/ Community, Travel & Leisure

Step into The Rhyming Room

Poetry on typewriter

Would you prefer to write your comments as a poem? Then The Rhyming Room is exactly where you want to be. Take inspiration from our weekly themes or wax lyrical on current consumer concerns…

The Which? Conversation community is fortunate to have many budding poets in its midst who frequently put their thoughts into verse.

On the odd occasion, we’ve even had dedicated conversations encouraging you to show off your creative talents and command of couplets and stanzas, such as those community member Ian led on National Poetry Day last year and at Christmas.

Poets’ corner

Concerned that some of the odes may get buried and forgotten in the depths of Which? Conversation, a number of you have requested a permanent poetry convo.

The space you envisaged was somewhere to store your topical verses so you could easily access them for further enjoyment – and even contribute more when you’re feeling inspired.

So, without further ado: welcome to The Rhyming Room.

On song

Of course, the main idea here is to write poems about your thoughts on current consumer issues.

But for added inspiration, each week, we’ll also be suggesting themes. These could be based on a mixture of world, international and national days, and even dubious celebratory days – so be sure to check back regularly.

Naturally, if you come up with your own celebratory occasion and want to write a poem, that’s OK, too.

Your musings can also be serious or amusing.

The only rules are that the poems must be your own work and it would be helpful to others to mention the subject. You should also always keep our Community Guidelines in mind.

To kick things off, Alfa’s kindly put pen to paper.

Did you ever dream of being a poet
But never quite sure just how to show it?
Let thoughts in your head turn to words that flow
And watch a poem start to grow

Each week there will be a new set of themes
Inspiration may come to you in your dreams
The end of lines don’t have to rhyme
Just come back and share with us in due time

This week’s themes:

Any current issues on Which? Conversation, plus:

Notable upcoming dates:

Fri 26 May: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat 27 May: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun 28 May: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon 29 May: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue 30 May: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed 31 May: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu 1 Jun: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri 2 Jun: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat 3 Jun: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun 4 Jun: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

Please check back regularly for themes of the week.

We look forward to reading your compositions!

With special thanks to Which? Conversation community member, Alfa, who assisted with this conversation and came up with the inspired name of The Rhyming Room.

Comments

:Try again!

Diddy Dum.

There once was a witch with a cat and a broom,
And, when not flying, she brushed out the room.
As she brushed she’d sing and then she would hum.
She went: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, diddy, dum.

There once was a farmer who had a fine horse.
He rode round his farm and over the force.
The water was cold and went up to his Knees.
He went: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, diddy, sneeze.

There once was a parachutist who jumped from a plane.
He opened his chute just to keep out the rain.
He twisted and turned with a spring and a jump.
He went: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, diddy, bump.

There once was an explorer who paddled his canoe
Up river and jungle where explorers were few.
A crocodile passing, he gave it a tap.
It went: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, diddy, snap.

There once was an actor who played on the stage.
He learned all his lines, there was page after page.
One show he forgot what he needed to sing.
He went: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, anything.

And when you are lost and you don’t know the road,
Ask your sat nav politely if it can find your abode.
The voice from the dash will guide and recite.
She’ll go: dum diddy dum, diddy, diddy, diddy, RIGHT.

So, dum diddy, dum diddy when there’s a frown.
Dum diddy, dum diddy, diddy that frown down.
When the world is hostile and you don’t know what’s to come
Just dum diddy, dum diddy, diddy, diddy, hum.

Our Village Store.

Our village shop, just open, with a note on its door.
“Only seven at a time now allowed in the store.”
Seven go in quite slowly and then there’s a pause.
The queue gains in length and stands out of doors.

It shuffles forward slightly with an occasional glance –
-Behind to see who’s waiting, ahead to advance.
Older folk with macs and hats and scarves round their faces,
Stand resolute and stoic, steadfastly marking their places.

“At least it’s not raining,” is to the ether said.
“All this damn queuing and I only wanted bread.”
“They’re taking their time, don’t they know there’s a queue? –
-Standing out here when there’s so much to do.”

“Well enjoy the fresh air and breathe while you can”
“We have to shop here ‘cos we can’t get a van.
I tried for a week and the slots were all taken.”
“I know, it’s quite dreadful, we all get forsaken.”

The door opens sideways and someone steps out.
“Next please,” says a voice from inside with a shout.
The queue ‘shiffles’ forward and silent once more,
Standing like statues with expressions that bore.

“We’ll have to get used to this,” says a girl in a frock.
“Have you seen them in Tesco’s, they’re all round the block.”
“And Morrisons too, you’re waiting for hours.”
“No shelter from rain and the forecast is showers.”

Another one exits, there’s movement and fuss.
“Hey Beryl get going and leave some for us.”
“I’ll tell them you’re there and to hide all the cake.”
Beryl steps inside and the queue is a snake.

The minutes tick on slowly and someone walks by.
She looks at the standers, not catching their eye.
A phone plays a tune and stops half way through.
“Hello, yes I’m coming but I’m stuck in a queue.-

-They’re taking for ever. I’ve been waiting to shop.
I’ll be back in an hour and ready to drop.
Just feed the dog, the tin’s on the shelf.
Get off your chair and go look for yourself. –

-I’m not getting cans, they’re too heavy to cart.
You can queue for yourself, so now don’t you start.
There’s five in front of me so that’s half an hour more,
Then there’ll be nothing left, just an empty store. –

-All right, a couple then and that’s your lot.
I’ll call you back inside when I see what they’ve got.”
The silent queue smiles, but just to themselves.
They wonder and guess at the spaces on the shelves.

The final person enters from the silent street.
The queue is gone as rain drops patter at the feet.
The Shop worker loads the final bag at the door;
A tired sigh, she rubs her eyes, and closes the store.

Present predicaments. ( © Peedoff Publications)

Politicians prop podia,
Proposing practical plans,
Producing prognoses ,
Past patterns,
Patient’s problems,
Prescient predictions,
Present prescriptions,
Policing prerogatives,
Pre-recorded patter, preshrunk post production.

Preselecting personal performances,
Politicians prefer puff, propaganda;
Polite persiflage perpetrated perversely.
Politicians prosecute policies
Perpetually praising past parameters,
Parading paradoxes; plainly prosaic posturing.
Paranoia? Perhaps. Paralegal? Possibly.
Party political? Permanently!

Poor public perpetually penned.
Parted – partial purdah; precautionary precept
Presented pre-emptively – personal preservation.
Presumptuous politicians presume prominence
Prohibiting, proroguing, preventing personal proximity.
Provender purchases problematic – provisions pruned.
Parasites purloining produce, personally profit.
Pandemic’s pathogens prevent prosecution.
Perhaps persistence provides pleasant prospects presently.
Phenomena pass – persevere and prosper.

Lockdown, Our New Freedom.

While life has been on hold, Spring arrived.
Imperceptibly, colours changed, though rain deprived.
Slowly, green became the dominant hue outside,
Shoots shot skyward, bushes branched and snowdrops died.

Birds began to chatter more, programmed into building nests,
Flying foraging, fighting, seeking gaps in roofs as temporary guests.
Lately, even in advance of Summer, there began the sound,
The hungry sound of beaks clamouring, egg free, nest bound.

Lawns, once mown, demand attention out of spite.
Cut and tidy, they grow and prosper over night.
Our own lawns, deprived of barber’s skills, to trim and dock,
Daring us to chop, untutored scissors fearfully applied to lock.

By now, the weeds invade from no apparent route,
Drifting windward or waking from a dormant root.
Hedges sprout, small sprigs and coverings needs be curbed
Or up they’ll go and thicken undisturbed.

Inside the workless wander through the day.
Some, in makeshift offices, are working for their pay.
And some are out and saving lives
While others deliver on their daily drives.

We wait and wonder at the world to come.
For freedom has a ransom out for some.
All those things we all desire to do,
Will cause delays as many face a queue.

Those hair cuts, dentist visits, garage space,
Everyone will rush to get a place.
And lurking fears for those now virus free,
Will make our freedom progress warily.

Our shopping queues will not diminish yet.
And anything important will be hard to get.
Lockdown is a funny thing, – irony and wry laughter.
Within its grip is freedom from the race hereafter.

Now And Later.

The café and the restaurant shuttered- stills.
If one could see – the lonely counters and the tills.
Behind those blinds the tables clothed in whites,
Chairs tucked neatly- hidden from our sights.
Menus advertising dishes all to please.
None to cook and none to order these.

Kitchens – silent from the busy rush and harassed looks.
No shouts, commands, and clatter from the cooks.
No orders frying, – steam rising in the shimmering heat.
No ready plated dishes standing – now complete.
No chatter from the diners with their wines,
No bookings here – for no one ever dines.

Outside, few pass the window at this site.
Or read the message – polite and simple – black on white,
Stuck to the door and sorrowfully composed.
“We apologise to customers – but we are currently closed.
We will open – if we can – when this crisis ends.”
Unsaid -(Bills still arrive – on luck our fate depends.)

And on within the empty street the workers travel.
Betting shops and charity stores – banks unravel.
Shoes and clothes and second hand suites,
Stand unadmired in the ghost, deserted streets.
And yet a queue – so out of place, surprises here.
Bags in hand – the need for food – brings shoppers near.

Hubs of action can still be found. Just look around.
Ambulances converge their paths and sirens sound.
Depots where the bin men gather for their shift.
Postal workers still deliver parcel, post and gift,
From busy depots where the sorters fill their sacks,
And load the vans and rucksacks for their backs.

Hotels – guestless- hospitals for unwilling guests now plan.
No bills to pay at checkout – those that can.
Vans and trucks and lorries run on empty tarmac,
Filling their capacious cavities with that which shoppers lack.
Police patrols cruise carefully – catching cars which flout
The rules of travel which allow them out.

This strange world is like a river dammed its course.
Everything on hold – the pressure builds at the source.
The water – once opened to the stretch below
Must not flood the valley with its flow.
The rush for life and all its varied needs
Must be curbed or else this nation bleeds.

Why?

I went out yesterday for stroll and Sunday paper,
Escaped from home – a jaunty little caper.

The paper weighed down by its morbid text
Gave news and comment, saying what comes next.

But that was for later, then, in sun
I ambled back for tea and currant bun.

Life in lockdown ploughs a merry furrow
Far from virus here at home I burrow.

Happy in my isolated cage,
While others make their moves on worldly stage.

Body toned from walking, perhaps two miles or more.
Then ready for the news of what’s in store.

My papers’ anguish painted melancholy pictures,
Rules and regulations, every kind of strictures.

A sombre mood, provoked reflective thoughts
And so I wrote a requiem -of sorts.
****************************************************

Requiem.

Where are you going to in your car?
Have you got a reason? Is it far?

Where were you going to on your bike?
Was it further than you could hike?

Where were you going to for your run?
Were you doing it just for fun?

Where can you go to on the bus?
Bus? What bus? There’s none that runs for us.

Why are you waiting at the station?
Do you know your next clear destination?

I’m in the car that drives me one way only.
I left my bike, I left it lying lonely.

My run is done, I ended it today.
My bus has stopped and dropped me on my way.

The railway tracks stretch onward out of sight.
The train is crowded; travellers travelling to the light.

Lessons To Learn.

The countryside, without our strain,
Uses climate, soil type and terrain
To grow and change through sun and rain.

We who rent this space for a mortal span,
Shape its fields and hedges to our plan,
And living plants are in service, feeding man.

No matter who is currently farming crops
This cycle and its rhythm never stops.
The seasons are the masters and the props.

It’s true we tease the weather with our games.
Our desires are often much beyond its aims.
Here endure flooding, here extinguish flames.

It’s true we taint the air above and abuse the soil.
Nature doesn’t warn us when we freeze or boil.
It copes within the ways it knows, and our efforts foil.

As we are now just finding out
Not only is there flood and drought,
But toxins spread and viruses sprout.

We kill nature by our acts
It distorts and so reacts
Quietly sealing wordless pacts.

Treat our world, that permanent place,
Just temporary to the human race
With patience , love and humble grace.

Perhaps when now we’re forced to pause,
It’s time to look at this worthy cause.
Examine nature’s unwritten laws.

Thou shalt not pollute the air above.
Though shalt not pillage the earth we love.
Thou shalt curb man’s incessant shove –

-To faster better planet draining toys;
To plastics dumped and other wasteful ploys.
For nature, when annoyed, thus us annoys.

The Harmonious World And Its Gardeners.

In my garden, weeds and brambles grow,
Hedges sprout and Ivy leaves now show.
Lawns need cutting, slabs with winter’s grime, forsook.
I know all this because there’s time look.

The busy life that drove us with its strife
Kept garden secrets hidden from our life.
No time to check and see what nature did
When backs were turned and nature hid.

Now every plant that wasn’t sown,
Grows with a vigour all its own.
Roots go deep and brambles have their freedom.
Saplings make their bid for branch and ‘treedom’.

Three years hence this happy thriving plot
If untended, would by nature change a lot.
Here a tree and here the hedge encloses
Thorns and briars, wild shapeless roses.

We cut and tend and mow and trim.
Some reluctant, some with gardens prim.
Directing nature bending it to know
What is good and what allowed to grow.

Nature obeys, (though weeds are nature’s spies),
And in concordance, fragrant beauty lies.
Here in a perfect match of man and hoe,
Work rewarded, care and love on show.

Would that nature was always so compliant.
Would that man was not always so defiant.
Our gardens show how harmony succeeds
Our World shows dire results of wicked deeds.

Nature, abused, is master of its fate.
Something we’re learning – far too late.
Let’s pause and wonder, and a treaty make.
Let’s talk to nature and our sins forsake.

Perhaps that means a simpler life to lead.
Perhaps less flying, less demand and need.
Kill obsession with the ‘plastic’ world of ‘things’
Joys to share that homespun pleasure brings.

We can’t know the life hereafter.
What its shape and what disaster.
But for sure, since change is due
Let’s clean our world and start anew.

Oh Yes! If only . . .

An excellent piece of philosophy, Vynor.

I have come to realise that good gardening requires a disturbing amount of brutality. Perhaps the world is like that too, but so much brutality is misdirected and the tyrants are sometimes the most destructive of our incredible planet.

Our Choice For What Comes Next.

It’s a funny old world in which we fit.
No one but us can look and then describe it.

No one but us can type and write and talk
No one but us can drive as well as walk.

No one but us can build with such precision
And no one but us can plan and make decision.

No one but us is married to a state.
No one but us is worried by our fate.

No one but us creates the fabric of our lives.
No one but us creates the chaos that deprives.

Yet with all the privilege of a master race
We are confined to certain sections of this place.

We can not live in water nor in desert sand.
We need shelter and our clothing ‘second hand’.

Our complicated lives need laws and regulations.
We squabble with ourselves and other nations.

True, our triumphs are amazing to behold
Music, art and culture and sciences unfold.

Such mixture: good and evil in our single race,
Capacity to astound, capacity to disgrace.

So now we’ve reached a junction; fork in life.
A virus changed our world and caused us strife.

Yet wind and rain and sun they come and go.
Tides and seas still move and ebb and flow.

Cattle graze and birds still build their nests.
Jungle creatures roam and make their quests.

The natural world has rhythm with its seasons.
Not for it to question this with reasons.

That’s for us to do, now we stop to fight,
And recover slowly from this dreadful fright.

Global messages from the natural state
Are there for heeding; it’s not too late.

Juste For Funne.

When Sumer beginneth to tak spring
Ant cucu in strange nestes doth singe
The folk forsake huere labor an heure toyle
To wende huere pathes in stepe to Glastonberrie.
Her duelle th tentes an caravannes y not whider came.
The crowdes thronge fieldes an mudde mak fore heure heels.

Alle tak lines to que for washe an pooe
Alle do neede cleare water for heure brewe.
Sume do cavort out of site in pares
An sume do sende God thankes amid heure preyers.
Th morne doth bring a mity gatheringe to lestenyt an to danc
While groupes on platformes playe with electrik harpes.
They singe an shoute an move th hurde to extacie of herte.
Th nexte then to this place to playe a parte.

An ende must come as rayne and winde fro heven
Blites the playe and folk neer tarry, haste away.
Of a suden non is ther to see, but grene pasture
Trodden to th grounde and shep graising where the grass is founde.

A Final Lockdown Lyric. (It’s time to rest the quill.)

So now I stoop to writing thoughts in rhyme.
It’s time to stop debasing verse – a form sublime.
I’ll pause, take stock and just reflect a while
Until my verse aversion validates a better style.

Outlook? What Outlook?

Of all the cruelty of this passing Spring,
Our mortal frailty over tops everything.
For each who died before their time
Is one too many; a viral crime.
For each a family or someone near
Is left to mourn. Remaining here
To live without the one they cherish.
We all sigh as more then perish.

Medical science is left bereft of ways
To counter viral action over days.
Palliative help is boosting body cure
But nothing yet can stop this virus pure.
We who hide and so avoid the spread
Go about with cautious lives instead.
Government well know that most of us
Have yet to be infected, hence the fuss.

But though this virus viciously deprives,
It may destroy our living and our lives.
In a month or little more perhaps,
Our economy is heading for collapse.
Our workforce faces worry for its future.
Companies bleed with no stitching and no suture.
When we wake, go out and gradually renew
People will find gaps from what they knew.

Children too have been virally deprived,
Confined and school-less, lessons just contrived.
No social contact, childhood play and sport,
No challenging environment to encourage thought.
Worse than this is how each day that passes
Is one day less to learn in groups and classes.
This ticking clock can not be turned around.
Development missed is never to be found.

No one knows how we will face release.
Cures and drugs and vaccines will increase.
But how we go about our daily round;
What is left still functioning and sound;
How strange our interaction in the street;
What we do and where we play and meet,
Are all the stuff of plans revised and changed
Until normality is stable, we’re deranged.

How will crowds in stadia cheer and shout?
How will theatre groups perform about?
How will concerts, popular and prom
Have audiences to feed their talents on?
How will groups and sportsmen in their prime
Find support and finance all the time?
What becomes of crowded shopping malls
Museums, markets night clubs, dancing halls?

What is lost when rank recession bites,
When viral debt with the economy fights?
What becomes of Brexit’s stupid stance
When Covid leads us in a merry dance?
So many questions floating in the air,
A future life in which we blink and stare.
And all the time the World is full of hate.
We need true leaders now in every state.

Given the choice I like the rhyme
Writing it will take more time
Locked down for weeks, maybe till June
Happier times are coming soon

I saw a ghost today
It was sitting in a parked van.
Reflections on the window say,
But inside sitting was a man.
I looked at him; his gaze, that glimmer;
Was there a hint of a smiling stare?
He shimmered as a ghost might shimmer
The sun went in – and no one there!

Hard Labour? Just Look At The Birds.

Yesterday was blue, grey, blue in that order.
When the rain came I had just cleared a border.
Birds flitted past – singing, wings whirring.
The air heavy with pre-thunder clouds stirring.
Inside, my roof nests were vocally loud.
The sequence fascinating from that nested crowd.

First came the noise from those hungry beaks.
All calling louder for food each one seeks.
The louder they called the more they were fed
No brotherly love in that nested bed.
Then came a scrabble of claws, in the cleft
The food being delivered the adult then left.

Silence again until minutes had passed.
The cycle repeated for appetites vast.
The fledglings just knew when the adult was near
Some sense in the brain or maybe they hear?
Outside in the garden I saw what took place
When foraging birds were away from their base.

I marvel at instincts that drive these birds so
That nest is a magnet, it’s all that they know.
They forage ‘neath leaves where insects have clung
A morsel in beak and it’s back to their young.
We think we work hard with a day at our toil
These birds work much harder just searching the soil.

Button Envy
Or.. how to turn a shopping experience into snobbery.

Suddenly it all went quite quiet.
My electric had gone on a diet.
The switch in the box,
The one which flow knocks,
Had been tripped by a fault in my iron.

I looked up on Which? what to buy
And saw one which they said to try.
When looking on line
I found none like mine,
The model had now been deleted.

A newer one now in its place;
More expensive, of course, to replace;
Had extras galore
And one “NOW IN STORE!”
I melted my credit card gaily.

Now on my new iron there’s a button on top.
It does things that others just hop.
That’s worth the price
And makes it quite nice,
A step up from others in shops.

More idle research then I made,
At lesser models, also displayed.
And there on the page,
Just imagine my rage,
another with MY button on top..

Suddenly my purchase was flawed.
No longer the extra accord.
No longer exclusive,
No longer conclusive.
I’ll steam as I steam through the ironing.

An iron with a button on top
Belching out steam very hot
Seems not fit for purpose
Belongs in a circus
So send it straight back to the shop!

This is something I shall be setting to music shortly.

Just Blame It On Corona.

When goods are lost or roundabout,
Just blame it on Corona.
When phones are down and always out,
Just blame it on Corona.
When messages are never seen
When Customer Service is “might have been”,
Just blame it on Corona.

When on line shopping’s just a fake,
Just blame it on Corona.
When vendors blunders become your mistake,
Just blame it on Corona.
When prices rise on things we need,
And hoarders sell in avid greed,
Just blame it on Corona.

When people always cross the street,
Just blame it on Corona.
When all our friends we never meet,
Just blame it on Corona.
When loved ones struggle hard to “Zoom”,
And everyone has a tidy room,
Just blame it on Corona.

When politicians never stick to rules,
Just blame it on Corona.
When statistics treat us all like fools,
Just blame it on Corona.
When future life is never clear,
And everything seems rather queer,
Just blame it on Corona.

Hi VynorHill, I just read this poem. I love it, really well done!

Many thanks Grace. You have probably gathered that I enjoy writing things, but never take myself too seriously. It is pleasant to be appreciated occasionally!

The Secrets Of The Shopping Channel.

The smile says it all as the product appears.
The music is up beat in the tempo one hears.
As the product zooms closer the melody peaks
Then the presenter cuts in and she speaks and she speaks.
She speaks with inflection and greets us all there
She speaks without pausing with excitement to share.

How glad to be there for this hour of fun
How thrilled to be sharing this bargain begun.
How it sold out before and is back with more stock
How the phone lines are busy with orders en-block.
How we all should now hurry to catch it this time
If it sold out too quickly that would be quite a crime.

Without any pause, with professional flow
She outlines the product and holds things to show.
How handy, how helpful how useful, how smart,
How attractive, how sturdy, how strong part by part.
The words “you are getting” and “you will enjoy”
Assumes you will certainly buy this new toy.

Eventually superlatives run out of steam
And she welcomes the smart a r s e as part of the team.
He grins as he scatters the dirt on the floor,
Or produces those stains other products ignore.
He polishes, primes, or he drills or he sticks
He sucks or he sprays or he cleans up some bricks.

She looks on and chatters as they banter and play
Then suddenly interrupts him in order to say.
“Thirty percent of the stock has now all been sold
So hurry to get yours or get left in the cold.”
She grimaces urgently as she points to the screen
And tells of this offer just this once may be seen.

Perhaps at this point there’s a cut to a clip,
Of a film where a voice takes the screen in his grip.
“But wait, that’s not all, there’s a bonus for free.
Yours if you place your order to agree.”
Back on the set the presenter with her grin
Points to your product so she can begin.

“The price is not one that you might want to pay
So here is the easiest way to delay.
Just a quarter for now and the rest over time
Now you can afford this product sublime.”
Not pausing for breath, she moves to the deal
“Try it at home and see what you feel.”

More urgent the warning as stock levels lower.
“Check out your baskets and don’t be much slower.”
Smart a r s e is ready to amaze you once more
And nothing will now ever more be a chore.
Life with this product will give time to be you
Life without it will make you feel blue.

The hour now closes and the music returns
The presenter still speaking now finally turns.
Says once again how to order in store
To hurry because there will be no more.
Says to keep watching for bargains to buy
Moves from the camera and sits with a sigh.

Moving My Elephant.

Pardon while I feed my elephant,
The elephant in the room.
The facts I have are relevant
To me, to you, to whom
The conversation thus unsaid
Has already been spoken
Already clear with in the head.

Who would dare to broach it,
And risk the wrath of all?
And yet content to let it sit,
Festering in silence of its call.
Interpretations of the facts
Unique to each who ponder
So scared of fragile pacts.

My elephant is long in trunk
Its tusks are gnarled and pointed.
It mocks the tremor and the funk
It stands there self-appointed.
Its space a long time claimed within
Familial status in the brain
Eyes staring at my sin.

Today I feed the last of fruit
Today I send it packing.
Today its backside has the boot
No courage here is lacking.
I’ll clear the space for better pets
I’ll pass my elephant on,
And settle all its debts.

From My Point Of View….. Dedicated to Beryl.

Let’s get things straight
From the beginning.
No fancy vocabulary,
No airy-fairy talk.
No limpid streams – they’re not!
Mud brown – Reeds? A lot.
No birds on wing,
That kind of thing.
They all fly like that.

So, a barrier and a code.
A drive down a bumpy road.
Boats to the left – a hedge right.
On to the car park site.
Loos ahead with veranda above
Steps and gravel, trolleys to shove.

A notice “Berth holders only.”
Another: Don’t feed the ducks –
Or swans or Rabbits.
Wild life, that kind of thing.
A pontoon path that raises
Now its slope amazes
As I tread the downward path
On to the decking lath.

Some yards to go and then a turn
Past those boats with names to spurn.
Squandered Wealth and Merry Dance
Breakaway and Second Chance.
My girl waits for me to please,
Welcome in to Amanda Louise.

Each boat on its wooden jetty
Each with power, when you’ve paid.
Hoses with water there on tap
On reels coiled, that kind of thing.
Each can reach to boats near moored,
For cleaning, filling tanks on board.
Each enclave on this long walkway
Has space for two boats there to stay.

Some enclaves – empty waiting use,
On these ducks sleep – never goose.
Two swans live and feed around
A Heron wanders, treading ground.
Dogs are many, they walk above
With owners, poo bag hand in glove.

Sounds are many and quite distinct.
Large trees rustle and hiss.
From nearby streets an occasional fire engine
Siren sounding on its way.
Distant traffic, that kind of thing.
Often pigeons or ducks with raucous quack
Swim around in pairs –or more – and answer back.
An owl the other night calling for his mate.
Another distant hooting long and late.

The boat a stable base for sure,
Safe and easy now to moor,
Moves casually as the breezes gain
And buffers on the side complain
As ropes release and move to take the strain.
The pennants flutter with the ebb and flow
And muddy waters ripple with the blow.

It is seldom still within this basin.
But, when it is, reflections mirror.
Images swirl beneath the water
Until a fish jumps, that kind of thing.
Lilly pads appear in Spring from subterranean slumber
All green and fleshy growing large in number.
Fry, so small, are darting pad to pad
While skaters land to bask and rest a tad.

Inside Amanda Louise the cabin neat,
Houses all the boating needs complete.
A bed, a loo ( emptied not in river! )
Electric points for heat and not to shiver.
Cupboards neat and full of useful things,
A tea urn for hot water and stove with rings.
Wheel to steer and ropes to hold her steady
A table there for dinner when it’s ready.

Children chatter and play far away.
Other owners visit boats around.
Cleaning, lounging, that kind of thing.
And some chug past and out to open water.
Residents in long boats loiter at their doors
Chatting to neighbours, doing minor chores.
And life takes on an easy rhythmic style
While the world outside is busy all the while.

Deceitful calm within this protected bubble
Away from harm and all societal trouble.

Loved it Vynor – Thank you 🙂