VERSES

A GARDEN IS...          Written in 1988 for an Am-Dram show.

Whoever wrote ‘A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot,’

Must have lived in Paradise, which my garden is not -

It’s thirty feet by thirty, uncompromisingly square

And trying to make it lovesome is the cause of my grey hair.

I go out with a garden fork to prick the lawn all over

With little holes for drainage, but all I get is clover...

...insterspersed with daisies I’ve done my best to banish

And patches of a strange black slime that simply will not vanish.

My husband says, ‘At least it’s green, and if you use the hover

Every other week, no-one will know it’s mostly clover.’

Then there’s the pond, two feet by four, my son dug out himself,

With several pots of pond weed on an underwater shelf.

The shelf’s a bit uneven so the pots won’t stand up straight,

But the goldfish seem quite happy – at the last count there were eight.

Mind you, they eat the tadpoles as soon as they are born –

The frogs must wonder where they’ve gone when they check up on the spawn.

The lovely corner hot spot with slabs of real York stone

Gets shaded by the willow the neighbours won’t cut down.

We’d sunbathe in the front bit, sprawled in our garden chairs

But when I sunbathe topless everybody stares.

And – can anybody tell me why the compost I dig in

With loving care each year before I put the flowers in

Does absolutely nothing to enhance the growth of seeds

Yet clearly is the ideal thing for strong and healthy weeds?

Survival of the fittest seems to be Nature’s way

In my garden at any rate, so I’m calling it a day –

And whoever thinks a garden is a lovesome thing, God wot,

Can come and do mine for me because, this year, I’m not.

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VIVA L’AMOUR!  Written for a WM competition – came first!

The brief was to write an eight-line poem using foreign phrases that are in common use in the English language.

The prima donna and l’enfant terrible

Are the cause célèbre chez nous;

N’est-ce-pas comme il faut to use Mater’s boudoir

For their verboten rendezvous -

She caught them flagrante delicto

But alas!- it was fait accompli -

With great savoir faire the diva looked up –

“Mea culpa,” she said, “C’est la vie!”

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 CREATIVE ACROSTIC - written for a competition - it didn't win!

Clay thrown by a potter can be anything -

Rare Ming vase or mixing bowl for cooks.

Every stunning view inspires a painting -

All those memories a thousand books.

Take a hank of wool and knit a jumper -

In your home re-tile a bathroom shower -

Varied are the ways to be creative

Even if you only arrange flowers.

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I WANT A PORSCHE FOR CHRISTMAS – written 1987

I want a Porsche for Christmas - fast and red and loud

With white leather upholstery and quadraphonic sound.

I don’t want a hand-made jumper, too short with sleeves too long –

I don’t want woolly bed-socks or the latest Christmas song.

You can forget the dreadful scent, soap-on-a-rope, and pants –

I’ve still got last year’s slippers and scarves from aged aunts.

I want a Porsche for Christmas – a long, sleek-bodied car

That looks a million dollars parked outside the bar.

I’ve cupboards full of saucepans, a copper jelly mould,

And an insulated plastic box to keep the picnics cold.

I don’t need another cookery book, and I never wear beige tights,

The black lace baby-doll nightie makes me itch at night.

Then there’s quilted cotton oven-gloves, or a Pyrex bowl for punch,

Trivial Pursuit and books of jokes for after Christmas lunch –

A pale pink nylon house-coat - a wash-proof make-up bag,

And a set of Carmen rollers – it’s all an awful drag.

I’ve got a five-door hatch-back, bought with my mind on cash –

But I want a Porsche this Christmas – big – expensive – flash!

If you really want to please me,

My only Christmas wish

Is a status-symbol,

Past-the-speed-limit

Beautifully gift-wrapped PORSCHE!

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