May 28th

The Happiness Fairy

By LJ E

I am the Happiness Fairy

have I called on you today?

I do my best but sometimes

dark clouds get in my way

my wings get very tired

beating oh so fast

and all this sadness hinders me

dark shadows it does cast

 

I am the Happiness Fairy

my work means oh so much

to help when I am needed

to give a magic touch

my travel takes me far and wide

I've flown so many miles

this world has so much sadness

it needs to have more smiles

 

I am the Happiness Fairy

if I haven't called on you

please be a little patient

I've such a lot to do

I'll be behind the darkest cloud

That fills your days with dread

my wings will beat a pathway

to ease your aching head

 

I am the Happiness Fairy

believe in me and say

"I will feel better very soon

there'll be a better day" 

my magic dust I'll sprinkle

to cover you with love

and as your heart begins to heal

I'll watch you from above......

 

(copyright LJE)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 1st

May Day Ditty by Della Hodgson James

By Mary B

May day is coming

When all will be gay,

‘Twil be fun and frolic

All the live, long day.

Flowers in the green woods

In the orchard, too,

Leaflets are growing

Every thing so new.

 

May, May, May

May, May, May,

May, May, May

Is that all that I can say.

 

May day is coming

May day is here,

The very happiest day

Of all the glad new year.

 

Call me early, Mother

Call me early, pray.

For we must crown the King,

The King, and Queen of May.

Apr 12th

The Playful Wind - Margaret Gibson

By Mary B

The Playful Wind

 

The wind that sighs among the heads of wheat

is playing games, with neither thought nor soul;

its whispers lie, the breeze which cools your heat

is whim alone, your comfort not its goal.

Its fingers touch your face with pleasant scent,

its daggers find your bones in winter frost,

the clouds are toys, and storms are wind's lament -

the wilder winds, the greater human cost.

Yet, wind is not to blame for breaking hearts,

it has no ill intent with its misdeeds;

its nature is to come and then depart

without respect to any other needs.

Enjoy the wind, and fly in it, who dare;

the wind will blow away, it doesn't care.

 

 

By Margaret Gibson

Feb 23rd

A POEM THAT SOME MAY RELATE TO

By Mary B

A POEM THAT SOME CAN RELATE TO


I remember the cheese of my childhood,
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
And the men went to work not the wife.

The cheese never needed a fridge,
And the bread was so crusty and hot
The children were seldom unhappy
And the wife was content with her lot.

I remember the milk from the bottle,
With the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
And not from the fridge; in the shop.
The kids were a lot more contented,
They didn't need money for kicks,
Just a game with their mates in the road,
And sometimes the Saturday flicks.

I remember the shop on the corner,
Where a pen'orth of sweets was sold
Do you think I'm a bit too nostalgic?
Or is it...I'm just getting old?

I remember the 'loo' was the lav
And the bogey man came in the night,
It wasn't the least bit funny
Going "out back" with no light.

The interesting items we perused
From the newspapers cut into squares,
And hung on a peg in the loo,
It took little to keep us amused.

The clothes were boiled in the copper
With plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
As Mum pressed everyone's 'duds'.

I remember the slap on my backside,
And the taste of soap if I swore
Anorexia and diets weren't heard of
And we hadn't much choice what we wore.

Do you think that bruised our ego?
Or our initiative was destroyed?
We ate what was put on the table
And I think life was better enjoyed.

 


Bet you nodded all the way through
that some can relate to reading this hey ........

 

ANON - but sent in by Maurice B

Feb 20th

Dad - by Elaine Feinstein

By Mary B

Dad

 

 

Your old hat hurts me, and those black

fat raisins you liked to press into

my palm from your soft heavy hand:

I see you staggering back up the path

with sacks of potatoes from some local farm,

fresh eggs, flowers. Every day I grieve

 

for your great heart broken and you gone.

You loved to watch the trees. This year

you did not see their Spring.

The sky was freezing over the fen

as on that somewhere secretly appointed day

you beached: cold, white-faced, shivering.

 

What happened, old bull, my loyal

hoarse-voiced warrior? The hammer

blow that stopped you in your track

and brought you to a hospital monitor

could not destroy your courage

to the end you were

uncowed and unconcerned with pleasing anyone.

 

I think of you now as once again safely

at my mother's side, the earth as

chosen as a bed, and feel most sorrow for

all that was gentle in

my childhood buried there

already forfeit, now forever lost.

Feb 14th

My Valentine to You

By LJ E


Roses are red violets are blue
if the one you love is not with you
speak their name and fondly say
"My love for you will ever stay
within my heart, my very being
until the day I will be seeing
your smile and then....a tender kiss
these are the things I deeply miss

I'm sure you look down from above
so Happy Valentine's Day my love
I know you know I Love You 'til
the seas run dry, the rivers still
until we meet I'll count the days
and count the very many ways
you gave your love and I gave mine
My Very Special Valentine.

LJE
Edit | Delete
Feb 9th

I Am - a poem by John Clare

By Mary B

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,

My friends forsake me like a memory lost;

I am the self-consumer of my woes,

They rise and vanish in oblivious host,

Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;

And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--

Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

 

I long for scenes where man has never trod;

A place where woman never smil'd or wept;

There to abide with my creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;

The grass below--above the vaulted sky. 

 

 

John Clare

Jan 21st

If I Should Die

By Mary B

If I should die before the rest of you

Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone

Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice.

But be the usual selves that I have known.

Weep if you must.

Parting is hell.

But life goes on.

So sing as well.

 

Joyce Grenfell

Jan 2nd

Four Quartets - T.S. Eliot

By Mary B

FOUR QUARTETS - T.S. Eliot

BURNT NORTON

(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')

  

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden. My words echo

Thus, in your mind.

But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

I do not know.

                    Other echoes

Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,

Round the corner. Through the first gate,

Into our first world, shall we follow

The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.

There they were, dignified, invisible,

Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,

In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,

And the bird called, in response to

The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,

And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses

Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,

Along the empty alley, into the box circle,

To look down into the drained pool.

Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,

And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,

And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,

The surface glittered out of heart of light,

And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.

Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,

Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind

Cannot bear very much reality.

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

 

 

 

II

 

Garlic and sapphires in the mud

Clot the bedded axle-tree.

The trilling wire in the blood

Sings below inveterate scars

Appeasing long forgotten wars.

The dance along the artery

The circulation of the lymph

Are figured in the drift of stars

Ascend to summer in the tree

We move above the moving tree

In light upon the figured leaf

And hear upon the sodden floor

Below, the boarhound and the boar

Pursue their pattern as before

But reconciled among the stars.

 

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.

And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

The inner freedom from the practical desire,

The release from action and suffering, release from the inner

And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded

By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,

Erhebung without motion, concentration

Without elimination, both a new world

And the old made explicit, understood

In the completion of its partial ecstasy,

The resolution of its partial horror.

Yet the enchainment of past and future

Woven in the weakness of the changing body,

Protects mankind from heaven and damnation

Which flesh cannot endure.

                                          Time past and time future

Allow but a little consciousness.

To be conscious is not to be in time

But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,

The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,

The moment in the draughty church at smokefall

Be remembered; involved with past and future.

Only through time time is conquered.

 

 

 

III

 

Here is a place of disaffection

Time before and time after

In a dim light: neither daylight

Investing form with lucid stillness

Turning shadow into transient beauty

With slow rotation suggesting permanence

Nor darkness to purify the soul

Emptying the sensual with deprivation

Cleansing affection from the temporal.

Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker

Over the strained time-ridden faces

Distracted from distraction by distraction

Filled with fancies and empty of meaning

Tumid apathy with no concentration

Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind

That blows before and after time,

Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs

Time before and time after.

Eructation of unhealthy souls

Into the faded air, the torpid

Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,

Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,

Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here

Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

 

    Descend lower, descend only

Into the world of perpetual solitude,

World not world, but that which is not world,

Internal darkness, deprivation

And destitution of all property,

Desiccation of the world of sense,

Evacuation of the world of fancy,

Inoperancy of the world of spirit;

This is the one way, and the other

Is the same, not in movement

But abstention from movement; while the world moves

In appetency, on its metalled ways

Of time past and time future.

 

 

 

IV

 

Time and the bell have buried the day,

The black cloud carries the sun away.

Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis

Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray

Clutch and cling?

 

    Chill

Fingers of yew be curled

Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing

Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still

At the still point of the turning world.

 

 

 

V

 

Words move, music moves

Only in time; but that which is only living

Can only die. Words, after speech, reach

Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,

Can words or music reach

The stillness, as a Chinese jar still

Moves perpetually in its stillness.

Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,

Not that only, but the co-existence,

Or say that the end precedes the beginning,

And the end and the beginning were always there

Before the beginning and after the end.

And all is always now. Words strain,

Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,

Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,

Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,

Will not stay still. Shrieking voices

Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,

Always assail them. The Word in the desert

Is most attacked by voices of temptation,

The crying shadow in the funeral dance,

The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

 

    The detail of the pattern is movement,

As in the figure of the ten stairs.

Desire itself is movement

Not in itself desirable;

Love is itself unmoving,

Only the cause and end of movement,

Timeless, and undesiring

Except in the aspect of time

Caught in the form of limitation

Between un-being and being.

Sudden in a shaft of sunlight

Even while the dust moves

There rises the hidden laughter

Of children in the foliage

Quick now, here, now, always—

Ridiculous the waste sad time

Stretching before and after.

 

Nov 15th

November - a poem by Thomas Hood

By Mary B

 

No sun - no moon! 

No morn - no noon - 

No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 

No comfortable feel in any member - 

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - 

November! 

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