Wellingtons Poems

Night At the Necropolis

Night,
Ageless and porous,
Sang screeches of fireflies of
Crescendo-diminuendo sparks.
What hour?
In the midst of the hustles, I lost my hoursight
Different, tonight, is my eyesight, seeing even
Through the darkest foliage of gentle, but sinister
Caress sway.
On the broken, cracked slabs, squatting, dark torsos!
Pensive, broken, sad, old and so good the
Work of Italian sculptors.
Further deep in searching glare, the hardened
Mats of hurried sepultures of returning
Soldiers, whose wellingtons have squelched in
Mudblood.
Wars and battles never post blandishments
On peace.
What hour now, brother?
It is so dark and mean, and my hourglass refuses a
Moon reflection.
But now the hours move fast on march of the
Headless feet in wellingtons.
'Left, right, left, right....'
Dolts hasten among fleeing marabouts.
Stench from ailing, balmed smog
Stills the whiffs of roasting deer, all in
One silence of close hour canticles...
Such phalanx, brother, coldens the head.

Billy Boots

“Billy Boots”, was a comic strip in the seventies
British it was, it referred to rubber boots regularly
Wellingtons or Mukluks
Useful for ducks
Momma wouldn't let me outside without my wellies

Hands

When you put your childhood hand in mine, 
two spoons in the same drawer, 
I felt all your innocence and trust 
shared in a moment stretched over decades. 
I held the grown man and remembered days 
where snow was a surprise to be shared 
with wide eyes and astonishment. Where
determination was learned in the tying of 
shoelaces and wellingtons could create 
tidal waves that washed away tears.
Where cuts could be healed 
with a soothing kiss until the cuts
were inflicted inside and resisted all cure.
But the memory of your touch still sooths
as I continue to feel your hand in mine.

Kraken

In sunny days of joy we climbed aboard, 
Wide eyed, Wellingtons and Duffels.
Sat on salty varnished benches,
handed weighted feathers and orange string.

Kraken was the one to know,
Six fish on a line would show you so.
We honed our skills in Girl Pats arms,
Whilst humble feasts defined us. 

Okanagan knew the score!
With turbo knives and plunging boom,
we danced with butterflies and doom.
In summers ever after.

Under Krakens watchful eye 
We kissed and tryst and laughed and lost,
Daring feats with exploration,
the ties we bound would save us. 

Kraken whisked us in a party
Juggling fiery wit, and poison.
I pranced and posed and shivered fools, 
Okanagan then was dead. 

Days defined by those that tread upon them,
this day was one of those.
Mourning, heavy, thick and slow.
Crowds, a blurring backdrop.

Of course Kraken came to sooth us, 
we floated in her arms.
With petals and dust, my heroes troubled soul alighted, 
Returning to the sea.

A smile, a knowing nudge and nod, it brightened.
There’s much more than this, you’ll see.

Raindrops Aren'T Falling On My Head

Dark black thunderclouds are covering up the azure sky
I know rain is just God’s tear drops falling from up high

I hear the pitter patter of rain as it falls on my spotty brolly
But I don’t mind the raindrops; I will stay happy and jolly

I can see a beautiful rainbow; it’s like an upside down smile 
You don’t always see a rainbow; I’d not seen one for quite a while

Mummy tells me there’s a pot of gold at the rainbow’s end
If only I could find it then we’d have lots of pennies to spend!

We could buy some yellow wellingtons and a matching anorak
Then could play in puddles and they’d call me Jumping Jack!

My mummy placed me on the bench, I must be careful not to fall
I don’t want to be like Humpty Dumpty as he toppled from his wall!

My brolly is keeping me dry and I see the sun is peeping through 
The wind will chase the clouds away and bring back sky so blue.


Red and White Polka Dot Umbrella Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper

09-20-17

Terrapins Training Turtles

a title is not a teat nor a terrapin tank
The seventh pole in a cloud is swaying with the weights in a sky gymnasium. Gymnastics of giant clusters and catacombs catalogued by awesome aerodynamics of the asteroids whose charm outsways the globule passing in a prism. Misbehaving mingling merry men make mangy money mince. And the beam from a seal curve is said to be portraying the act of many a sleeping pork chop and chipolata chapels roar at this in great amusement for to alight the tasks is to tread upon the ground like a table rushing to a station. So be aware then. So be careful then. East beast eyes and a warbling western warrior wearing wellingtons. North now noted nightshift. And. South state stoic. Stoicism of a sudden beam of torchlight held by a two acre frog. And a mystified moon grins at all of this charade. Pleasant pleasing pheasants. Great isn't it? Object to the clap of a cupboard drawer said the dish. Haha the sinks are sinking in the morning dew. With harbours of plates in foam. Haha militia and milk creating carnivorous cows. Xxxx formaldehyde Z Z Z Z

The Seventh Pie

The seventh pole in a cloud is swaying with the weights in a sky gymnasium. Gymnastics of giant clusters and catacombs catalogued by awesome aerodynamics of the asteroids whose charm outsways the globule passing in a prism. Misbehaving mingling merry men make mangy money mince. And the beam from a seal curve is said to be portraying the act of many a sleeping pork chop and chipolata chapels roar at this in great amusement for to alight the tasks is to tread upon the ground like a table rushing to a station. So be aware then. So be careful then. East beast eyes and a warbling western warrior wearing wellingtons. North now noted nightshift. And. South state stoic. Stoicism of a sudden beam of torchlight held by a two acre frog. And a mystified moon grins at all of this charade. Pleasant pleasing pheasants. Great isn't it? Object to the clap of a cupboard drawer said the dish. Haha the sinks are sinking in the morning dew. With harbours of plates in foam. Haha militia and milk creating carnivorous cows. Xxxx formaldehyde Z Z Z Z
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My Favourite Food For New Year

My favourite food for New Year

Chicken Wellingtons
Moist succulent chicken topped with pate and wrapped in a pastry crust …
It's never tough as old boots!

Contest: Food  2 Holiday Connection 
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich



11~16~15

Sydney

Lying on a  beach in Sydney,
scorched and sore in the dry heat,
the sand burns my toes.

I wander back to drizzly days in Leitrim,
when I paddled in my wellingtons
in puddles on the farm where I grew up.

Here rain seldom falls,
and only in quick downpours,
I long for soft days and misty rain
to moisten my face.

Sydney

Lying on a  beach in Sydney,
scorched and sore in the dry heat,
the sand burns my toes.

I wander back to drizzly days in Leitrim,
when I paddled in my wellingtons
in puddles on the farm where I grew up.

Here rain seldom falls,
and only in quick downpours,
I long for soft days and misty rain
to moisten my face.

Shoes

Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
She wanders in from the street
People stare, flabbergasted
Very odd, unheard of in fact

She doesn’t know her size
So like Cinderella, she tries them on
Randomly selecting pretty colours

Silvery, glittery heels
She twirls for the mirror
Sales assistant sighs
Wellingtons for the garden
If she had one!

Satin ice skates
She would glide on the icy pond
Pretty sandals
To feel the sand between her toes

Boring, black brogues
Perfect!
With no pennies in her pocket
She wanders back to the street
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding

Meadowville

I languish in a summer’s breeze
As I tumble backwards
To childhood
I hear the sound of the train 
Rumbling down the tracks
I have no idea why this brings me such joy
Other than a penny will be squished in my honor
The train sounds its warning at the crossing
It voyages to the beyond, places that for a child
Seem to be in foreign lands

I am content here, in the meadows of memories
Here I feel the past painting its history into my very being
Rain pours downs days after day
The brook fills with life, the hills full of green
I, in wellingtons have never been happier
Life surrounds my little feet, as I wander in the meadows of delight
Later I gaze out the window, surreal in ancestral contentment
I somehow know this is my past, enticed by natures grasp
For a child’s paradise, soon too end
When reality comes to the dance

Now as I gaze down the road
Where once trains traveled in glory
The station is gone
The tracks no more
Yet I walk down this road of memories
Drowning in desire
For days of the past
Were a child’s heart
Still danced in Meadowville
Amongst the lingering winds from the sea

The Hot Spell Is Over

 ~The Hot Spell Is Over~
Watching the clouds gather
There is thunder in the air
After a beautiful week 
It really doesn’t seem fair
We finally cast off winter woollies
Then sat with hankies on our heads
Tomorrow I suppose the Wellingtons are out
And we put back on our winter threads.

Our poor bodies don’t know what to do
From freezing to frying all in a day or two
Part of life’s rich pattern I can suppose
Life is short as the saying goes
Live it large as they now say
I think this means we should go out and play
Get our kit off in the kid’s paddling pool
Kick our heels we are nobody’s fools.

Grasp it now before it has gone
Make someone smile - just anyone
The air pressure rising leaves our skins moist
The air is thick and steamy as on us it is foist
Pressure flies are landing dropping from the skies
Blown out of the atmosphere before our very eyes
Sitting on the picture frames like little specks of dust
A flash a thunderous bang to come - we know it is a must
The thunder bounds around us with its lion-like roar
Taking the hot spell with it - but we hope not for evermore.
© 28/05/2012 ~GG~

3596

...a special childhood memory

It was raining. The sky was mottled, 
like a charcoal sketch too often handled.
My friend told me he had seen her,
parked away from all the others, 
likely left there for the night.
My mother couldn't comprehend
the pounding in my chest,
a giddy feeling overwelming me.
With her permission I was town-bound
in my Wellingtons and Pac-a-Mac,
a young boy on a mission,
starry-eyed, anticipating.
At last I would complete the series,
underline the only number missing from my list.
There she was, forlorn, as if forgotten,
in the ill-lit station yard.
I touched her and I smelled her, 
like a long lost dog who'd wandered,
just a number, such a number
as to fill my heart with joy!

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