What do you do with your used plastic bags?

The Plastic Bag.

The carrier bag is a very useful thing,

for carrying your shopping home.

Once they are empty…. what do

you do with them…  that is the thing??

 

Do you throw them in the bin?

hide them in a cupboard?

Do you fold them up neatly?

Blow them up and prick with a pin?

 

Do you let them have freedom?

To live a bag-life, blown by the wind.

So they can fly the thermals to

rival the birds in height and speed.

 

Is it good for them to have freedom?

Is fair to let them blow and whirl about?

What dangerous adventures they can

have dodging cars on the motorways!

 

Is it good for them to have freedom?

to be stuck in trees, to be deep in the sea.

To be put over heads of murder victims?

Or worse, the self-harm of suicides?

 

Plastic bags alone can live for ever.

They do not choose to biodegrade.

What will the Geo-phiz of future

generations make of our plastic bags?

 

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You learn something new – every day!

It is surprising how one thing leads to another. After being at a Women’s Institute talk about the demolished New Hall in Pontefract. Not having known of this before, I did, what I always do, ‘googled it’. As a result, an ancient book, now digitised, came up. It was The History of Pontefract by George Fox. That gave me all the details of New Hall, plus a lot more exciting things I did not know about Pontefract, or Pomfret as it was once known.

There were some verses of poetry quoted, one of which I would like to share with you.

Pomfret,     by John Lund, 1726-1788.

If situation hath a power to please

If air salubrious can give ease,

If spacious streets and handsome houses join’d,

Can satisfaction raise within his mind, –

If noble ruins mouldering with rust,

Where ancient monarchs mingle with the dust.

If gardens all around can please the eyes,

Embellished o’re with Flora’s painted dyes, –

If peace and plenty, which doth here abide.

(laying all pique and prejudice aside,)

If charms are these worthy of my song,

Come here, ye grave, ye gay, ye old and young,

Come here and view the subject of my theme,

Confess that Pomfret’s worthy of my esteem.

 

He also wrote several other poems and some short plays, on of which was called ‘Ducks and Green Pease’, this was the name of the street in Pontefract where he lived. He worked as a Barber and Wig Maker.

Motivation.

Positive thinking and Motivational messages.

 

The first motivational message I ever read was when I was 16 years old and one of those ‘fill-in’ pieces in the Reader’s Digest magazine.

It read:  Two men looked out through prison bars.

               One saw mud, one saw stars.

As I got older, there were other messages coming through – of course there were the religious ones, once I ceased to go to Church. it was when we joined the American Network Marketing Company that they flooded in – words from the stage given by the American in a white suit:

If it is to be – it’s up to me.

And, of course, it is correct, only you can live your life and be responsible for it.

Another one is: If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail.

A short time later, we tiring of the Americans’ hype, we joined an English Company, you will all know Kleeneze, the Catalogue Company, it is more than a Catalogue, you can build teams of distributors, their income contributes to yours. It is a wealth creation business. There we found, after training, we were the ones speaking from the front, or from a stage, giving out the motivational messages of:

Goals, plans, achievement, reward.

Perhaps the most well-known one is:

                                                                   S- M-A-R-T. =

Specific-Measurable-Achievable-Reasonable-Timely.

A totally silly one: Nothing will suck seeds like a budgie with a broken beak.

(Suck seeds = succeeds – get it?)

Now in retirement, we are getting the rewards of a lifetime of self-employment, there is time to sit and watch the Rhubarb growing, smell the roses and enjoy our leisure.

 

Thinking about Autumn coming!

Rich Days.       By W.H.Davies.

Welcome to you, rich Autumn days,

Ere comes the cold. leaf picking wind

When golden stooks are seen in fields

All standing arm in arm entwined.

All gallons of sweet cider seen

In trees in apples red and green.

With mellow pears that cheat or tell

Which melt that tongues may suck them in,

With cherries red, and blue-black plums,

Now sweet and soft from stone to skin

And wood nuts rich, to make us go

Into the loneliest lanes, we know.

 

Autumn.      By Jules Breton.

The river slowly flows. Besides the bank.

Its waters murmur round old Alder stumps

Tinted blood red; tall yellow poplars

Cast their golden leaves among the paler reeds.

 

The light wind weaves its moving net –

Bright silver wrinkles, leaving those dark spots

In which the trees drop cones and canopies

Trembling as if shaken by a host of birds.

 

From time to time, a Thrush’s thin repeated cry

And plunging from an overhead bough

A jewel sparkles in the clear blue air;

 

A sharp call draws out its strident note,

A Kingfisher, speeding on burning wing,

A furtive streak of emerald and fire.

West Indian Leeds Carnival.

 

I am going back to about 1948 when I would have been ten years old. My mum was a very keen Methodist, it was Capel three times on Sunday for Services, I was also there six nights every week – Youth Club, Choir, dancing class, preparation for Sunday School, Youth Craft Club and Bible study.

 

It was the time when West Indians were filtering into Leeds, my mum told me,!If you see someone black, do not look at them, do not smile at them, do not speak to them, cross the road”. Now, this did not seem a very Christian-like attitude to me, I knew better than to disobey my mum. I did what she said.

 

Our Chapel was in a Circuit of other Chapels, we visited other Chapels for Special Services or events. I came home one evening, to find an unusually excited mother. She had been at a Service at a Chapel in the area where the West Indians were living.

 

She talked about, how lively they were, all the women wore gorgeous hats, their singing was out of this world. When it came to the cup of tea, the cakes were fabulous. The evening ended with a dance or two, she was most impressed with the dancing.

 

I was told, “These West Indians’ are lovely, they are so friendly’. I asked if I could smile at any I saw, even speak to them? She said, “Of course you can, whatever made you think you couldn’t?”

 

When the Carnival’s started, I had married and moved to Northumberland, mum used to write to me telling me about going to see the Carnival at Potternewton Park, she would walk a little way with them, one  time, she saw some people she recognized,, they shouted to her to lift her arms up, she did so and found herself hoisted up onto the float. She went with the parade to the end, I think maybe it was the best day of her life.

 

All I can say to this is my mum was frighted of the ‘unknown’ aspect of the strange people coming into her home town, the effect it could have. By meeting them, mixing with them religiously and socially she came to know and love them.

 

I really need to say THANK YOU, to those early West Indians who brought some fun into an elderly lady’s life.

LIGHT.

LIGHT.

They say, ‘the light is right  

In Cornwall’s, St. Ives, 

Where a man has ‘seven wives!’

They say, ‘the light is right’,

in France’s, sunny South,

Where Van Gogh ‘lost his ear!’
What makes the light right?

Who decided that the light was right?

Why? Is the light not, where I am?

——     —–     —–     —–     —–     ——

3  x Haiku.
Green shoots of Spring

bring forth regeneration

from the cold earth.

Dancing the light

fantastic, yellow daffodils

are a rite of spring.

Hot Galapagos

volcanic island, Darwin’s

theory evolved.

 

Thoughts for a ‘wanna-be’ Poet.

Thoughts for today – for a Poet.

 

LIVE like a poet

 

SPEAK like a poet

 

LOVE like a poet

 

THINK like a poet

 

DREAM like a poet

 

ACT like a poet.

 

Will it make you onto a poet? You can only try it and see!

You do need to actually DO SOMETHING as well…….