Details |
Frances King Poem
“Who am I,” asked the Bunyip. “What am I doing here?”
“Please tell me,” begged the Bunyip,” for my purpose isn’t clear.”
“No answer!” came the stern reply; “You’ll get no help from me!”
Poor Bunyip, he began to cry, “Doesn’t anyone know me?”
And thus he went a-wandering, searching far and wide
For someone who could put an end to his longing, deep inside.
One day, he found a piece of glass, discarded by a lake.
He gazed into its surface … OH! That was his big mistake!
For in that glass, he met Himself … the image struck him dumb;
No-one could love that ugly mug! (Except perhaps his Mum …)
So, overcome by black despair, the poor old Bunyip sobbed.
The tears poured down his warty cheeks, and ran into his gob.
He cried all night, and then all day, and then all night again.
The rain it poured, the wind it howled as if to voice his pain …
Then suddenly emerged a shape, out of the Primal Soup,
Round and warty … big and black … The Bunyip was cock-a-hoop!
“Who am I?” asked the creature,
(In strangely girlish voice.)
The Bunyip’s pulse began to race …
His lumpy heart rejoiced …
“What am I?” begged the creature.
“Oh! I WISH that I could see!”
“You’re a Bunyip!” cried the Bunyip,
“And you look, … well,
“Just like ME!”
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
A bunyip, as our Aussie members will know, is a mythical creature - or is it?
They are said to inhabit small ponds, and are lovable - but not handsome ...
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
When I was young, an urban lass, and not gregarious,
I’d never dream of speaking to a stranger on a bus.
I’d sit, demure, my eyes downcast, and hope quite desperately
That none of those weird passengers would try accosting me.
But, now I’m “fair and forty” (ish!) I’m bolder, and what’s more,
I’ve lived so long in Somerset I’d clean forgot mum’s law …
Until I went to London town to see my student daughter;
She lectured me for doing what I really didn’t oughta!
“You shouldn’t, mum! It isn’t safe!” she cried, in some alarm.
“Some folk round here are really strange. you might have come to harm!”
I’m sorry I upset her, but I carried on regardless.
I found most folks in London are quite friendly … even harmless.
Oh! I do love London Transport, and its camaraderie!
I had such fun, and lots of laughs and all completely free (!)
But now I’m home, I realise …
That weirdo, then,
Was me!!
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
I gaze out of my window and I see
Like shredded wings of angels in distress
The snow is falling, in enormous flakes!
An hour of gentle snow is all it takes
To clothe my garden in her wedding dress.
I love the snow when it is deep and fresh!
It renders clear the shouts of children’s play
Now ev'rything is shining, clean and white.
Snow deadens all the din of normal life …
And yet I’m glad to see it melt away!
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
Invisible ladies! You see them ev’rywhere,
In sensible raincoats and Margaret Thatcher hair.
Standing at bus-stops, watching the bus go by:
Waiting at crossings,
Letting the traffic splatter mud in their eyes …
Invisible ladies, all in their “middle years”.
Invisible ladies:
No hopes, but so many fears …
SO polite! So ladylike!
Just don’t mind us, don’t make a fuss … Wouldn’t be right …
But deep inside, there’s such a rage …
You’ll catch it too, this vanishing plague
Called MIDDLE AGE!
Invisible ladies … shopping bags all akimbo:
Moving like zombies, each in her private limbo.
Pushing a trolley at ASDA or Sainsbury:
Examining prices,
Searching for bargains – ever more desp’rately …
Invisible ladies, choosing the longest queue …
The one with the baby:
Babies, they’re visible to …
SO polite! So ladylike!
Just don’t mind us, don’t make a fuss … Wouldn’t be right …
But deep inside, there’s such a rage …
You’ll catch it too, this vanishing plague
Called MIDDLE AGE!
Invisible ladies! When somebody barges by,
Instead of complaining, they always apologise!
They oughta get angry, and maybe get pushy too:
Say, “HEY! Look AT me!
See, I’m a PERSON, really very like you!”
Invisible ladies, everyone knows one …
They live in our houses …
You probably call yours “MUM!”
(This is an anthem for all fifty-somethings - Chaps too!)
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I’m feverishly counting sheep …
Hoping that the perfect number
Rewards me with a dreamless slumber.
Envisioning the sylvan state,
I close my eyes and concentrate
On willing ev’ry fuzzy shape
To leap in order through the gate.
I trust they’ll form a proper queue
And, decorously stepping through
In ranks of three for my review,
Pass by my vision ewe by ewe.
But will they do this? Will they ‘eck!
They’re making me a nervous wreck!
They leap the hedge, and come back round
And thus my counting do confound.
And then they dance! I swear they do!
They link their arms and sashay through …
They buck-and-wing, and twist, and spin,
Each sheepish face a saucy grin …
And while these woolly matrons rumba …
I’ve clean forgot the flippin’ number!
So then I’m back to number one
And wishing I had ne’er begun!
Till, once more, frazzled and forlorn,
I’m wide awake to greet the dawn.
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
Nanny’s come a-visiting,
We’re playing in the lounge.
Lottie’s on her kiddie car,
Scooting all around
Lost within her tiny world –
Doesn’t know I’m there –
Moving all her little toys
To table from the chair.
Reach for toy, put in car,
Climb on car and then
Scoot, scoot, get off car,
Pick up toy again.
Turn around, step, step!
Put it on the table …
She doesn’t know she’s walking yet!
We didn’t think her able!
Step, step, back on car.
Scoots to chair and then
Mum comes in, Nan murmers, “watch …”
And off we go again.
Scoot, scoot, get off car,
Pick up little cow.
Step! Step! Put it down …
Mummy grins, “Oh, WOW!”
For my daughter Verity, and her daughter, Charlotte.
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
I am not finished yet, nor am I perfect.
I am a lifetime project.
I am a work in progress.
Each day, I grow a little.
Sometimes bigger … sometimes smaller …
Always older … often wiser …
My days would seem to be all the same.
Rather sluggish … Frankly boring …
And they are, yes … in the main.
Yet each one has a gift for me.
A thought, perhaps a memory.
Something for me to savour.
Another tiny piece that I can fit
Into my personal jigsaw.
The big picture of me …
The picture that I will never see.
The one I will leave for my children.
I hope they’ll like it!
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
When Aardvark sleeps, perchance to dream
About a tasty snack …
I wonder, does he ever wish
It wouldn’t bite him back?
Inspired by Lee Leon’s poem ‘Aardvark’
Thanks, Lee!
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
Spark
Crackles
Flames flicker
Shadow boxing
Glow
Welcome home!
For Brian's "Light My Fire" Contest. (Lanterne!)
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Frances King Poem
Koala’s not a teddy bear,
Although he looks the part …
He munches eucalyptus leaves,
And captivates our hearts.
Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009
|