LIBRANS

                                                     LXXXII
(Happy birthday D.H.)

I recently came across
An old astrology book
It was so fascinating
I had to have a look.

I've always thought that Libra
Was the best astrological sign -
Well of course I would say that
Because it's yours- and mine.

We are - it said - diplomatic,
Considerate, sympathetic and kind;
But it also credited us
With a sharp and cynical mind.

(Now think of Solomon -
As fair and just as could be -
I am quite convinced that
A Libran was he.)

We're peace-lovers and we need
A calm and peaceful life,
What really bothers us
Is arguments and strife.

They endow us with many
A less appealing trait:
They say we're extravagant and lazy
And that we procrastinate.

I thought I was indecisive -
But now I'm not too sure.
Even Librans are not perfect,
That would be a bore.

A pair of scales may not be
The most exciting sign
But it stands for fairness and justice
And I'm glad it's mine.

THE ANNUAL APPLE AVALANCHE

                                                 LXXXI

All through the Spring and Summer
We tend our apple tree
We feed and fertilise it
And keep the ground weed-free.

But now that Summer's over
And Autumn days have come
We have apples by the hundred
Apples by the ton.

We've boxes full of apples
In neat and tidy rows,
And every time I turn my back
The apple mountain grows.

Apples stewed and crumbled
Home made apple pie,
I don't think I can use them all
No matter how I try.

Apples pulped and frozen
Gallons of home-made wine.
We are not short of apples
But I am short of time.

Apples are pressed on friends who call,
What we need is a buyer,
But has the apple mountain shrunk?
No, it's grown even higher.

Stewed apples with custard,
Stewed apples with cream,
If I eat one more apple
I'm sure I'll turn pale green.

To B.C.
Remembering your bumper harvest,
Oct.1980

AN ENGLISH AUTUMN

                                                       LXXX

When winter's on the way,
Nature has a final fling
To finish her bronze and gold pigments
And clear her palette for Spring.

America's fall picture
Is too gaudy - to bright.
England's Autumn tapestry
Is a restrained, artistic delight.

A fluffy clematis shawl
On the hedgerow is spread;
The leaves are at their very best
Just before they're shed.

The elegance of a silver birch -
The beauty of a bronze beech -
The Autumn countryside refreshes
The parts no other time can reach.


December 1988

TATE MODERN

                                                                          LXXI

The Tate Modern is useful
If you've half an hour to kill.
All aspects of modern art are there
And Life - both moving and still.

Without lables you wouldn't know
What an exhibit was supposed to be
And I often find it hard to guess
What I am meant to see.

Little squares of colour -
Little swirls of paint
Might be bright and cheerful - but
A masterpiece it ain't.

What can we admire in
A wall that's painted grey?
Does it tell us something -
If so what does it say?

Black oblongs splashed against
A background of darkest red,
The artist is fussy about it's position
The Art lecturer said.

In this artistic country of ours
The best modern art could contribute
Was three-minute time-lapse film of
A bowl of decaying fruit.


This is from  a prejudiced viewpoint but - a painting had been hung upside down for quite a while
before the error was realised - and no one noticed!
May 2005
To H. and R.

MODERN REVEALING FASHIONS

                                                                      LXXI

On a recent visit to London
I was amazed at the way women dressed,
Exposing vast acreages
Of bosom and breast.

Granted it was very hot
But it is wrong to think that you'll
Be better in a tight and clinging top -
It will not keep you cool.

The colour range of cleavage
Was an interesting sight:
Ebony black - shades of brown -
Honey gold and white.

Then there is the condition
Known as "bosom bounce"
Young women don't walk smoothly -
They wobble and they flounce.

Men are understandably distracted -
I have seen a collision or two.
With so much visible pulchritude
What can a normal man do?

I have my own theory
On why necklines are so low:
If you'd paid a fortune for a boob job
Wouldn't you want it on show?


July 2010

FAT FREE DIETS

                                                                  LXX  

Some folk are so diet conscious,
So "healthy food" aware;
Low fat this - fat free that,
Full cream?  Don't you dare.

But there are some people
And I know a few -
Who disregard what the experts
Say that they should do.

They drink creamy full fat milk,
Not for them watery semi-skimmed.
And  they cook their pork chops
Before the fat has been trimmed.

Double cream and yoghurt,
Cheese that is full fat -
But, - they're slim with low cholesterol,
Now how unfair is that?

To Joy
October 2010

BOMBAY BUSES

                                                            LXIX (69)

B.E.S.T. - the company that runs the buses of Bombay

BEST drivers and conductors
Work together as a team,
Considering the daily hassles they face,
One cannot help but hold them in esteem.

Do the drivers go to a special school
To perfect their jerky, jolting drive,
To learn how to let the clutch in
So that passengers and engine just survive?

Are they taught how to hit the brakes,
And as our balance we regain,
To take the foot off abruptly
So that we all fall over once again?

Jabbing the accelerator constantly
Helps to keep us on our toes,
Hones the perfect sense of balance
That every  bussing Bombay-ite shows.

Their steering skills however are superb
Avoiding people, cycles, cows and cars.
In wide and busy main streets
And narrow, twisting back-street bazaars.

Conductors need a different set of skills,
They must be slim, with all-seeing eyes
To extract fares from pinioned passengers,
Very few dodge payment I|'d surmise.

It must take years of experience
To know just when to ring the bell
Before everyone has got on -
It's an art at which they all excel.

The sunniest of natures will be soured
If nothing but brickbats come their way
And they never ever receive
A small - and occasional bouquet.

This verse is not a criticism
Of the B.E.S.T. fraternity.
Without their many specialist skills
How much duller life in Bombay would be.

3rd November 1955

WAR GRAVES

                                                               LXVIII

Gravestones standing to attention
On parade for all eternity.
In lines of military order
Each one a separate tragedy.

Although many decades have passed
You sense the sorrow and grief.
Their adult life was stolen -
War is a terrible thief.

They were not just soldiers
They were husbands - fathers - sons.
Women prayed their men would be
Among the lucky ones.

How many strong and brave young men
Were cut down in their prime
What a futile waste of life -
War is the ultimate crime.

Brookwood cemetery, Surrey.

August 1988

LAKELAND LADIES

LXVII


 I love to walk in the country -
I'm going there next week
But that does not mean that I
Intend to be less chic.

My clothes are all designer made
And so are my shoes
Pure silk scarves and soft kid gloves
Are what I always choose.

I wear suede leather brogues
And pale cream trouser suits
Unlike those hearty females
Who sport heavy climbing boots.

They stride out ostentatiously
Heavily clad and shod -
I envied them when the path became
A marshy, swampy bog.

The walk was wet and muddy
I've ruined my linen slacks -
Perhaps there is something to be said
For climbing boots and macs.

July 1988

This does not refer to me -
but to an elegant lady I
saw on Catbells, near Keswick.

STOVE CIRCLES LXVI

In mankind's early days
When civilization was in sight
Our ancestors had a barbecue
Almost every night.

They dined on free-range mammoth
Or additive-free deer,
And on feast days they would cook
An ostrich or a rhea,

Women always moan about
Their cooking facilities -
Said Mrs. Neanderthal "I need
A stone built fireplace, please."

"I want a covered kitchen"
The Stone-age housewife said,
"It would be so much easier
To keep the whole tribe fed."

"I must have a proper chimney"
Saxon woman cries,
"To let out all the smoke and soot
That gets into my eyes."

"If I don't have an oven"
Middle ages housewife said,
"How do you expect me to
Produce our daily bread?"

Stoves improved quite slowly
And we had a while to wait
Until the advent of the Aga
And gleaming black-lead grate.

Gas and electric cookers came next -
Now everything is micro-waved
So women have to go to work
To use the time they've saved.

We enjoy all mod-cons now
So that's our idea of fun?
Cooking expensive free-range meat
Outside in the rain or sun.

If our ancestors are watching
From somewhere in the heavenly sky,
They must be amazed when they see us
And wonder why they bothered to try.


September 1991

PINCH AN INCH (OR 2.54 CM) LXV

Decimalization makes maths easier
But it's deprived our mother tongue
Of many vivid expressions
That over time have sprung ...

From Imperial measurements -
Decimals and metres aren't the same;
Perhaps their soulless repetition
And unvarying terms are to blame.

"A miss is as good as a mile"
Has an apt and punchy appeal,
But as good as 0.6 km?
That's no literary big deal.

"Getting a quart into a pint pot"
Was another picturesque old phrase
That everyone appreciated
In our parents' days.

When young a 24" waist
Was our goal and ideal
But a 61 cm waist
Doesn't have the same appeal.

Men have always admired
Marilyn's 40" bust
But if it was merely one metre -
What would that do for male lust?

We can visualise yards, feet and inches
With accuracy - and ease.
We carry the standards with us
And can check them whenever we please.

Without decimal measures
Science would be left in the lurch,
But leave us our pounds, feet and inches -
Our mediaeval rod, pole and perch.


July 2000
To RB

ROBOT RUN RESIDENCE (LXIV

We have an automatic house
It runs on well oiled wheels
No one needs to clean it -
Or cook any meals.

Our dinners all prepare themselves -
Breakfast and lunch like-wise
Including all the vitamins
That food experts advise.

And after clothes have been worn
What do you think they do?
They leap back into the cupboard
Washed and dried - folded too.

Food appears on larder shelves -
No slow supermarket queue.
Library books renew themselves
Before they become overdue.

We have a bathroom robot
And that must be true,
For no one ever needs to clean
The basin, bath or loo.

We crawl out of bed in the morning
And sometime during the day
The counterpane creeps over the bed
And the wrinkles all go away.

As everything runs by itself
I have nothing to occupy my day
And have to resort to writing bad verse
To keep the boredom at bay.


Summer 1982

UNTIDYNESS IS A GIFT (Lxiii

One of the greatest gifts
With which I have been blessed
Is the ability to live with chaos
Without getting stressed.

Some friends have Ideal Homes
That I greatly admire,
But to that level of perfection
I know |I could never aspire.

There are women who cannot relax
If a single cushion is unplumped,
But I can sit in a clutter of books,
Restful and comfortably slumped.

I knit or sew as I watch TV
And when I can't stop yawning
I go to bed and leave the debris
To clear up in the morning.

Unlike a lady who tidied up
Before she went to bed
In case they had a burglary -
That's what her husband said.

My garden is a natural one -
It is not tidy I fear
But something is in flower
Every day of the year.

To strive for perfection is admirable
But there can be a high cost,
Stress - worry - anxiety -
And I'm glad I lost.

January 2008

EMAILS AND ATTACHMENTS (LXII)

The computer age has spawned
A brand new industry -
Writing and forwarding enmails -
And it's all completely free.

Some contain advice and warnings
About lipstick and Aspartame
Some say I'll get Alzheimers
If |I do not use my brain.

There are warnings about frauds and scams
A new one every day
And how to tell a genuine mirror
From one that is two-way.

Apart from the authors
Of inaccurate and alarmist prose
There are millions of workers
That no one every knows.

The army of volunteers
Log on every day
Reverentially down-load the junk
And send it on its way.

There are a limited number of write-ups
Both profound and inane
And with so many forwarders
They circle again - and again.

Once an email has been sent
It can journey without pause or rest
Circling the electronic oceans -
A modern day Marie Celeste.

March 2007

HENDECASYLLABIC LXI

This is a Japanese style of verse with 11 syllables to each line
and 19 lines in each poem - hence the 3 odd lines in the middle.


The Japanese are a well disciplined race

And that is reflected in their poetry.

They must county syllables when the muse descends

They are not permitted verses wild and free.

I think their Haikus are the most restrictive

But perhaps they enjoy a challenge and find

Satisfaction in such a difficult task -

And a rigid structure concentrates the mind.

   A poem without rhyme isn't poetry -
   Of course I cannot speak for the Japanese
   And some modern poets might well disagree.

Into every other multi-syllabled line

I introduce a different dimension

I go for an ABCB rhyming scheme

It's much easier than some I could mention.

The Japanese verse sceme is rigid and has

Syllables of seventeen, five or seven.

If Hendecasyllabics were natural

We'd have had not ten fingers, but eleven.


June 2006

AM I OLD? LX

                                                              LX

Old age comes on gradually -
So I have been told
And it is the attitude of the young
That reminds you that you're old.

They speak slowly and clearly,
In a gentle kindly way
To make sure you understand
Everything they say.

"How are we today?" they ask
In a sweet and dulcet tone.
I think they are well within
The patronising zone.

"Well done" says the girl encouragingly
As |I get out of the dentist's chair.
I yearn to respond sharply - but
She means well so I forbear.

A woman in her sixties
Seems an ancient OAP
When you are fit and young -
And not much more than twenty.

I knew that I was old last week -
Mags. for young women seemed obscene
And I found myself picking up
A Saga magazine.


March 2007

A NEW WORRY

                                                         
                                                          LIX

The media like to frighten us
On a wide subject range:
Snowball earth - Greenhouse earth -
Global warming - climate change.

The more they try to scare us
The more blase we become
So another worry must be found
To which we might succumb.

They've now come up with something else
To make our lives more fraught:
A coronal mass ejection -
A CME for short.

Billions of tons of plasma
Thrown off by the sun
Could wreck our power stations -
Every single one.

The more advanced the country -
The more sophisticated the technology
The more destructive and devastating
A solar storm would be.

If a flare should strike us
How many cities would survive
Sans computers - internet - communications?
Only primitive societies would thrive.

Is there a silver lining
To this power-cut cloud?
Well, the Milky Way will be brilliant
And the Aurorae more colourfully endowed.

April 2009

EVEN DOCTOR SPOCK GOT IT WRONG

                                               LVIII

Bringing up children is not easy
You are certain to do something wrong.
You're either too strict or too lenient,
To the P.M.  Club very few belong

(P.M. - Perfect Mother )

If you smack a child when he's naughty
You can damage his psyche for ever.
Patient explanation is what you need,
But violence - no never, never.

If he turns out wild and unruly
His mother must be to blame.
Did you give enough love and affection?
You shouted?  Tch.  Tch.  What a shame.

And it really is no valid excuse
To say you did as you were told.
You must have done something wrong somewhere
Did you smack?  Did you nag?  Did you scold?

I'm glad I did not read a Spock book
Until it was far too late.
My children are sensible adults
And I certainly made many a mistake.

To J and C

(before smacking one's child became a criminal offence)

WORLD'S WORST WINDOW CLEANER

                                                                    LVIII

They say window glass is not porous
But the experts are wrong once again,
As I prove every single time
I clean a window pane.

I wash and shine the outside
And get it gleaming clean
Then I go back indoors
And repeat the whole routine.

But as I rub and polish
I notice with surprise
That a greasy patch has moved outside
Before my very eyes.

So out I go with my "shammy"
To wipe the window pane,
But the smear has seen me coming
And gone inside again.

I do not give up easily
And pursue that errant smudge
In and out - and out and in
As through the house I trudge.

Then the glass plays its trump card.
Yes, I know it's hard to believe,
It holds the smear within it
'Till I think I've won - and leave

As |I sip a well-earned coffee,
I can't believe my eyes:
A blurry, smudgy mark appears -
It spreads and multiplies.

I will get my own back,
I'll ignore it - look the other way,
Then suddenly pounce and wipe it off -
But some other day.

Now when, in the dim and distant future
Someone with a very high degree
Discovers this phenomenon in window glass
Will anybody ever think of me?

To me.
September 1990

STAR GAZING

                                                                          LVI

Stars have always intrigued me
So I thought  I'd try
To learn the constellations -
Find my way around the sky.

I bought myself a book
Of detailed charts and maps
So that in my night sky knowledge
There'd be no black holes and gaps.

From the day I bought the book
Dark clouds veiled the skies
So I studied all the maps with care
And was able to memorise ...

All the constellations
In our Northern sky.
And when at last the clouds cleared
A star expert was I.

I drove into the countryside
Away from the city's light
And climbed a grassy little hill
On a clear and frosty nght.

There out in the open
In the heavens above my head
Were millions and billions of twinkling points
A glorious star-spangled spread.

But all my hard-gained knowledge
Was quite useless to me
For nowhere in the heavens
Was I able to see ...

The lines that my book had
The diagrams and information
That helped me to remember
Each separate constellation.

Is that star in Taurus?
Is it part of the Charioteer?
The groups all run together,
It really isn't clear.

My fingers and toes are icy,
|I'm frozen to the bone.
I'm not that keen on stars any more -
I think I'll just go home.

November 1990

GOODBYE

                                                                     LV

I've done so many farewells,
I'm an expert at saying "Goodbye"
I laugh and chatter gaily
To stop myself wanting to cry.

My first farewell was traumatic,
I left family, friends and home -
Exchanging a warm and caring young life
For a cold and indifferent unknown.

So when a Goodbye's in the offing
I pin a firm smile on  my face,
For "I love you and I'll miss you"
This isn't the time or the place.

A light and teasing banter
Helps keep spirits high;
A hug a kiss - I'll see you then,
Goodbye - my dear - goodbye.

A final smile and wave
Then you must walk away,
Like peeling a plaster off slowly,
It's more painful if you stay.

Goodbye means God be with you
And what can I say
Than "God be with you my dear one
Every single day"

I joined a writing group and this was one of the assignments.

IN THE GOOD OLD (POVERTY STRICKEN) DAYS

                                                                             LIV

When I was young and slender
High fashion I couldn't afford
So I bought my clothes from Oxfam
Before they sent them abroad.

My personal couturiers
Were all Charity shops
Who charged a pound or two for skirts
And even less for tops.

My night wear came from jumble sales
Some was almost free -
It's only worn in bed at night
So who is going to see.

My friends and I swapped clothes and hints
In those poverty stricken days.
We vied to see who could cook mince
In the most economical ways.

The years that passed were prosperous
Our nest egg, it grew bigger,
I put on weight and now alas,
I have an ample figure.

Money's no longer a problem, but
By one of life's little quirks,
My spare tyre has proved to be
The spanner in the works!

April 1988

To Velia

HOT FLUSHES vs HRT

                                                                           L111

Since I reached my fifties
Hot flushes have ruled my life,
Dictating what I can - or cannot - wear
Their influence is rife.

Polo necks are forbidden
No matter what the fashion experts say
And though I had several new ones,
I had to give them all away.

For necklines must be 'V'
Or cut low at neck and nape
So that if a hot flush should arrive
It has a route of escape.

If a flush comes on in company
The conversation fades and dies
Friends look on in amazement
As before their very eyes ...

A scarlet tide surges up
Like a flaming Severn bore
Reaching to the roots of my hair
And what is more ...

It lingers for several seconds
And by the time it fades away
|My friends have quite forgotton
What they were going to say!

But every cloud has a silver lining
And as calories equal heat
I think of every hot flush
As two chocolates I can eat.

The day's first flush coincides with
The alarm clock's ring at dawn
So getting out of bed is painless
Even on a chilly winter's morn.

|Now I am on HRT
Hot flushes are a thing of the past
No longer do they rule my life
And I am free at last.

And what about the drawbacks?
All I can say is this
Getting up each morning isn't easy any more
And it's the one thing that I miss!

To Dr. J.S.
March 1993

YOU TOO CAN LOOK A MESS FOR A FORTUNE

                                                                  LII

You too can look a mess for a fortune
Just follow what the fashion experts say,
You can make your hair look like a tatty haystack
All it takes is one week's pay.

Modern fabrics are all faded, creased and crumpled
But, that's the way they meant to look,
Garments smooth and chic are now out-dated,
Just check in any fashion book.

Modern hairstyles need a lot of time and money
And when you leave your stylist's hands,
It's as if you have been dragged through a hedge backwards
With your hair a mass of bleached and tousled strands.

Junk jewellery is all the rage just now,
The cheaper that it looks, the more the cost,
What happened to the elegance of yester year?
Will it ever surface?  Is it lost?

Designer holes and patches are in fashion -
You can look just like a drop out if you try.
All you need is lots and lots of money
And some fashion books to tell you what to buy.

MAY 1987

Parts of this verse might still apply today  (May 2011)  I have included it because it is one of my favourites.

THE PRICE OF PURITY

                                                                           LI

Whenever I see a product
Labelled "natural" and "pure"
I just know that it is
Going to cost me more.

Each ingredient left out
Puts the price in a higher band -
A sort of inverse sliding scale
That's hard to understand.

Last week I saw some ice-cream
That did not contain
Anti-oxidants or preservatives
Its freshness to retain.

It had no added colour
But when I saw the price
I wondered whether pure gold leaf
Had been added to the ice.

Alas, I cannot afford things
That are produced naturally
And have to resort to those made
In a chemical factory.

March 1995

THE M25 MOTORWAY

                                                                         L

The London Orbital Motorway
The dreaded |M25
Brings chaos and traffic jams
That drivers must survive.

But there are always silver linings
And the best by far
Is admiring Surrey's woodlands
From the comfort of your car.

Winter's bare and elegant trees
Look best with a sprinkling of snow
Though it's not as common as it was
Many decades ago.

Spring is a lovely time of year
With promises of sunny days ahead,
An explosion of leaves and blossom
Means winter is finally dead.

At last, at last Summer is here
But then it is too hot
And the M25 turns into
An extensive parking lot.

In Autumn, Surrey is bathed
In a gentle rusty glow
Unlike the strident scarlets
That some countries know.

Kestrels hover overhead
Wild flowers and animals thrive
A journey on the M25
Can be a wonderful drive.

A visit to The Devil's Punchbowl,
Hindhead, Surrey

November 1007

MIND OVER MUSCLES

                                                                    XLIX

Keep-fit clubs are starting up
All around the land
So I thought that it was time
I joined the growing band ...

Of fitness fanatics
Who pump iron every day
Exercise on treadmills
And jog their lives away.

I considered a gym club
But was scared to death
By the gleaming, muscled bodies
Scarcely out of breath.

I decided I would have to
Get fit before I could enrol
And bought some excercise machines
To help me reach my goal.

But no one every told me
How boring it would be -
And the muscles didn't beef up -
A slimmer waist I didn't see.

Then an article that I read
Solved my problems at a stroke:
"Imagining exercise works" it said -
I don't think it was a joke.

After a mental workout
And energetic exercises in my head
I was so exhausted
I spent another hour in bed.

If my muscles increase by 13%
Just waiting in a shop or traffic queue,
The longer I'm delayed the quicker
A slimmer, stronger me will be on view.

Extract from the Daily Telegraph of 22.11.2001

"Thinking about exercise can beef up biceps ...
Simply imagining exercising ...can significantly
increase muscle strength.
Those who thought about exercise showed a 13.5%
increase in strength after a few weeks."

NATURE'S VISITORS

                                                                 XLVIII

My garden is pesticide free
And nature has a free hand,
So she gathers together her outcasts
In a merry marauding band.

Slugs and snails all visit
With unfailing regularity -
They breakfast on my hostas -
Have salad for their tea.

Carrot and onion flies
Are all invited too -
The Almighty must have made them
When he'd nothing else to do.

Greenfly, blackfly, whitefly
Are all on the guest list,
They're regular attenders
No party's ever missed.

Caterpillars eat the cabbages,
But when they're butterflies,
They treat us to aerial ballets
Across our summer skies.

The evening visitors are
Mosquito, midge and mite
Who zoom in for their dinner
In the fading evening light.

Nature is a lavish hostess
But I really do wish
That some of her guests could feature
In the main course dish.


June 1990

20th CENTURY MAN

                                                                       XLVII

How will history judge us?
Will our epitaph be:
The people who were responsible for
Polluting the wide open sea?

Will we be remembered for
Our fast and reliable cars,
Or for poisoning city centres
And spreading motorway scars?

Will future generations say we used
Their share of fossil fuel
And decimated several species
With our weapons - efficient and cruel?

Will they appreciate our development
Of non-reactive gases
That damage the ozone layer
Bringing cancer to suntanned masses?

Will they admire our grain production
Or will they all say
That nitrate poisoned water
Is too high a price to pay?

Will our children thank us
For nuclear energy
Or compain that we have ruined
Their land and sky and sea?

Will they laud us as the conquerors
Of many a crippling disease
Or remember us for destroying
Untold millions of trees?

Will our descendents revere our inventions  -
Our achievements - our space plan  -
Or call us "Homo destructus"
Twentieth century man.

17.10.1991
Written for the World Wildlife Poetry Competition

BY APPOINTMENT TO

                                                                    XLVI


Have you ever wondered where
James Bond found his mechanic?
His cars always spring to life
With never a non-start panic.

His car is well defended
With rockets, bullets, knives
For men like 007 lead
Exciting, dangerous lives.

The car can turn amphibian
With no sign of leaks.
In spite of salty water
You hear no rusty squeaks.

He's confident and laid back
And his faith in his car is complete.
I'm sure his garage never says:
"Can't fit you in this week"

Eventually Bond must slip up
And land in a muddy ditch,
As he concentrates on seduction,
He'll forget and press the wrong switch.


April 1988

GREENS

                                                             XLV 

How many shades of green are there
In the English countryside?
The colour has but one name
Though the range of shades is wide. 

There's the yellowish green of the primrose leaf
In it's neat and furry whorl,
And the pinkish green of poplar leaves
As they start to unfurl.

The lamb's ear, softly velvet
Has a greenish-silvery sheen
And the jagged leaves of the feverfew
Are an acid, limey green.

The holly, which is blackish green,
In Spring has bronze green tips,
And wild rose fruits are a brownish green
As they ripen into hips.

Conifers come in many hues
Of gold and blue-grey-green;
And hostas all display their leaves
In shades of greenish cream.

The new seeds of the honesty
Are a greeny purple shade
And certain types of lichen
Glow in orange jade.

When September's dews chill the air
And Summer is almost dead,
The green of our land is tinged with
A touch of rusty red.

So - how many shades of green are there?
The only aswer can be:
As many tones of blue as you find
In the sky - the rivers - the sea.


Winkworth Arboretum
May 1988

SUNSET SPECTACULAR

                                                                       XLIV

The vermilion globe of the sun -
An oily golden sea
Embraced by arms of concrete
No longer wild and free.

A gentle swell enhances
The fiery death of the sun
With delicate pastel colours 
The evening show has begun.

The heavens are evenly banded -
Light lemon, pale peach, blush pink.
The sky's light blue background
Is tinted with coloured ink.

The colours deepen and darken
The sky turns indigo blue
With a diamond flash in the gathering gloom
Sirius sparks into view.

Tropical sunsets are brief -
All too soon darkness falls.
There's another performance tomorrow
Make sure of your seat in the stalls.




Cuffe Parade, Colaba.
This stage is now occupied by tower blocks.

To RJM and WM

February 1988

VICTORIAN VALUES

                                                                     XLIII

We all know the Victorian values
Of economy, hard work and thrift.
Endeavour and achievement were greatly admred
And shirkers were given short shrift.

Victorians were upright and God fearing
So many savage souls they "saved"
Young men were bravely patriotic -
Young girls chastely behaved.

So what did they do with their rebels?
Their young folk who would not conform?
They buried them in large asylums
And forgot that they'd ever been born.

Beneath the Victorian icing
Of piety and charity-giving
Lurked hypocritical double syandards
And some very immoral living.


To Dora and Horace
 9.7.1988

FEMININE RESTRAINTS

                                                                       XLII

Right through our civilization
Irrespective of time and race
Women have always sought to
Alter their figure and face.

The feet of upper class Chinese girls
Were bound from a tender age.
They could only hobble painfully
Around the marriage stage.

The giraffe women of Africa
With their long metal-ringed necks
Look unnaturally elegant - but
Their vertebrae must be wrecks.

There are other female mutilations
Too painful to mention.
Keeping a girl pure for marriage
Was the official intention.

To get her daughter firmly corsetted
The good Victorian mother made haste;
For who would marry a well bred girl
With more than a 20" waist?

Never mind if her rib-cage was deformed
Or if she tended to faint.
Victorian ladies suffered for beauty -
Moved gracefully because of restraint.

Men like women shackled and suppressed -
So some feminists claim,
But looking at current fashions
I don't think that men are to blame.

As we enter the 21st century
Women are liberated - and free,
But perhaps girls want a reason
For not being able to flee.

Why else would they wear restricting skirts
And such dangerously high heels.
They look extremely uncomfortable -
I wonder how it feels.

But before we get too critical
About what today's young girls wear,
We should recall the sixties -
Mini skirts - stilettos - armoured hair.

A peacock's large unwieldy tail
To show off his strength is essential
Do girls wear such high-heeled shoes
To prove their breeding potential?


July 2000

A MAY VISIT TO BOMBAY

                                                                        XLI

A summer visit to Bombay
Is a hot and steamy event
85 deg. at sunrise
With humidity at 90%

It's said that ladies glow,
Men perspire and horses sweat,
But it's hard to feel ladylike
When you're wringing wet...

And the "glow" is running
Down your back and chest,
The heat saps your energy
And robs you of your zest.

Dewy beads of moisture
Form upon your face,
They link up with their neighbours
And together they race ...

Down your cheek and neck
Like a little rivulet
A tiny tumbling stream
Of swiftly flowing sweat.

Every cloud has a silver lining
So it is with Bombay's heat
As a smoother-out of wrinkles
The climate is hard to beat.

Fruit and flowers are compensations,
And though I feel a sodden wreck,
I can't remember when I last had
Such a smooth and unlined neck!



30,5,92
Written at Sahar Airport - the airconditioning had failed
 and there were no fans.  Making up this verse helped
pass a long uncomfortable night.

YOUTH IS WASTED ON THE YOUNG

                                                                        XL

The young take health for granted
And don't appreciate
Muscles that do not tire
And joints that do not ache.

They do not even know they have
Blood pressure or a heart,
Their bodies do just what they should -
Every single part.

To perfect sight and hearing
They never give a thought -
And know that their digestion
Will act just as it ought.

They don't realise how lucky they are
To just pick up a paper and read
Without the search for glasses
That we mature folk need.

Their hair is bright and glossy,
Their skin unlined and clear,
Although a tiny little spot
Occasionally may appear.

Youngsters are not grateful for
Fitness in limb and lung.
Isn't it a pity youth
Is wasted on the young.

Revised 1995

BANKING IN THE COMPUTER AGE

                                                                  XXXIX

In these days of instant communication
Why on earth does it take so long
To clear a cheque through the system
Where do they go so wrong?

Messages fly round the world in seconds
In minutes you can contact Mars -
Jupiter takes a little longer and
Saturn - perhaps a couple of hours.

Thanks to the Hubble telescope
We can see solar systems form
Study the remains of supernovas
And watch galaxies being born.

We can receive radio signals
From far distant neutron stars
And there has been mention of
Greening and colonizing Mars.

We can put astronauts in orbit
Or send them up to fix a faulty fuse
While monitoring on a video
The health and well-being of crews.

We have a reasonable postal service
Web sites on the internet,
Satellite telecommunications -
Faxes, E-mails - and yet...

IT CAN STILL TAKE SEVEN DAYS TO CLEAR A CHEQUE


Written in 1997 - and has anything changed?

SPRING HAS SPRUNG

                                                                  XXXVIII

Spring has come to the larder
The potatoes are starting to sprout
And every fat little garlic clove
Has a slim green shoot coming out.

Spring has come to the countryside
It's pink and white blossom time
And every breath of spring-fresh air
Is a sip of sparkling white wine.

Spring has come to the garden
The slugs are beginning to stir
And all over my cabbage plants
Holes now start to appear.

Spring has come to housework
As the light grows stronger
Dust and cobwebs show up more
And I can ignore them no longer.


March 1981

M STANDS FOR MOTORWAY MADNESS

                               
                                                        XXXVII

M stands for the maniac
On our motorway
Where drivers have to dice with death
Every single day.

M is for the madness
That invades their mind
As they drive along the M25
Leaving courtesy behind.

M stands for the music
Which must be turned up high
To block out every other sound
Of traffic passing by.

M is for the macho man
Who thinks he has the right
To drive at a hundred miles an hour
|Overtaking all in sight.

M is for the mayhem caused
By driving nose to tail.
Warnings are issued every year
But to no avail.

Maturity and moderation
Also start with M
What a pity that we do not
See some more of them.


September 1988

HELPLESS FEMALES

                                                               XXXVI


Are women really the weaker sex?
Our Regency sisters were smart,
They seemed so frail and fragile -
Their helplessness was an art.

They were shielded from all worries
Anxiety made them faint.
They were as pure as driven snow -
Like a madonna or saint.

No heavy bags could they carry
Just a parasol and muff.
A small reticule and 'kerchief -
They were more than enough.

A couple of centuries later
We have women's lib.
Not for us a home-bound life
Of merely kitchen and crib.

We can have a  career and
Employers must not discriminate
But after a busy day at work
When we get home late ...

There's cooking and cleaning
Shopping and laundry too.
Oh to be a helpless female
With absolutely nothing to do.

August 1988

SUMMER SACRIFICES

                                                                       XXV

All through the summer months
Sacrifices are made
To the ancient weather gods
Asking for their aid.

Our altars we call "barbecues"
They come in many sizes
And from these votive offering sites
A pall of thick smoke rises.

We don't sacrifice live creatures
We're too civilised for that -
We buy expensive cuts of meat
And burn them sooty black.

The smoke gets in our eyes
There are midges in our hair-
But we must do our duty
In the chilly evening air.

If it should be raining
We hold it just the same,
Meths. and an umbrella aid
The sacrificial flame.

After we have eaten
Our blackened piece of meat
We hope the gods will grant us
Fine weather all next week.

Tewkesbury -
To Eunice

1.8.1989

LIFE IN INDIA IS NEVER DULL

                                               XXXIV

When I return from |India
Life in England seems predictable and dull
In India, pandemonium and chaos often reign
With an occasional and temporary lull.

There's always a frisson of uncertainty -
Will we have a power cut today?
Will the lights suddenly dim and flicker
And then comletely fade away?

Then there's the problem of water
That we live with throughout the year.
A waterless house full of people
Is an ever-present fear.

All these little uncertainties
Keep us in India on our toes
The euphoria of plenty of water
No complacent Western housewife knows.

Western worries are more complex
What could happen in the world - and might.
In India our problems are more basic:
Will we have any water and light?

On my regular and frequent visits to Bombay I stayed in our old family home.
Wadia House, Colaba had plenty of character, but cronic water shortage. 

2.2.1995

ALLOTMENT GYM

                                                            XXXIII

I received an invitation
To join a brand new gym -
They promised me firm muscles
And a body toned and trim.

To become a proper member
You need considerable wealth;
But no matter - who can put
A price upon good health.

This was a high-tech gym
With gizmos and gadgets galore
And a personal trainer
To motivate and re-assure.

I tried a standard work-out
But realised very soon
That I had never spent
A more boring afternoon.

All I had to show
For a tedious hour or two
Was the return of an old ache
Plus one that was brand new.

So I took on a 10-rod allotment
And found to my surprise
That it provided every possible
Type of exercise.

Digging is a great workout
Though muscles might feel sore;
For the cardiovascular system
Try shovelling barrows of manure.

It provides fresh air and friendship
And after all your toil
At least you are rewarded
By something from the soil.


January 2007

HANDEL'S CURSE - WHERE'ER YOU WALK

                                                                       XXXII

To everyone who has ever sung the Handel song:

Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade,......
 Where'er you sit, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish ...where'er you turn your eyes.

On a recent country walk
I saw a calm, sunny glade,
The warm still air was flower scented
A babbling brook gently played.

But as I stopped and stood there
Enjoying the quiet peaceful scene
Chilly gusting winds sprang up
"Cool gales" is what I mean.

I gathered my things together
And left the breezy dell -
Instantly the wild winds dropped
And still calm silence fell.

Then I saw a grassy bank
And sat down in the sun
But the trees all crowded over me
One by one - by one.

As I trod the cool green paths
The blushing flowers did rise -
Brambles and dog roses bloomed
Before my startled eyes.

Where'er I looked plants flourished
Dandelions - nettles - dock,
Bind weed and sturdy thistles
My stocking-ed legs to mock.

Then I realised what had happened
I'd been cursed by Handel's song.
I'm sure he meant it kindly
But he was very wrong.

Was his love an independent lady
Who liked doing things on her own?
Perhaps the song was to discourage  her
From wandering in the forest all alone.

Summer 2002