Harvest Moon by Stella Armour.

Harvest Moon.

The night is flushed yet mellow,

soft with the scent of sweet apples and cinnamon.

An antique gold, shimmering of burnished meadows,

sensual as silk on skin bleeds its warmth like red wine.

The whispering seduction of an intimate stranger

in caress of a lover, yet the kiss is a keepsake, a

forget- me- not to remember in the springtime.

When twilight comes the honeyed tones of summer love

will be lost as Harvest Moon slips serenely into

the sunset sky

Sparkling summer dreams lost in the long shadows

of autumn.

The flame dies to a hazy glow as russet hues and spider webs

cover the curled leaves like a veil of goodbyes.

© Stella Armour 2018

Every thing by Gwyeth Brown.

NOTE: This poem was written
in response to the challenge of
write a poem using a "made up"
word.

EVERYTHING
Thingy put that thing on the table
When we were on holiday last year
in thingamajig. You know, where we
bumped into thingy who used
to live down the road from us.
I know who you mean, she was married
to that big man who worked at thingy.
and was related to Mrs thingy in the
chemist shop who sells those thingamabobs.
That’s right, I get them sometimes.
Ta ra. See you later at the thing tonight

EVERYBODY, SOMEBODY, ANYBODY and NOBODY by Anon.

Everybody. Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.

This is a little story about four people named

Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.

There was an important job to be done and

Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it.

Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.

Somebody got angry about that because 

it was Every body's job.

Everybody thought that Anybody could do it,

but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody

when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.  Anonymous.

NOTE: For years our little daughter used these

names, she was Everybody, her brother was

Anybody while I, her mother was Somebody..

Her father was Nobody. Which shows that she

Was not impressed at all by men.

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Horizon by marge. Originally written December 2009.

Today, from our Spanish Terrace,

We could see no division between sky and sea.

There was, no horizon,

Only a merging of grey striped sea

And grey striped sky.

Rain was falling greyly to earth.

Our two, tall swaying palm trees

Were depressingly still,

While raindrops dripped.

As we stood and stared out

Almost imperceptibly, the sea

And sky parted, revealing

A thin dark grey line of the horizon.

The whole day remained cold,

Wet and battleship grey.

This is not what we came to Spain for.

We were escaping the cold,

Damp grey days of England!

Here in Spain, T.V., News said

“Snow in Madrid”,

English T.V., the News said

“England suffers in snow and ice”.

This morning, we played

Crazy Golf in the rain.

This afternoon, people were

Sitting, drinking beer on a

Cold, wet terrace, watching

Rain falling in the pool.

They are confident that, even

Though today is a grey day,

Tomorrow, the sun will shine.

This is, after all, the Costa del Sol,

The Coast of the Sun!

Made Up Words by marge.

MADE UP WORDS.

I think we first came into contact

with made up words was:

when our son, David was

a toddler and started taking.

About Fizzy cars -- a sports car.

A Piddy car was a VW Beetle.

AND a Wina Wan was a lorry.

Our daughter Catherine,

when she was young -

I don’t know where she

heard the story of:

Everybody, Somebody,

Anybody and Nobody but

she stopped using Mummy,

Daddy and David, she renamed us,

She became Everybody,

I, mummy became Somebody.

Her big brother was Anybody.

While her poor father was

re-Christened NOBODY.

I have got to admit,

We did use these names

For several years!

Everybody. Anybody and Nobody.

This is a little story about four people named Everybody, Somebody, Anybody,
and Nobody.

There was an important job to be done and Everybody was sure that
Somebody would do it.

Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.

Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody's job.

Everybody thought that Anybody could do it, but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did whatAnybody could have done.  
Anonymous.

Railway Lines by marge. No. 23 in my series on the theme of LINES.

I have Railway Lines at the bottom of my garden.

This one is the Leeds/ London line -  

we have Virgin Rail racing to and fro.

Also on this line is the stopping train -

Doncaster/ Leeds - slow and not very clean.

These trains are the rejects of

London’s transport.

At the side of my street, is the Sheffield to York Service,

we get all sorts of trains on this line.

Steam Trains on their way to, or from,

the Train Museum at York.

Puff, puff, puff - toot. toot. toot

as they pass through the nearby

Train Sation of Moorthorpe.

The trains do not bother me, they are

part of my life. I can sleep through the

night and never hear them, not even

the Goods Trains that when they stop.

38 sets of buffers clunk, clunk, clunk

into each other.

In nearby Doncaster, there is the

history of train building, that  we

can be proud of. It has begun as

a new idea of a College to teach

girls and boys how to build future

trains, Making sure that there is

continuity of building so that

there will be Trains  

Running on the Rail…...

Lines Running Forever…….

Formula One Lines by marge. No. 24 in my series of poems on the theme of LINES.

Have you noticed all the lines in F1?

Rubber lines of burnt tyres on the circuit.

Lines of information on the TV screen.

Singapore Race, being run in the evening -

lines and lines of floodlight lighting up

the scene.

Racing lines taken by the drivers,

straightening out the corners.

Lines and lines of safety fencing

for the safety of drivers and spectators.

Lines and lines of adverts for Rolex

Watches.

In the Pit Lane and Workshops,

the lines are there again, lines not to

be crossed by unauthorised persons.

Lines of racks holding the many tyres

used in each race - costing more than

the average car driven by you or me.

Expensive lines.

Who will win this Race?

Who will win the Constructors Challenge

Please Accept Me by Alison Ramirez

Please Accept me 

I really am not dumb

It is my medication

That makes my mind go numb

They smooth out the signals

Calm my shattered nerves

Make my brain slower

Take away my verve

This is the choice I have

To live in ungodly pain

Or take my myriad pills

And live with a dulled brain

How I wish I could be normal

Think like I used to

But this pain has such a grip

I chose to seem a fool

Have some patience for my slowness

When you see me fail a simple task

Or struggle for my words

Some understanding is all I ask

The one who needs to understand the most

Whose frustration can't be measured

Is the one whose body has failed

Under all this pressure

I try to forgive myself

For always seeming dumb

But given the choice I have

I choose to be numb

Note: This poem was written in response

to the head and face pain - TN Neuralgia.

Lines of ELECTRIC PYLONS by marge. No. 22 in my series of poems on the theme of LINES.

They march across the fields.

These mighty constructions

legs and arms apart,

fearsome warriors,

armed with electricity.

If you keep your distance,

they will not harm you,

try and climb the longs legs

to the top and you may get

more than you expected.

They attract foolish young

men and boys.

Looking at them as

artistic constructions,

they are an art form in

their height and grace.

their strong steel frames,

Artistically carrying Electricity.

Where do they come from?

Where do they go?

From one part of England

to another part……

Striding, striding over

fields, woods, hills, and streams.

Endlessly marching in lines.

Endlessly, endlessly, marching,

Marching.

You must not make aa Plaything of the Rain by marge.

You must not make a Plaything of the rain.

“You must not make a plaything of the rain”.

I heard a father say this to his toddler.

“How odd,” I thought.

Toddlers make playthings

Of anything and everything.

How do you stop them?

A toddlers’ world is wonderful,

Everything is seen for the first time,

Is so amazing.

When the notice the tiniest of insects,

When they taste, the fattest of worms.

The adventure of seeing darkness,

Seeing the silver moon and stars.

They delight of a warm bath.

To help Mummy at the sink.

But, nothing compares to:

Putting your wellies on,

To jump in the mud,

To splash in the puddles,

Twirling your new umbrella.

Making a plaything of the Rain.

NOTE: Poem based on the last line of:

Mervyn Morris poem “Little Boy Crying”

I'm here in Bridlington with You by marge.

For a week, just we two

Just imagine me and you.

From our Computers we rebound

To do something interesting here around.

We really need to do what pleases

Refind, uplifting - nothing sleazy.

Time relaxing in our room

I cannot get my feet up too soon.

I am laid on the bed, looking at the ceiling

“Oh! My God, look how that papers’ peeling!”

“Hold my hand, just talk and talk to me and

Let me gently drift, to sleep just holding your hand.

I can float off, dreaming and happily so

Because I am in Bridlington with  you.”

NOTE: This poem is loosely based on

James Fenton’s poem -

I’m in Paris with You.