A poem for National Poetry Day, 2017. Theme: Freedom.

Freedom of the Sofa.

Do you watch the Channel 4

the programme, Gogglebox?

We do!

What a people watching

opportunity this is.

They watch T.V.,

we watch them.

People sitting in their

homes, on their Sofas,

watching telly...

Table in front of the with

goodies to nibble.

A lady sits and knits.

The advert breaks show,

Sofa-ology, hurry, hurry,

Hurry! Buy yours, now!

But do they have

freedom of the Sofa.

Who has freedom of the sofa?

is it the dogs?

Most families have one!

Large or small.

Big dogs dominate,

sitting on people who are

sitting on Sofa’s

Little dogs, roll about

or sleep on their people,

on Sofas.

People laughing at programmes,

People discussing programmes

People and dogs in piles

On their sofa’s.

So, who has freedom

of the Sofas bought that,

we see on the telly?

I think the dogs win,

I think Sofa shops, win,

I think I win,

I wrote a poem

About Freedom and Sofa’s!

People just sit on

Their Sofa’s bought

in response to

Sofa-ology adverts!

I have freedom,

I have sofa

I watch Gogglebox.

I do not have a dog!

Flash Poetry.

Flash poetry.

My first attempt:

The  Seaside.

Sea, sand, kids and dogs.

Ice cream, hot chocolate.

Pizza for tea.

Don’t want to go home!

Moon.

Moon, Oh! Moon,

Where are you tonight?

Behind the clouds,

Out of sight!

Seagulls.

Seagulls hover,

watch you eating

You can see

What they are thinking.

Sun/rain.

There’s the sun gone again.

The sky’s gone dull, quick RUN!

Here comes the rain, rain, rain!

Furry Animals.

Do you like furry animals?

That you can cuddle and love.

Stroking their backs and ears.

Looking into their bright eyes.

And if they have one - see tails wag.

Rainbow.

High in the sky a rainbow

Appears, so pretty after the rain.

Its bright arch has gold at its ends.

2 Conversations overheard.

Conversation - One.

                                        

Georgina was talking about her favourite book,

she said, “it was a book I read as a young girl, I absolutely loved it.”

Speaker two: “What book was that?”

“Oh, it was Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. I have read it and read it, I cry all the way through it”

Speaker 3: “You must have liked it.”

“Yes, I did, the marriage of the couple in the book, was just like me and my husband. They separated and divorced, we separated and divorced. It was so sad. Even though we are divorced, he rings me every day. I told him about the book, even offered to lend him it. I dropped it through his letter box.”

“A few days later, when he rang up, I asked if he had read it?”

Husband: He said, “He had, he’d liked it and he had cried all the way through because it was just like us.”

Conversation 2.      Jenny’s Sunday Morning.

“I’d been to Church, I was on my way home, I passed the closed down Pub, then turned the corner, there was this fellow in a doorway on the phone with no clothes on”.

Speaker two: “What starkers! Nothing on at all?”

Speaker three: “How old was he?

“Well! he was a young one”

Speaker four: “Did he have a six pack?”

Speaker five: “What did you do?”

“I said ‘Good Morning. and kept on walking”.

Speaker Two: “What did he do?”

“Well! He kicked the door shut!”

Speaker Three: “I’ll come with you to Church next week!”

There was a chorus of: “Me, me too!”     “And me, we’ll all go”

Making Memories.

River Ure, Sleningford Mill, near Ripon.

The Ure, while being very beautiful

Is the most dangerous of rivers.

The water flows off the high moors

causing to Ure to rise quickly,

it catches people unawares.

We first came here in the 1970’s

when our son became a canoeist.

We loved the deep, darkness of the

fast flowing river. It is full of rich

peatiness colouring it brown.

The site where the tents and

caravans parked was dense

with trees, tall grasses and flowers

making it a mysterious wonderland.

small animals and birds abounded.

Now, in 2017, we went for a day

down memory lane when our

active grandson celebrated his

entry into his teenage years by

competing in his first slalom.

The place and the River Ure,

still, has its magic hold over us.

Maybe more bushes line the

riverbanks, the bigger trees

more mature and autumnal.

The canoeing is still the same,

enthusiastic paddlers, even more

enthusiastic parents shepherding

their water-bound children.

A new crop of race officials.

The unseen army of course designers,

the team of people who erect the course.

The kitchen team who feed everyone.

The Judges, who sit on the bank

timing and score the competitors.

It was a special day for us,

a great occasion communing

with our past and delight that

Grandson is following his much

admired Uncle down the River.

Innocence.

Down by the Bridge.

Jack and Jenny, were ten year old twins, they were on the bridge playing ‘pooh sticks’, dropping their stick on one side of the bridge and rushing to the other side to see if the sticks had come through safely. Jenny's sticks were winning and Jack was getting a bit cross. He suddenly shouted ‘Look! Look at that!’ from under the bridge came a hat, bobbing along the little rapids.

The hat looked like a ladies red and white large felt hat, it looked so out of place in the dark fast flowing stream. Jack was already scrambling down the bank, with a part of a branch in his hand. Jenny came over all motherly and shouted ‘Jack! Be careful! Don’t fall in’. Of course, whenever you say that to anyone, they promptly do it!

Jenny wasn’t concerned about him, knowing he could swim and the water was not very deep. Once in the water, it was not hard for Jack to stretch out his arm and rescue the hat.

Jenny went to the edge of the stream and leaned over, ‘Give me the hat’. ‘No! Said Jack, ‘I rescued it so it’s mine!’ He scrambled up the steep bank, the red and white hat plonked on his head, water dripping down his face, he set off running home, with Jenny trying her best to catch him up.

Puffing along, Jenny was shouting ‘Wait for me, Jack wait for me’. But Jack and his hat did not hear her.

A small tribute to Cilla Black.

                                     

                                                                     Cilla

said it.

Surprise!

Surprise!

We  cried,

we  laughed

her  distinctive

shrill  Liverpool

voice  on  our  T.V.,

screens,  her   laugh,

her   red   hair,  her    

many     song      hits.

She  was  full  of  love

full  of  energy

full    of    fun!

She  was  

ours!

Cilla.

Our  Cilla.

Surprise!

Surprise!

Colours of the Rainbow.

Rainbow Haiku.

Red.

The colour of blood

Dressing for power? - Wear red

Mid summer  - poppies.

Orange.

Colour of sunrise.

A fruit grown in Spain’s sun

Carnival colour.

Yellow.

Bright dandelions

Pretty golden buttercups

Colour of Lemons.

Green.

Forty nine shades

Trees, grass, leafy vegetables

A Christmas colour.

Blue.

Baby and sky blue

Flowers too, bluebells, blue iris

Sometimes, blue moods.

Indigo.

Deep, dark and so rich

Colour of uniforms, Jeans

Thundery skies.

Violet.

A flower colour

Of heather, and dainty violets

Shrinking violets - shy.

Green Men.

I have had an interest in finding out about the Green Man, did a bit of ‘googling’ and found this poem by Mike Harding. While the Green Man is mostly about the head and face carved in wood, there is a Wild Man, who is represented as a whole man, similarly, he is carved out of wood.

Mike Harding was a singer/songwriter and comedian in the 1960's, you can see his work on Utube. He has written and illustrated several books with his own photographs, I have two of them: The Little Book of the Green Man and Footloose in the Himalaya. He is a multi-talented man!!

The Green Man.       By Mike Harding.

I am the face in the leaves,

I am the laughter in the forest,

I am the King in the wood,

I am the blade of grass

that thrusts through the stone cold clay

at the dark of winter.

I am before and I am after,

I am always and the end

I am the face in the forest,

I am the laughter in the leaves.

Autumn is here!!

Walk in Autumn Woods.

Walking in the woods in autumn, on a bright evening. We are going on a circular route. In the rapidly dimming light, we miss our turning and lose our way. We found ourselves at the edge of the wood, beside a small country road. We decided not to leave the aroma of the woods, with the trees and flowers scents mingling. We decided to retrace our steps. The darkness brought a coolness; we pulled our clothes closer. We moved towards each other enjoying the warmth of the other one's body. A small hand grasped mine, I curled my hand around hers and thought how small it was, tiny bones like birds. We matched our steps and quickened our pace.

The gentle evening breeze was turning into a lively one. The leaves were fluttering, displaying the pale undersides. The leaves shed by the Whitebeam and Alder, rustled under our feet. We hear a Wren chirrup in alarm and flutters off into the safety of the higher darkness.

The distant trees start to become into dark and ghostly shapes; branches seem to be reaching out to catch us. We pass the 'leaning Crab Apple' tree, where we played as children,  feeling relief as it signals we are halfway home. Our feet picked up speed, the dried mud crunching underneath. The light of the moon is reflecting in the wetter mud puddles.

Quicker still now, not seeing where we were placing our feet, we stumble over concealed tree roots and over stones and pebbles. The noise from our feet and our heavy breathing frightens and distresses the unseen animals, who crash away alarming to more. Suddenly the quiet of the woodland is alive to panicking animals. That we have given offence to the animals causes us to ‘pull ourselves in’ minimising our bulk trying to be invisible in the night. We begin to jog as we see the wood edge emerging.

We collapse, breathless over the field gate. In front of us are the lights of home. Grey wood smoke swirls from the chimney pots. The distant sound of laughter and chatter drifting on the air as people leave the Red Lion. Well known sounds make us relax our breathing. Normality is returning to our lives, a feeling of reluctance to take ourselves back indoors sweeps over us. During this walk, we have experienced being part of the woods and Nature’s world.

 Based on the poem Walking in Autumn by Frances Horovitz, dedicated to Diana Lodge.

About W.E.Henley and his poem INVICTUS.

William Ernest Henley and Invictus.

Invictus is a poem which focuses on the human spirit and its ability to overcome adversity. It is a rallying cry to those who find themselves in dark and trying situations, who have to dig deep and fight for their lives. The poet certainly knew hard times and needed all his strength to battle against the disease.

Born in Gloucestershire, England in 1849, he was diagnosed with tubercular arthritis at the age of 12 and went through years of pain and discomfort.

W. E. Henley wrote Invictus whilst in the hospital undergoing treatment for tuberculosis of the bones specifically those in his left leg, which had to be amputated from the knee down, he was still only a young man at this time.

He managed to save his right leg by refusing surgery and seeking an alternative form of treatment from a Scottish doctor, James Lister.

It was during his time in Edinburgh that Henley met the writer, Robert Louis Stevenson. They became friends and corresponded on a regular basis. Stevenson later admitted that he had based his character, Long John Silver - from the book Treasure Island - on Henley, he has a wooden leg, a strong rasping voice and forceful personality.

Invictus does contain passion and defiance and it is easy to see just why so many use the power lines to drum up courage and to shed light into the darker corners when all else fails. Written in 1875 and published in 1888. It retains its original power and conviction.

Henley’s personal experience on the operating table and in a hospital bed, facing possible death, certainly helped him create one of the most popular poems in the English language.

INVICTUS.       By William Ernest Henley.

Out of the night that covers me,

    Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

    For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

    I have not winced or cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance

    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

    Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

    Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

    How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

    I am the captain of my soul.