Budding poets can practice their seasonal moves by filling in the blanks below:
When I were a _, I remember,
Our Easters were always a _
‘Cos _ _ liked _ _ and cucumber
While _ _ liked _ _ in her _
In them days the rain never _ _
‘N one year the _ really _
And there’s nowt like a _ at the _ _
With a bottle of _ _ _ _
All submissions will qualify for the Easter Comp! So go for it!
It’s an A for anabatic and a B for beaver’s tail,
With a C for coriolis and a D for downdraft hail.
El Nino Southern Oscillation, fogbow’s visibility.
Gustinado, glaciation, a hodograph, helicity.
Please excuse my insolation, intertropical I’d say.
Jet streaks all around; and graphed the kilopascal way.
Lenticular, the lapse-rate, mamma clouds and mesonets,
Northern lights and NGMs will end in orographic sweats.
Beware the popcorn (sic) convection; pressure sometimes causes that.
Psychrometric intervention; rossby waves both shear and flat.
Theta-e, a turkey tower, an ultraviolet extreme;
UTC and UVV, with a gentle warm advective stream.
Old X is out of favour here but yougs and yellow winds prevail.
Zones and zulu time, the solar zodiac brings up the tail.
You’ll wonder what on god’s own earth (!) this catalogue of terms can be?
I don’t count sheep. I list like this the words of meteorology.
I’m off on vacation for the next few weeks, starting Monday, heading for sunny Tortola and a little winter warmth, no cell phone, no internet, no worries, should be back about March 6.
In the meantime here is a wee pome for the weather comp.
Shipping Forecast
It’s a comfort to know, when the barometer’s low
That Malin’s expecting a gale
It’s a long way from me, and somewhere at sea
Where the wind is beginning to wail
And in the same blow is expected some snow
For Hebrides, Bailey, Fair Isle
It’s all one to me, I’m Lundy you see
So I listen to this with a smile
The isles of Faeroe, are in an ice floe
Iceland, Viking and Forties – a fright
Cromarty’s sleet, Forth, Tyne, Dogger are beat
By Fisher’s storm in from the bight.
The Humber/Thames rain will cause Dover pain
And Wight will get little sun
Portland, Plymouth they say will be worse than Biscay
And Trafalgar and Fitzroy are done
The Sole chance for me, is the Irish Sea
Which, with Fastnet, may turn it astray
I’ll stay in the house, be quiet as a mouse
And hope that it all goes away.
You were noon sunshine, no, a heatwave’s blast
That stormed a myriad moons ago
And flooded all my thoughts with monsoon rains
Conspiring youth’s mild innocence to fade
What cyclone’s surge could dim that radiant glance?
What calmed the crashing jet streams of those hours?
Did gathering clouds obscure those flashing eyes
Or grey monotony depress those lighted waves?
All Rise! Well that’s what they shout here when the judge arrives in the chamber.
All you who entered should be rightfully proud of yourselves.
We had THREE quick entries from Janus, first a muse on the word including some lions, then a brief visit from Jane A. without prejudice and finally a modern bit about football. All as different as chalk and cheese and all well up to his usual high standard. Then Soutie arrived with his pride handing out some summary justice in poetry. Araminta stepped back to Jane’s era also with her tale of the debutante tripping the light fantastic before the inevitable fall. Finally and with minutes to spare John Mackie offers us a personal take on the little enjoyed but undoubted advantages of Scottish Presbyterianism.
I liked them all but I best liked Ara’s take on the coming out (or coming down) of her deb, a finely crafted piece that had just the right flavor of pride before the fall.
So well done Araminta and over to you for the next.
Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.
A khaki rucksack on his back
Holds his illegal catch
A good nights work, 2 rhino horn,
It’s not yet dawn.
Our boys dunn good on Wembly nite
And gev them uvver lads wot for.
O cors they neely spoild the game
Wi’ all that silens just befor.
Oo wonts to fink about Man U,
An sum ole plane crash years ago?
Or niteclub deaths or Bobby Mor?
We came ere for the game – dint you?
Our Jack and Theo shode the way –
The Gunners – we noe oo we are!
So stuff them Chelsea mob and Spurs.
Av you got sumfin els to say?
Scarcely a week left and only one from each Janus so far.
Here’s something to encourage your muse, it’s a Gene Weingarten sonnet again from The Washington Post (you should be able to do better than this). Do so now and post it here.
Pride – the Blonde and the Jigsaw
I knew one time a yellow-headed bawd
And gave to her a puzzle made of wood.
The pieces were in shapes both small and odd
For her to reassemble (if she could).
Set she right down to solve it true and fast
But days of work did no solution bring
Soon fortnights, months and seasons also passed!
And still she labored with the blasted thing.
It took twelve months, but fin’lly it was done
She seemed unbowed — discouraged not, nor sick
I asked her if the puzzle’d brought her fun
She said it had! She felt she’d done it quick.
With pride, she smiled and toss’d her golden locks:
“See – four to six years‚ says it on the box!”
Look at ‘im, as proud as Punch
Wi’ ‘is brand new ‘at an’ all!
But ‘is Judy’s always moody
When ‘e takes ‘er to the ball,
‘Cos Darcy’s very classy
And Wembley ain’t quite Pemberley –
So will ‘is pride precede a fall?
Who knows? ‘E’s out to lunch. Continue reading “More pride nonsense”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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