Best Lincolnshire Poems
A cummerbund of peach and tangerine
below Persian blue sky now washes pale,
Marsh Harriers and Starlings call, unseen,
competing in bizarre chromatic scales.
Sewn onto the horizon in a hem,
like cardboard cut-outs on a puppet's stage,
black silhouettes of trees break up the Fen,
companions, my deep solitude assuaged.
A circling buzzard ends his last foray,
for him the next meal cannot come too soon,
the evening takes it's leave and says good-day,
lopsided smile upon Lincolnshire moon.
Now turning a full circle, one last gaze
with hope in such peace I can end my days.
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Matlock the hare has a good life
He is alone now, he has lost his wife.
But his offspring are near, visiting each day.
He loves his evenings, when they are far away.
Matlock loves to sit in front of the fire.
Wearing his warm pajamas near Lincolnshire.
With baby kangaroo on his lap, they are both cozy.
The mantle’s candlesticks smell like a fresh new posy.
His pet rat named Egbert watches the basket for worms.
They come out in the evening, with a touch of a squirm.
A delicacy for him, he keeps the house clear of a cat.
This is the perfect place if you are a rabbit or a rat.
words 114
If you drop a hammer
don’t do it on Mars
it might float for years
Then chip off some stars
If you drop a nail
Not on my roads in Lincolnshire
I’ve already had to pay
to fix a really flat tire.
If you drop a hint
please drop it in my friend Dora’s way
She thinks you’re really cute,
And she says she’d like to play.
A Lincolnshire lass was she
in youth and bloom revealing,
and upon us all God smiled
when unto this world a child
was born and bred in Healing
Red flower of the Midlands -
O’ English Rose sweet and fairest!
Who heard the sirens roar
when fell the bombs of war
on village row and terrace
Where old port fishing boats
off the North Sea tied dockside,
and there their catch unload
where the mighty Humber flowed
as they came in on the tide
She met her Ted a likely lad
from the seaside town of Grimsby.
Unto a rose a prickly thorn
whose love to she was sworn
and wed the twain would be
And so it was it came to pass
a great debt of love was owed.
Dreaming of a foreign shore
in old England’s cold bitten door
from her house on Oak Road
Unto an isle beyond her own
in a far land and Bay of Plenty -
to sail a ship from Glasgow
and off starboard bow long ago
wave farewell to old Blighty
Away the colonies away on
berth and passage of ten pound.
Leaving her home by the sea
and the life she knew in Grimsby
on the Captain Hobson bound
Ocean to ocean voyage long
the bow waves did pitch and toss.
By day their slow time biding
and by night the ancient guiding
lights of the Southern Cross
Soon a year passed and nigh
that Midland girl a mother to be.
Once again in a seaside town
dressed in a maternity gown
across the world in Opotiki
But the Firth she calls home
and there in time raised a family,
and I remember to this day
her gentle and motherly way
to me and to all, dear Audrey
Written: December 2017
drunken dive bombers
peewit lapwings courtship play
above wet birds lake
giant crawls up hill
makes lincolnshire wold of
our detritus fen
drunken dive bombers
peewit lapwings courtship play
above wet birds lake
giant crawls up hill
makes lincolnshire wold of
our detritus fen
~~~~~~~~
climate change... killing
spring bees... spiders many flies
early nesters starve
once joy the seasons...
the charm of springs overture...
winter defies it...
today... house sparrows
seen nesting... nature wishes...
hopeful they succeed...
grass... verdant... growing...
hedgerows holding back... afraid...
full spring biding time
jet stream...rioting
lost its way... meandering
disturbing nature
the hill piste lingered
children smiled... sledging... what fun
comes the rain... flooding
hot then cold weather
flu viruses all favor...
hope you had your jab...
don't stop feeding birds...
wild mammals too... squirrels nuts...
rats... mice... wildfowl grain
wintertime walking...
shush... have your camera ready
seen... a snowy owl
lincolnshire
just in case one thinks i've jumped
the north atlantic
~~~~~~~~~
Wow a party having a discourse. Now that's a very proud time isn't it? When passing a glass don't wave at a passing wavelength as hair can often disguise a taste. So be careful on the floor then. A lunatic with a rhombus shaped torso. Spinning shouting singing sailing ship shout. Boom. And all moves around and around. And waves wiring waking watching wreaths. And bowl. Idiosyncracies of oxen with beer. Playing marbles on the B508. Lincolnshire perhaps? Hmmmm. Vagrants don't gargle so don't spit in a bag. And when and if a triangular barge passes it is merely a sleeping bag for a tidal wave. Want not a favour from a mystic pie? That would be rather fantastic said a stone. Talismanic traditions taking trade trailers terrifically. Wow. The breathing of a potato plant portrayed in a custard sauce can be felt by even the smallest of the mice particularly when chewing cheese has bright red lipstick. Like a tyre surround. No greasy mud guard then. Cleanliness. Good. Wow. The semi multi layered auric field is most accustomed to working in a shroud. Whilst the peel of lemon spins and spins and spins. Accusatory atomic atoms atomize around areas. And now to peel a grape in a gown not a graph. Good. For tonight's egress is a plain which carries 890 buffalo jiggling to a nineteen sixty picture disc. Label not a lamb then. Query no question mark in a silky kimono. Broom broom broom. Sputter spat sitting situations. And now to post a lot of cutlery sets. Great. Xxxxx deviant deviation device xxxxx insectivorous Z g y r t q p Z
Quincerra queen of the white horse had a full load today
But she made an exception when she heard of the lost foal.
She said, I can easily tackle my list of have-to-dos another day.
For being the savior of the white horses was her ultimate goal.
Lancelot, the white horse, was thrilled to meet his queen.
He knew she was a favorite human of his Uncle Benign
He noted that she was full of kindness, and never mean.
He asked to be her steed from then until the end of time.
I would love that, she told him but let me ask Norse from Lincolnshire.
That would be okay, Lancelot agreed, hoping it would work out.
Norse was her present steed, a wonderful horse who wanted to retire.
Quincerra and Lancelot were happy together, and gave a glorious shout.
Hollie was born with no right forearm,
In Lincolnshire on June 26th in 1994,
But now resides in Wales, Hengoed,
To train at Cardiff Metropolitan Uni.
The F46 javelin category suits her,
And she discovered herself one day,
At a Star Track Athletics sports course,
During one summer holidays, short.
She competed in Beijing and London,
And won many medals as a junior,
So in Christchurch at the IPC Worlds,
She took home a bronze to rub bare.
Then in 2012 at the Euros, Holland,
She moved up a notch to win silver,
And in Lyon at the IPC Worlds, 2013,
She threw 37.45m, a PB to win gold.
2015 Worlds, and she made 40.53m,
To retain the gold and top the board,
And at Rio 2016 she found success,
When she recorded 43.01m, a gold.
Flageolet bean cassoulet
Lincolnshire sausage
Rosemary,white wine and herbs,
Vegatable saute,
Garlic crostini-
Hearty and
Hale !
THE 70'S
~~~~~~~~~~~
The first year we were married, bliss!
Our son Kirk was conceived and born.
In Lincoln, it was so remiss!
A cesarian, us both torn!
We feared for him and I for her!
All happy, we both shed a tear.
They both lived, what an ordeal!
That was life, so full on, for real!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
02/21/18
Where were you in the 70’s? - Poetry Contest, sponsored by Line Gauthier
upon the Rase a troublesome crone
who meddled in the Rasen folk
for she a witch!
a witch! their slant and well
she laid upon a cow a cursied blight
a cursied spell
and lo would not this neighbour’s cow
go to the milking parlour so
this neighbour’s daughter fraught and fair
to seek a wise man, she that hour
left in haste to hear of words
and met with him though quite by chance
for he appeared to her when needed
invited in somewhat expected
and knew did he of her unrest
as heating in the fireplace a red hot poker
readying
and stoked, enflamed the fire roared
and from by the Rase the witch was heard
to scream and cry
you see now in her weakened state
another troubled Rasener
took heed upon the lowered crone
and struck her hand with a blade had he
and brought to her all of her eves
that drew the blood of taintedness
and scream once more
then again made three
no more trouble will she cause
said the wiseman confidently
and the witch skulked away
her powers lost
made free were then the Rasen folk
and the cow went in to give them milk
Could discontentment be a vice?
To be a farmer would suffice -
yet, born upon this earthly sphere,
a boy in County Lincolnshire
was left by farming, cold as ice.
Not content to sow and harvest grain,
He sought to understand and explain,
inventing calculus he showed
how nature's secrets he'd decode
with his unsated, searching brain.
As Newton revealed the laws of spheres
there followed other pioneers,
none of them quite satisfied,
as they were only gratified
by blazing new frontiers.
Dissatisfaction's contribution:
the Industrial Revolution -
happy changes - if there are finds
by newly discontented minds,
yielding a climate change solution.