Night Clubbing

Endless records being spun.
Everybody's having fun.
Girls wearing sparkly tops.
The cork from a champagne bottle pops.

Girls with gelled and laquered hair,
Dance with hands up in the air.
The music with a boom boom beat,
Makes everybody move their feet.

Girls with delicate strappy shoes,
Sitting cross-legged drinking booze.
Downing drinks which are very fizzy,
And suddenly feeling rather dizzy.

Coloured lights flicker and flash.
Feeling sick, to the loo, people dash.
Music so loud, you can't be heard.
Trying to chat, you can't catch a single word.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Moon

The moon hangs in the sky, shining so bright;
Everything below, enveloped in a silvery light.
Once darkened corners, are now subtlely lit,
As, silhouetted against the moon, bats now flit.

The moon appears early, on a winter’s afternoon;
Aware that the onset of darkness, will begin soon.
Occasionally, we get to witness a solar eclipse,
When the moon, in front of the sun’s face, slips.

The milky moon, reflected on the restless ocean,
Highlights the wild water’s never ending motion.
A silvery ribbon stretches from horizon to shore;
A mesmerising sight which, many people adore.

This celestial light is totally natural in its source:
Commanding tides, with a strong, gravitational force.
The moon waxes and wanes, from full to crescent:
Whatever form it takes, the view is always pleasant.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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View from A Bridge

Outside the Festival Hall, folk are sitting around,
Beneath parasols of red, yellow, orange, and brown.
Waterloo Bridge is all choked up with red buses.
Beneath my feet, a yellow speedboat now rushes.

Across the bridge, youngsters scoot and skate.
I see some buskers: catchy music, they create.
Atop Somerset House, I can see the huge clock.
By the pier, I can see tourist boats ready to dock.

A row of flags flutters in the soft, summer breeze.
The river down below is lined with rustling trees.
With bright banners, the Festival Hall is adorned.
In the distance, I see the iconic dome of St Paul's.

Down on the Embankment, cars are nose to tail:
Their crawling pace is like that of a garden snail.
An ambulance rushes by, using its blues and twos.
On the pier below, for boat trips, there are queues.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Dentist Appointment

On Thursday morning, I have to see the Dentist;
Cancelling the appointment, I am trying to resist.
I just don't know if I will be able to do it;
I don't know if I can put myself through it.

To help myself relax, and help allay my fears.
I am planning to plug my iPod into my ears
If, with my favourite music, my ears are filled,
It will drown out the sound of the dreaded drill.

Whenever I think about it, I feel extremely tense.
The relief I'll feel, when it's over, will be immense.
In the pit of my stomach, I get bouts of butterflies;
A few times, in secret, I've even had a little cry.

On my last trip to the Dentist, my eyes sprung a leak,
And my fingers gripped tightly to the edge of my seat.
The needle which they use, feels me with such fright,
So I'll lie there tomorrow, and shut my eyes really tight.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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There's A Spider In My Room!

I’ve just spotted a spider in my bedroom.
Around the walls, he’s decided to zoom!
My eyes are now glued to the wall;
Not that I’m the least bit worried at all!

Oh no! Now he’s crawling on the ceiling,
And I’m getting a slightly anxious feeling.
He’s now hanging around over my bed:
Just above where I usually lay my head!

I’m sitting, watching him crawling around,
Praying that he doesn’t fall to the ground.
I dare not now switch off the light,
As, of him, I’ll suddenly lose all sight.

Why couldn’t he have stuck to the wall,
Where he would have been less likely to fall?
He’s running around as fast as he can.
Of any size spider, I’m not a great fan.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Beachcombing

As the tide retreats, it leaves behind
Once hidden treasures, for folk to find.
Left revealed, is a long strip of shiny, wet sand,
Where treasures, now at their journey’s end, will land.

By the sea, small pieces of glass have been ground,
Leaving their once sharp edges, smooth and round.
There are a few fallen feathers from visiting gulls.
Smooth, egg-shaped pebbles – both shiny and dull.

Shells of all shapes, such as cones, conches, and scallops,
Are washed ashore by the powerful sea, as it gallops.
There are lions’ paws, kings’ crowns, tulips, angel wings,
Slipper shells, jewel boxes, moon snails and other things.

Sugar Kelp, Bladderwrack and Dead Man’s Fingers,
Are some of the seaweeds which, on the shore, linger.
The sight of numerous pieces of discarded litter,
Leaves behind a taste, in my mouth, that is bitter.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Scared!

I feel quite happy going up escalators or stairs,
But, for coming down them, I don’t much care.
I hate elevators which have sides made of glass;
Given the option to ride in one, I think I’d pass.

I hate looking downwards from a great height,
As, over the edge, I’m scared I’d take flight.
I’m totally terrified of wasps, which may sting,
But, am not that keen on any insects, with wings.

Another creature which would give me a fright,
Is a boisterous dog, which I fear would bite.
I hate having to have injections into my arm;
I always tense up, and can’t keep myself calm.

I shake all over when, at me, someone shouts,
And I waste no time at all, in getting myself out.
I hate being on a plane, just as it’s taking flight;
I grab my seat, so that my knuckles turn white.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Talent Show

Hundreds of people wait in the queue.
All eager to show off what they can do.
At today's talent show,
They hope for a 'yes', but may get a 'no.'
The panel of judges, they want to wow.
Their families, they want to make proud.
The singers range from bad to good.
Some can't sing, but someone told them they could!
A few singers are totally amazing,
And they lap up the judge's praising.
Represented, are all types of dance.
Round the stage, the dancers prance.
Ballet, Tap, Jazz, Folk and Street.
To the music, the dancers move their feet.
Stand-up comedians go through their paces,
Hoping to put a smile on the judge's faces.
A martial arts duo show off various kicks.
There's many magicians doing magic tricks.
A ventriloquist takes the stage with his furry friend:
To his friend's performance, a hand he lends!

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Winter Daffodils

January, and the daffodils are showing their heads;
Pushing their way up from their deep, wintry bed.
At the sight of them, I can't help, but be amazed.
With them, the grassy bank will soon be ablaze.

Daffodils in January, I have never before known;
Their heads, in winter, are never normally shown.
They will soon brighten up these dark, winter days;
Adding a splash of colour to the browns and greys.

To my day, they add some much needed cheer;
I'm reminded that spring, once again, draws near.
Daffodils are amongst my very favourite flowers;
To cheer people up, they possess a special power.

Safe in their buds, the precious petals are protected;
In the winter air, a slight chill can still be detected.
In only a few weeks, their buds will be ready to burst,
And, by the sun and rain, the flowers will be nursed.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Hole In The Road

They're digging a hole in our road, yet again,
And I really must say that it's becoming a pain.
The drone of their drill is driving me totally mad;
I have got the worst headache that I've ever had.

The electricity has now been cut off for hours;
I can't cook a meal, or take a nice, hot shower.
Electricity is something which we all rely on;
We don't realise how much, until it has gone.

I can't surf the net, or snuggle up in front of the TV;
And I can't even listen to my favourite band on CD.
Packed full of food, I daren't open the freezer door,
As, if I do, all of my frozen food will thaw, for sure.

I can't boil the kettle, and enjoy a nice mug of tea;
I can't listen to the classical music on Radio Three.
Oh, how I wish, the sound of drilling would end;
The noise is driving me slowly round the bend.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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