She told us stories.
I remember the
one were
she said that her
great grand father
started a smokehouse
business were
he cured pork and
sold beef and turkeys
in the city and at
resturants.
She spoke of a recipe
for cheery and almond
wine: distilled to be liquier.
She said the recipe was hidden in
the walls of
Sole Semete' in New Bristol.
She gave me the map and said she
belived their was silver and gold
in the chest full of valuables.
" Tresure of Baryon".
Passing through Western-super-Mare.
I saw her again,
she was adjusting a window display
in a small antique shop.
I thought,
shall I wave to get her attention,
or go in,
just to remind her of our once torrid affair?
Was she married now?
That possibility chilled my enthusiasm.
It was then, in that same window,
that I spied my own reflection.
it was waving me away,
far away,
maybe as far as Bristol or beyond.
January years ago, confused far away I was with the cold.
Landed in Bristol on a snowy airport, as snowed were the meadows and frosted my mind.
A trip to say hello and goodbye to a beloved one,
taking my hand, she closed her fading eyes into her last sigh. I saw the dark face of life
turning into the beauty of an angel flying.
Sad and freezing with a bag full of mixed feelings, somebody took us to Norton St Philip in Somerset, just to have some fun. My husband and I were surprised.
Feeling blue we were, but soon the George Inn changed our sorrow into happiness.
Family shared moments for the history of our lives, photos in the white snow for a new album, nice food and a toast with white wine in the George Inn, made my trip to England a especial memory to be remembered forever in my heart.
historic George Inn
~elegance in Somerset~
locked deep in my soul
Born and raised in the middle of Bristol,
a yellow rose grew up strong but wistful.
In the middle of an English garden she grew up.
Amongst the grass, not far from a country club.
Soon in life she found herself alone, with her troubles walking around on her own.
She stood up in that garden
with a new rosebud to feed,
She had to show her spines,
the other face to be harden.
That English yellow rose needs to be cut from her roots
to keep on flourishing again
in a new beginning.
I have to admit I’ve got a confession
About my unhealthy obsession
Other kids love pop stars with all their heart
For me it’s the Bristol Stool chart
There’s seven different types of poo
With pictures that give me a clue
to how long the poo’s been in my bowel
Poos that’s both fresh and some that’s foul
Each morning once I get out of bed
For breakfast I’ll have brown bread
The chart is a handy tool
To identify your type of stool
Now I’ve decided to tell
You about the different poos that smell
Cos it’s clear that the Bristol stool chart
Can also indicate your type of fart
Type 1 is as hard as a nut
And stays longest in the gut
Type 2 is a sausagy lump
That’s hard to squeeze out your rump
Then there’s types 3 and type 4
These are the poos I adore
These are the poos I prefer to make
A cracked sausage or smooth like a snake
Types 5 and 6 are easier to pass
Blobby or fluffy ones from your ass
Type 7 is the worst of all
It gushes like a waterfall
So now you’ve got all the scoop
On all the different types of poop
I love identifying my poo and type of fart
The Bristol Stool chart fills my heart
My soul started yearning
And my feet grew all restless
To see the old hometown
And the place I was born.
Out back of my old house
Sweet nature was waiting,
The woods of my youth
Were calling me home.
I drove all that night
And half the next morning
I pulled up to our place
Where strangers now lived.
Things looked pretty good
Till I checked out the backyard
And rows of new houses
Where the woods used to live.
I asked an old neighbor
Now gray and decrepit,
Where is the oak forest
Where we all used to play?
He said it's all gone now
Except for the memories,
A big old bulldozer
Has scraped them away.
They put up these houses
On top of each other
And squeezed the old woods
For each nickel and dime.
The trees are all gone now
Except for the memories,
A big old bulldozer
Has scraped them away.
I got back in my car
And headed for Bristol,
Didn't stop driving
For a night and a day.
I gazed at the trees
That stood on my woodlot
And swore no damn dozer
Would scrape them away.
She barged through the doors of the bank with her gun
And shot the security guard just for fun
She fired her gun and yelled “Down on the floor,
I’ve shot me one man, I could shoot a few more!”
One customer, Jenna, said, “Hold up, you cretin,
You half witted loser, it’s jail you’ll be gettin,
You charge in this bank with that soppy old pistol
I think I might kick your ass from here to Bristol.”
The robber, fired two bullets into the ceiling
And said, “I shall shoot anybody not kneeling.”
Jenna said, “I’m gonna laugh as you fry.”
The robber said, “You’d better reach for the sky.”
Armed police turned up; one lady arrested
Based on the ‘facts’ that another attested
The robber’s at home playing video games
And Jenna’s in jail for calling her names
And all the police wonder what to expect
Now that they’ve lost any public respect
At lunch break they wonder how low they could stoop
When they’re as inviting as watered down soup.
[What a coincidence; a poem about someone called Jenna enduring an injustice. Pure chance… honest, Guvnor!]
The Captain had a penny whistle
Which he wore around his neck
And he played it every morning
As the crew danced on the deck.
Sometimes it was a Hornpipe
Sometimes a Palais Glide
As the crew danced fore and aft
And from Port to Starboard side.
Prompt every morning
When the Bosun rang a bell,
And if he was feeling frisky
The Captain danced as well.
Sometimes on sunny mornings
The crew would stand at ease
While the Captain and a subby
Mimed a decorous strip tease.
Rain storm hail or shine
Until twenty minutes passed
When on a given signal
The crew would climb the mast
To set the sails and rigging
And get the ship under way
And so it continued
Every single day.
Two or three times a year
All the ships would meet
And the Captain and his crea
Would dance for the fleet.
It was on the good ship Venus
Which had been a ship of shame
Until the Dancing Captain'
Gave it a better name.
He became the only Admiral to wear
A penny whistle around his neck
And even in his dotage
Would dance around the deck.
Ship shape and Bristol fashion
When she was away at sea.
Oh on the good ship Venus
Such a happy place to be
An old lady from Bristol,
Walks around with a bag of menthol,
She unwraps and licks,
Every time she an answer seeks,
An old lady with a heart like a ball.
will not give a budge
she always will bare a grudge
never liked my fudge
a slap in my face
no freedom or any trace
was their style and grace
Combat at the Capitol
sure to transpire
Trump liked being a liar
he does desire
how can we forget
things happened we will regret
standard start to set
made analogy
regarding psychology
need an apology
saw Trump swing in swamp
which is where he liked to romp
and do Bristol Stomp
deal consummating
we must be vaccinating
so should stop waiting
began to bereave
after that did always grieve
when loved one would leave
on long trail have trod
when I finally found God
near beach on Cape Cod
on the way to grave
for me vaccination save
then I will behave
Eleanor Rigby, fact, fiction--answer,
Perchance, perceived, or concealed around her,
Paul, composed most precise, John conveyed some,
Fancied, "HELP!" lead actress, Eleanor Bron.
A prime signature found but Bron, risky,
Paul preferred some shop near Bristol, Rigby,
Indeed, 'Rigby & Evens' Limited,
Wine & Spirit Shippers, Paul visited.
Paul, through a conference, imagines loads,
When he pens lyrics, home or beside roads,
He settles within thoughts, who, where, what, when,
And conclusively, it reaches him--then.
Though she comprised Paul's imagination,
Her named song gave her, world recognition.
Date: 08/17/2019
Eleanor Rigby Who was she Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jerry T Curtis
Trump Rompted and Stomped
There are times when Trump teleprompted;
And while in Bristol then he often stomped;
When near,
Do disappear;
Over many opponents romped and romped.
Jim Horn
On Thursday my boobies will get squashed
(My armpits will be thoroughly washed)
Can’t use deo or spray
so I’ll whiff on that day
Mammograms show cancer can be quashed
Always makes me smile that my appointment letter comes from Bristol because in cockney rhyming slang ‘Bristols’ is slang for breasts.
9/19/18
What bird is this, I ask the man, that flies
The silken skies with shining knives for wings
We watch it slice the light above The Vize
And swoop and rise, and circle as it sings
Its melancholy song. I see him smile
A bird that beats the sparrows to the crack
Of dawn, he says. We stand a little while
I blink. It flies to Bristol, and flies back
He smiles again, and suddenly a tear
Appears to dance a trickle down his face
The bird has flown a sickly chick, my dear
To half a chance, and half a hope of grace
It flew me once. I look at him. Flew you?
Yes, me, he said. And someone else I knew
© Gail Foster 21st January 2018
Horn Draining Swamp Poems
Bristol Stomp To Drain Swamp
After having been doing the Bristol Stomp,
Depressed after on were starting to romp;
Never would wait,
Or did evaporate;
Dimwits and fools started draining swamp.
Jim Horn
Development Was Revolting
Development was really deeply revolting;
Out from deep swamp did come bolting;
What we would dread;
They started to shed;
Stopped laying more eggs and are molting.
Absentee Ballot from Bo Peep
Were being back in swamp that was deep,
Politicians had started being a big creep;
Danced all around,
And would astound;
Stole absentee ballot from Little Bo Peep.
How are these for starters?
Jim Horn
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