Fishing Lines by marge. No 16 in my series of poems on the theme of LINES.

I don’t know what you think -

I think fishing in lakes and rivers

Is cruel - why catch a fish

to throw it back in?

I just do not “get it”.

Do you?

Lots of people do get it -

Mostly men. Are they

casting their lines to

get pleasure in the outdoors?

To get an away day from family?

They will say it is a SPORT,

(Maybe sport for the man).

There are private Fishing

Lakes, where you pay to fish -

Private Lines -

Profit motive -

You cast your line

And still - you throw

The fish back

To be caught again.

Fishing is a big money game,

retailers selling expensive

Rods and Lines - Tents and Boxes,

a suitable vehicle to get you

to the favourite fishing place.

A fishing Licence……

No, I do not “get “ fishing!

Or its RODS and LINES…..

"Who Stole the Mountain? Poem No. 14 in my series sof poem on the theme of LINES.

“Who Stole the Mountain?”.

Poem 14 on my Series of Poems based on the theme of “Lines”.

We have been staying in Llandudno.

There was an excursion to see the

Welsh National Slate Mines Museum.

We went through the Llanberis Pass

seeing the mighty Mount Snowdon.

After our arrival, we saw a brilliant video

called “Who Stole the Mountain”?

It was not the baking sun or wind and rain

but, the wealthy Landowners.

They employed the poor to rape the mountain

by digging, dynamiting or with their bare hands.

Risking their lives to make their owners wealthy.

We were taken into the Slate Splitting Shed

To see a demonstration by a man who had

The skills to split the slates by hand, he is

one of the few men who can do this very

skilled job, now tiles are made by machine.

He was so skillful, cutting and measuring by eye,

how to split the slabs into thin slate tiles, then by

a quick pencil line, fashion it into a beveled tile.

Still used for house, Church and Cathedrals roofs.

All done under the strict rules of Health and Safety.

No longer risking lives to produce slates but

to educate and inform the flocking tourists.

   

Knitting Lines by marge. No. 15 in my series of poems on the theme of LINES.

When I was three years old, my Grandma said   (1941)

“You are three now, you must not be idle”.

First, she taught me how to knit, then sew,

read and write. She made sure I was not idle!

I learned to knit in plain knitting, making

square pot holders, she had the old fashioned

black leaded range that you cooked on,

at the side was an oven to cook dinners.

She was always cleaning it.

I soon was able to follow her, knitting

brightly coloured squares, two or three

were sewn together to make the thick pad

needed so you did not burn your hands

on the hot kettle or panhandles.

Soon after I learned how to do the

stitch called purl, I could knit one line

and pearl one line, I was making my

own bonnets, pixie bonnets with a

pom-pom on the top.

I graduated on to making scarves,

then mittens, she was right, I was never idle!

Before long I was knitting Socks for Soldiers,

very complicated, made on four needles.

                 And so, my life followed on with K1. P1 and counting the lines

….. Clothes for me, for Soldiers and everybody babies.

My Little Book by Melvyn Brown.

My Little Book by Melvyn Brown.

It’s only small, seven by three

With seasons, tides, things to convert

Superb information I’ll never use

Now I have reached forgetfulness

I need to consult the book

Where to be the next day

I need to take eight pills each day

Attend the hospital every month

Now I am running out of space.

NOTE: This poem was written by

my lovely friend Melvyn, he lost

his fight with Cancer, July 2018.

My Marriage Lines by marge. No. 12 in my series of poems on the theme of LINES.

My ‘Marriage Lines’ are now old

next year, we will have been

married for 60 years.

I cannot say we have never ever

“Fallen out”

in the first two years, we fought

like cat and dog.

There was no winner because we became

Partners, equals.

When my husband went to get

our Marriage Licence, he also

Got his Driving Licence

which cost more!!

A fact he has never ever let me

Forget - that I was a 7/6 Bride.

Our marriage has run on lines -

Lines of Agreement.

We aim not to go to bed upset with

each other.

We agreed on the Lines of Upbringing -

for our children - a united front.

The only thing we disagree on

Is, that I would like a dog

and he does not….

- Lines of Disagreement.

Words ending in "I-A" by marge. A word fun poem!

Words ending in   “I - A”.           

Rescuers tell us in the Media

That their patient has hyperthermia

Swollen rivers in the Himalaya

Causes drastic devastation in India

Change of life women can have mania

Mid-life crisis men can have melancholia

Sometimes doctors tell us we have dyspepsia

After a serious accident, we can have amnesia

To say nothing of those with schizophrenia

I know tonight I shall experience INSOMNIA.

NOTE: The subject for my Poetry Groups'

monthly poem was Insomnia.

Ballot Boxes by marge. Written in 2010.

The Ballot Box.

                             

The boxes cannot claim they are overworked.

Most of their time is spent in secure storage.

At Election times, they become the focus of attention.

Removed from their storage prison,

Out on license. To do their duty.

They are dusted off, locks checked, dispatched

to become the “Main Feature” at Polling Stations.

People of every political persuasion mark

their cross on the Ballot Paper, fold it,

so no one can see the mark they have made.

Some hesitantly, some excited, some have

“Done it before”. They approach the Ballot Box

on the table, to post their precious Vote,

through the slot, in the top of the box.

The voting papers held safe inside the dark box.

Keep the secret of each and every Voter.

The climax of the boxes’ day comes at the Count.

Where they are emptied of the anonymous votes

are then verified, counted and maybe re-counted.

boxes, redundant again, are loaded for the return to storage.

Note: The first wooden Ballot Box is kept at

Pontefract Museum, West Yorkshire.

SKYLINE by marge, Poem No.10 in my series on the theme of "LINES".

Where have you sat to watch the skyline?

We used to love to sit on a balcony in Spain

drinking wine, with the sun going down.  

Turn your gaze a little to see the reflected

sun on the high rise buildings that are

our home for a week or two.

Have you sat in an American Hotel

Bar, cocktail in hand looking at the

New York skyline? Familiar to us all

whether we have been there or not.

All the photos and paintings bring

memories of yellow cabs,

people crossing roads in their hundreds,

going across on the Ferry?

My best skyline memory is on a stroll

to the ancient fisherman's Pub

on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.

Living there for a week, the tourists

buses have left, peace has descended,

as we walk, seeing the light fade over

the ancient ruined Priory, images of early

early Monks, the marauding Vikings,

then sitting there with my half a lager,

thinking, seeing the skyline, remembering.

Sighing for Spain by Javier Cerces, Lyric for a Pasa Doble.

Poem found in the book Soldiers of Salamis,

by Javier Cerces.

Poem Written as a lyric to a Pasa Doble.

Sighing for Spain.

God desired, in his power

to blend four little sunbeams

and make of them a woman

and when this was done

in a Spanish garden, I was born

like a flower on a rose bush.

Glorious land of my love,

blessed land of perfume and passion

Spain, in each flower at our feet

a heart is sighing.

Oh I’m dying of sorrow

for I’m going away, Spain from you

far away from my rose bush, I’m torn.

Sunflowers in Lines in the Farmers Field by marge. No. 9 in my "Lines" Series of poems.

Standing there, tall and straight.

Like soldiers in an Army Parade.

Uniform flowers, Uniform Yellow,

Uniform Seed Heads forming.

Heads turned to the sun

Growing, growing and growing.

Yellow petals hanging limp,

Drooping, preparing to drop.

The farmer, thinking of birds

In the winter needing feeding.

Sunflower seeds necessary food

For cold and hungry feathered friends.

Life's Procession. By marge.

  

Whether we realise it, or not.

Life is a procession.

If we use the analogy of

A Race Course, a racehorse.

All the horses start, at the start.

Liken it to our birth.

The horses progress around the course.

We, grow through our childhood.

Some horses fall at the first fence;

We may fail, through childhood difficulties.

The horses continue with the race,

We continue with our Education.

The horses get into their stride,

We go to work, to marry, mature

The horses begin to gallop, maximum speed.

We watch our children grow, to

Take their place, in their procession.

We progress through our lives,

Middle age, grandchildren, and then retirement.

The horses round the final bend,

We reach our old age,

For the horse, the winning post becomes visible.

For us, death becomes visible.

Like the horses, who have passed

Markers along the course of the race.

So we have passed life’s markers.

Our children and their descendants

Will, in turn, pass their life’s’ markers

In the process of Life’s procession

Note: This poem was written in 2010.

Sixes on the 6th Day by marge

We all played dominoes,

did you have the numbered ones

or did you have the animals on?

did you win? If you lost did you cry?

Dices, do you remember the

the film about the crap game?

And Sarah Brown sang Hymns?

The men sang “Luck be a Lady tonight”.

The music lovers will know what a

Sextet is. Do you like your music

fast or slow and sultry? Do you dance,

or, do you sit and listen, absorbing.

A “Sixer” is a Patrol Leader in the

Scouts and Cubs. If you work hard

you can get armsful of Badges.

Did you “Dib-dib-dib and

dob-dob-dob? Or Bob a Job?

Did you hear the speeches of

Martin Luther King? When he had

a dream about a Mountain?

and seeing the other

side. Just like Moses in the Bible

did. Two great men of history.

The 6th month of June gives us

Tennis at Wimbledon. Who will win?

It is also Strawberry Time

Strawberries, with cream for tea!

You can go and Pick-Your-Own!!

Where you eat more than pick!!