Bluebells

Beatiful!!

Beatiful!!

The other day our Uncle Sean came for the day and we went up into the woods for a walk. It’s the bluebell season and the scene was amazing. I wrote a poem trying to describe the beauty and magic of these lovely flowers.

Recently I heard that the best way to appreciate bluebells is to lay down in them. I took the advice and tried it, well, it’s totally true. The scent is so strong and powerful, it’s soothing and calming. Also seeing them from ground level makes them seem even better. My theory about this is that seeing something from a different angle than we are used to makes it feel unique and special.

Appreciating the bluebells

Appreciating the bluebells

How have you looked at things in life with a different perspective? Please let me know.

BLUE MAGIC

A silent bell that rings through the woods,
it’s chimes sinking into the absorbing moss,
swallowed up by the trees.

Sheltered by the towering branches,
growing on a bed of leaves,
the bluebells come up, majestic and fine.

Excited spectators watch breathlessly,
as a green shoot appears,
crisp and fresh.

The bell, delicate and sweet,
like a little girl in a pale blue summmer dress,
green stockings on her long legs.

It’s perfumes, lush and luxurious,
waft through the woodland,
like invisible, swirling clouds of beauty and sweetness.

A purple blue feather quilt,
spread over forest floors,
keeping nature warm.

For passers by, down they lie,
and be engulfed by this wonderful magic.
Forgetting the world of troubles and war,
they will rest in this peaceful growth.

 

Evan and Irys

Evan and Irys

Spring Has Sprung

I’m so excited that spring is just beginning and I’m sure everyone else is too. Spring is such a lovely season, the world gets lighter and the days get longer. It’s a positive season, things that happen are good. I like to think of spring as the light at the end of a long, dark, gloomy tunnel. The tunnel is winter. When we emerge into the sunshine it is a time to rejoice. Spring is cheerful, it makes you want to whistle a little tune!!

Spring has arrived in Granny's garden!!

Spring has arrived in Granny’s garden!!

SPRING HAS SPRUNG

Spring has sprung,
it has begun.

The birds they sweetly sing a tune,
flowers burst their buds,
in all colours white, blue or maroon.

The golden trumpets play,
criers announce, tis such a happy day.
The bulbs they have begun to sprout,
soon the animals will be out,
of hibernation.

A colourful array,
begins on the first merry day,
the children laugh and say,
“we’re happy at our play”.

The sun shines down,
in the whole of the land,
there’s not one single frown.

So, with a gust of wind and a little April shower,
a big bunch of daffodils,
another beautiful flower,
animals having young,
Easter has only just begun,
spring has sprung.

The Sun and The Moon

my picture, I painted the whole paper black and then did the moon and light in white chalk.

my picture, I painted the whole paper black and then did the moon and light in white chalk.

Today I watched the solar eclipse live on television, we would have watched it outside, but it was really cloudy. It showed you live footage from the Faroe Islands. They were experiencing a total eclipse. It’s amazing, even on television. I learnt what a solar eclipse is, painted a picture of it and wrote a poem. Here it is:

THE SUN AND THE MOON,

A pale, silhouetted sun,
constantly she’s on the run.
The moon, a monster, dark and black,
he’ll gobble her up, if speed she does lack.

He creeps upon her, like a wolf stalking it’s prey,
gradually he gains on her, moment by moment, day by day.

It’s a beautiful sight,
the sun’s ever so bright
and the moon, that deathly dark,
but from out of the circle, comes a bright and fiery spark.

They call it a diamond ring,
all the birds cease to sing,
it’s so awe-inspiring,
no one even thinks of retiring, home.

Eventually the moon, he strikes,
he eats up what he likes,
sometimes he leaves a little crescent,
it can be seen in London, Brighton, Scotland or Cheshunt.

When the moon swallows the poor sun whole,
we’re plunged into darkness,
it touches people down in their very soul.

It’s a once in a lifetime chance,
to see the moon and the sun do their amazing dance.

 

my sister, Irys, is a natural artist. This is her masterpiece

my sister, Irys, is a natural artist. This is her masterpiece

This is my brother's picture. He likes to use bright, bold colours.

This is my brother’s picture. He likes to use bright, bold colours.

Back on my little boat

Today and yesterday I’ve been at our little boat, called Loon, down by the River Lee. Last summer we spent the season on her and had a wonderful experience, definitely the best in my life. Mum and Dad have been cleaning her and repairing her, while we’ve been fishing and kayaking. This poem is about kayaking and how good it feels to be back on the water. If I had to describe the time in one word it would be: MAGICAL.

BACK ON MY LITTLE BOAT

Time and time again the waves hit,
the bow of my little boat,
bobbing me up and down a bit.

The wind blows in my face
and the boat slightly tips,
a contented smile lingers on my lips.

A moorhen cries,
another replies,
their calls echo across the water.

A shining fish,
making ripples as it breaks the surface,
not one glinting disturbance does the sun miss.

It casts a path of yellow gold,
I watch, as a story in my mind begins to unfold,
then jotted down on dirty paper it is told.

I close my eyes,
the river sighs, as everything goes to bed,
it alone runs through the night,
it never rests its head.

I’m sad when my time on the water is up,
I feel like a pup,
who has ceased to play,
but I watch as the sun casts its last golden ray.

Boys

 

MY BROTHER

This a poem that I wrote for my brother, Evan, for his 9th birthday. It’s about boys and how they can get obsessed with taking things apart. Sometimes, when my brother or dad are building or taking something apart, they are so into it they can’t even do anything else properly or think about anything else. They call it work mode.   It’s also supposed to be funny and humorous.

Muddle & Meddle

Muddle & Meddle

Fix & Fiddle

Fix & Fiddle

 

BOYS

Boys will be boys, wherever they are,
they’ll sit with their dad, their father or their pa,
then they’ll muddle and meddle, fix and fiddle,
joggle and jiggle for hours,
connecting different powers.

Then just shout for some tea or some food,
which I think is just plain rude.
They’ll scheme, plot and plan,
about whatever nonsense,
on little bits they’ll spend their pence.

They’ll examine cogs,
in their old work togs.

They’ll closely inspect
and try to detect,
then make sure they’ve double checked,
they are all teched,
what’s next to dissect?

So can’t you see?
They won’t even stop to have a pee,
although maybe for some tea,
it’s plain to see:

Boys will be boys, wherever they are,
they’ll sit with their dad, their father or their pa,
then they’ll muddle and meddle, fix and fiddle,
joggle and jiggle for hours,
connecting different powers.

Luxury

I wrote this poem for my granny’s birthday. My inspiration was the royal pavilion in Brighton. My uncle and auntie took me there and it was amazing. In this piece of poetry I describe this spectacular palace.

LUXURY

As you walk into the hall,
with beautiful tapestries on the wall
and with ceilings ever so tall
and chandeliers far from small.

Great ornaments standing on varnished wood,
places where ancestors stood.

Lovely paintings in gold frames,
little plaques that say the names,
a beautiful lady in an elegant pose,
rich, wealthy and luxurious, I suppose.

A dining room with the longest table,
silver dishes from a plate to a ladle,
with seats of red velvet
and goblets full of wine,
“people come and dine”.

Bedrooms with four-poster beds,
and curtains of the finest silk,
carpets, fireplaces, all that posh ilk.
Maids a-waiting, bringing breakfast to you,
toast and jam, not one egg, but two.

Sweeping around the ballroom,
dresses in full bloom,
all colours, lovely women,
charming men.

The palace is a place for royalty,
and people,
who to the king and queen,
have shown loyalty.
Not for just you or me,
but now it’s historical we can see,
the luxurious life of a king or queen.

CRY

Here’s my most recent poem that I’ve written. You’ll have to use your imagination, who is the girl? Who is the mysterious messenger? Is it really a bird or is it just a metaphor? To be honest I don’t even know what the answer to any of these questions are, but I do know that they can be anything you want them to be.

Here it is:

CRY

Young girl, you know not I,
but I will hear your cry.

I have come to give you word,
of an evil, cunning bird,
who swoops down from the sky,
that’s when I’ll hear you cry.

If you listen to the knowledge and the wisdom in my eye,
then I will guarantee I will completely satisfy.

So run away, away I say,
safe from harm and danger, I pray.

So keep your nerves of steel
and you’ll be safe, I know you will.

A Dog Called Minstral

MINSTRAL

MINSTRAL

A couple of days ago our faithful family dog died.  Me, my brother and my sister have known her our whole lives. We are all really sad, but we understand the importance of remembering the good times.

So instead of of rambling on about the sad last couple of weeks, I would like to write a poem about the whole 12 years of happiness, fun, laughter, games and love we shared with Minstral.

 

MINSTRAL

Our faithful, friendly, family dog,
taking her for long walks,
in all weathers, sun, rain and fog.

Her soft black fur,
we valued her even more than precious myrrh.

We loved her dear,
although her case of scruffiness was severe,
we loved her still.

Her run was more like a horse’s trot,
playing in the woods,
we had fun a lot.

Working with Dad in the old wood shed,
getting covered in sawdust,
from her paws to her head.

We visited the lakes in summer breaks,
oh, and how she loved to climb hills,
and sit by the campfire, while we cooked delicious meals.

We’ve lived on a boat,
she loved life afloat,
went for a swim a few times,
committed the smallest of crimes,
like stealing a sausage
and all else she could forage.

Minstral loved it at granny’s house,
she’d sneak on the sofa, quiet as a mouse.
She was spoilt rotten,
Minstral, you will never be forgotten.

You always have and always will be brill
and you’ll live on in our memories still.

No. 88

On our way we got a little lost,
although we thought we had it sussed.

A few detours led us astray,
but we got there in the end, so it was ok.

We walked up the hill, counting how many until 88,
hoping we weren’t going to be too late.

We were greeted by Baxter and the wagging of his tail,
he’s a chocolate labrador and his legs are a little frail.

We played with Jake and Reya, a fast game called Dobble,
and then I played with Reya, another game called Boggle.

After a while we got called in for dinner,
a delicious meal, a hotpot, a real winner.

Reya has many a good book,
for hours I could look and look.

In the end I chose the Twist of Gold,
by Michael Morpurgo, a great story told.

After that we went to see the grown ups,
chatting and talking over drink filled cups.

Becky showed us her collection of sea glass,
and old bent metal, possibly brass.

After such a lovely time, we had to go,
back down the streets, back home.

Thank again for a lovely evening.

Happy New Year

Having out at dusk on Brighton beach

Hanging out at dusk on Brighton beach

This is my first blog of the year and it’s about a few things. I wanted to begin with saying thank you to you all for this past year. All the support you’ve given me in my first few months of blogging has been great. Secondly I wanted to share a piece of poetry that I wrote to describe a sunset down on Brighton sea front,  hope you like it.

The orange sun sunk into the grey blue sea, the cotton wool clouds darting across it’s surface. It’s rays cast a sparkling path across the ocean.  The ships on the horizon, silhouetted against a canvas splattered with splodges and smudges of pale blue, pink, orange and red.