With The Dandy, The Beano
The Eagle and Dan Dare
Dick Barton on the radio
The Goon Show on air
Riders of the Range
Journey into space
We kids of the fifties
Had our special place
Glued to the wireless
No screens in sight
The Third Programme the
Home Service and the light
When Sunday night came
Waiting patiently about
For Radio Luxembourg
Fading in and out.
Carters little liver pills
Horace Bachelor’s tips
For winning the Pools
Fish and four of chips
Salt and vinegar Splash
Newspaper wrapping
Listenining to the music
Feet quietly tapping
Playing in the fields
Hours out in the wild
This was the life of
A fifties poor child.
No time to be miserable
Deprived or dull
With such a childhood
So active and full.
Dennis the Menace Desperate Dan
Biffo, Ace Detective Harris Tweed
From the Eagle Dandy and Beano
All those comics we used to read
LORD, I humbly greet You, return to my prayer list from near LESOTHO
Adoration is the FIRST STEP in prayer (That's how I begin) using A-C-T-S
The letters, not the word, A for adoring Him, C for confession of sins
Variety & Individuality in prayer, but these steps are essential (O Lebanon!)
I intercede, Abba-Father, for countries whose names begin with "L" (Laos!)
At the start I thought I wouldn't recall them all; almost forgot leaderless Libya
Africans used Libya as a way to Europe - Refugee Crisis - before Corona Virus!
Not Ghadafi's Libya under forced good behavior, but the wildness of "democracy"
Do show mercy to all Creation, in Jesus' Name, to those "named and unnamed"
Liechtenstein and Luxembourg could easily be overlooked, no news
Is GOOD news when talking of a pandemic, yet we pray for big and small
Bless us: Liberia & Lithuania, Father, the One Jesus made known us ("Abba")
You are the God of second, third, or umteen chances; we ask Thy forgiveness
As we seek Thy Spirit of Truth, O Holy Spirit, to teach us (as Jesus promised)
The night was not so silent, not for the soldiers at Bastogne.
'T was just before Christmas when they had to fight surrounded and alone.
"The crossroads cannot fall, " was the order to be upheld.
The winter owned the elements, but courage in hearts held.
"Nuts!" replied the commander, when he was demanded to surrender.
Even today, December '44 is etched in the things we remember.
The US, Belgium, and Luxembourg remember this together.
Mr. Juncker's Continental System
Cohorts of Luxembourg, arise!
Keep the Russians from the Rhiine.
Hosts of Luxembourg, en garde,
Confine the British to the brine.
"We'll do without America,"
says Merkel with aplomb.
Warily one has to ask,
"Whose finger's on the Bomb?"
Français ou Allemand?
Que parlons-nous, messieurs?
Until this issue's settled
It's Anglais, faut de mieux.
A toast, my brave companions,
on the path we march along.
Not bourbon and not whiskey
but cognac Napoleon!
A seagull cuts across Her harbor,
riding a thermal rising offshore.
And an ocean, ripe with primal smells,
splashes salty brine upon Her core.
She stands in solitude, gazing out
toward Her birth land and sister twins.
In Paris and Luxembourg Gardens,
they, too, hold their torches to the winds.
"Liberty Enlightening The World,"
She represents freedom and kinship.
And dubbed "The Statue of Liberty,"
She evokes two nations' friendship.
A gift to the U.S.A. from France,
she symbolizes faith in Mankind.
And this copper-clad lady's a friend,
holding her torch high for all to find.
At her feet lies a broken shackle
denoting freedom from oppression.
And wearing the crown of seven seas,
She displays a regal expression.
Greeting ships in the New York harbor
She's shod in sandals, unlike a queen.
And poised with dignity and grandeur
She stands tall and proud; in robes of green.
Let me tell you about this girl,
this girl from Luxembourg who live in the middle of nowhere.
Hair in a bun, golden blonde.
Her smile shines that light up her eyes.
Gentle strong healing hands, you'd wish you're a dog, a cat or a cadaver in a medical lab just to feel her touch.
The troubadours would fall on their knees for this indescribable beauty.
And those who can't read knows she is a poetry.
Evening found me sitting in the kitchen, feeling down,
my parents and my elder brothers all out on the town.,
leaving me to babysit, a dull end to the year,
too old for early bedtime, legally too young for beer.
Ken McKellar on TV with Moira Anderson,
too much for a young lad to take, so put the radio on.
Radio Luxembourg my choice when tuning in the dial,
although the signal fades and then comes back after a while.
I'd see the new year in myself with style, or so I thought,
by using all that's left at home, a tiny drop of port.
Emptied my glass, “Happy new year! “ I heard the DJ say,
“ It's twelve midnight in Luxembourg, eleven in the UK”
I stared in some confusion at the port that I'd just drank,
but realisation soon set in and my heart slowly sank.
Nothing left in bottled form of a similar ilk,
at our midnight I made do with a glass of full fat milk.
Pulling stunt's like that on me is an absolute crime
I can see now why they call the stupid thing 'Greenwich mean time'.
Alone, in Paris
The flowers sing
Le jardin du Luxembourg
I look at all the pretty ladies
Which one of them pray tell
Is you
The one who wishes for that sweet caress
The one whose painting hangs on the wall
The one who knows beauty runs deeper
Than a river running to kiss the oceans swell
The grandest of castles with candles dim
There in the damp night would bonds begin
If only you would listen to my whispers deep
Forgiving the scars I have suffered
As in the night I have wept
Napoleon marched forth across great lands
I the knight have lesser demands
If only you, whoever you are
Would take hold of me
As we dance away our eternities
Sur le pont de Avignon
Where the river flows
Like poetry
Remember how the
morning was warm with
its first hint of spring
Under the sky unusually clear
our smiles were wandering
through streets with coffee scent
uplifting the mood and the sun
outsmarting the moon
Your bus arrived early when
I thought how again I am
walking you home half-way
Only half-way because the
day was Sunday and
everything closed half-early
in Luxembourg and the
buses too arrived early bringing
nostalgia too quickly
so the day was cut by half
half-early yet the
sun was outsmarting the moon
too soon
I wandered, lost in the labyrinth of love
The right bank of the seine sang so clearly
That I was for sure walking with nothing Left
Nothing on the left at all
The northern vaults of gold
Meaningless to a bankrupt heart
In circles I flew with two right wings
Museums displaying my lost loves
Like artifacts on display
My heart laid nude for all to laugh
A sculpture of twisted pain an irony
Me and Napoleon
He lost wars
I lost loves
Together buried
Tuileries close by, merci Catherine
Jacques Boyceau, sieur de la Barauderie
The gardener of Luxembourg
Planting flowers for lovers lost or found
Roses for the young at heart
Me, I dreamt only of one thing
A woman to touch
My heart
Merci Dieu
Pour rien
Added Notes
Catherine de Medicis commissioned the garden of Tuileries
Marie de' Medici had built the Jardin du Luxenboug
Both after Gardens of their native Florence, Italy
She used Jacques Boyceau de la Barauderie to design her garden, who also worked on the garden of Tuileries. ( I think he was involved in changes/custody not the original design however I am not sure )
Your fig tree in January, denuded now
is more stately, if possible, in its stark seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
Its trunk, massive in manhood, is a citadel, supporting
the curving bowl of branches as they bend back
into themselves, becoming the bare, black sculpture
Hemingway described in Paris in the 'Jardin
de Luxembourg,' where following in his footsteps,
we once strolled among old men playing
chess, lovers entwined on park benches,
fat city pigeons seeking sustenance.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup the sky--
and two gigantic roots, visible above ground
in winter definition, should they be feet, would
rock our foundations. Sprawling out in different
directions, siblings still, they disappear below earth
to wherever they travel--who knows where?
Unlike Jack on his leafy ladder, climbing sky-
ward, they turned toward some
southern provenance: Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.
Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling, who knows where? Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder,
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
HAPPY NEW YEAR FELLOW SOUPERS!