 |
Bored and looking for something to do? We could play around to see the afternoon through, Pin a tail on the donkey is always so lame, Let’s instead go and create a new game, Winding up dogs so they bark to annoy, Go bully the weak little orphan boy, Chase pigeons and squash them flat with your foot, Catch a white cat and cover it with soot. Play knock up ginger on the old widow’s door, Pinch a few sweets from the newspaper store, Keep a watch out for the boys dressed in blue, Otherwise they will surely collar you. Ride in a wheelie bin down the steepest street, Playing with matches will turn up the heat, Slashing some tyres is a deflating event, The world is our playground; heavenly sent. — Philip Wood |
Devilish Games
It never did happen
Thiepval Memorial, Somme
|
When our kids attended junior school we were assured, That typing skills will no longer be required for the keyboard, Our intelligent electronic friends would respond to our voice, Most of the time they would choose for us our best choice. Who will need cash which displays the Queen’s head? Plastic and websites we’ll use easily instead, Swipe and mouse clicks will replace our loose change, But demand for the folding stuff continues unrestrained. Turning the pages of your favourite book, Is so 20th century, so to Kindle we’ll look, Its never caught on, folk still prefer novels in paper, A real volume in your hand; on the bookshelf for later. Disaster will strike, software can’t cope with a two, Planes will fall out of the sky, markets crash too, How many times did we actually suffer, Because the millennium bug caused our computers to stutter? Inventions and machines will make our lives more relaxed, Recreation time will increase, whilst our wealth is enhanced, Everyone’s still flat out working a full week, Stress levels and exhaustion continue to peek. “The war to end all wars”; a lost generation were misled “Peace in our time”; Munich's promises we were fed, “Tear down this wall”; the Cold War continues its dance, The price of true peace will always be eternal vigilance. — Philip Wood |
Electron planet
 |
The scale of life is relative to all, What is large to an ant, to us is small, Our planet shrinks with each year that passes, But what if it was so small we’d need microscopic glasses? If our solar system was merely an elementary atom, This Earth of ours would be an insignificant orbiting electron, The galaxy we know maybe just a complex molecule, Of some much grander genetic pool. Billions of galaxies exist beyond our viewing, Maybe all contributing to some humungous being, Perhaps a massive form of me surrounds our outer space, E=mc² could ultimately prove to be just at snail’s pace. — Philip Wood |
L'arbre excentrique
 |
Ces branches qui partent dans tous les sens, ne dirait-on pas des danseuses ? ou une divinité de l'Inde ? ou des serpents qui ondulent ? L'arbre nous fait-il des signes ? Un arbre pensant ? Serait-il habité par des esprits ? Un chaman pourrait peut-être nous renseigner ? Et si le grand Pan n'était pas mort et rodait dans les parages ? A moins que cet arbre ne se contorsionne pour tenter de s'échapper de l'endroit où il est enraciné et qu'il n'a pas choisi, après tout ! Un arbre qui s'échappe pour aller visiter la forêt, ce serait original. Cet excentrique serait peut-être même capable, à la fin, de venir se placer au premier plan et nous dire : « Méfiez-vous de l'arbre qui cache la forêt. » |
Sur les vitraux colorés
 |
Le poète est semblable au prince des nuées. Dans un concert de silence, Sa voix inonde la cathédrale Mais seul l’écho de ses mots Glisse sur les vitraux colorés Et se perd en un chant monocorde Sous la voûte de lumière À l’ombre des arcades. Semblable à l’artiste peintre, Le buveur de lettres dessine À l’encre de Chine Des pleins et des déliés, Au cœur de la dentelle de pierres. Comme une symphonie de notes Qui noircit le ciel tourmenté Il déclame ses vers enchantés Le regard bercé par la prière. Quand l’horizon disparaît, Son âme libérée s’envole Vers un crépuscule solennel. — Sylvie Brugeal |
Passion
Le baiser de Rodin aux Tuilleries
|
Peindre ton corps, Sublimer ta voix, Ébaucher nos lendemains, Dessiner avec ferveur Notre amour pastel Sur la route du bonheur. Tracer les symboles De l'alchimie de nos âmes Sur le livre ouvert de la vie. Conjuguer l'algèbre De nos différences Pour respirer l'espoir De fusionner les teintes Du bonheur retrouvé. Décliner à l'infini La palette des couleurs De notre rencontre, Des prémices du jour Aux portes de la nuit. — Sylvie Brugeal |
All you need is love
 |
What is love when life is a struggle Hundreds of people in all sorts of trouble Animals left alone, no-one to care They give lots of love, but no-one to share. Old people trying to cope alone Forgotten or left in homes No wonder the world is in a mess When nobody cares for other stress. People fighting in the streets When you go out your heart beats We live in fear, and terrible dread Thousands dying, not being fed. What has happened to our beautiful world Death and destruction, I have no words We need love to restore our futures Good things like art and culture. Be kind, not bad, make people happy not sad Be proud to live in a good world not bad. Remember the Beatles song: All you need is love. |
Absence
 |
Les murs fissurés de l'enfance Opacifiés de nuances gris-bleu, Sous un linceul de souvenirs Se meurent sous le lierre jauni. L'histoire d'une vie Se perd dans l'écho du silence. Les rires des enfants Remplis d'insouciance Se sont envolés Vers d'autres contrées. Le passé a dilapidé Leurs éclats sonores, Teintes anachroniques Du bonheur enfui. Les îles éparpillées De la mer turquoise Jettent un regard détaché Sur le continent, Échappant au désordre Du monde. |
Adieu
 |
Aux lueurs de l'aube, Les corps muets des amants Écrivent en lettres de sable Leur ultime histoire d’amour. La plage se recueille Devant leur insolence. La mer respire le parfum De leur bonheur fragmenté En mille soupirs. Échouée sur la grève, Leur passion d’un jour Meurt devant l’éternel. — Sylvie Brugeal |
La réclamation
 |
(10h00) « Allo ? » (musique)... « Ne quittez pas, nous allons donner suite à votre appel » ... (musique)... (10h05) « Ici Robot téléphonique BBIWY1984, à votre écoute ; dans le cadre de notre démarche qualité et formation, votre appel est susceptible d'être enregistré » Ah !, c'est une machine... « Euh!... C'est pour une réclamation… » « Nous avons compris que vous téléphonez pour une réclamation ; si c'est exact, dites OUI ; sinon, dites NON » « OUI... » « Après le bip sonore, la communication vous sera facturée un Euro la minute... » (10h07) « BIP » « Pour une première réclamation, tapez 1, Pour le suivi d'une réclamation, tapez 2, Pour toute autre demande, tapez 3... » « Nous n'avons pas compris votre réponse... Pour une première réclamation... » (etc.) (10h13) « Vous allez être mis en relation avec un conseiller » ...(musique)... (10h20) « Tous nos conseillers sont actuellement en ligne, veuillez renouveler votre appel ultérieurement TUT, TUT, TUT...» (venant de la pièce à côté) : « tu n'as rien de mieux à faire qu'à passer ta vie au téléphone ! » |
Man in black
 |
Did you
spot the man in black?
Was he
waiting for aliens to come back?
Or maybe
just enjoying the views,
He could be
searching the trees for clues.
People felt
safe with him around,
Guiding
people round the grounds.
Every-one
had a lovely day,
And the man
in black just faded away…
|
Tug-o-war
 |
Heave ho! Heave
ho!
Look what I
did, when I had a go.
Come on
mates, hang on tight,
So we can
celebrate tonight.
Tug-o-war
is a tough man’s game,
And if you
win, you get a good name.
Come on
guys. Keep on pulling,
The beers
are ready, and the wine is mulling.
Suddenly a
cheer goes up,
Hooray! our
team has won the cup.
|
The resistance fighters
 |
These men and
women were so brave,
Look at all
the lives they saved.
Fearless to
the very end,
Though I
don’t know them, they are my friends.
They are in
my heart and in my soul,
And I welcome
their spirits to my fold.
The sun has
cast light on the shadows,
Over the
fields and green meadows.
Farewell my
friends, I have to go,
Thank you
for the bravery you showed.
|
The lucky spider
 |
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. |
Autumn walks
 |
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
 |
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
 |
– « 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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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?
 |
“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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
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
 |
“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
 |
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 |
My original Brother typewriter
Photo: Brother Typewriter
|
My
OrIgInal Bro her yppewrI er
My old
bro her yppewrI er Is very worn o ,
I no
longer yppes he le er ,
And for some
IllogIcal reason,
Always pprIn
s a do ble le er pp,
I only
pprod ces an pppper case I,
Also, I have no Idea
why I nderlInes y.
I doesn’
q I e abide by he r les ha follow q,
I
rIes o oppera e he arm for he le er
ha comes before ,
hInk
back o he pproblem I had In he fIrs pplace,
So o
pprIn and I j s leaves a sppace.
— PPhIlIpp Wood
|
My original brother typewriter decoded
Casked Limerick
 |
There’s an awful lot of coffee in Brazil, And sweet juicy oranges from Seville, You’d die for French wine, Which is dandy and fine, Be it red, white, sparkling or still. — Philip Wood |
Globules rouges
 |
Globules rouges vainqueurs et festifs observés au microscope par la mouche avant sa fuite par le télé transporteur hyperbolique de Scotty à bord de l’Enterprise. – Et la main qu’on voit ? dit quelqu’un dans le public... – C’est le cascadeur. On coupera au montage ! |
Une bonne excuse
 |
Mon marteau ne vaut pas un clou, Ma scie perd ses dents, Ma pince est bien trop mince, Comme c'est embêtant de ne pas être performant ! Mon tournevis est hors-service, Ma perceuse est paresseuse, Ma ponceuse, c'est tout comme, Quel malheur, pour un bricoleur, de ne pas être à la hauteur ! Mon serre-joint ne va pas bien, Mon équerre me désespère, Mon rabot n'est pas beau, Mes vieux outils sont bien décatis, Tant pis ! ou, peut-être, Tant mieux ! Car lorsqu'on est maladroit, pouvoir accuser ses outils, quelle bonne excuse ! |
Around the World in Eighty Years
 |
Eighty years is the allotted time most of us have to last, By the time we’re grown and matured, twenty summers have come and passed. We then get wed and raise our kids, there goes at least a score, Next, its work flat out to save enough to survive post sixty four. When we finally get to put up our feet, and take that well earned break, We can do all those things we’ve always put off, and new hobbies undertake. “How we ever found the time to go to work?” is a mystery we all ask, We’re busier now than we’ve ever been, no time in the sun to bask. The garden beckons as do unread books, so rain or shine we’re set, Medieval towns to meander through, autumn hillside trails to trek, Grandkids to mind and play their games, to their parents we return, Clubs and groups that weekly meet, new crafts to start and learn. Long dreamed of ocean cruises with tropical beaches to explore, Ahoy! Beautiful New Zealand, exotic Bali, bustling Singapore, Retirement is brilliant, it’s the best age of your life, Time to enjoy being together, savouring your love as man and wife. — Philip Wood |
Shade of Influence
 |
We live our lives from day to day,
Dealing with our lot having little say,
We seem to just go round and round,
Not realising the folk our shadow’s found.
Its shade falls across our vulnerable youth,
How they mature is our final proof,
We coach our boys to become self-respecting men,
Before eclipses of evil try to knock them down again.
Cast over all our precious ones we love,
Can be destructive or peaceful as a dove,
When our time is up, our shadow fades from sight,
Ensure they know you adored them right.
Hosts of fellow shadows a community make,
Overlapping talents, giving more than they can take,
We think our lives small, insignificant, of no consequence,
Whereas combined shade bestows cultural legacy, an
inheritance.
— Philip Wood |
Behind Closed Windows
Porto
|
Women cooking, Children playing, Television watching, Stereo thumping, Nintendo gaming, Husbands snoozing, Couples fighting, Lovers embracing, Widows mourning, Spinsters sobbing, Girls flirting, Boys sparring, Siblings quarreling, Teenagers stressing, Families chatting, Pensioners reminiscing, Babies feeding, Toddlers toddling, Grandmothers caring, Grandfathers doting, Students aspiring, Unemployed squandering, Addicts injecting, Gluttons guzzling, Anorexics purging, Gangsters plotting, Escorts earning, Sinners cheating, Priests forgiving, Guitarist strumming, Vocalist humming, Artists painting, Models posing, Sick recovering, Infirm dying, Life continuing………… — Philip Wood |
Les vieilles mansardes
 |
En immersion dans les nuées, les vieilles mansardes contemplent les bleutés des beaux matins, les mordores des couchers languissants ; les lavis gris des jours de pluie les enchantent aussi... reste à intégrer un intrus de graffiti « Street art » naissant sur l’aplomb des toits. Peu importe ce signe du présent, le regard s’apprivoise avec le temps... En attendant, sensations et sortilèges hantent ces lieux perchés, si proches des dieux. — My |
Pierre qui vole
 |
Une pierre qui vole ? On n’a jamais vu ça –lui disaient les autres– Alors elle se taisait Parfois même elle pleurait À grosses gouttes Des larmes de pierre ! On n’a jamais vu ça –se disaient les autres– Et pourtant chers cailloux Cette pierre en versait bien Et plutôt des belles Si bien qu’un jour Qu’ils ne regardaient pas Elle s’envola Elle s’envola à la nage ! |
Échec génétique
 |
Petit scooter T’es comme des milliers de congénères Que des algos aléatoires génèrent Scooter toujours prêt ! Ton but : revenir à la maison Tu pleures, tu crisses « maison, maison » Machine évolutionnaire Tu erres dans le dédale de calcul Toujours avance, jamais ne recule Engin effrayé Dans ce coin, tu coinces, t’es bloqué Tu te meurs, affamé, dépenaillé Pauvre con Ton code n’est pas le bon. — Paul Sanson |
Tu chériras la mer
 |
« Homme libre toujours tu chériras la mer »
Et la femme ? Si elle se libère ? Que chérira-t-elle ? La mer ? Et sa mère ? Se libérera-t-elle ? La mère qui a vu l’homme libre partir en mer, Qui a su se résigner à chérir le ciel Et qui laisse la mer libérer sa fille ! Elle est fatiguée la mère. Fière, mais fatiguée. Alors elle regarde dehors. Vers la mer, qui emporte les gens libres, Et les vagues qui transforment son décor. |
Soir d'été à Marseille
 |
Les bateaux peuvent rentrer La sardine qui bouchait le port Est partie se coucher. Marins, n'ayez plus peur du mauvais sort ! Sur la digue, promeneurs et pêcheurs Ne semblent pas s'inquiéter de l'heure, Bien que le ciel s'assombrisse. Mais sur la mer, quel feu d'artifice ! Une dentelle de reflets argentés scintille, Le soleil a déposé une mantille Sur sa bien-aimée, la mer, Sous le regard bienveillant de la Bonne-Mère. — Gérard Miro |
It's... Monty May’s Plunging Circus!
 |
The proud lion has been tamed, By the clown with the crazy hair, Now transformed into lemmings, He’s no longer there. Twenty seven friends disappear at the magician’s bequest, The people have spoken, so he grants their request, Manipulated the crowd by swiftness of hand, Told lies on a bus the length of the land. Jugglers struggle to control both left and right, Denying gravity exists, with their egos they fight, Behind cabinet doors they practice their act, Despite the denial of every logical fact. Show ponies dance to their ring master’s tune, Strutting their heads blandly covered in plumes, The chimpanzee tea-party is the most realistic of all, Conjuring up images of Westminster Hall. The audience is vetted, no Johnny Foreigner at this show, They offer nothing to the experience so away they must go, No man is an island, but it appears that we are, We’re free to make new friends, not from near but a far. The star of the show determined on her solo high wire act, Despite all the jeers and shaking to the end she must get, The bigtop’s crowd stir in a mood of dark discontent, This isn’t what they opted for when granting consent. They demand a full refund, a second go at their show’s choice, But the circus acts are stubborn and deaf to their powerless voice, We believed all the lies and the false testimony, We now know we made the worst decision in human history. — Philip Wood |
Homeward Bound
 |
Curvy farm track leads home into the setting sun, Westward traveling when a hard days work is done, Summer gone, the path no longer dusty and bone dry, Harvest collected, stored safely wheat, oats and rye. Leaves have turned golden; orange, browns and red, Trees are stark naked their foliage shed, This most beautiful season adorns evening skies a glow, Homeward journey to enjoy all that nature has to bestow. — Philip Wood |
Signs of Children
 |
Untidy bedrooms, toys in disarray, Quick to play, never put away, Eager to win, reluctantly share, Add to mum’s workload, not their care. Messy eaters, uncleared plate, Snacks between meals, hard to wait, Crumbs cover the table, over the floor, Gobbled all up, who's for more? Moan to get up, late for school, Uniform needs ironing, so uncool, Homework not done, excuse prepared, Chat to friends, answers compared. Who’d be a parent? we ask each other, All the effort, so much bother, We love them each and everyone, So proud of what they achieve and won. The chicks have flown, the nest is bare, We ask ourselves, “were they really there?”, Then we hear a knock on the front door, The grandkids have arrived that we so adore. — Philip Wood |
Time is not lost
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Time is fast, can be slow, Time to go and see a show. Time to take kids to school, And after to the swimming pool. Is it Time to go to work? Have I Time to iron my shirt? Quick, it’s Time for a break, Let’s have coffee and a cake. Time to go shopping for our tea, Lots of goodies for you and me. Time to get the kids in the bath, Time to take the dog down the path. Time for us all to go to bed, Everyone happy and well fed. Time will wait until the morning, We will wake when day is dawning. — Gillian Reid |
The alien has landed
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Is it a martian ? asked a little lad, It’s more like a turtle, said his dad. Shall we go and look inside, It might even take us, for a ride. No said his dad, we hab better go home, Just leave the poor old thing alone. — Gillian Reid |
Camelot
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The knights are toasting the end of the war, The people of Camelot will suffer no more. King Arthur and Guinevere are safe once again, Merlin used magic to ease the pain. Lancelot can now marry his bride, With his friend Galahad at his side. Remember this tale of ancient times, Keep love, not war on your minds. — Gillian Reid |
A City Shattered
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12:51, time for lunch, What shall we have today? Made a sandwich; about to pour my tea, When the whole world begins to sway under me. 6.2 goes on for ever, Time to move to a sturdy doorframe, Two rooms are skewed at awkward angles, Will anything ever be the same? 185 didn’t make it that day, The dust and rubble covered where they lay, A city in ruins, history destroyed at a stroke Hearts and morale left all tattered and broke. Red and black spirit arises, stands tall, Trouble and disaster bring out the best in us all, Student armies and neighbours are quick to volunteer , Liquefaction’s stinking sand and mud to clear. To rebuild the city, make it a modern place, A functional heart; maintaining its former art and grace, Stronger in both build and community ties, Always remembering those who sadly paid with their lives. |
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