilian or in uniform -

Statistics are unclear.

Each one, one in a million – but each one someone dear.

And dear the cost to one and all

Will we ever the lesson learn?

Do not forget them, one and all

For each is our concern.

 By Linda Prince

© Charmaine Harrison @ http://charmingphotography.weebly.com/

 

 

 

 

The Office

The Office

The Calendar changes from day to day

And the gossip drives me mad.

I tidy up my desk

And the others think I’m mad.

They come with coffee in paper cup

And they never do a thing.

I clearing tyrannical emails,

They let the phone just ring.

They watch the time and go to lunch

But they never seem to return.

I take down endless messages

And for freedom I yearn.

The Calendar is flipped over

Pretending as they feign

When the boss walks by, the bell rings

And tomorrow we’ll do it all again.

By Linda Prince

Wembley Way

Wembley Way

Today’s the day

We’re on our way.

We’ll shout for us

And boo for you.

Today’s the minute

It’s really great innit?

We’ll cry for us

And laugh at you.

Walking down Olympic Way (but no one calls it that!)

I’m breathing in the atmos’ -

We’ll knock you into a cocked hat

Unless game you boss.

Today’s the place

Glory or disgace.

We’ll clap for us

And jeer for you.

Walking down Wembley Way (everyone calls it that!)

I’m taken in by the quiet

Before the crowds descend for combat,

Snaking in a coloured riot.

Whether you’re a red, or maybe a blue,

Or a team that sports a different hue,

If you are wearing yellow or perhaps a purple shade

Your heart skips a beat as you walk the footie parade.

Today’s the Cup

Thing are looking up.

We’ll hope we win

And you will lose.

But whatever the outcome, it’s only a game

And we will be friends always the same.

Our hearts will leap

We’ll joke or weep

Down Wembley Way.

By Linda Prince

Wembley Way © Linda Prince

Friends

Friends

Last week upon the radio I heard a lady speak
How many friends can you have? This was her critique.
Her theory was that friends are two
And acquaintances form the rest.
You mustn’t count your neighbours,
And this bit is the best -
Relatives and Parents don’t count towards the ration,
warming to her theme, she announced without compassion.

This week upon the TV I heard a young man say
That mutual affection can be shown in many a way.
Friends are by definition,
people that you like,
And many sorts of rapport
can you with another strike.
No time-serving regulation rules who you call your friend
To quantify selection is fruitless in the end.

So armed with all this ammo,
I included all these people on my ‘friendly’ list;
Parents, relations, neighbours, colleagues,
those who make me laugh and anyone I’ve kissed.


Linda Prince

Granny’s Button Box

It was once a perfect rectangle.
Exuded an air of authority as Edwardians transversed the lid.
But this inheritance was battered and bent without right angle.

Modern millennium toys cost.
Electronic, shiny, mature and Space-age winging to planned obsolescence.
This playmate too has travelled over time, yet all its clothing it has lost.

Buttons can be counted, put in rows or make a shape
Separated by size, divided by colours,
Buttons can be piled up high or rolled down.
A world of make believe, far away and escape.

Granny’s button box was perfect,
To each Pandora offering another world 
to enter and explore,
Before smart Smartphones and smart trainers you could select.

The modest tin holds the humble button,
Imagination trapped within.
Where do we start, where begin?
Pastimes so long forgotten.

Linda Prince

The Humber

It’s wide arms embrace the banks,
of northern counties that eye each other suspiciously.
Only when I see it’s girth do I feel at home.
Mighty estuary, like the tides, my emotions ebb and flow.
It’s undercurrents replace the sandbanks,
concealed daily changes unseen metamorphosing,
opaque and inviting under the turbid foam.
Dark river holds dark secrets that deceive down below.
From Spurn to source they seek to embank,
sparing the clay, groynes or barricades tides confining.
The river was breached from those from Rome
And dirty old steam packets long gone too we know.
A single suspension spans the banks,
linking nervous neighbours that nod courteously.
Alongside its cold waters I am never alone,
its gifts of dark favours on me bestow.

Linda Prince

The best days of your life

Me and Rita swinging on the swings.
1964 and Crispian St Peter’s song on our lips,
“When I woke up this morning
You were on my mind..”
Same swings every day, same song the same way.

Across the park and over the bridge
The beautiful building covered in rusty red leaves,
Where we daily had fun and learned about life.
“I got troubles, whoa-oh
I got worries, whoa-oh
I got wounds to bind…”

We clamber off the swings, satchels swinging to and fro
And cross the lake where we sometimes learn to row.
“And I got a feelin'
Down in my sho-oo-oo-oes, said
Way down in my sho-oo-oes…….”

Into the school where we learned about friends.
Was it history first? Or was it PE?
“Yeah, I got to ramble, whoa-oh
I got to move on, whoa-oh
I got to walk away my blues ……”

Down to Assembly for messages and a thought for the day.
Still humming we walked down corridors panelled with wood.
The Head passed by in his black gown and nodded, 
his golden retriever walking beside.
Rita goes to History, I go to PE.
How I love to be at this school.

Tomorrow we’ll do it all again,
same swings, same song,
“When I woke up this morning
You were on my mind..”

Linda Prince

A night at the Pantomime

A night at the Pantomime

Queue the lights, queue the music, queue the anticipation.
The lights are bright, the noise swells up
and the glitter glistens in ostentation.
Strike up the music, strike up the band, strike a chord.
Dancers are swirling, they dazzle and twirl
as the chorus sings and the children giggle, you can’t be bored.
The principal boy, a nice girl they say, meets a princess and falls in love.
The dame has a moustache but cuts quite a dash and gives the script a bit of a shove.
Sometimes there are sisters, ugly as sin and sometimes a goose or a cat.
Sometimes there’s a lamp, sometimes a launderette and sometimes they fly on a mat.
Sometimes there’s a croc with fitted alarm or a rat who happens to be king
And sometimes there are twins on wobbly pins, or seven small dwarves that just sing.
They might have two good shoes, one for each foot, or it might be a case of a lost slipper.
It might have a Lord Mayor or a clock that strikes twelve, or a hooked man that is the ship’s grumpy skipper.
They might climb up a beanstalk into the air or plummet into caves down below
But whatever the story, whatever the tale, it’s always a plot that we know.
Slap on the paint, slap on the back and bring on the slapstick.
The audience participate with hisses and boos
‘He’s behind you’, ‘oh, no he’s isn’t ‘, getting it right is the trick.
Drag up the old jokes, drag on the pantomime horse and bring on the drag,
double entendres, risqué nudges and grins.
Birthday children on stage, giving their age and are given gifts in a plastic bag.
It might be in London on a road paved with gold, or in Peking the capital town.
The fairy always enters stage right, the villain the left and we always empathise with the clown.
It might be a desert location, arid and hot or a forest that’s cold and it’s damp.
They may be stalked by ghosts or wild animals fierce, but they all excel in the camp.
The prince gets his princess, the baddie will always turn over a new leaf,
The old king will get the widow and a bit of a shock, but its fantasy to his relief.
The cast will be happy, they will all change for the glittering finale
The dame will take centre stage, and thank the band and others ver-bally!

The last time I ever took my mum to the panto, the first time she Twanky spied,
she began to loudly giggle and then had hysterics, she laughed so much she cried.
And so she continued, her infectious laugh oozing down the aisle to the stage side.
Within a matter of minutes, all around were laughing and even the cast could not stay dry-eyed.
The show was in chaos, but even Twanky was laughing and could not spank her
With tears in her eyes, she just realised that all she could do was to thank her.
Linda Prince

Glencoe

Glencoe

Bleak and cruel and stunning the view
Loyalty and treachery in equal amounts seeps into the hills.
Powerful feuds and legendary deeds that sweep up the mountain-side
The Glen passes down the line to owners new.
We walked the paths and admired the views
And listened to stories of massacre in the early hours of winter.
You gasp at the betrayal and raw beauty of the breathtaking glen
And you imagine the pain when they heard the news.

Many years we spent in company fond
In Kinlochleven with elderly sisters two we bedded and breakfasted:
Mrs Campell a widow and Miss McDonald a spinster of the realm.
Two lovely and loving women with history in their veins,
Sibling devotion and a bloody past a bond.
Dad would look across the glen to the skyline beyond
And wonder at the bravery and naivety of those who scaled the heights.
He would buy rare whiskies that he would never ever drink
And dream of bravehearts conned.

Those kindest sisters we visited many years
And I think of them then in the heart of the brutal landscape.
Glencoe was their life, their hopes and their fears
Glencoe was their home of laughter and tears.


Linda Prince

Old Stones

Old Stones

From the walls of Machu Picchu clinging to the ridge over the Urubamba
to the mythical Sphinx guarding the necropolis of another time gone by,
Old Stones reach out.
Secrets fashioned by primitive hands with colossal desire.
From decorative Knossos encircled by pearlescent seas
to a cold cobbled Roman highway giving up its mysteries,
hidden until the here and now,
reminds us how conquerors marching, swept down to Isca at the coast.
People come and then they go,
But their spirit and history survive
Inclusions that capture time,
Old Stones cry out and keep their memory alive

Linda Prince

Mycroft

Mycroft

A strange range of pets were mine as a child,
Tortoise slow and goldfish mild,
A hamster that froze and some fish that got fried
By mistake.

But Mycroft was my budgie.
Named after Sherlock’s brother, a clever bird was he.
He could recite for hours, took long showers and liked to drink your tea.
But Mycroft was my budgie
Bought in Harrogate, not blue or green was he
But grey all over from head to toe, with two black beady eyes to see.
But Mycroft was my budgie
And though he had a golden cage, he lived in our house roaming free
But you could always find him, if you just followed the line of debris.
For just like Sherlock, he always gave away a clue or two -
And mostly it was paper, homework he liked to chew.

Linda Prince

Music

Music to my ears

Sitting in the stalls, crescendo intensifies the soul.
The conductor directs and the orchestra responds as one.
Close your eyes and you are transported.
Performers just well met now in unison, and I in their debt.
Some are purists respecting their genre,
Melting away to sounds from Folk to Jazz
But this lady is no Sophisticated Lady.
Sitting in my home, beat throbs to raise the spirit.
The vocalist croons or guitar hums tunes
Close my eyes and I am transported.

Linda Prince

Bad Boys

Bad Boys

Am I the only one?
Am the only one tempted by the Dark Side?
Shall I root for blonde Skywalker or Vader in his tight black leather,
rasping as he zaps another planet?
The Dark Lord of Sith or the good guy?
No contest!
Why do I hope that the Mummy might return?
Imotep fully restored, another plague upon you.
And is it so wrong to find Spacey’s Ackerman funny
or the urbane Hans Gruber rather compelling, smart and cool?
And can any corrupt and oily man who in his rage demands
‘Cancel the kitchen scraps for lepers and orphans, no more merciful beheadings, and call off Christmas!’ be preferable to those with kind and caring hands?

No contest.
I have relegated guilt to a different sin-bin.
Anyone who threatens to cut out Mr Costner’s heart with a spoon –
can he really be all bad?

There are some we hate to love
And some we love to hate,
But remember to be very careful
If they ask you for a date.

Linda Prince

Sobek

Sobek

Ferocious and fearsome, slithering out of the Nile,
out of the waters of chaos to create the world.
Basking on the banks, sharp teeth in grinning smile -
Sobek.

Revere him, worship him and try to appease
the crocodile keeper of the Nile and its seasons.
Place jewels and flowers on his head and please -
Sobek.

Venerated predator of the Nile, in water a swifter killer.
And when he passes to the world beyond our own
Mummify him in sarcophagus and his name upon the pillar –
Sobek

Linda Prince

The Year of the Snake

The Year of the Snake

Names can date you, preserve you in formaldehyde,
Popular tomorrow, old fashioned today.
What does your name mean? What does it say?

I was named after my grandparents:
Helen known as Lin and Dave just called Dave!
Combine Lin and Da as Linda and save.

It might mean beautiful or serpent, depends on your view.
Bad press from the Garden did us no favours
And though we deny them, we reflect some behaviours.

Glide to the left, sidewind to the right.
Beautiful or powerful, reviled or admired
But I’ve shed my last skin and now I’m retired.

I’ll save my venom and just think beautiful thoughts.
As meanings go, serpent is fine and no mistake
For this is our year – the Year of the Snake.

Linda Prince

The Wren

The Wren

Smallest of all,
Yet dumpy and round.
How can something so tiny
Make such a loud sound?
Wrens sing and they warble
I have read I admit,
But mine continually squeaks
Endless ‘chit’ after ‘chit’.
But I ‘d miss her if she left me
With her Karaoke so dire.
Multum in Parvo is she.
And heart big to admire.

Linda Prince

The Lion’s Share

The Lion’s Share

The unbalanced Triumvrate hunts for profit
Power in his grasp, he aches to feed an insatiable thirst.
In legends ancient, a more cynical prophet
Proclaims that the quarry will bring ruin.
The triangle closes in, the victim is heard to pray
But the trio plans tighten the net to secure.
Escape is futile, the stranglehold marks the prey
And no way out presents the victim a fatal blow.
The leader of the pack emerges, he divides up the piece.
And animals are not all equal, so he takes out the most.
Only equal shares will return the hunters some peace
But the strength of the protagonist outstrips them all.
And in the melee, the weak take a pause
Allowing the dominant to discard one sleeping partner.
Quaking and quivering under the animal’s paws,
Survival kicks in and he offers up more.
In business and life, there will be the one main
Beware if they eye up the spoils and shares.
You may not be bowed by the Lion’s mane
But beware - partnership with the mighty is never trustworthy.



Linda Prince

Nonsense Poem

Nonsense Poem

“Order! Order! this Kangaroo Court is in session.
You had a whale of time. And you gave the impression
You were drunk as a skunk and causing depression.”

“I didn’t do it. Your Honour. You’re badgering me again.”
“I had it from the horse’s mouth – the witness was in pain.
As the black sheep of the family, in custody you’ll remain.”

“I’m just being used as a guinea pig. A travesty of Law.”
“Don’t cry wolf to me, I’ve heard it all before.”
“I’m just blind as a bat. Don’t sentence me I implore.”

“I smell a rat. It was you, a fine you will have to pay.”
“I’m as poor as a church mouse. I’ll have my say,
You’re still hounding me night and day.”

“I don’t care if it’s takes donkey’s years, you must pay the court.
You’re as sly as a fox, I don’t doubt, “ the Judge was heard to snort.
The defendant slumped and played possum, hoping the Judge to thwart.

Such monkey business made the Judge even madder.
“I’ve never heard such cock and bull and what is even sadder,
not content with copycat crime, you’ve become an awful bragger.”

“OK. You’ve weaselled it out of me. I ‘m just an ordinary man.
I’ll take the tiger by the tail and pay just what I can.”
He pretended to be ill and sick and so he hatched a plan.


“Get busy as a beaver and regular payments make to the fine
You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I still could give you time.”
“But I’m as sick as a parrot and I don’t have a dime.”

“You’re flogging a dead horse, please Judge give me leave.
You’ve hit the bull’s eye – I’ll never again steal or receive.”
Another red herring or should the Judge just believe?


“Don’t get my goat again. Next time you’ll get time!”
And like a bat out of Hell he escaped from the rhyme.





Linda Prince

The Knock-out Brunette

The Knock-out Brunette

In a fur coat she lounges,
the politics of luxury goods bore her.
She cares nothing for campaigners,
Unless they all adore her.
She sashays across her garden,
Manicured and perfectly trimmed,
Just like her body
Perfect and slimmed.
She picks at some seeds
and a few nuts to stay healthy.
Sophisticated and smart,
Intelligent and wealthy.
Her eyes are wide almonds,
Faultless and pure.
She sighs as she nibbles,
Shies away, so demure.
A brunette so intense
in colour and in thought,
that all who see her
halt  longing, distraught.
She knows you are watching,
She smiles with white teeth
And she pretends not to know you
Peeking from a large leaf.
For Harriet is a Brunette,
not grey, black or red.
And Harriet is knock-out,
As onto the shed
She leaps and she tumbles
Somersaults and glides.
A gymnast without stumbles.
Harriet the squirrel, the trapeze artist extraordinaire
Leaps from washing line to branch with never a care.

Linda Prince