The Archer Robin Hood
The
archer
Robin Hood
from Nottingham
Shire aligns himself
perpendicularly
to the target whilst notching
the drawn arrow from the quiver,
and draws the longbow’s bowstring to the
anchor point, aims, and then lets loose the shaft.
That flies through the air, hitting the bull’s-eye
to the cheers and jeers of foresters
in the English countryside, where
they have challenged him to an
archery contest, but
folly beguiles them,
rendering him
the outlaw,
Robin
Hood.
***
The infant rays of sunlight
Filtered through the small panes
Of the sleepy Hobbitons, a wake-up
Call to the start of the day.
Shire-folks smoked weed
And Argentine ciphers born of
The plumes ripples into thin air
Carrying the dream of the day.
The wild Brandywine in her stately
Updraft, washes away the suffering
Of felled logs disturbing her flow
And dips them straight into the marshland.
The pretty flora of the ancient woodlands
Stack their dreams in swirling petals of which
Are later reborn in the night.
The proud Three Shire Oak stands as
A silent guardian to Whitwell wood
As woodpeckers prick into the cavernous
Echoes of his heart to find out his longing.
Remnant of white clouds like ancient
Ruins wander lonely over the Hills of Evendim
And reflections of a century’s History float
In their accord.
Shire! Fill me with your rainbow colors
And let me dive deep into your essence
And let me stay drowned in your dreams
Forever.
Talia Shire has become an octogenarian today.
She's a talented lady, that's what I want to convey.
She's starred in movies and TV shows.
Talia Shire was born eighty years ago.
She has three children and she has been married twice.
When I say that she has plenty of fans, I'm being precise.
She starred in five Rocky movies and many other films as well.
When it came to being a successful actress, Talia did not fail.
When she starred in 'The Landlady, people got to see an evil version of Talia Shire.
She is a very special and wonderful woman who millions of people love and admire.
(Dedicated to Talia Shire who was born 80 years ago today on April 25, 1946)
Mirror the night
the fragments of a moonlite glare
a warm subtle moment
only lovers share
a desert warmed night
We swim pooled by the night
morning we then breakfast
in memory of the night
The Hickories were strange in
Mesquites Territory
The dessert served first
then supper
then the snacks
we swam in the Mirrored
desert home
With the cob plastered
oven in the garden.
The rasberry wines
and sorted confections
Sumthang Fishy about the Soursop
Written by; Tinsel Trubllalyst
trouble anaylisis for
That's right Publishing Co.
A Smiley Persons Music Company
"Big differance" Appears courtsey of
Sure Nuff Music Co.
Ny. New York
"So wit Shire They Breakfast!"
In the shores and Shire,
I had a desire
Not to compete with the world, but with myself,
Thinking my passion is enough & don’t need anyone’s
help
Never thought of so many ups & downs,
had to walk through the pain for the ultimate crowns.
Inspite of Ifs & Buts and the sleepless nights,
Holding a desire to achieve great heights.
The journey realised some rare gems are mine,
Who wants me to unfadably Shine.
I know I’ll surely make it one day,
All seven colors will shine in a ray.
Idyllic
Hudson Valley, New York …Lord of Rings’ shire.
A vineyard, filled with rich and famous names.
I’m pleased to be impressed by the artists,
as they surrender idyllic charm with paint.
Emerald green; delicious apple bites,
wind chimes through the pines, mountains of Catskill.
The headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow -
to drink, deep, the forests of Van Winkle.
Freedom fostered in cobblestone and -kills.
Small town parades, fireworks at Vanderbilt’s.
"The York Shire Commons"
Magazine
Presents..........
The Smitten Kitten
and
The Kitty Cat Garbage
GLAM Show
Live at the Beacon Bender Arena
also starring.................
Getty Fantastic and the Menez
Of Troubled Wattaz
Band
Sponsered by Notable Monday Dining Club
and WGAL f.m.
( "F"ing all songs)
Grungy Negging w? crossover Appeal
WGAL "F"ing day and night !
Murky liquid road,
shire horses tow narrow boats
trading London bound
We pull into a Winding Station,
Hand the Attendant our key,
Head into the Station Inn
For a snack and Earl Grey Tea.
In less than an hour,
Our machine being oiled
The tension being adjusted
And our spring tightly coiled,
I slip the motor into gear
And we are off on our way
To the next Winding Station
One hundred miles away.
At Fifty miles an hour,
A once undreamed of rate,
Along the new Travel Road
Such a joy to navigate.
We pass Steam Waggons
Pulling their heavy loads
Along the mostly parallel
Heavy goods roads.
With canals and railways
The country is connected
And once long journeys
Take far less than expected.
The Waggoner with his lad
Pulled by their great Shire
Makes the local deliveries
Always there for hire.
Can this world be bettered
Clockwork coal and steam
Let us travel at speeds that
Were once but a dream.
Spiritual dragons – the ones that kill
reside and wait impatiently for seeking fingers.
Hobbits eat breakfast mushrooms
in a leather-bound shire.
Small books on overly large religions.
Poets and their random works
all in a row.
The shelves are long but not lengthy
I lack the space for unnecessary reading.
I write now,
I write inside invisible books
they open and shut every day like mouths.
Few read the words that tumble out,
but the news from my bookshelf
is encouraging.
I need to categorize and order,
not alphabetically ranked by authors
or subjects
but by how much I have yet to comprehend
and need to read again.
© Now
ENGLAND. Year Posted 2007
Rainsoaked fields,pastel green,
perennial impressions of country scenes.
Shire counties cramped and compact,
neither temperate,changeable and inexact.
Seasons merging into one,
winters' mild,summers of sometime sun.
Ancient,historic and quaintly modern,
pub-grub,village greens and cricket squares sodden.
Precedent law,judged by our peers,
diverse opinions expressed sans fear.
PS
A language now a global gift
its English please never use 'Brit'
My father worked the land with
Both horse and tractor plough.
That family way of life is past,
We are all city dwellers now.
My father and mother dead
My brother followed them on
I’m the last of that generation
And my country links are gone.
In the churchyard family graves,
Their once turfed burial mound
Unmarked by stone, are now sunk
To be level with the ground.
I use words to paint for grandchildren
Pictures of working days on the land,
Of much less complicated times:
And I know they try to understand
But i am just grandad reminiscing
When I tell of past country ways.
They try listen patiently, but
We are all connected these days.
After a while their patience goes.
They feel the call to be on line
To worlds more exciting than
That long passed one of mine.
So I dream of Fordson tractors
And the tall powerful Shire horse
And they dream of things
From their more modern source.
I wish them long and rich life
Happy and with good health,
Sad they’ll not experience my world
Once rich in everything but wealth.
victorian canal life - the reality (a true tale from from my maternal heritage )
We left our abode
in old Cowfair
haggled a price
for an old shire mare
Onto the
landlord's canal boat
lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat
farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace &
its meagre living
from old point lace
dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove
taking our meals
. . around a blackened stove
our moveable house
painted castle& rose
not a life
we would have chose
Eighteen fifties harsh
&
mean
coal cargo
so nothing stays clean
doff your cap touch your forelock
every two mile
at
the gatekeeper's lock
Fresh food scarce
except for fish
perch & roach
a staple dish
clothes dry
on a washing line strung
out for a timeout
the toddlers young their
number so soon increased & grew
places to sleep
all too few
family life impossibly hard
so back to a tied cottage
in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
With a roof over your head,
A key to your door
Fire in the grate
Clippie rugs on the floor
The countryside to roam
A dog by his side
A boy may be poor but
He’s still got h!is pride.
Another spring approaches
Weather more and more mild
Memories rush back from
When I was a child
More than fifty years ago
My dad used to say
Nights were drawing out by
A cock stride a day.
A man of the land once of
The shire drawn plough
Earning his weekly pittance
By the sweat of his brow.
A man of his time when
Most of the working nation
Were condemned to poverty
And blatant exploitation
My mam and dad never
Ever had a lot
But seemed so happy
With what little they’d got
And I had a childhood rich
In everything but wealth
Loved and wanted and
Blessed with good health.
Times have changed and today,
Poor materially have much more,
But the bailiff does at times seem
Never far from a worker’s door,
And I never thought I’d see the day
When a worker gave thanks
For the charity donations
From now essential food banks.
Mithering - North England dialect - worrying , complaining, countering
Living floats among day and night,
Crawl within a seemly steady stream,
Shift a person or a thing in its fright,
It encounters a bewitching scheme.
What a forsaken and cruel shire on society,
This world's commotion enacts pathetic,
That quiet, little voice of internal serenity,
Whose withering twilight adheres to panic.
After declaring what we can, the full is lost,
Whatever scraps of love are that clung to us,
While the one device that bears is exhaust,
Pitch the idea we've reared to roll the grass.
Or if you clutch every unit in the world,
Yet at life-ending, we gather a final breath,
Screams of utter despondency are gnarled,
The genuine wishes never procure breadth.
Obsolete decrees on respected wisdom,
Lurch amidst wooden mystical shrines,
Where insight is set in etches a gnome,
This is the spirit of our dove twines.
Written: May 12, 2022
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