The forecast for summer, is usually a bummer-
The clouds and rain, will return again-
I hope I'm wrong, and the sun will shine-
As those ray's of sun, will be mighty fine-
POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek
The BBC forecasters predicted the heatwave summer the other day too Keith
The forecast for summer, is usually a bummer-
The clouds and rain, will return again-
I hope I'm wrong, and the sun will shine-
As those ray's of sun, will be mighty fine-
The forecast for summer, is usually a bummer-
The clouds and rain, will return again-
I hope I'm wrong, and the sun will shine-
As those ray's of sun, will be mighty fine-
"My Tears Will Fall Now That You're Gone,
I Can't Help But Cry, But I Must Go On"
I Can't Help But Cry, But I Must Go On"
-
Lena & Harry Smith
- Posts: 21514
- Joined: Tue Jul 12, 2005 10:05 am
- Location: London UK
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm
FEMME FATALE
She languorously lies there
and longingly fixes me
with a soft come-hither stare.
I caress the nape of her neck
and sensuously stroke the line
of her smooth curvaceous back,
then I give her an affectionate pat
on the base of that supple spine.
And, yet again, I have succ-umbed
to the charms of gorgeous Georgy,
our little black-and-white cat ...
Keith Good
PS A poem for the forum's ailurophiles
(cat lovers).
She languorously lies there
and longingly fixes me
with a soft come-hither stare.
I caress the nape of her neck
and sensuously stroke the line
of her smooth curvaceous back,
then I give her an affectionate pat
on the base of that supple spine.
And, yet again, I have succ-umbed
to the charms of gorgeous Georgy,
our little black-and-white cat ...
Keith Good
PS A poem for the forum's ailurophiles
(cat lovers).
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm
Dear forum friend, let me tell you a heartwarming tale
to lift the gloom of worries about the economy and climate
change, to say nothing of the despair caused by the MPs'
expenses debacle. The narrative begins unpromisingly
with the burning down, in 1968, of a five-storey corn
and flour mill in my home town of Bandon in county Cork.
(Where, incidentally, musical talent abounds and Matt's songs
always adorn our annual reunions.)
Four resourceful and inventive local businessmen realised
that the river-power that drove the now defunct mill-wheel
could be redeployed to generate electricity. Accordingly,
they proceeded to borrow £100.000 from the banks,
and organised the installation of a turbine and the construction
of an architecturally attractive brickwork housing for the facility,
which looks spectacular in its lit-up, night-time, weirside setting.
Their endeavours have resulted in free electricity piped to
St Michael's old folks' home in Weir Street, with the surplus
power fed into the national grid thereby 'generating' sufficient
income to repay the loans. The profits are now are being used
to finance the running costs of St Michael's.
Maybe environmentally-harmless hydro-electric schemes should
be used more extensively as a weapon in the fight against
the threat of global warming.
The following little verse of mine was published in The Opinion,
West Cork's monthly magazine, to mark the occasion of the new
Weir Project opening ceremony conducted on 16 October 1997:
THE BANDON RIVER
(in concurrence)
While we are glad to extend
ripples of cheer
to local accomplishment
at this hour,
I and my old friend,
the re-harnessed weir,
work to augment
local electric power.
Keith Good
to lift the gloom of worries about the economy and climate
change, to say nothing of the despair caused by the MPs'
expenses debacle. The narrative begins unpromisingly
with the burning down, in 1968, of a five-storey corn
and flour mill in my home town of Bandon in county Cork.
(Where, incidentally, musical talent abounds and Matt's songs
always adorn our annual reunions.)
Four resourceful and inventive local businessmen realised
that the river-power that drove the now defunct mill-wheel
could be redeployed to generate electricity. Accordingly,
they proceeded to borrow £100.000 from the banks,
and organised the installation of a turbine and the construction
of an architecturally attractive brickwork housing for the facility,
which looks spectacular in its lit-up, night-time, weirside setting.
Their endeavours have resulted in free electricity piped to
St Michael's old folks' home in Weir Street, with the surplus
power fed into the national grid thereby 'generating' sufficient
income to repay the loans. The profits are now are being used
to finance the running costs of St Michael's.
Maybe environmentally-harmless hydro-electric schemes should
be used more extensively as a weapon in the fight against
the threat of global warming.
The following little verse of mine was published in The Opinion,
West Cork's monthly magazine, to mark the occasion of the new
Weir Project opening ceremony conducted on 16 October 1997:
THE BANDON RIVER
(in concurrence)
While we are glad to extend
ripples of cheer
to local accomplishment
at this hour,
I and my old friend,
the re-harnessed weir,
work to augment
local electric power.
Keith Good
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm
The following 'munchkins' poem is very much tongue in cheek.
It was written by my late friend, Eric Baker (like Matt,
he has gone before us), who would be proud to see his
lines appear on Michele's website.
REALITY IN FANTASY
(a true story)
When I was three my sister said,
'Come with me to the garden shed,
Peep through a knot-hole and you'll see
Something to fill you full of glee.'
My sister was so worldly-wise
And so it came as no surprise
That she knew things unknown to me,
For she was six, and I was three.
Into her hand I put my own,
(I had no wish to be alone);
Would there be witches on broomsticks?
(I was three, and she was six.)
Out through the kitchen door we crept.
It seemed the world around us slept,
Although we had not yet had tea.
(For it was wintertime, you see.)
And on that dark and frosty night,
With coats and scarves around us tight,
I asked her, 'What can this sight be?'
For she was six, and I was three.
She signalled me to make no sound
As we approached a grassy mound,
And there, the garden shed we saw,
That winter evening cold and raw.
We two then tiptoed to the shed,
My sister turned to me and said,
'Wait there, keep still, let's have no tricks.'
For I was three, and she was six.
I watched as she crept to the door,
Peeped through a knot-hole, and she saw -
Whate'er she saw, it gave her joy,
And thrilled this shiv'ring little boy.
Transfixed, she gazed upon the scene,
With, on her face, a smile serene
As if some magic she could see,
She was six, and I was three.
Enthralled, she turned, as in a trance,
Said, 'See the fairies, how they dance.'
I sped on tiptoe to the door
To see what vision was in store.
Oh, how shall I describe the sight
Of fairies, dressed in pink and white:
Of silver handbells, sweetly ringing,
And faerie voices, sweetly singing?
Each wore a harebell hat of blue,
bejewelled with chrystal gems of dew;
And some, upon the shed's high shelves,
Played hide-and-seek with impish elves.
Their wings, like those of damselfly,
Seemed soft as gossamer, and I,
While gazing on them in delight,
Watched, breathless, as they all took flight.
They dived and swooped and flew in rings
On shimmering, translucent wings.
This magical scene held spellbound
Two little mortals on the ground.
Then Mother's voice called, 'Time for tea.'
And they were gone. The revelry
Which we had witnessed was no more.
We turned, dismayed, from our shed door.
In youth, of course, we both denied
The faerie dance, and yet we sighed.
There is, I think, no recompense
For loss of childhood innocence.
In adulthood we now recall
The scene that held us both in thrall,
Which we were favoured both to see,
When she was six, and I was three.
Eric Baker
It was written by my late friend, Eric Baker (like Matt,
he has gone before us), who would be proud to see his
lines appear on Michele's website.
REALITY IN FANTASY
(a true story)
When I was three my sister said,
'Come with me to the garden shed,
Peep through a knot-hole and you'll see
Something to fill you full of glee.'
My sister was so worldly-wise
And so it came as no surprise
That she knew things unknown to me,
For she was six, and I was three.
Into her hand I put my own,
(I had no wish to be alone);
Would there be witches on broomsticks?
(I was three, and she was six.)
Out through the kitchen door we crept.
It seemed the world around us slept,
Although we had not yet had tea.
(For it was wintertime, you see.)
And on that dark and frosty night,
With coats and scarves around us tight,
I asked her, 'What can this sight be?'
For she was six, and I was three.
She signalled me to make no sound
As we approached a grassy mound,
And there, the garden shed we saw,
That winter evening cold and raw.
We two then tiptoed to the shed,
My sister turned to me and said,
'Wait there, keep still, let's have no tricks.'
For I was three, and she was six.
I watched as she crept to the door,
Peeped through a knot-hole, and she saw -
Whate'er she saw, it gave her joy,
And thrilled this shiv'ring little boy.
Transfixed, she gazed upon the scene,
With, on her face, a smile serene
As if some magic she could see,
She was six, and I was three.
Enthralled, she turned, as in a trance,
Said, 'See the fairies, how they dance.'
I sped on tiptoe to the door
To see what vision was in store.
Oh, how shall I describe the sight
Of fairies, dressed in pink and white:
Of silver handbells, sweetly ringing,
And faerie voices, sweetly singing?
Each wore a harebell hat of blue,
bejewelled with chrystal gems of dew;
And some, upon the shed's high shelves,
Played hide-and-seek with impish elves.
Their wings, like those of damselfly,
Seemed soft as gossamer, and I,
While gazing on them in delight,
Watched, breathless, as they all took flight.
They dived and swooped and flew in rings
On shimmering, translucent wings.
This magical scene held spellbound
Two little mortals on the ground.
Then Mother's voice called, 'Time for tea.'
And they were gone. The revelry
Which we had witnessed was no more.
We turned, dismayed, from our shed door.
In youth, of course, we both denied
The faerie dance, and yet we sighed.
There is, I think, no recompense
For loss of childhood innocence.
In adulthood we now recall
The scene that held us both in thrall,
Which we were favoured both to see,
When she was six, and I was three.
Eric Baker
Last edited by keithgood838 on Mon May 18, 2009 12:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
-
Lena & Harry Smith
- Posts: 21514
- Joined: Tue Jul 12, 2005 10:05 am
- Location: London UK
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm
CONOR WILLIAM GOOD
(first grandchild joy)
"Oh, wonder infant, one day young,
one thought animates me:
which part will you play when a man,
where lies your destiny?
Perhaps a surgeon you will be,
ensuring hopes don't die;
returning to the environment
wherein you now lie.
Maybe you'll be a schoolteacher,
an upstanding profession;
or a luminary of the Church,
taking my confession!
I see you as a novelist
publishing prized books,
an urbane fellow drawing many
admiring female looks.
Or you could be a comedian
rib-tickling on hard boards,
or even a military man
with some despot, crossing swords.
God may have blest you with the gift
to rouse the violin,
or to translate onto canvas
this perplexing world we're in.
A career in politics, oh dear,
beware that greasy pole;
in promoting the common good,
slicing away your soul.
The omens are propitious
as to what your fate may be,
born where Father Time calls home -
a new millennium baby.
You will possess the sportsman's gene,
excel with stick and ball;
but our dream come true would be to see
you scoring for Arsenal!
Holding a first-class law degree
and a courtroom in thrall,
or dispensing from the Bench
fair whip-cracks for all.
The Gael bred in you will not let
success distend your head,
while your drop of Anglo-Saxon blood
keeps your haemoglobin red.
Oh, little Conor, gazing now
at your by-birth-reddened face;
helpless, you have already made
the world a better place."
Keith Good------- Greenwich Hospital, 5 February 2000
PS I am pleased to report that Conor
is very studious and figures prominently
in his school's musical productions.
He plays clarinet from sheet music.
(first grandchild joy)
"Oh, wonder infant, one day young,
one thought animates me:
which part will you play when a man,
where lies your destiny?
Perhaps a surgeon you will be,
ensuring hopes don't die;
returning to the environment
wherein you now lie.
Maybe you'll be a schoolteacher,
an upstanding profession;
or a luminary of the Church,
taking my confession!
I see you as a novelist
publishing prized books,
an urbane fellow drawing many
admiring female looks.
Or you could be a comedian
rib-tickling on hard boards,
or even a military man
with some despot, crossing swords.
God may have blest you with the gift
to rouse the violin,
or to translate onto canvas
this perplexing world we're in.
A career in politics, oh dear,
beware that greasy pole;
in promoting the common good,
slicing away your soul.
The omens are propitious
as to what your fate may be,
born where Father Time calls home -
a new millennium baby.
You will possess the sportsman's gene,
excel with stick and ball;
but our dream come true would be to see
you scoring for Arsenal!
Holding a first-class law degree
and a courtroom in thrall,
or dispensing from the Bench
fair whip-cracks for all.
The Gael bred in you will not let
success distend your head,
while your drop of Anglo-Saxon blood
keeps your haemoglobin red.
Oh, little Conor, gazing now
at your by-birth-reddened face;
helpless, you have already made
the world a better place."
Keith Good------- Greenwich Hospital, 5 February 2000
PS I am pleased to report that Conor
is very studious and figures prominently
in his school's musical productions.
He plays clarinet from sheet music.
-
keithgood838
- Posts: 2478
- Joined: Sun Feb 10, 2008 6:30 pm