Scribblers First Meeting
A few recent wanderings of my poor old frazzled mind here below, I hope they will be read by some and enjoyed by a few. Mostly though I hope that few people fed up with TV and with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon, will wander down to join us at the Look and Sea visitor centre by the River Arun next weekend October 8th. Buy yourself a pot of tea and a cake or a glass of wine and a packet of crisps and come upstairs to the meeting room and listen to the things that we have written.
I hope there will be others apart from myself and that I am not the only one brave enough to get up and read their stuff. Otherwise I will have to fill the whole two hours myself, which I could easily do with the amount I have written over the last four years, since poetry writing, accounts of trips and events and tales became a regular thing to occupy my time and sooth my soul. It would be rather sad though just me reading to my husband and a couple of friends.
Yet if it comes to that I will. Never say die. Don’t talk about what you would like to do, or what your dreams are, bloomin’ well get on with it. Follow your dreams. Take that long walk in Spain. Do that obstacle race where you end up cold and muddy. Learn a new language then go and speak it.
Rooted
Feeling trapped and wasted
Trapped by love and hate
Wasted like an apple left to rot
That should be picked up and tasted
The feeling comes more often of late
A once young pearl that time forgot
Floating Fir Tree
It is only an optical illusion
but still it is hard to believe,
while sitting in an easy chair
my back against a cushion.
Out in the garden there
that huge evergreen,
with fir cones hanging
seems to be floating in air
like the talking heads
on some old Greek urns,
black and white illusion;
now this, now this instead.
No intelligence is needed
to work the problem out,
since the glass door frame
hides the trunk, I conceded.
Still, as you look at it though
then move a tiny jot to see
first the trunk and then a
floating tree, for a second or so.
Ha!
Oberon’s Palace
For some obscure reason
It stands facing due north
It’s April; spring into summer season
A garden sized castle built in oak
With towers and central dome
An elaborate senseless joke
Four high towers topped with gold
Crosses of faith join flags of war
Looking ancient though far from old
Inside the great walls is a stony grotto
Water spouts supporting a regal crown
No explanation, no cause, no motto
Walls are tiled with a million neat shells
Creamy beige neutral shades
Of a labour of love the interior tells
A feature pattern using perhaps mussels in blue
Show classic urns containing a bush
Repeated on each inner wall all through
On first sight the world will smile
At the water held crown dancing for urns
Imagination holds the eyes a while
Stepping back to take in the whole place
Primitive carvings look out of keeping
Oberon’s Palace holds grandeur of face
As pleasing as the encounter is strange
Is it purely an expensive whim?
Ostentation gone mad in money’s range?
At close quarters or across the labyrinth lawn
Try to figure out the logic why
This fantasy exercise in whimsy was born
Incomprehensively most of the year standing
With it’s grand face in the shadow
Afraid of full light or am I misunderstanding
Dwarfed by the town’s Cathedral spires
Dedicated to Our lady and a Howard Martyred
Some old Dukes were great and other conspirers
Find the lovely building dream or enigma
Visitors struck speechless in awe
Some seeing wonder and others stigma
An envisaged journey from fascination
To create an artwork to use as backdrop
Brings a quaint fort-palace to this destination
All those in favour say Aye!
Aye for one.
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