Apr 23rd

To mark the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death

By Mary B

Sonnet 116

 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me prov'd, 

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

 

 

 

 

 

This Sonnet was read by my daughter last summer at the wedding of her brother, my son.

I read it at a memorial event last autumn for a dear friend whose husband had recently passed on, he was also a William.......

Apr 12th

The Plug-Hole Monster

By Mary B

The gurgling, burbling plug-hole monster,

Is waiting to slurp up your bath!

Skulking below in the bowels of the drain,

It belches its bubbling wrath!

 

Biding its time, till you pull out the plug,

Watch out, or it nibbles your feet!

The terrible, blubbering beast there within,

Is something you don't want to meet!

 

A blobulous mass of suddy shampoo,

It gulps dirty water with glee.

Then shiftily checks for the presence of toes,

And, with luck, the occasional knee!

 

So take heed and beware as you finish your soak,

And ensure that you keep your legs clear!

Let it swig till it's full, hear it grumble and moan,

And despondently then disappear!

 

©2007 Gareth Lancaster

 

To commemorate the weekend when both Phyl and LJ went 'down the plug-hole'........ thankfully they both made it back..... :)

Mar 12th

When did I grow old?

By Caroline S

"When did I grow old,did it happen in a day ?"

One moment my hair was chestnut brown ,now it`s turning grey.

     "When did I grow old , did it suddenly creep , when I was in my bed  , as I was sound asleep?"

"When did I grow old , did it happen this very hour , or did it slip in through the door as I was in the shower ?"

"When did I grow old, did I climb the steps of time , never stepping back to the glory of my prime ?"

"When did I grow old,  and the laughter lines appear ?"

I tremble at the thought of it and now I shed a tear.

"When did I grow old ?"  I give a little grin  ... It doesn`t  really matter since I am a "maid " within.

By Caroline  S .

aka : candle_in_the _wind 

 

 

 

Jan 25th

It's Burns Night - Robert Burns Tribute

By Mary B

Address to a Haggis

     
 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

 

cheerful

above
paunch, guts
worthy
-


buttocks
skewer


-

wipe
skill
Digging


-


well swollen
bellies, soon
burst

-

sicken

disgust


-

weak, rush

fist, nut


-


choice

trim
tops, thistle
-


watery
splashes,
porringers

-

 

 

Jan 8th

The Loom of Time

By Mary B

The Loom of Time

Man’s life is laid in the loom of time

To a pattern he does not see,

While the weavers work and the shuttles fly

Till the dawn of eternity.

 

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads

And some with threads of gold,

While often but the darker hues

Are all that they may hold.

 

But the weaver watches with skillful eye

Each shuttle fly to and fro,

And sees the pattern so deftly wrought

As the loom moves sure and slow.

 

God surely planned the pattern:

Each thread, the dark and fair,

Is chosen by His master skill

And placed in the web with care.

 

He only knows its beauty,

And guides the shuttles which hold

The threads so unattractive,

As well as the threads of gold.

 

Not till each loom is silent,

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God reveal the pattern

And explain the reason why

 

The dark threads were as needful

In the weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

For the pattern which He planned.

 

Author Unknown

Dec 20th

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple - by Jenny Joseph

By Mary B

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. 

 

Jenny Joseph

 

Dec 7th

Memorable Shakespeare

By Mary B

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, 

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 

This other Eden, demi-paradise, 

This fortress built by Nature for herself 

Against infection and the hand of war, 

This happy breed of men, this little world, 

This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall 

Or as a moat defensive to a house, 

Against the envy of less happier lands,-- 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

 

 

William Shakespeare, "King Richard II", Act 2 scene 1

Greatest English dramatist & poet (1564 - 1616)   

Nov 8th

Remembrance Day 2015 - We Will Remember Them

By Mary B

For The Fallen
(Laurence Binyon)
 

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.


Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.


They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.


They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.


They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.


But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;


As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.



Originally published in The Times on 21 September 1914.

Oct 30th

The Tick the Tock

By LJ E

The sky is dark. Celestial Sphere

day is pushed aside I fear

nights are longer now and so

'click' long-life bulb begins to glow

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

my heavy heart. Hands five o'clock

 

Thoughts abound and swirl in head

how to fill my time 'fore bed

shall I watch the 'magic box'

or look through window 'wait the fox

on his nightly hunt may pass

leaving calling card on grass

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

my heavy heart. Hands six o'clock

 

Now long-life bulb has gained more power

full brightness now, which took an hour

black rectangle beckons me

"Press my button" says TV

"I can fill your lonely hours

with my mesmerising powers"

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

with heavy heart. Hands seven o'clock

 

Turn my head away and look

there on table, unread book

has been lying there for ages

hopeful that I turn its pages

pick it up and read reviews

'A Masterpiece' the Evening News

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

my heavy heart. Hands eight o'clock

 

I hear the rain begin to fall

and then a Barn Owl's haunting call

from the corner of my eye

a ghostly shape flies quietly by

it seeks to find a tasty bite

on this dark and dreary night

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

with heavy heart. Hands nine o'clock

 

I look again at book, unread

think 'just one chapter then to bed'

with two hundred pages turned

the midnight oil has now been burned

storyline is so compelling

how it will end, there is no telling

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

my weary eyes. Hands one o'clock

 

I close the book, reluctantly

bed is gently calling me

flick the switch to kill the light

long-life bulb gives up its fight

slowly now I make my way

the end of yet another day

I glance at time. The Tick the Tock

morn' befalls. Hands five o'clock

 

LJE (Copyright)

 

Oct 18th

If I Should Never See The Moon Again

By Mary B

If I should never see the moon again

Rising red gold across the harvest field

Or feel the stinging soft rain

As the brown earth her treasures yield.

 

If I should never taste the salt sea spray

As the ship beats her course across the breeze.

Or smell the dog-rose and new-mown hay,

or moss or primroses beneath the tree.

 

If I should never hear the thrushes wake

Long before the sunrise in the glimmering dawn.

Or watch the huge Atlantic rollers break

Against the rugged cliffs in baffling scorn.

 

If I have to say good bye to stream and wood,

To wide ocean and the green clad hill,

I know that he, who made this world so good

Has somewhere made a heaven better still.

 

This bears witness with my latest breath

Knowing the love of God,

I fear no death.

 

 

Written by Major Malcolm Boyd, killed in action in France, June 1944

 

Read on the Archers by her granddaughter Pip at Granny Heather's funeral 14 October 2015

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