Elegy on the Death of My Muse

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/muse/”>Muse</a&gt;

Sounds good.
(I knew it would!)
My muse is dead,
that’s what I said.
I’ve lost the urge
to splurge on verse
and, worse than that,
my prose is flat,
dull as a lake.
No breeze to shake
the surface stillness.
Is this an illness
that I can shake off
like a sneeze or a cough
or final and fatal
and from this date I’ll
write no more,
write but to bore?
I won’t entertain it,
can’t explain it,
But I just know
It can’t be so!



C a R e F r EE

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/carefree/”>Carefree</a&gt;



I’ve time to spare.
to do and dare
I’ve time to share
With friends.

I brush my hair
What shall I wear?
the forecast’s fair
“Begone dull care”
The Bard once said. Depends
if weight of care
can bring despair
so I don’t dare
to leave my lair
or climb the stair
to reach the rainbow’s end.

I yearn to be
I’ll learn to be
Completely totally



Mountain Bike

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/mountain/”>Mountain</a&gt;

I am a brand new mountain bike
My owner’s pride and joy.
I’ve chunky tyres and umpteen gears,
I am his favourite toy.

I’m bright and clean and shiny,
My owner’s joy and pride,
And every weekend without fail
He takes me for a ride.

He loads me on his Volvo,
Drives forty miles and then
He lifts me down and rides two miles
Then drives back home again.

There’s one thing kinda puzzles me,
The trails we ride are flat
I’ve never even seen a hill.
A mountain? What is that?









Sing? No, thank you!

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/sing/”>Sing</a&gt;

I am one of those people without any musical appreciation.  The idea of spending eternity playing music on a harp and singing hymns chimes well with my notion of hell!
I wrote this verse  some time ago. It owes something to G. K. Chesterton’s poem “The Donkey” and the idea that in God’s plan there is a role for everyone however lowly.

Entrance Exam

If I get to heaven
Will I have to take a test
To see if I can sing the hymns
And keep time with the rest?
I never made it to the choir
I couldn’t sing in tune
Instead I tried to mime the words
They spotted me quite soon.
Does Peter at the pearly gates
When counting good and sin
Ask simply “you can play the harp?”
And if you can, you’re in!

God smiled “My child, there’s something
You really ought to know;
I made the tuneful nightingale,
I also made the crow.
The peacock with its gorgeous tail
Its harsh and jarring cry,
The braying ass, the croaking frog,
Who made them all but I?”

“All animals – all humans too
Have their own worth for me.
Don’t fret because you cannot sing
Come in and brew the tea!”


A Writer’s Hopes

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/hope/”>Hope</a&gt;

I’d hoped to write a novel
To move a reader’s tears.
I’d hoped to write a thriller
Exploring darkest fears.
I’d hoped to pen a drama
And see it on Broadway
One that explores and captures
The essence of today.
All the works I hoped to write
Are simply froth and cream
Maybe they’ll never come to pass
But still, it’s fun to dream.
…isn’t it?




<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/window/”>Window</a&gt;

The first window I remember is the upstairs one in our house-cum-shop where I lived as  little girl. You could sit at the window and look out straight onto the street. This wasn’t a suburban semi-rural sort of place, but a shopping street of small individual shops, buchers, bakers, shoe shop, hairdressers, chemist, greengrocers, sweet shop. Nowadays you’d find all these under one roof in the supermarket, but not back then.

I could sit beside the window and watch the people passing, the relatively few cars and vans and the buses. The bus stop was only a few yards away and we had trolley buses . These made a distinctive sound, quite different from what we called “petrol” buses, smooth and pleasant. The wires ran high up above the road and they were attache to the bus with a trolley, a long metal rod that hooked onto the wire. Sometimes the trolley came off the wire and fell with a clang onto the roof of the bus. Then the  conductor  – there were still bus conductors at this time – had to hook it back on with a long cane kept for this purpose undereath the bus. A fascinating procedure to watch!

Being on the first floor meant not only could I see a fair distance up and down the road,  but I was immune from other people staring in. The upper windows across the road never seemed to be occupied and low-flying aircraft were a rarity then as now.

One particular memory is that of looking out of the window on a school day and assessing whether or not the school would be closed. (This was before there were details of school closures broadcast on local radio.) The rough rule of thumb went something like this: If I couldn’t see as far as the other side of the street because of fog or more likely smog, I didn’t have to to school. If there was more than a few inches of snow it was likely that the buses wouldn’t be runing and again I was let off school and could go and make snowmen and have snowball fights with my friends.  

Happy Days.