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

Welcome to my poetry: 'Just Passin' Through'!

I spotted the words ‘Just Passin’ Through’ on a lorry when out on my travels one day. I thought, ‘Ah, that’s a good title for a poem’, as ya do! And here is the result! A bit of nonsense, which I think we all need in our lives from time to time, especially in these days of ‘austerity measures’ and politicians who haven’t got a clue what the words actually mean!

I hope ‘Just Passin’ Through’ brings just a little smile!

'Just Passin' Through'

 Just Passin’ Through

When I made my entrance

On a cold Winter’s day

All warm, wet and wrinkled

And I’d found my own way

My mother looked down

And cooed, ‘Welcome to you.’

I cried, ‘Don’t get too fond,

‘Cos I’m just passin’ through.

          Just passin’ through, mum,

          Just passin’ through.’

I progressed through childhood

And then into my teens

Alphabet to A-level

Plus some in-betweens

My teachers sighed fussily

This day you will rue

As I left I retorted,

‘Hey, I’m just passin’ through.

          Just passin’ through, Teach,

          Just passin’ through.’

Relationships prospered

Then fell badly apart

Leaving splinters of grieving

In a poor broken heart

To the next casual conquest

I resolved to be true

But I heard myself saying

‘Sorry, just passin’ through.

          Just passin’ through, love,

          Just passin’ through.

In my thirties and forties

I lived life to the full

Going at everything

Like the proverbial bull

Slowing down by the sixties

And by the eighties I knew

That despite what they all say

I was just passin’ through.

          Just passin’ through, friends,

          Just passin’ through.

When I’ve huffed my last puff

And I’m sailing on high

With those pearly gates looming

In a blue cloudless sky

God will pull back the shutter

And say ‘How do you do?’

Then I’ll answer politely,

‘I hope I’m just passin’ through.

          Just passin’ through, Lord,

          Just passin’ through!’

Thanks for your time!

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my poetry: A Gardener's World!

Stickywilly's domain!

The gardening season is in full swing! Lawns need mowing, pots need watering, pests are lurking and weeds are rampaging! It seems to be an exceptionally good year for goose grass or cleavers (Galium aparine), or the best name of all amongst many, stickywilly! The burrs (seed heads) were always known to me as a child as ‘sweethearts’! It is a particularly powerful plant, strangling the life out of anything that dares to get in its way! Oh, to be more like stickywilly!!

Anyway, here’s my take on the gardening season!

         A Gardener’s World

Keen patrons queue outside my gate

To pay their dues and keep the date

To point in wonder at my flowers

And gasp in awe at all the hours

I must have slaved through day and night

To conjure up this wondrous sight.

I thought I’d serve folks cups of tea

And give the loot to charity.

The hosta leaves are just amazing,

No weeds creep through the crazy-paving,

The honeysuckle teases noses,

And you can’t ignore my perfect roses.

Fresh mowing lines upon the lawn

Prove that I have been up since dawn

To edge and clip, and tie and trim,

Deadhead and harvest, sweat and strim.

My veggie patch is at its peak,

With lettuce, spuds, courgettes and leeks.

I’d thought of selling surplus stocks,

By way of Annie’s ‘honest’ box!

But what’s this lurking? Spider mite?

And oh the fly! Green! Black! And white?

Slugs manufacture doyleys green,

The furtive snail shins up the beans

Where busy bees red flowers shun,

Preferring mauve buddleias in the sun.

Woodlice and ants invade dry slabs,

Seeds germinate in dribs and drabs.

At least the docks (at four feet plus)

Cool nettle stings with little fuss.

Tall hollyhocks succumb to rust

As Mother Nature betrays my trust.

The wilt’s wiped out the clematis,

Grey mould’s become my nemesis,

Mice secretly devoured the peas,

And the rambler’s caught black spot disease.

But hey! The dandelions thrive!

And the cabbage white’s are all alive!

‘Garden Open’ was my dream I fear,

And it happens every blooming year!

Thanks for your time!

The Leebotwood Poet xx