And now, the Shipping Forecast

From music that the early DJs played
I turned my dial along the wavelength hiss
To hear an accent clipped, polite and staid
Give messages no captain could dismiss;
Gale warnings send hypnotic English bliss.

Strange names for every desolate outpost,
The Bay of Biscay, Fisher, Malin Head,
Lost regions grimly scattered round the coast
Where maelstroms wake the spirits of the dead,
To Dogger and to Lundy I was led.

O Cromarty, a fog will cover soon,
I see it rolling with a ghostly glare,
I sense the shawl of white beneath the moon
And calling to the sailors in its snare
The Shipping Forecast, magic voiced on air.


©

I think some have and some haven't Biz.

I watched the Bigfoot programme, but when the chap was banging the tree and getting a reply from "Bigfoot", I almost stopped watching, but decided to carry on to the bitter end.

I must say that Russian fellow who will be on next week could pass for Bigfoot any day.

He's enormous isn't he Biz? Despite the disappointing DNA results I think the legend's going to live on

I didn't see this earlier. It's very nostalgic for me too. All of the names come rushing back, though I didn't have a clue where they were.

The Labyrinth

I wandered through a labyrinth,
I stumbled lost and blind,
I entered all its chambers
To see what I could find.

One shone with pale green lanterns,
Deep envy I sensed there,
I left those lights behind me
To seek abodes more fair.

In time I found another
Where burned a warming fire,
Its aura was enticing,
A place of sweet desire.

And some rooms rang with laughter
And some rooms locked up fears
And each held something different,
Some happiness, some tears.

You ask what is this labyrinth
Where chambered tunnels wind?
The answer is quite simple:
The labyrinth is my mind.


©

I remember the voice and odd names so well too Biz The poem might be lost on today's generation I fear. Like The Labyrinth it's an oldie; I seem to be posting quite a few lately. Maybe the Shipping Forecast one came to mind again because of the recent storm. I'm piecing together (as always) a fiendish tale for Halloween

I remember listening to the soothing tones of storms in Cromity, Dogger, and names that just drift into a melody that I can't recall..safe at home with a mug of cocoa, thinking what an exciting world we live in, glad I was heading to my bed.

That sums it up Flower

Musty, there are times and as you say the answer is quite simple.

If You

If you hold anger, you carry a burden,
If you release a burden, you lighten a load
If you try and carry on, you make a difference.

If only..xx

Why if only, Flower?

I am not dead
I am alive
the generations that have come
have passed on my art
from NYC to Compton
the flow of words, expressed to beats
Burns to jay Z
I was here all along
for I speak in their songs

If only I/we always remembered your 'if only words'

I thought of Leonard Cohen when I read this

I wrote that in a few minutes...I feel poetry lives on in rap... they are carrying the mantle.

So true Sandy - William Blake agreed with you in four words: 'Damn braces, bless relaxes'. I always try to remember that in stressful situations.


I enjoyed this Evangeline, even though I'm largely unfamiliar with rap. Welcome to the thread by the way

The Jacket Potato Incident

Out of the pub I stumbled,
I must have had a few;
Back home my stomach rumbled
As pangs of hunger grew.

Dismissing soup and packets
Of crisps and loaves of bread,
Potatoes baked in jackets
I opted for instead.

But my meal would be squandered,
Towards a chair I trod
Then sat down till I wandered
Off to the Land of Nod.

I blame that final Pernod
For making me go numb;
By morning an inferno
The oven had become.

Although they looked revolting,
I held a knife to poke
Each spud, only resulting
In horrid puffs of smoke.

Black as Darth Vader’s finger
And hard as bloody bricks,
That happens if they linger
All night on gas mark six.

Resembling something NATO’s
Artillery destroyed,
Those deeply scorched potatoes
Would never be enjoyed.

Quite unlike Nigel Slater’s
I’d napalmed every skin,
So I scooped up me ‘taters
And chucked them in the bin.


©

Wow! Busy late shift last night.


Hmmm. There are several lessons hidden in there if you know where to look. One of them being could have been worse...........much worse.

Lesson learnt Biz - since that night it's been sarnies only post-pub But even sober I'm not very good at cooking

And here's me thinking it was the poet's imagination at work. I'm so disillusioned.

Anyway, I hope you prepare the sandwich before you go out.............or buy it before you enter the pub.........or buy it in the pub with your first drink. .......but be careful not to lose it on the way home.

I have all the answers you know.

There are more questions than answers And yes, sadly the poem was a true story

Time for a new page

It is Halloween after all