Waltz King

Steve and I have just returned from a five day work trip to Europe. On the way out we had a delivery to a spot in the Swiss/German/French border triangle. We stayed overnight in the reputedly haunted room in a small hotel in Staufen on the edge of the Black Forest. Having made the one delivery in Germany, we trundled on to Burgundy where we bought a load of French antique furniture for our warehouse. In the truck parking place near to our hotel, there stood the huge truck that was transporting André Rieu and his Johann Straus Orchestra to a concert in Dijon, it had a massive, rather flattering caricature of the maestro on the side. My next door neighbours Jan and Christine are also musicians and are rehearsing for a waltz evening concert. I get to hear them playing their saxophones through the adjoining wall of our homes and that is what prompted my Waltz King poem. The
other efforts are also products of this trip.

Waltz King 

What have you done Johann?

What have you done?

Setting the ballroom on fire

Filling young hearts with desire

You saw all the beauty

The uniforms of duty. 

What was it like Johann?

What was it like?

When you were a pop star

They came from near and far

With baton then you posed

The music you composed. 

What did they say Johann?

What did they say?

The European royalty

Did they show you loyalty

As they danced away

To the sweet waltz you play. 

Would you go back, Johann?

Would you go back?

Leading the way

Being star of the day

A Prince showing your art

Did you steal a young heart? 

What would you say Johann?

What would you say?

If you were here now

And could take one more bow

What would you say,

When you look at today?

 

 

Flute  

We deliver antique furniture of every sort

And get to meet people of every kind

This is one area of our work, to transport

We cannot get bored with our lives we find. 

This time the meeting point of three lands

Only a mile or so to the others to go

On a German hillside where the horizon fans

Switzerland or a French valley below. 

One small piece handed to the flute maker

And his beautiful young flautist wife

Unwrapping the item brought by the taker

A dainty music cabinet to share in their life.

 

 

Faust Stube….

A Haunted Room 

Weird isn’t it,

Deliberately

Asking for

The room

That is claimed

To be haunted…

I have stayed here before.

I have come here

From completely

Different directions

On each visit.

On entering

The building

I get an immediate

Splitting headache.

Once in the room,

That is claimed

To be haunted…

I have to lay down

And sleep.

Then,

The headache leaves.

The ancient

Enclosed oak bed

Is like a small room.

Inside the bed,

Under the oak canopy

With solid oak side panels.

The room has

Stained glass windows

With paintings

Of the resident spirit

And there is an

Apothecary cupboard!

A strange room

That is claimed

To be haunted.

The house stands

In a strange

Black Forrest house

In a strange,

But beautiful

Black Forrest town

Staufen.

Where it is claimed

Mephisto came

To claim back

The soul

Of Dr Faust

One bad deed

Deserves another!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Expectations

I have had a bad couple of days after some unpleasantness that is best not dwelt on and the result was these two poems here. Steve and I will be away on a work trip for a few days and I hope that will clear the cobwebs away. It is now exactly 100 days until I start the big challenge that I have been training so hard for. Don’t forget to donate if you can please. www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

Expectations 

Tried to be what was expected

But still it lay cold underneath

What I was and where from?

Expect, know for why and try

Feel the pressing, feel the teeth. 

Can it be done as expected?

Still and solemn as a wreath

What was I and where from?

Expect to try, begin to cry

Like the trodden path beneath. 

Fail to be what was expected

Reach out and feel the grief

I was what I was and from

Expecting  lies, as was I

Soft moulded to an old belief.

Penumbra

 

Waiting to start a new day

Leaving behind the old way

Hear what older people say

Watch the child I once was play

Remember the smell of sun on hay

The suck on stones in wavy spray

When jolly fun meant life was gay

Discipline from eyes of grey

The secret when to bodies flay

Rush to leave without delay

The smell of death and of decay

Of family in sombre array

Then wish the world would go away

In darkness palms together pray

 

 

Endless Ladder

Read this one a strange but peaceful dream or use it as a swim drill which it what it is under the thin disguise. I find a bit of visualisation goes a long way. I wrote it with a friend in mind who is working hard on his swimming. I can see him under the water while I am swim training but like most swim teachers, I couldn't resist sticking my oar in! If you find it helps your stroke, send a fiver to my collection point for the kids at Chestnut Tree House www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

Endless Ladder

 

It’s all quiet

Nobody is there

Keep moving on

Eye’s ahead where 

Focus in this

Underwater scene

Still and tranquil

In bluey green 

Far as the eye can see

It stretches on

How can it be

To infinity it has gone 

Deep down inside

You know it leads

To something better

Where style succeeds 

The endless ladder

The perfect tutor

Leads you on

Like a loving suitor 

Passion to reach for

Something better

Rise to the bait

Of this chain letter 

Reach forward

With your hand

To the next rung

And firmly land 

Pull your self along

One rung at a time

This arm and then this

Rhythmically in rhyme 

Plod away and

Keep a steady pace

Relax and settle

No need to race 

 Pull along the side

Keep your reach

A little wide

Your memory teach 

Slide again along

The ladder’s length

Grip and push back

Use your strength 

On hand one side

One hand the other

Nicely spaced out

And then recover 

Further along

More power then

Flowing movement

Smooth timing when 

The Endless ladder

Cadence steady

Take a rest

When you are ready 

Comfy now

Onward ever

Feel you could

Do this forever 

Knuckle down to

Peaceful progression

The pleasure true

A satisfying lesson 

Floating climb

Toward infinity

Settled style

With sure affinity 

Pull-push away

Till the move remain

In muscle memory

A sweet refrain 

Never reaching

The ladders end

A better swimmer

You are my friend

Biker Biker

Too many cyclists are being knocked off their bikes by motorists, and it seems to me most often at roundabouts and junctions. Let’s all try to ride safely and be aware of what is happening around you at all times.  

Biker, Biker  

For the non sporty masses it would appear

That fit folk only do it just for the gear

Tight colourful Lycra gets us so hated

We’re flashy show offs, there to be slated

Here’s a note to the ‘Hate Bikers’ society

We don’t wear the clothes to gain notoriety

Let’s say ‘Give to Caesar what is Caesars’

Lycra tights will never be crowd pleasers

And ‘Give to God what is Gods’

Onward and onward the cyclist plods

‘A place for everything’ is commonly said

‘Everything in its place’ could be said instead

So bike gear for bikers because after all

You’d never wear cricket gear to play football

You wouldn’t wear a rumba frock to a rugby match

Or a wetsuit to golf when you play off scratch

The bike clothes have not unnaturally evolved

But for improved comfort it has been solved

No wind drag, no chaffing, and a pad just there

Young lads roll the window down, at us to swear

We put in the miles, the cars move so fast

With a bright coat on we hope safety will last

So you tend your business and I will tend mine

Between us we’ll carry our lives on just fine

The Sepia Photograph

During a hunt around for something I had lost track yesterday, I found a framed picture that used to hang in my parents home when they were alive, both gone now for quite some years. It was taken down because it had been damaged at the bottom of it or maybe it had just torn with age. It was a sepia photograph of my grandfather, my mothers father. Mum told me that he had died whilst serving with the British Army in Palestine. She didn't remember him because she was very young when he was killed. She did still have the photograph that her mother had told her that he always carried with him. It was of my mother and her two elder sisters when they were all tiny. On the back he had simply written "My three darling daughters".

Don't forget the reason I am sharing my scribbling's, if you like any of them, please donate something no mater how small a sum www.justgiving.com/Daphne-Belt

The Sepia Photograph 

He sits wearing a slightly crumpled British Army uniform

The high collar soft from wear, a cord from the shoulder fell. 

The brass jacket buttons are polished and fastened neatly,

A healthy head of dark hair parted and neatly combed. 

His expression weary, between his eye two creases form.

Comfortable and at ease for those at home to tell

That he was well enough and loved his children sweetly

And wished for this adventure he had never roamed. 

Trimmed moustache above his mouth’s expression warm,

The gold band on his left hand is clear to see as well.

Held in his breast pocket above his heart stored neatly,

An image of three little girls who stand un-chaperoned. 

A far away look in his eyes might of the near future warn

Would he see those daughters once more? He could not tell.

Ever see them as they grew or care for them completely,

Or would they see that wedding ring that he once owned?

 

Kestral

I have been meaning to write this one for a while. Don't you just love Kestrel's? Though as with much of natures work they are actually not that cute. Not like puppies and kittens and babies, but they are quite stunning and I love them. Sometimes life is not cute and cuddly either and some of us have to toughen up. For the Kestrel, it is quite a kill or be killed world bringing the their young. Our world can be a sink or swim, dog eat dog place too. Be prepared for the unexpected.

Kestrel 

The kestrel; the easiest bird in the heavens to spot

You would have to be half blind to miss one

Not a question to ask, if it is one or is not

Hovering high above in the light of the sun. 

Flying as fast as the blustery wind blows it back

Eyes rigid and still, fixed firm upon his quarry

The perfect poised position to launch an attack

Leaves not a moment for its prey to be sorry. 

Swiftly turning to drop like a stone in the wind

Then stop for a last intent location prey check

In a flash a head from it tiny body form skinned

From high above it was only the tiniest speck. 

This falcon may not even have any hunger

The hunter will add this feed to his stash

He cares not of waste or any do-good monger

A vole presents itself, spare food he’ll cache. 

The killer arcs back to his hovering habit shift

Wings a-flutter no matter how strong the wind

Tail expertly flapping to maintain his perfect lift

Flashing rich browny red ‘til the next meal pinned. 

Hanging effortlessly, head held still as a rock

Amidst the miraculous turmoil of wing-ed prance

Held in place like a pole tethered wind sock

Yet in extraordinary quavering, wavering dance. 

Returns to the previous builders evicted nest

Only then we hear the mate calling cry

“Dinner is served my love” from this mornings test

For larger predators, keeps a watchful eye.

One Step

One step at a time is all any of us can manage and as long as that one step is forward and not backwards and we have done our best, then one step is enough.

One Step

 

One step at a time in all things

One careful step all the better

One thoughtful note sings

One single stage scene setter 

One step more each day taken

One consideration for the other

One old friend not forsaken

One good turn deserves another 

One step each day toward a goal

One plan before it is too late

One idea in life’s mixed bowl

One thing worked not left to fate 

One step more with stronger tread

One day making each breath count

One time planting seeds to spread

One more problem to surmount 

One of you can pave new ways

One of them can hold her hand

One of us improve his days

One step makes us all feel grand