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Hello Mr. Spider, what a pretty web, You will catch a lot and keep well fed. I like the pattern you have chosen, It will glisten when it’s frozen. You are well hidden amongst the leaves, Down in a hole beneath the trees. I hope lots of insects come your way, It will keep you busy through the day. Maybe a female spider will arrive, And join you over the winter nights. When spring comes with the sun, Your little spiders can have some fun. You and your mate can venture out, The kids will leave the home no doubt. You have all the summer to enjoy your life, Then return for winter, with your wife. |
The lucky spider
Autumn walks
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Let’s walk through the woods with sunlight beaming through the trees, Listening to the humming of the bees, Leaves rustling in the breeze. Deer calling for their mates, Cattle and sheep behind field gates. We continue down the lane, Back through the woods then out again, We watch the birds fly on the wing, Hearing the lovely songs they sing. We see berries growing on bushes, They look so plump and delicious. Look squirrels gathering nuts for winter, Buzzards flying above, searching for dinner. If you are feeling lonely and blue, Take a walk in the woods, it will enlighten you. — Gillian Reid |
Méli-mélo
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Assemblage hétéroclite De poutres métalliques De verticales et d'obliques De sangles et de câbles électriques Des crochets, une grue bleue Et en bas, des pneus Un peu de rouille, par endroits Un moteur de bateau, côté droit Beau sujet, ce méli-mélo Pour qui voudrait imiter Picasso. — Gérard Miro |
Les zozos
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– « ça me démange, gratte-moi dans le dos... » – « J’ai bien peur qu'on ait avalé du Machinchose dans le champ de maïs... si c'est ça, on est fichus! » Ainsi parlaient ces deux coléoptères et ce furent leurs dernières paroles. Un entomologiste passant par là Aperçoit leurs cadavres et hop, les ramasse et les expédie au musée... Maintenant, les visiteurs se pressent : « Oh, regarde comme ils sont beaux ces insectes ! dommage qu'ils soient en voie de disparition ! » Mais, parmi eux, combien de zozos qui demain, mine de rien, mettront encore du Machinchose dans leur jardin ? — Gérard Miro |
Mars’ Grasses... A Valentine Confession
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What would you do, If the sky ceased to be blue, turned a darker shade of red, Instead? Grass no longer light green, as we’ve previously seen. Pampas seed tips bright orange glow, to vividly fluoresce the lane-side hedgerow. Psychedelic-show! What conclusions would you draw, if vegan lions munched on straw? Pelicans alight at the zebra crossing sign, cows fermenting vintage French wine. Sublime! Cats and dogs become best friends, pleased their life-long struggle ends. Dodos start flying, defiantly thriving, wooly mammoths defrosting, eternally surviving, Enlivening! Imagine! For a moment let it be, you fall passionately in love with me. Most unworthy admirer of all, scores the adorable belle of the ball.. Heavenly! In my unique avant-garde world view, secretly treasure my unrequited love for you. Because, you will never look and see, in everyday reality, Just me! — Philip Wood |
Fifi on a plane tree
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Look, I have found a lovely tree, Have a good look, what can you see? When the bark falls, pictures appear, Is it a mouse or maybe a deer? A Teddy bear or a cat, A butterfly or a bat? I could look all day, and still see a few, Look, there is a dog like Fifi too. Maybe one day you will find my tree Have a really good look, just like me. |
Summer fun
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This is what life is all about, Having fun and messing around. They get pushed off the boats, and end up in the sea, After two events, we have a cup of tea. Back to the game once more before lunch, Once again, they clash and crunch. Those left on the boats who survive, Are the victors and win a prize. Then off they go to have some dinner, And a glass of wine, to toast the winners. |
What stinks so sweetly?
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“A rose by any other name”, A quote fair Juliet did once acclaim “Many a true word is spoken in jest”’ Revealed a cook with wisdom, Chaucer’s best. MG’s British pedigree disposed of for Chinese Yuan, A sanitation engineer remains the dustman, Designer lagers can’t replace the gravity of real ale, Exam non-achievement still ranks as a miserable fail. A person of interest we identified as a wanted crim, The street activity index was the reported rate of him, After forty years of marriage now my loving wife, Has been transformed to be merely my partner in life. Utility hatches have covered up manholes, Access fees charge drivers more expensive road tolls, Public service announcements now feed us propaganda, Road maps are a disguise for a political agenda. Economically deprived areas have replaced the slum, To house the poor and homeless who have now become, Economically marginalised outdoor urban dwellers, Resorting to irregular shopping, always known as shoplifters. In the Bard’s immortal words a rose smelled so sweetly, Now these pompous official terms try to blind us completely, A spade is a spade, so let us call it that, Cover up nothing with this bureaucratic P.C. twat. — Philip Wood |
Cross Channel Fare
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In France farmers grow corn to feed to their livestock, At harvest time they crop it all around the clock, The British nurture a cob with sweetness much better, Consume it themselves hot, smothered in rich butter. English gardens suffer pests including slimy snails, The French add garlic sauce to make them tasty meals, Small boys in England play with tadpoles from the village duck pond, Garçon serve up frog’s legs, of which the Gallic are so fond. Foie gras forces corn down Aquitaine geese’s throats, Free range U.K. birds happily peck up their own oats, Dedicated French duck farmers work for canard, English poultry farmers also work extremely hard. Knacker’s yards in Old Blighty produce meat for dog food, To overcook cheval in modern Gaul is considered to be rude, Hand drawn bitter and real ales, served lukewarm so enjoyed at their best, Chilling European lager wont put hairs on your chest. Little wonder Napoleon plotted to invade the isle to his north, He desired descent fare to savour in his mouth, Today’s English invasion flying south on Ryanair, Bring tasty goodies from the shires in their bags to declare. — Philip Wood |
Palimpseste nocturne
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La nuit je dors, j'invente des histoires Au matin, envolées ! Alors, il me faut les noter. Pour ne pas éveiller ma bien aimée, Furibarde, dès que dérangée, J'écris dans le noir au stylo des astros. Mais quand on dort, on ne pense pas À tourner les pages. Les bribes se chevauchent, quel hachis ! Au matin étonné, Reste à expliquer les lambeaux mêlés, Palimpseste nocturne de mes pensées. — Paul Sanson |
En théorie
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Un monopole magnétique À l’humeur très philosophique Cherchait partout son âme sœur Mais sans trop en avoir l’heure Dans la matière condensée Où ce polisson habitait Nulle trace d’autre monopole Aucun indice de cette bestiole Nous sommes si peu émergents Se disait-il entre deux temps Nous n’existons qu’en théorie Répétait-il tout contrit Vivement une corde de Dirac Pour s’aligner dans ce micmaque ! — Eleonore Sur |
The little red panda
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Dear little panda, you have had a busy day, Children excited, watching you play. Now it is time for us all to go home, Leaving panda on his own. The little fellow is all worn out, He has fallen asleep, please don’t shout. Good night little one, Have sweet dreams, We will see you tomorrow, When the sun shine beams. — Gillian Reid |
L'arbre qui marche
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Dans cette cité trépidante, l'arbre géant, en symbiose avec ciel et terre, marche d'un pas de sénateur... envoyant alentour ses branches retombantes qui deviennent racines ; cet ancrage devient troncs puis dédales magiques pour enfants. Là haut, un peuple d'oiseaux squatte sa canopée murmurante ; à ses pieds, on joue, on rit, on transmet en véritables griots des contes fascinants. Heureuse enfance! C'est le banian d'un coin de paradis. — My |
Car Stereotypes
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French coupés are finished in a stunning colour selection, Superior engines from Germany combine turbo with fuel injection, Sleek supercars bred of Italian stables impressively accelerate, Whereas their lesser marques, I’m afraid, rapidly rust and depreciate, Japanese vehicles are all so reliably boring, While those from Korea are no more inspiring, Chinese deathtraps are mass produced to be cheap, And East European sedans merely send me to sleep, English models, Oh! I remember their day? As for American automobiles, I can find nothing positive to say. — Philip Wood |
Victorian’s Lament
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Red hot coal furnaces are stoked to raise high steam pressure, Massive iron wheels rotate in a crescendo of tortured, confused clamour, Rhythmic pistons punch violently as in a heavyweight brawl, Banished to history are the peaceful countryside summers of our yore. Broadened meadows patrolled by leviathan traction engines with their harvest thresher, Ferrous supplants centuries of ancient artifacts rendered from timber and leather, Ploughs, carts and harrows, traditional tools of the farm, left us their pre-historic traces, Now abandoned behind derelict barns and in damp ditches lie their rotting carcasses. For progress sake we enthusiastically jettison our well proven culture overboard, Decomposing out of sight, scantily raising a protesting luddite word, Centuries will pass leaving fading folklore with skeletal remains, Our heritage lost, impossible to regain! — Philip Wood |
French Sails Man Ship
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“Which yacht is the fastest?”, Asked the boy to the man. “Will it go faster, If I blow as hard as I can?” “How would I know, What do I care? I only rent the boats out, Not test them as a match pair”. “If you take my three euros, You better not give me a hulk, If I don’t beat my father’s, All afternoon I will sulk!” “Go away little boy, I don’t want you to turn sour. You are a visitor to France, And this is my French lunch hour!” — Philip Wood |
Me; Myself; My Art
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I can’t draw a straight line, nor with charcoal sketch, Blowing glass for me sucks; brass I find hard to etch, Fine painting on canvas is not my forté, Whether oil or watercolour, my brush tends to stray. It goes against my grain, carving out of wood, Chiseling sculptures from marble, as if I could? Me and pottery, oh! What a mess, My pots don’t hold water, their handles even less. I’m illiterate with music; staves resemble a barcode, Hand me a violin, I’ll ask where to blow, Holding a note is OK as long as it’s B flat, I’m tone deaf with anything more musical than that. No! Photography is my art form of choice, shooting angles others overlook, Composition, exposure and processing seldom done by the Nikon book, Combined with incites of humour or profound poetry, Permits self-expression projecting my unique personality. — Philip Wood |
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