Welcome to my poetry: The Recycling Fiasco!

I’ve just read on the news that the government has admitted that a lot of our carefully sorted recycling waste is being shipped to mainly Asian countries and dumped in landfill.

This reminded me of a poem ‘what I wrote’ in 2008 when there was a rumour that the above was occurring back then! Denied vigorously no doubt!

Recycle!  (Written in 2008)

Recycle!  Recycle!  Recycle!

Save the planet before it’s too late!

Don’t risk being smothered by rubbish

By leaving it all down to fate.

The council, in all of its wisdom,

To help us with this grizzly task,

Has delivered us more bins and boxes,

We want more?  We have only to ask.

We now have a blue and a green box

And a new wheelie bin, also green,

To go with the grey one we’ve had all along.

A plastic recycler’s dream!

So it’s paper which goes in the blue box,

The green… batteries, bottles and cans,

Gardening stuff in the inadequate green wheelie bin,

To comply with the council’s demands.

Now the problem we have with this system

Is remembering which rubbish goes where,

Because soon ‘big brother’ is going to check,

So use the wrong bin if you dare!

They’re going to stick sensors under bin lids

To make sure we are doing it right,

Recycling gurus will be glued to their screens

Where they’ll revel in the tax payers’ plight.

Your wallet will be noticeably lighter,

If you can’t tell your tin from your glass,

Your cardboard from paper, your plastic from cloth,

And proverbial elbow from ass!

The lids must be closed they are saying,

Side rubbish will just be ignored.

Is that including the maggots and rats,

After black writhing bags have been gnawed?

Rats, already fat, will get fatter,

They’ll be clapping their verminous paws

To celebrate the increase in their species,

Courtesy…new recycling laws!

Landfill is supposedly full to the brim,

There just isn’t anymore room,

So rubbish will be fly-tipped over the hedge,

To add to the poor farmer’s gloom.

The recycling plant is some miles away,

Excess rubbish can go there at a sprint,

But by getting the car out to lighten their load

I’m enlarging my carbon footprint!

But, I’ve heard after sorting and sifting

With care into each bin and liner,

They’re saying it’s all lumped together again,

And shipped to a big hole…In CHINA!

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my poetry:Was That The End of Winter?

As the wind howls in the chimney and the remnants of the recent snow linger on the Shropshire Hills (‘waiting for a bit more’, my old dad would have said) my thoughts turn to spring! The snowdrops are already out under the garden hedge and the daffodil and crocus spikes are peeking through promising much needed colour just when I need it.

Crystal Catkins?

 Was That the End of Winter?

Was that the cold north wind which whines

And creeps through every crevice small?

Raw, promised flurries twist and twirl

Encasing, choking, shrouding all.

Was that a multitude of crows

Which sat within the iron oak

And ‘cawed’ away the greyest days

Beneath a sunless, clouded cloak?

Was that a single snowdrop brave

Which peeked amongst the spiky green?

Her virgin-white dress edged so neat

An omen that the worst has been.

Was that a red-breast bird I heard

As solar rays thrust dark aside?

A song so true, the spirits lift

And greet the breaking dawn with pride.

Was that a veil of catkin tails

Cascading over hazel bare

Which hide the tiny foetal nuts

And toss the pollen in the air?

Was that a clump of daffodils

Whose shoots are strong as swords of steel

Come peeping through the frozen earth

A golden trumpet to reveal?

Was that a bud upon the branch

Promising new life will be born?

A waiting game of light and warmth

To bring forth rose, fresh leaf and thorn.

Was that a crystal icicle

Which onto Winter aimed to cling

Releasing all her coldest hours

Towards the tender days of Spring!

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my poetry: Ho! Ho! Ho!

As the Festive Season approaches at a pace our thoughts turn to pressies, eating, families (not necessarily in that order) and of course that hard working old bloke we all lovingly refer to as Father Christmas, amongst other things!

Here’s a little ditty from a few years back which I penned for the kids communal Christmas card when I was a ‘dinner lady’, ‘Lunchtime Supervisor’ to be precise, (General Dog’s Body to be even more precise!!), but, hey, who needs fancy titles anyway?!! It all ‘boils’ down to, on the plus side, helping kids through lunch time, and on the negative side standing in the playground in a variety of weathers including freezing your socks off in the frost and gales! Retirement feels good!

One year I even resorted to dressing up as the aforesaid gentleman for a local newspaper competition. But, not taking into consideration the intelligence of one of the kids, my (or FC’s!) boots were recognised!! In the playground later that day the dear little boy said, ‘You’ve got the same boots as Father Christmas!’ What are the odds of having the same footwear as old FC? Rumbled!! Ho! Ho! Ho! Or words to that effect!! 

Beware of footwear...

For the Kids  

Old Santa looks down from on high

As he flits through the stars in the sky,

His Sat Nav’s switched on,

He here, then he’s gone,

While he’s proving that reindeer CAN fly!

He’s so round and so fat that he wobbles,

From all the mince pies which he gobbles,

His ‘doc’ caused a riot,

When he said, ‘You must diet!’

Then he sent him a bill for his trouble!

But, still Santa arrives every year,

On each Christmas Eve, for the beer,

There’s a carrot for Prancer,

Another for Dancer,

And for Rudolph, his favourite reindeer.

After squeezing down chimneys so black,

(Not forgetting his oversized sack!)

Each stocking he’ll stuff,

With more than enough,

And there’s plenty of time to get back!

He’ll leave presents with happiness brimming,

Full of wide smiles and wishing and dreaming,

There’ll be gifts full of sharing,

With oodles of caring,

Tied with ribbons of love for the trimming!

Kids, Chrismas Eve it’s early to bed,

Straight to sleep with your favourite Ted,

Because when Santa comes creeping,

And he sees that you’re peeping,

He’ll bring me your presents instead!

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my poetry: The True Salopian - My Dad

Last week on the 10^th of August would have been (he died in 1986) my dad’s birthday. He was born in Shropshire in 1907 and although they say Shropshire born and Shropshire bred, strong in the arm and weak in the head (or yed, as he would have said) he was far from stupid.

Even though he rarely attended school, he learnt from the University of Life, and a hard life if was. He was the son of a lay preacher (or ranter parson, as they were known in those days) and lived his entire life a stone’s (or stwun's) throw from where he was born.

He was a hard grafter, and maintained muscles like Tarzan from that everyday hard work. He was full of witty sayings, had a great sense of humour and a broad Shropshire accent, which I have to admit to having acquired. 

The True Salopian - My Dad

 Anyway, here’s my tribute to my dad.

The True Salopian

I’m an owd country bumpkin, a yokel, a hick,

I’m as common as muck and as thick as a brick,

I talks uth an accent, Shropshire and broad,

I’m as daft as a brush, and you’ll ‘ear me loff loud,

I chops sticks uth a brummock, ‘oned shiny and sharp,

And whatever the weather I’m up uth the lark,

I ‘ear the owd oolert ‘ootin’ long afore dawn,

I canna stand all them untinooks I finds in me lawn,

I climbs that owd wooden ‘ill when I’m gooin’ ta roost,

In me owd fither mattress where I’m warm as brown toast,

I goos shoppin’ in Shoosbry, there inna no ‘R’,

And if you all wants ta argue, there’s bound ta be war,

I plants me King Ed’ards, (best taters around),

On Easter’s Good Friday, in good cow mucked ground,

I brushes me ‘edges uth an owd brushin’ ‘ook,

I dunna ‘ave time fer readin’ papers or books,

Cos all of me knowledge is ‘ere in me yed,

And’ll be constantly uth me until I’m stwun jed,

I knows all of the seasons, come summer or snow,

I can read all the signs Mother Nature can show,

I watch fer the swallas ta arrive in the spring,

Listen out fer the cuckoo, ‘ear the speckled thrush sing,

I knows a good ‘arvest of berries is bleak,

Meanin’ ‘ard times fer birds in the cowd winter sleet,

I knows all the flowers which grace the ‘edgerow,

And the trees in the ‘oods, and which way the winds blow,

I knows the moon’s phases as it waxes and wanes,

I can smell where owd Raynard criss-crosses the lanes,

When I’m stung by a nettle it’s a spit and dock rub,

Then it’s wum I be gooin’ when it’s time fer me grub,

I’m resourceful; I’ve recycled since beginnin’ of time,

And as fer organic – the word should be mine,

A real countrymon’s gettin’ ‘arder ta find,

We’m a breed dying out, both in body and mind,

I be flyin’ the flag fer every ooman and mon,

‘Oo like me’s proud ta be a true Sal-op-i-an.

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my Poetry: On Linden Fields

With Olympic fever sweeping through the world it reminded me of August Bank Holiday Mondays when I was little. It was the day of my family’s annual outing to Much Wenlock Sports Day. Much Wenlock was six miles (9.6km in new money) from my home which nestled in the shadow of the notorious Shropshire beauty spot of Wenlock Edge. Here are my recollections of a boring day!

   On Linden Fields

August Bank Holiday! Much Wenlock Sports Day!

We donned our ‘best’, dad, mother and me.

Boulton’s bus whined over the rise,

Through the village, up Longville Hill,

Along Wenlock Edge, ‘There’s Ippikin’s cave and Major’s Leap!’

Between hedges dredged with lime, and down into the town!

Carnival jostled along, queen and princesses, prim,

Important for a day; then onto Linden Fields.

I stood, holding onto the rope which divided athletes from bums on seats. 

Bare legs whirred and muscles strained, furrowed brows sweated and pained,

Spiked shoes pounded the parched, cracked earth.

‘Hooray! Hooray!’ The winner exalted!

Smacked on the back, ‘Couldn’t be faulted!

Well done, my son!’

There we stood, dad, mother and me.     

I sweltered in my hand-me-down, ‘three bear’s syndrome’, gingham,

Too loose last year, just right this year, too tight next year,

That’s just how mother was.

More feet thundered by like rumbling buffalo on the plains,  

Puffed out chests gasping, heaving towards medals, gold, silver, bronze!

Aspirations! Congratulations! Commiserations!

Dr William Penny Brookes looked down!

Had his idea, in 1850, to promote

Moral, physical and intellectual improvement

Of the local inhabitants’of Much Wenlock and around been in vain?

I peered at dad, hand raised against the solar glare,

His bronzed biceps bulging, cap jauntily over one eye,

A lifetime of working the fields in the sun, wind and rain,

Lungs full of Shropshire country air, (and ten Players Navy Cut)!      

He needed no Olympics!

And neither did I.

‘Now please can we go home?’

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

http://annlivesey.blogspot.com

   

 

Welcome to my poetry: Sol Standing Still!

Sunrise over The Lawley, Shropshire.

It’s a bit scary to think we’re already up to the longest day of the year, the summer solstice, and then on the 24^th June, Midsummer’s Day. I'm still waiting for summer to begin, not sure how we’ve got to midsummer! Unless we count the lovely sunny weather we had back in March!

Here’s my offering to Old Sol’s highest and lowest points!

       

     Sol Standing Still

Hear the cuckoo? He calls through the warm countryside,

On St. Aaron the monk’s special day,

Predicting that summer be cursed with much rain;

Poor harvests of wet, mouldy hay.

When the searing sun travels to its greatest height,

Shoot straight, three blood droplets descend,

Gather, preserve and keep each drop safe,

For from blood tiny fern seeds ascend.

Seeds of the fern contain magical powers,

Finding objects long lost over time,

Or render the holder invisible,

And aiding the lovesick who pine.

Twice yearly we celebrate ‘sol standing still’,

When he’s far to the south or the north,

We bow with allegiance to magnificence

And rejoice in the life he brings forth.

Sweetheart, my fingers are blooded and sore,

Needle glints in the soft lamplight glow,

Each stitch a fond kiss, each knot an embrace,

My love is so easy to sew.

On St. Thomas’s day will you wear my token?

It befits agricultural trades,

With stem stitch and trellis on simple cut twill

It’s the handsomest smock ever made.

Please wear this gift as the sun strives to climb

In the shallowest arc of the year,

The fern seed and smocking have completed their work,

          Now I am contented my dear.

Thanks for your time!

The Leebotwood Poet  xx