Somewhere over the Rainbow by marge.

Why? Oh, why? Is the rainbow so special?

We can see it, aware it's not there.

An illusion, a trick of the light

The colours are heavenly

It's shaped, a perfect arch.

A bright colour scheme on show

Red, orange, yellow. green, blue, indigo

                                       and violet.

Which is your favourite colour?

Mine is green, the grass, trees, and fields.

Perfect perfection in the rainbow.

What lies over the bright rainbow?

We’re told a crock of gold can be

       

                             found at the end.

The treasure for our heart and soul.

© Marjorie Lacy.

Up, Up and Away by marge, May 2018.

My balloon is blue and romantic,

Drifting like a fairy. Bright and airy.

Decorated with Forget Me Nots.

My balloon has light strings,

its basket is blue

No people in its basket,

But full of pretty, dainty

Forget Me Nots

Going for a ride.

To keep this precious cargo

Safe and making sure it does not

Fly too far away. There is a strong

Blue Anchor.

NOTE: This is about a vintage

Postcard (1908 approx.)

Misch & Co. “Floraltown”

Series 1316

Series 1315.

Designed in England.

Printed in Germany.

©  Marjorie Lacy. May 2018

Fish and Chips for Tea by marge.

                                                    

Fish and Chips for tea, we all love,

Chips and Fish for lunch, we all love

What can we have for breakfast?

Fish Finger Sandwich, why not?

What can we have for High Tea,

Not Afternoon Tea, well not for me.

Shall we have Cod? Haddock? Salmon?

Evening Meal? Fish Pie would be swish...

Have you tried Fish and Peas?

With Rice would be nice, Curried Fish?

Fish Balls bought from the  Chinese Supermarket.

Breakfast: Eggs Benedict with thin sliced Salmon.

Some Fish I would not eat, Pollack and Basra,

Anything from Vietnam or Chinese Yellow River.

So you see, you have to buy right - choose a

Good fishmonger.  Read the back of the packets.

But let’s not finish on bad fish,

Lets all queue up outside our local chippy,

Shout over the heads “A Special” for me.

Eat it out of a paper on the way home.

“Eee By Gum, that were a good un,” we say.

Wipe our hands and mouth on the paper

Appetite sated, and go on our way.

What do we want? We want Fish and Chips!!

© Marjorie Lacy.

In Plain Sight by Brian Patten.

I rode up to the border on my donkey.
The guard pulled me aside.
“What’s in those sacks the donkey’s carrying?
What have you got to hide?”
I didn’t like his tone of voice
Or what his questioning implied.
I said there was absolutely nothing
That I wished to hide.
Still, he searched the creature’s panniers,
And it really was a farce
When he snapped on a pair of surgical gloves
And looked up the donkey’s arse.
Finally, he gave up searching.
He decided what I’d said was true.
He waved me on way. I smiled
And smuggled the donkey through.

War Horse and a Place of Peacr by marge.

War Horse and a Place of Peace Together.

It was 12th November 2018

When I visited this magnificent sculpture

He is hollow, you can see the sky

You can see the grass, hedges, trees.

As you approach, you see the head

The animals' size stops you in your tracks

You take a deep breath, look again

Your breathing begins again.

I felt I ought to speak, say

Something momentous, I gulped instead.

Tears pricked my eyes, does he know

I am overcome with emotion?

I need to do something,  get his photo

Proof that I have been and visited.

I take his photo from all angles, all sides.

Like on a real horse his hindquarters

Are strong.

Sloping upwards to his shoulders and

Arched neck, I am back at his huge head again.

The expression on his face is kind, even humorous

Unlike the formal real horses on Parade in London.

War Horses hooves have been man-made

To create the effect of a heavy horse.

To make him appear to be moving

0r, is it an optical illusion? It is your movement?

He looks at me, happy I have visited

Him in his unusual home,

A field beside the busy A645

In Featherstone, West Yorkshire.

NOTE: You park in the nearby Rugby Clubs

Grounds, and walk to see the War Horse.

©Marjorie Lacy November 2018.

Wet, Cold Tuesday. 20.11.18 by marge.

We woke up to rain today

I don’t feel very well either.

There is no use in pretending

that today is not happening.

Almost Lunchtime and guess what?

It’s still raining, I don’t feel well.

At least the washing machine is

being busy, doing its spin cycle

Having dosed through the wash

I will have to move, hang the

washing in our little bedroom,

to dry. (Doesn’t everyone?)

Before I can hang the washing up,

I have to remove yesterdays’

dry washing, fold and put away.

Once wet washing hung up.

I can go back to my pity-party

sitting in my chair, looking out

at the garden to see our almost

leafless tree and Oh Yes! The rain.

The Reading Group, 10.11.2018. By maege

Today, I have been to my reading group,

there were not many of us there,

which sometimes, makes for a

better meeting, more people get

the opportunity to say something.

The quieter ones cannot hide

behind the more vocal ones.

While driving there, a vehicle came

level with me at the traffic lights,

emblazoned on its back and sides,

“Professional Dog Poo People”

“Yorkshire’s No. 1 in the Business of Dog No. 2”.

I just knew it was going to be

A very strange day.

When I walked into the meeting,

I did not get my usual welcome.

They were all discussing

the scandal revealed on the T.V.

“Did you see it?” they asked.

“No, what was it?” The reply by

the group of elderly ladies

was “We can’t remember, we

hoped you would know”.

I was happy, as an old lady

with confusion and word loss,

I felt right at home among

this group of elderly equally

confused Ladies. We did

get around to sharing

books we could recommend

written by foreign authors.

We all left, thinking about the

book we would like to read.

It was a coincidence that

when I was a Supermarket

shopping, I found a shelf

of donated books for sale

one by an Icelandic Author,

I thought It must have been

waiting just for me!

When I were a Lass.... (maybe 1943/45) By marge.

When I were a lass...   (maybe 1943/45)               

When I were a lass,

We had “nowt”, less than “nowt”.

There was never money for new clothes.

Everything I owned was “handed down,

Or “passed on”.

Shoe colours were either black or brown.

My presents were either handmade, or

Rebuilt and repainted by my mum or uncles.

Grandma said “After the war, you’ll get

Easter Eggs tied with ribbon and Bananas,

You’ll love them”.

I had no idea what she was talking about,

I had never seen them.

This man in a uniform came sometimes,

My Mum said, “It’s your Dad”.

I was sent to sleep with my cousins

At my Aunties,

So they could “go out”

When I went home again he’d gone.

Then were these things called “Air Raids”.

Mum would wake me up and carry me

Outside, and into the Air Raid Shelter.

It was dull, dark and smelly.

Full of people, talking, singing and

Smoking. No one was sleeping.

The food wasn’t good,

I did not eat a lot, not powdered egg

Or corned beef hash, it was awful.

Grandma used to soak sultanas overnight

For me to have with my jam and bread.

I didn’t know then how bad things were

Everybody in our street was the same.

When I were a lass, we had “nowt”

A  whole lot of “nowt”.

Dark Hedges by marge.

The avenue of Beech trees

planted in the late 1770’s

To impress the visitors

Approaching Gracehill House.

Pretty whippy Copper Beech

Saplings in Springtime colour

Were splendid.

Over the centuries, have grown

To be so sleek and slender,

in maturity.

A joy to behold in the

Summer, shading the traveller

From dazzle.

In winter time we can see

Their snake-like sinuous

Curving selves.

their high canopy forming

A tunnel over the road

Showing off the bright orange

Autumn leaves.

NOTE: These spectacular trees

Have become a Tourist attraction

after being shown on the film

“Game of Thrones”.

It is worth googling to see photographs of the trees.

Refuge by Stephen Boyce.

What washes up in the forest is no less

a wonder that the flotsam of oceans.

Take this skeleton of an upturned ark

stranded among a reach of ash trees,

beached in leaf litter, its ribs and spars

secured by a rigging of twiggy larch,

tangles of plaited honeysuckle, all

leaning in as though wanting to give ear

to silence, breath the wood's cool must.

Some Crusoe surely built this, laid limbs

against a fallen ridgepole, woven vines

and brushwood spread out a bed of brash,

learned how stillness is a state of mind,

here where things slither, drip and flinch.

NOTE: This poem was published on

the Woodland Trust facebook site.