Our esteemed Competitions Secretary Olive Riley has very bravely agreed to start the ball rolling. Let's hope many of you follow suit. Olive's poem is printed below. As your submissions start to come in we will create a separate page for each writer. For the time being, please read Olive's poem about our association. Olive's poem can now be viewed on her own page by scrolling to the bottom of the page and clicking on her link below. There you will also be able to view the work of our Treasurer, Tom Ungless. Why not submit two or more of your own pieces and we will design a page for you. New member, Chrissie Keelan has become the latest one to submit two items and you can get to her page either here or via the link at the bottom. Gill McDonald-Constable has now joined the ranks of members who are entitled to their own page and you can click on her here on at the bottom of the page.

Our latest contribution comers from Memebership Secretary, Dr Gill James. Gill's piece can be read by clicking here

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Why not visit our new children's page. It is open for work by children up to the age of sixteen who are closely related to members. All work submitted here will only bear the first name and age of the child in the interest of the child's internet safety. This can be accessed by the link at the top of the page.

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OVER THE GARDEN WALL

(Eat your heart out Mrs Malaprop)

Isn’t it a good drying day Mary? I’ve tried everything I know to get this incredible ink out Jack’s shirt but nothing seems to work. I see Mrs Jones is airing her dispersible nappies again. Yes, you’re right. We’d better tell her she ought to throw them away. Did you know she’s expecting another? No really! I thought her feller had been stereotyped. So did I but he’s a bad lot. Everybody knows he’s been moonlighting from the back of a car. I bet he’s caught a venerable disease. Wasn’t he up before the stipulatory court recently? You’re right. He was convicted of moral turpentine. And she’s no festival virgin either. Must be drinking too much sanguinary in Spain, I suppose. There’s too much of this sexual congregation about these days. Mark my words – they’ll meet their genesis one of these days. Do you think he’s responsible for all these synonymous letters that are going around? You mean the ones with the terrible insinuendoes? Yes. He uses some horrible language. Every other word is an obscurity or a profundity. It’s time he got a proper job. Living off the state like he does, he’s nothing but a parachute. I know. Every time I see him he gives me the frozen shoulder. By the way, is your Johnny still doing medicine at university? Yes, but he’s had trouble with his eyes. He’s got myosotis, so he’s had to change his horses in mid-stream from paedophilia to necromancy. He’ll be a Doctor of Philately when he’s finished. Oh! A doctor. Really. So he’ll have to take the hypodermic oath then? No love, thank goodness. You know these days a lot of doctors develop post dramatis personae disorder from over work. Well, I’m glad my Donald’s changed his mind about going into the church. We’re actually Congressionals, but we’ve always been Economical. Donald thought about becoming an Angelican priest until he met the suffering bishop. Anyway he doesn’t like the prayers of concussion. So what’s he doing now? He’s gone into building. Designing Gabriel ends for houses. Does that mean he’ll be an erectile engineer then? Not really. It’s something to do with conservative energy. You mean like politics? No, of course not. It’s like cavalry wall in solution. Better than reading prayers of concussion then? Oh Yes, Anyway, two years and he’ll be through his dentures. He’s promised me a new car when he finishes – a conventicle so I can enjoy the open air. Aren’t you the lucky one. I’ve just been diagnosed with permissive anaemia so I shan’t be tripping the light fandango for a while. Not with my feet anyway, I’ve just had a pedigree. If we’re getting on to health, love, I need something to regurgitate my skin. I keep on getting these horrible pastilles on my face. I think I need some cosmic surgery. Oh I know love. I get this terrible pain in my face. The doctor said it was nostalgia.   I can let you have some pills for that. I have some parallelograms left over. Thanks love but I already have some. Well it’s time I was going in. Donald’s bringing his boss home. He went to a public school and Donald said he’s an old Harmonium and he’s so clever that people say he’s a megalith. You’ll have to look your best then if you’re going to join the affable society. Oh yes. I shall wear my best parsley dress. It will go nicely with a white carnation for a cortege - and I can wear it without worrying about the cooking. Donald’s quite a gastropod you know. He cooks a lovely chilli incarnate. I’m sure you’ll be the very apothecary of glamour. But I must dash, your talk of food’s reminded me. I’ve got some of Johnny’s favourite Cameroons in the oven and I don’t want them burnt. Of course love. Choo then. What’s that? Oh yes, you’ve gone all Italian, Choo! ©         David Lythgoe  July 2018

    

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This is a poem by one of our members, Carl Calvert who is currently teaching in France

Olive tree, oh olive tree

what sights and sounds abound

within that gnarled misshapen trunk;

captured within each greying fold

and secreted therein and never told.

As if in parody of your great age

New seasons leaves unfurl from buds

Precursors of a bitter fruit.

  © Carl Calvert 2013

Poem written whilst on holiday in Greece in May.

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Here's a lovely poem from another member who joined recently: Edith Ibbotson.

The Ballad of Deane Mill  

I quietly stood on the old stone bridge.

On a beautiful summer’s day.

The air was full of the scent of flowers

And Deane brook babbled away.

 

Something of a bygone age

There seemed to linger still.

Casting my own thoughts back in time,

To the days of the old Deane Mill.

 

I heard the clanging of the bell.

It rang across the Moors

Tumbling men and women out

From all the cottage doors.

 

Children lying in their beds,

Would hear the rising tide

Of clattering clogs, like some great wave

Of sound that rose and died.

 

Down the muddy tacks they came

Along the cobbled lane.

Under the arch of the great Deane Mill

In a seemingly endless train.

 

The open arms of the iron gates

Stood wide to let them in,

For they were the cogs of the human wheel,

That would start the mill to spin.

 

How strange to think the fate

Of all those working folk,

Hung by a single cotton thread

That the hand of fortune broke.

 

Edith Ibbotson ©