Archive | March 2015

Seventh March Blog

Not THE roundabout, but you get the idea.

Not THE roundabout, but you get the idea.

Seventh March Blog. 16-3-15?

More water, but not sea this time.

The city streets shone with heavy rainfall. It was sheeting down, gutters flooded with the runoff where the drains were failing to cope with three days of solid downpour. Night time lights shimmered, reflected in the wet: reds, oranges, blues, yellows and greens. Raindrops danced in the evergrowing puddles, changing the reflections, causing them to radiate in a totally different from their nemeses. Black of night interspersed with red, yellows, blues, oranges and greens in variagated patterns, veritable Picasso, that ancient artist, on a blacktop canvas.

Cars flashed past gaudy shops, sprays from whizzing wheels spraying walkers and shop front windows, wet dirt drizzling down plate glass. Umbrellas were useless, passengers entering a carrier became soaked. A taxi drawing up to passengers, sprayed legs and feet without selection?.i A veritable deluge, unwanted, uninvited, fell to this corner of Cardor. Rainwear sold at all time high prices. The population spent small fortunes on keeping dry, at all costs. Tomorrow may be dry, but tomorow may never come.

The wet weather store, along the street, was about to close. It had been a busy few days. Money flowed like Dosit Juice. The seller began to pull down the shutters, grumbling as he did so about getting soaked. Erdone Pentarint emerged wearing the latest, driest boots he could afford. What was the point of holding on to what he had when without the boots, he could contract the fungus that would eat him alive, feet upwards. No! They were well worth the price. He stepped into the road, proving that his decision was the best he had made. It might have been a narrow escape. His feet were already damp. Still, a bath in curalik when he got home would probably sort that query out. He had sprays for the boots. The fungus no longer feared, he stepped jauntily into the road, hailing a transport as he did so.

Went shopping today, just odds and ends. Coming home, we were caught in a humungous traffic queue. As my companion said, lots of jam, but none of it strawberry.
Huge lorries piled along to our left ( offside) , defying us to pass them. Sometimes we did. More often than not, they passed us. It was stop go, stop go all the way along to the roundabout.

We were just a few feet from the exit when a small Post Office van to our left ( offside again) suddenly came across our bows, getting in front of our car and heading through the green light. We voiced a couple of expletives, as he just waltzed across, no by your leave, nothing. We moved up to cross, and the lights turned orange. Needless to say, the driver got called a few other things as we ohad to wait until the next turn on this large roundabout with four exits, until the lights finally went green again.

We still wondered why the big holdup! The motorway was running like clockwork. No holdups, eveything flowing smoothly. So what, you may ask, was the holdup? All we could see was the traffic piling along across the roundabout, going straight ahead. Iften a holdup point in the mornings and evenings, but lunchtime, and as bad as it was today. As I said, no rhyme nor reason could be gleaned. This is what can happen in a very urban roadway where many roads interconnect.

The weekend is coming, dear people. Do have a grwat weekend, going out, just lazing, whatever.
And pkease take care.


carefully chosen notes.

Wonderful poem.

Wallflower Whimsy

Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker

As day rolls into night

and night into day,

the shaman sparrow

sings his lilting song

of secret, sacred notes

performed for a

slumbering Spring.

Slicing through the

bitter silence of

frozen twilight skies,

each note is a

brilliant reminder

of what once was

and again will be,

inspiring a breathy answer

for the beating hearts

of everyone awake to hear:

“Soon, sweet sparrow. Soon.”

Would the sparrow travel

to warmer skies

if he knew how closely

they existed?

Just through the fabric

of here and now,

a short trip to

Somewhere Spring,

does the sparrow

seek this eternal paradise

of chartreuse rebirth,

or does he patiently sing

his hopeful song

to icicles decorating

barren trees,

appreciating each

arctic moment

for its glittering beauty,

mindfully aware

of rewards revealed

to those who wait?

As the sun rises

in numbing cold,

so does it set


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Sixth March Blog


Sixth March Blog. 13-3-15.

They’re out, they’re out. Dafodillys are out down the road. Not all, I grant you, but enough to say they’re out.! Spring has finally sprung, and about blooming time too, and I do mean blooming as in opening flower heads. Unlike the forsythia which does not appear to have buds at all, not yet, leastways. Mind you, I did kind of murder the bush last year. So possibly it is my fault. Who knows? II shall keep a weather eye on it though.

The other day, on the way back from visiting a different hospital, the Sat/Nav was giving us a route back towards home. We were on the top of a hill wherein resides a very famous boys school. It is a twisty narrow road, old time from about the late 1700s. The buildings are situated on top of this steep hill. Whoever thought about buulding the school there ( even if it was smaller then, ) had a very good idea. You can see for miles, way over into London ( which a heck of a lot smaller in thos days too).

There were so many really expensive cars in the street, money wafted off them. The whole street exuded rich young men coming out from the school. The tiny shops are quaint and you need a hefty bank balance to shop in them. Even the boarding houses are done up to look posh. It is only when you actually drive down the hill you see where the changes occur and at the bottom, orinary people with a lot less money. We even saw a board outside a place about halfway down which read ‘Typing Lessons For Children. – over 8 years’. We could not believe that. Kids, learning to type at that age. Are we out of touch?

I looked the school up, apparently founded in 1572, though probably not in its present state, the header was a low sky view of the buildings that comprise most of the shool.. I do know it isn’t quite all of it as a few years ago, my friend and I took a bus that went up that road on top of the hill to revisit a hairdressers that we had visited once before. Unfortunately, the hairdressers was not to be found. It was a very late summer day, one of the buildings had a sign that portported to be for interviews or some such.

Being nosy, we walked through to a courtyard. There was a waterfall effect going down some concrete stairs with foliage on it. Below, the water trickled about ten stairs down ( side of a hill, remember) and there was, if my memory serves me, some sporting venue at the bottom, possibly indoor tennis, though I could not be sure. I only know a couple of people came out sporting some kind of game gear, came out if the building. A place of practice, of some kind. We did get some peculiar looks ftom the odd person climbing the stairs beside the water feature.

I think we were asked what we were looking for at one stage, but by that time, our curiosity was sated. We were advised, very kindly, where the exit was. All accidental really ( apart from the curiosity bit). Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I now have a memory of a sunny afternoon and of a place we should not have been, but were. Looking in on the inside of a way of life totally different from our own.

These young guys could be MPs one day, running the country. They could be Head of your Bank, could decide if we go to war with another country. This school takes these ‘seeds’ and nurtures them for the future. I suppose this is why each house master only accepts up to 13 new boys per year! Many more rich sons I m sure would like to be accepted. It is THE. School to go to. Apparently! But few will succeed.

Be happy, dear people. Thank you for reading.


Fifth March Blog


Fifth March Blog. 13-3-15.

(Still with an oceanic theme.)

Great waves crashed against the rocks. Salt spray pounded the dark granite that had stood against its onslaught for many millennia, dark and brooding. The whining wind whipped the waves even higher, as if they were trying to climb those tensile bastions.
From offshore, it seemed as though nothing could withstand the seas lashing. But James Raid knew different. The mausoleum that stood atop those granite cliffs, from two months ago, belonged to him.

Gales, (he’d been told) in the past, crashed against its fortress-like walls, salt had eaten into the brickwork so that the side that faced the ocean was pebbled, encrusted, pitted. Many a window had smashed during these onslaughts. Many a chimneypot tumbled down, landing in a thousand pieces on the paved pathwy surrounding the house.

Good as new now. Though if this wind became any stronger, he bet that more glass would break. Not that it mattered. He only ever entered the house once. Once was enough.

The house, if that is what you could call it, had a strange feel to it. Like someone was watching, never quite there, just a feeling. It made James shiver to think of being in that house again.

BUT……..the house was up for sale, and someone wanted to buy it. The estate agent needed him to be there when the prospective buyer came to look at it.

‘Damned idiot,’ he said out loud, though the wind tore the words from his lips as soon as they were uttered. Again, he stared hard at the clifftop where his nemesis stood. Like an evil eye, it seemed to be watching him back as if to say ‘you are mine and will come back to me’. The shiver was stronger this time, and full of forboding.

James Raid was a practical man. He did not believe in powers that were beyond the human norm, things like ghosts, aliens, the supernatural, any of that ilk. He did not scare easily. The sea, its strength, its unbeleivable power to move mointains, well hills at any rate, he had seen it happen, that was the only thing that scared him, until now.

This is the third blog starting with the ocean. These three scenarios are meerly a drop in the ocean ( if you will pardon the pun? If that is a pun?) of those a writer can choose to perhaps start off a story/tale/novel/ or even poem. Not the only way to start but I think it can get the old juices flowing, even if you do not use them immediately, or in fact, ever in this form, but it does get a person writing. Even if it is not much more than a couple of hundred words. The white page is white no longer. Isn ‘t that what we all strive for in those times when nothing comes to the mind. The brain cells have taken day off, a month even. Just write anything. Theme it, as I have done. (I am not beyond words at this point, just giving a ‘for instance’).

These small anecdotal pieces could be the life blood of your next ensemble, your next novella/poem/full blown novel. These can be the seeds that grow into the tree of life for a piece of writing further down the line. Like at the beginning of a sporting season, the tryouts, if you will. No manager would put together a sight unseen team. He/she wants to see what is available, what would work well together to bring that team to victory. So it is a vey good idea, in my humble opinion, to have these snippets ( theatrical term – waiting in the wings, as it were) ready to hand to use/get new ideas from/change about to suit a new work. Handy, or what?

Sea Storm.

Crashing ‘gainst the coast,
Battering the bastion rocks,
Deep ocean currents
Beating, incessant.

Oh tidal pull, brave moon flow
Hugging the shore,
Surging back and forth,
Eating earth and sand.

Lunging forward, rock impervious,
Immovable, yet it pounds,
Pounds, as if to crunch
Its very bones.

Forboding torrents,
Like a hunter after prey,
Sometimes turgid, but
Always moving, encroaching.

Devouring coastline,
Breaking rocks, tossing them aside
Like so much flotsam,
Unnecessary, unwanted.

Waves whipped, wind force,
Hurricane power
She is Mistress,
She is invincible.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2015.

Thank you for reading. Have a great weekend.


This entry was posted on March 13, 2015. 1 Comment

This is a reblog ( though rin a different way)”


The mother looked harassed, sitting there filling out the forms in the dentist’s waiting room. On one side of her a quiet lad about twelve, obviously suffering. On the other, a young gentleman of perhaps three. Given the age difference there was every possibility of a third child, of an age somewhere between the two but currently at school. Mum had reason to look tired, of course.

Three year old was swinging his legs and looking round, smiling at everyone in sight. I caught his eye and smiled back, sharing that direct complicity that you only get, as a rule, from the very young. Particularly when they are intent on mischief.

His eyes wandered some more then lighted on his Mum. His face lit up with a big, beaming smile.

“Love you, Mum!” he said at the top of his little voice, leaning in for a cuddle. Mum wafted him away as if he was an irritating insect, not even looking up from her task. Puzzlement and disappointment chased across the little face. Crestfallen he shuffled back in the chair and seemed to curl in on himself.

It didn’t last long, of course. Small boys are resilient creatures and within seconds he was happily tormenting his brother. The whole incident took less than a minute before we were called into the surgery.

While we were in there, my son being reprieved from the dreaded drill…albeit temporarily… and I guarding the wheelchair in the corner, I was thinking about that little incident. I wasn’t casting blame … I don’t know the family and you can never read whole story at a glimpse. No, I was wondering if the mother really knew what she had just done, and what effect it would have on her son. She was so focussed on the sheaf of papers that have to be filled in at every visit these days that I doubt very much if she had even noticed.

More to the point, how often do I do that? Or you? Simply not notice.

It made me wonder. I would hate to feel I have dismissed or rejected expressions of affection through inattention or preoccupation, especially from children. I would hate to feel I have missed the confidences of a friend… or those small, tentative ‘feelers’ that are dropped into a conversation in the hope we will notice and give them space to speak what burdens their heart.

It goes without saying that I have, though, even though I don’t know for certain. How can I know? If I was not paying attention then the moment is gone and I would not know what I have missed. We are the last to see these flaws in ourselves, simply because our attention is focussed inwards.

We are all aware of those times when our attention meanders off at a tangent when someone is speaking. We have probably all read a book and found our thoughts wandering so that we have had to go back and start a page again. It isn’t that we haven’t read the words or heard them… we simply didn’t take it in. We weren’t ‘with it’, weren’t paying attention… though attention should not be regarded as a price to be paid, but rather as a gift of love.

Because, when you think about it, attention is a gift. The fact that we are able to lift our eyes to see the world around us, to be able to drink in beauty, share laughter, see a ladybird in the grass or a star in the sky… The traditional five physical senses allow us each to perceive in our own way, but none of them give us anything unless we give them our attention.

We can hear the warmth in a voice, read the hidden message in a mundane phrase… if we listen. We can gulp down hot coffee or savour its taste. Our skin touches objects every day, all day… yet how often do we take the time to notice the silken caress of water, the gentleness of the breeze or the life in the hand that touches ours?

There is that old saying, you have to give in order to receive. By giving attention to the world around us, we know its beauty… by being open to a voice we are allowed into the heart of a friend. By hearing a child say ‘Love you,’ we touch a moment of tenderness and joy. And in giving our attention to the moment, we give something else too, showing others that they matter to us.

We are human, we make mistakes… get distracted… frazzled… We will not always pick up the signals, nor truly hear every word. But we can try. Attention is something that grows the more we use it and so is the given gift that comes with it.

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This entry was posted on March 12, 2015. 6 Comments

Fourth March Blog


Fourth March Blog 11-3-15

“Let’s go for a walk,” Becca said.
“Good idea,” agreed her boyfriend Apax.

It was an early sping day. Quite warm, for the time of year. Bright sunshine and a light breeze. They had the beach to themselves. Gentle surf rolled in, little white breakers hitting the sand then rolling back into the grey ocean. The shore shelved quite deeply at this point. Only the hardy took a dip here.

They were not paying attention to their surroundings, more talking about the upcoming party they were planning the following week.

“Shall we make it a fancy dress, vicars and tarts or something.?”
“That’s so old hat Becca. Why did you suggest that?” Apax was always willing to listen to her suggestions, but that was as far as it went. They were never practical, of course. She was not a girl like that. Old-fashioned, her mother called her. But he liked her enough, just the same. Not very modern in her outlook. It was one of the traits he liked about her. Too many girls he had been out with were in your face modern, aggressive even. He much preferred someone a bit laid back, but with style. Becca had style coming out of her ears…………he was staring at the shoreline as he spoke.

“What have you stopped for?” Becca looked in the direction Apax was staring. Something dark was rolling about in the surf. “Is it an animal?” She asked him.
“Too big,” said Apax. ‘It’s big enough for a large dolphin, but I ain’t seen any dolphins around this part of the coast. Maybe something washed in from up along the bay.”
The shape rolled further onto the beach as a large wave tossed it inland.
They both carried on walking, closing the distance between the shape in the surf and themselves. Becca was not keen on finding out but Apax was curious. They were about thirty yards away when Apax stopped walking again.
“Stay here, Becca. I’m going to take a look. If it is what I think it is, then I don’t want you anywhere near when I find out for sure.”
She took his hand, drawing him close so that he could embrace her. “Be careful, Apax. Don’t get hurt!”
He wrapped her in his strong arms. “Don’t be silly, Becca, I’ll be OK. I am juat worried for you. Promise you will wait here, and not move?”
“I promise.” She leant into him. He kissed her tenderly then freed her and started walking towards the dark shape that began to reveal itself, the closer he got.

My last blog was about sun, sea and sand, gentle, peaceful. This could be something different?

Thank you for reading, take care of yourselves.



My Hats.

I wear a hat on different days.
Today is better than most.
Today I am wearing a writer’s hat,
Whilst reading this mornings post.

Tomorrow my hat will change again.
A lover’s hat for me,
For he will join me later on,
With scones and jam for tea.

Johny has fallen at school again.
A nurse’s hat I’ll wear,
For he will need a bandage,
So often, I’m tearing out my hair.

Taking my mother shopping,
My hat will be black as can be,
For I will be her driver that day,
She’s getting infirm you see.

Next week I wear a Teacher’s hat,
I’m helping out with the play.
I used to be an actress
And can teach them lines they say.

But the best hat that I can wear
Is that of wife and mother,
Of all the jobs that are in the world,,
They’re better than any other.

Copyright Evelyn J. Ralph. March, 2015.

Spring Balloons.

The flowers in my garden
Are once again in bloom,
Lots of yellows and spring blues,
Like bouncy blownup balloons.

The reds, they will jostle like ponies
All fat by the side of the gate.
White blooms will not get a look in
If they are allowed to migrate.

Struggling to peek in are pink ones,
All jouncy, they are such fun,
Mixing and playing with lilacs,
Seem happy beneath the bright sun.

If I could tie up a bundle
Of each of the colours in turn,
I’d have me a sky-riding garden,
Where balloons would swivel and churn.

My garden up high in the heavens
With balloon- like floral display,
Designer flowers forever,
Until the wind blows them away.

Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2015

Third March Blog


Third March Blog. 9-3-15

You could hardly call it waves. The sea water just rolled ever so gently onto the shore. Soft sand, the whitest there was, rebuffed its attempts to conquer. Sent it back to the depths from whence it came, though it tried, over and over. So slowly it encroached, being forced back each time.

Hours passed, and the ocean made its mark on the coastal line, wetting new patches of dry dusty particles until, at last it reached the base of the closest tree, a palm, that over time, had leant lower and lower until its trunk almost touched the beach. Its roots barely held on to the shifting particles, part earth, part crushed shell, thrown up from the droppings of the Parrot fish. Must be a lot of Parrot fish around!

The ocean, ’tis said, gives up its dead. I wonder why that it said, for many dead things never return from the ocean. They disappear into the deep trenches, never to be heard of again. Some trenches are miles deep, more so than most of us can encompass in our ordinary lives. It is said, and we say, ‘oh, yes’, but it really means little to us.

So we go on, thinking everyday thoughts, not realising just how deep deep is. The Mariana Trench is over 36,000 ft deep. Set Mt. Everest in it and it would be covered by one mile of water. How many of us can encompass Mt. Everest height, with a mile of water over the top of it? Not many, I am thinking! In the majority of cases, the human brain cannot deal with such large dimensions. It prefers to deal with sizes that are more realistic, or most of us might go mad in the trying.

I have deviated slightly. I meant just to describe a far off beach, gently lapping water, sun and sea, but I went off at a tangent, as I am wont to do.

There are other beaches, that we might never see, black from volcanic ash, grainy yellow where crystaline nuggets, much larger than ordinary grains of sand, litter the shore, are painful to walk on barefoot. Silica, plenty of that on all kinds of beaches. But when most of us think of a sunkissed shore, I truly believe that the white soft sand, lapped by sapphire blue seas, surrounded by palm trees high up on the perimeter, is what we see in our minds eye. Not everyone will of course, see this serene picture, will even want it. For some, a street full of buildings, cars and people, is the ideal. This image is not not for them.

I hope that I have sown the seeds of future holidays, current beach life or just wishful thinking.

Be good to each other and be good to any pets you may have. They have a place here on earth also.


A Cold Harsh Wind.

North wind, where do you start your life?
Why are you blowing so chill?
Even as the sun pours life-giving warmth,
Do you blow down to give us a thrill

I feel your heart, those snow-clad mountains,
I sense great ice fields as well.
North Pole, or from the Antarctic,
You came to be with us a spell.

Though fresh, and clean, your beginnings
Start at the top of the world,
Whipping around great ice plateaus,
Where snow columns twist and swirl.

You push the ice storms before you,
A shimnering, majestic whirlwind
That howls with the gales over Norway,
Rushing southwards, so cold and unkind.

Until you reach these few islands,
Where mildness reigns supreme.
Meeting the Atlantic Fair Winds,
You soften, grow warm, as in dreams.

When winds from the western ocean
Fly in and push you away,
We thank you for winter sensations,
But are pleased that you’re not here to stay.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March 2015.

Gentle Feline.

You placidly sit upon the lawn,
Trying to stifle a very huge yawn.
Life is pleasant, life is grand,
From there you spy the lie of the land.

Waiting for the nestling flock
To come within reach or under the Dock.
From your place you can reveal
That speedy chases are very real.

Mice that stray within your grasp,
Thinking you sleep, you make them gasp.
They can run, but you are swifter,
Featherlight on your paws, no puerile drifter.

Stealthily, each step you take
Will get you closer, make no mistake.
One, two, three, and on you go,
Eyes aligned for any foe.

Last minute rush, they will not see,
You become a blur of infinity.
But down a hole they disappear,
You sigh and return to the rear.

That spot is sunny now, it seems,
You want to return to kitty dreams.
First lick your fur, and make it lay,
Mouse will come another day.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2015.

Cake Time.

Everyone deserves a good cake,
The best that you or a baker can make.
Covered in icing, all pink or white,
With lots of sugar, it’s such a delight.
It might be a fruit cake, raisins galore,
Or chocolate sponge cake which most will adore.
Or cherry Genoa, or Dundee for all,
Devonshire Honey cake, oh, what a ball.
There’s Lemony Drizzle, one you can’t miss,
Or coconut macaroons, like a sweetheart ‘s kiss.
Pound Cake, Bunt Cake from over the water,
Plie on the weight, but they won’t make you shorter.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March 2015

Second March Blog


Second March Blog. 6-3-2015

Reading! I cannot remember how I started reading. Probably my dad taught me. School might have claimed that privilege and I suppose they may have had something to do with it, but I tend to think that it might have been dad more than anyone else. What I do know is that he was instrumental in providing me with good literature to start off my reading ‘career’.

Books at various ages of my early life, that my skills could cope with. Books like ‘Little Women’, ‘Treasure Island’, ‘The Water Babies’ to name but three. My memory has forgotten others, though in fact, I still own those volumes.

I must have read many other books at school and I recieved at least two books as School Prizes. One, I recall, was called ‘Storm of Dancerwood’, about a dog. The other was quite a tome and was, I think, entitled, ‘Our Island History ‘. A book about England. Lots of information, including the kings and queens, the beginnings and ends of their rule, and meaningful happenings during those ruling times. It would be interesting to look at again but, difficult to get at.

In my teens, I became enthralled with Sci/Fi. Trawled the local Library for new sci/fi books. Quite often borrowed Golanzs compilation books. Yellow jackets, easily tound. Read many a short by now famous sci/fi writers, series that I have not recently come across. Maybe they are out of print, possibly I should take a look but my reading ensemble now is so vatied and time is so short……….well, you get the picture. Stories like those called “Cities in Flight” and “The Slow Glasd” series. No, I cannot remember either of the author’s names, sorry.

Since nearly 30 years ago, my reading tastes have spread to encompass more genres that, once upon a time, I dismissed as ‘not for me’. Creative Writing Classes opened my eyes to the wealth of Literature that I was missing. I still have not read one 90th per cent of what I feel I should have read. Nor have I the time to catch up on most of that reading list because now, I am finding many more writers who write books I am much more interested in, at this time. Such is life. Soon, the warmer weather will entice me out into the garden, and even more precious time will be erased from the reading slot.

However, this seems to be the way of time at my age: never enough of it. So, I shall plough on, reading when I can to (a) enjoy more books and (b) to explore new realms and (c) perhaps learn a thing or two ( like one book I am reading about what life was like during Chaucer’s life, the cities, the food, the smells and so on).

I know I have already posted these poems, but they were oringinally meant to be part of this blog.

Road to Nowhere/ to Anywhere Left Behind.

Travelling the road,
Black tar-mac,
Trundling the highway
To nowhere. Reaching
For the lever,
Changjng up gears.
Wheels rolling,
Eating the miles.
Where you come from,
Is it still there?
Road to nowhere,
Where does it begin?
Trucks, cars, anything inbetween,
Burning up rubber,
Squealing brakes
Bring you to standstill.
Nothing moves,
You wait and you wait.
Fingers drum the wheel,
Radio sings to you.
Empty crisp packet
Crackles beside you.
Moving again,
Lorry overturned!
No one hurt, thank God
For that. Could easily be me!
Truck stop beckons,
Need some refreshment.
Back on the black,
Here you go again,
Onwards to nowhere,
Travelling day to day.
Drive in, unload,
Drive out, on you go.
Neverending tarmac,
Black and grey,
Taking the day.
Cars, tractors, lorries
And all manner,
Villages, towns,
Cities, harbour.
Dockside delivery,
Tomorrow, ferry.
Always travelling,
Road user, extraordinaire.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2015.

Concrete Repeater.

Straight lines, rising perpendicular,
Solid blocks, often quite regular.
Reaching skywards, some are irregular.
Jutting spires, bell tower pendular.

Concrete corners go for the jugular.
Impressve heights. Always popular.
Streaming glass, shining, secular,
Worldly, motionless, totally macular.

Trotting out the same old formula,
City after city, just like a register,
Often quite dense, like canyon peculiar,
Darkening streets, simple and similar.

People, like drones, scurrying vehicular,
Alone, sometimes lonely, seen lenticular.
Often like rats, maze-bound. Particular
Labyrithine, vision binocular.

Scurrying forth, to extracurricular
Pasttimes, pleasures, joyous reticular.
Joining with others for senses auricular,
As evening sets the skies going paler.

Hurrying home to friends familiar,
Talking at once, of all things linear.
New office building, like something avuncular,
Noisily humming, like a Babel tower.

Some buildings tall, and spectacular,
Not mingy and dark, like Dracula,
Spoken of in the vernacular.
Unusually shaped, not angular.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2015

Once again, good reader, have fun with life, but be careful.


This entry was posted on March 6, 2015. 4 Comments