Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme

Do you remember learning the following Beatrice Potter rhymes at school – probably in first class?

But since I went to school in Donegal in the Republic of Ireland, I probably learned them under the watchful eye of Miss Mac Donnagh in Low or High Infants.

I gave my poor long suffering husband the first lines of the following poems and after a few seconds the rest of the words were rolling off his tongue.

Who says rote learning didn’t work?

Beatrice Potter

Three blind mice
Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all run after the farmer’s wife,
And she cut off their tails with a carving knife, –
—do you remember the last line?

Read More

Beatrix Potter
This pig went to market
THIS pig went to market;
This pig stayed at home;

This pig had a bit of meat;
And this pig had none;

This little pig cried
Wee! wee! wee!
I can’t find my way home. – –
– In Ireland we learned a different ending. Do you remember it?

Beatrix Potter

Goosey, Goosey, Gander
GOOSEY, goosey, gander,
Whither will you wander?
Upstairs and downstairs,
And in my lady’s chamber!
Hope these short poems bring back happy memories of your schooldays

Me! I’m trying to forget mine and slap happy Miss M

Seeing Red

I have often heard the phase – losing your coat on a horse but I never expected to lose it at the hairdressers, so to speak. There it was, a red coat languishing leisurely on the chair.
But it wasn’t mine.
I stood for a minute holding it in my hand and debating with myself what to do.
Outside the rain was having a merry old time washing the face of the pavement. And there was I fancying it was summer wearing a light loud top, summer bottoms and no coat!
What to do? What to do? I pondered. There had obviously been a mix up.
Out there in the rain there was a woman walking about in my coat.
Should I put her coat on and go in search of her? Tentatively, I picked up the coat. Something rattled in the pocket – a set of keys.
My brain began to run a video. Images of someone breaking into the other woman’s house rose up before me. I saw the police rapping me on the shoulder as I search the rain drenched streets and accusingly saying I was the culprit. I watch the pointing fingers as they informed me there had been no sign of a break-in. I was the only key holder.
Hastily I dropped the coat back on to the chair and stepped coatless out into the pouring rain.
Feeling very conspicuous in my brightly coloured top I hurried down the street amongst the sea of bobbing umbrellas and raincoat clad shoppers ,trying hard to look as if I believed summer had arrived and this was the in’ look..
My thoughts jumped about trying to work out my options. Should I take a taxi home? Should I duck in for a coffee and pray the rain stopped? Or, should I buy myself a coat?
I disregarded the first option on the basis that I had just a short time before left home having spent time getting ready to look my best and then paid for a taxi to get me to the hairdressers!
The coffee and buying the coat sounded more reasonable options.. The coat first, I thought. In that way at least I’d blend in – not look as if I was advertising summertime.
Half an hour later, having hunted down a raincoat I approached the cash desk and searched in the bottom of my bag for my card. However, as soon as the smiling shop assistant said,” Enter your pin now.” My pin number took flight and no amount of face screwing and rummaging about in my brain produced the right combination.
“You should have gone with your first option and took a taxi home,” my inner voice hissed furiously with the spectacle I was making of myself..
Patiently, the cashier waited as a small queue forms behind me. Frantically I dug deep in my handbag once again in search of my purse.
By now my brain was in overdrive. Did I even have money in my purse? Should I step aside and let the shuffling customers behind me pay for their purchased?
I gave the sale’s girl an apologetic smile. I noticed the corners of her mouth were turned down and her nicely index manicured nail was tapping quietly impatiently on the digital till where she had already punched in the cost details of my new raincoat.
It lay between us on the counter –grey and black – like a limp rook.
To sighs of relief all around I mutely counted out enough money to pay for the coat. “Don’t bag it. I’ll wear it,” I said in a tiny voice.
Red faced and flustered I hurried in as dignified a fashion as I could out of the shop the tails of the new raincoat flapping behind me.
Out on the wet shiny pavement I stopped to draw breath and zip up the raincoat – hiding the gaily printed top.
Across the street beside the taxi-stand the delicious pungent smell of coffee wafted out invitingly.
My brain settled itself and my pin number clear as a bell miraculously came back to me.
I’d have a creamy cappuccino laced with extra chocolate sprinkling. Then I’d do a search of the streets in search of a woman wearing my red coat.
.

 Poem Credit William Worthless

i saw a host of bluebells they began to ring
standing up so proudly in the early spring

Ringing out there tune a lovely melody
everyone in unison growing wild and free.

With their bright blue flowers gleaming in the sun
playing out there tune to tell us springs begun.

it made me feel so happy as they played along
ringing out for me there lovely springtime song

 

“A laugh a Minute “

The Twin Town man did the Ally proud
With his rambling tales and songs of joy
But he came over all Hispaniola
When he tackled Miss Viola
She fixed him with a Glasgow stare
And pointed out her name was a flower

Back peddling faster than an Anthony Marron bike
With a missing link
In his Gallen Clan Tartan gear
Conal exacted a magnificent about turn
And in bright comedian speak he tried
A musical retreat to
Pour oil on troubled waters

But the lady was no violet shrinking
She pointed out his defective thinking
In fine Donegal style victory conceded
He moved on the politicians

A laugh a minute we had a great night
Thank you Conal
Gemma Canning Hill April 2016 ©

https://writeyouwriteme.com/2016/03/24/when-i-am-an-old-woman-i-shall-wear-purple/Jenny Joseph beautiful poem – happy Poetry Day (21st March)

JENNY JOSEPH’S “WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE”

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

How Little Red Riding Hood Came to Be Eaten

How Red Riding Hood Was Eaten

This poem was published in Carryl’s anthology Grimm Tales Made Gay in 1902.

The poems are parodies of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.118433

Read More

How Little Red Riding Hood Came to Be Eaten

By       Guy Wetmore Carryl

Most worthy of praise Were the virtuous ways

Of Little Red Riding Hood’s Ma,

And no one was ever More cautious and clever

Than Little Red Riding Hood’s Pa.

They never mislead, For they meant what they said,

And would frequently say what they meant:

And the way she should go

They were careful to show,

And the way that they showed her, she went.

For obedience she was effusively thanked,

And for anything else she was carefully spanked.

It thus isn’t strange

That Red Riding Hood’s range

Of virtues so steadily grew,

That soon she was prizes Of different sizes,

And golden encomiums, too!

As a general rule She was head of her school,

And at six was so notably smart

That they gave her a cheque

For reciting, “The Wreck       of the Hesperus,” wholly by heart!

And you all will applaud her the more, I am sure,

When I add that this money she gave to the poor.

At eleven this lass

Had a Sunday-school class,

At twelve wrote a volume of verse,

At thirteen was yearning

For glory, and learning

To be a professional nurse.

To a glorious height

The young paragon might

Have grown, if not nipped in the bud,

But the following year

Struck her smiling career

With a dull and a sickening thud! (

I have shed a great tear at the thought of her pain,

And must copy my manuscript over again!)

Not dreaming of harm

One day on her arm

A basket she hung.

It was filled With jellies, and ices,

And gruel, and spices,

And chicken-legs, carefully grilled,

And a savory stew,

And a novel or two

She’d persuaded a neighbor to loan,

And a hot-water can,

And a Japanese fan,

And a bottle of eau-de-cologne,

And the rest of the things that your family fill

Your room with, whenever you chance to be ill!

She expected to find Her decrepit but kind

Old Grandmother waiting her call,

But the visage that met her

Completely upset her:

It wasn’t familiar at all!

With a whitening cheek

She started to speak,

But her peril she instantly saw: —

Her Grandma had fled,

And she’d tackled instead

Four merciless Paws and a Maw!

When the neighbors came running, the wolf to subdue,

He was licking his chops, (and Red Riding Hood’s, too!)

At this terrible tale Some readers will pale,

And others with horror grow dumb,

And yet it was better, I fear, he should get her:

Just think what she might have become!

For an infant so keen Might in future have been

A woman of awful renown,

Who carried on fights

For her feminine rights

As the Mare of an Arkansas town.

She might have continued the crime of her ’teens,

And come to write verse for the Big Magazines!

The Moral:

There’s nothing much glummer

Than children whose talents appall:

One much prefers those who are dumber,

But as for the paragons small,

If a swallow cannot make a summer

It can bring on a summary fall!

<

Aren’t  they just beautiful?   Credit to Fiona Osborne Smith for the pic of the beautiful daffodils.

When I saw the daffodils I was reminded of a true story recalled by a  Facilitator for Reading Rooms. She was reading the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth when an elderly man who suffered from dementia and who never spoke in the group, stood up and to the amazement of the staff gave voice to William Wordsworth poem.

She shared, as a volunteer her whole purpose for being there was affirmed that day. The poem had struck a cord with the man’s schooldays. And for that brief time the words and the image of the daffodils took him back to when he was a boy.

I hope the daffodils bring good memories for you too.

Enjoy

 

Daffodils by William Wordsworth

I wander’d lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake, beneath the trees

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretch’d in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: –

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company! I gazed – and gazed –

but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills

And dances with the daffodils.

 

We all need a hug in morning… I have coupled the poster below with Nathan Carter sing this song. But many other singers have reordered it.

I’d love to know who wrote the original lyrics and who was the first person to record it. Anybody know?

 

https://youtu.be/V4rt_4zuMmk

 

Beautiful Scarlet Elf Cups   Photo Source Wild Inishowen’s Photos

Flowers
They have no mouth, but seem to speak
A thousand words so mild and meek.

They have no eyes, but seem to see
And bury thoughts into me.

They have no ears, but seem to hear
All my cries, my every tear.

They have no arms, but seem to pat
When with worries my heart is fat.

They have no feet, but seem to walk
Along with me in my dreams and talk.

They, I know, are the flowers so nice
That spread their fragrance a million miles.

Grow a few and then you’ll know
How your life is fresh and new.

With a smile so broad, I thank my God,
Whose work to imagine is really too hard.

Poem Credit: familyfriendship poems.com

Poet Pearyn

MEMORIES

Night settled on the house.

Cooling embers in the grate shift

Cast a dying heat on socked feet

The rustle of the newspaper

Tells its own story

Recriminations and worries of the day

Put away

Father is reading the Evening Herald

 

Spread on linoleum worn thin

With children’s busy feet

Glasses perched precariously on the

Bridge of his nose

Below black bushy eyebrows

That tells the colour his iron grey hair

Was once

Before he had a brood and money worries

 

The rustling paper stills

The chair beside the fire

Grunts as it’s pushed back

Made safe

From the occasional spark

The winding of the clock sets the

Rising time for the winter day

That is to follow

 

His shadow falls across

The wall leading to the big bedroom

The moonlight casts its beam

Through the gap where the

Curtains don’t meet

His hand softly draws up

The blankets over shoulders

Dreaming of play in green fields

 

His refrain meets my ears

God bless –

Sleep tight till morning comes

The loose brass door knob shivers

As it’s pulled against the stealth of night

Soon, the faint strip of light

Is extinguished as he makes his way

To his own bed beside my mother