Sep 5th

Shakespeare Sonnet 32

By Mary B

If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,


Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,

And though they be outstripped by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.


O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:


But since he died and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’.

Aug 10th

Short Ode to the Cuckoo - by W.H. Auden

By Mary B

Short Ode to the Cuckoo

by W.H. Auden

 Short Ode to the Cuckoo

Short Ode to the Cuckoo

No one now imagines you answer idle questions
— How long shall I live?  How long remain single?
Will butter be cheaper? — nor does your shout make
husbands uneasy.

Compared with arias by the great performers
such as the merle, your two-note act is kid-stuff:
our most hardened crooks are sincerely shocked by
your nesting habits.

Science, Aesthetics, Ethics, may huff and puff but they
cannot extinguish your magic:  you marvel
the commuter as you wondered the savage.
Hence, in my diary,

where I normally enter nothing but social
engagements and, lately, the death of friends, I
scribble year after year when I first hear you,
of a holy moment.

May 28th

The Happiness Fairy


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


By Mary B


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




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


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.

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

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