Poppies
Seeing poppies growing in the wild,
Takes me back to when I was a child.
We’d often go for walks on a Sunday,
And often spot poppies along the way.
My dad’s hand I would tightly hold,
As I spied the poppies bright and bold.
Because I was young and very small,
The poppies seemed to be so very tall.
There was a field full of them, which I adored.
By their appearance, I never ever grew bored.
The large field where the poppies once grew,
Soon made way for a factory, shiny and new.
True to say, it was only empty waste ground,
But it was our little haven, which we found.
I think they should have left the field alone,
So as, through it, other people could still roam.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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It's Going to Be a Good Day
There's plenty of blue sky,
And the sun is shining bright.
Hurray! hurray! hurray!
It's going to be a good day!
I'm sat on a speeding train
And I'm London bound again.
I'm going to sing with my choir.
Of this train journey, I never tire.
I love the constantly changing view.
To see, there is always something new.
The train hurtles towards Waterloo Station,
Passing amidst a still sleepy nation.
For a while, together we will croon,
And finish our show an hour after noon.
After that, I'll go for a steady trot.
I love walking the South Bank, when it's hot.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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No Fixed Abode
Around the streets, some people pace;
Others sit in doorways and stare into space.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go,
Days seem to drag and time goes slow.
Their daily lives hold little direction;
They're prone to illness and infection.
Their dowdy clothes are full of dust and dirt;
Their eyes are full of hunger and deep down hurt.
Aromas from restaurants waft through the air,
Making pangs of hunger much harder to bear.
Their bellies grumble due to a lack of food;
Remembering better times, they sit and brood.
Some want money for food, drink or drugs;
Some just want love, and they just want a hug.
Amidst the city's seemingly never-ending din,
Many scavenge for their food in rubbish bins.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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A 'Brand New' You
Stood, browsing, in a bookshop, I heard someone call my name;
I recognised the person, but, somehow, she didn’t seem the same.
Apart from the fact that, she had changed the colour of her hair,
It was almost like looking at a whole new person, standing there.
She told me that, for our old company, she worked no longer.
Her spirit seemed enthused; her soul appeared much stronger.
Around her, glowed a much brighter and more positive aura;
Obviously, a change of scenery has done an awful lot for her.
I saw new maturity and wisdom in her pretty, youthful face.
I think, within her life’s journey, she’s now in a better place.
I almost couldn’t believe it was the same girl, stood before my eyes;
That she had changed so much, in such a short time, I felt surprised.
She seemed happier, healthier; her face was all aglow;
Very different from the young girl, who I used to know.
I can’t quite remember exactly when I saw her last,
But I’d say that, about twelve months have passed.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Loving The Light Nights
The light summer nights are here at last;
The spirit of winter has finally passed.
Now, when I leave work, the sky is blue;
Until recently, it had a much darker hue.
On many a morning, there is a misty haze,
Then, during the day, the sun will blaze.
Now that the days are getting a little longer,
My soul, within, feels so much stronger.
When I walked home: when it was dark,
I never dared to walk through the park.
Now, there is nowhere for shadows to lurk,
As, in the daylight, I walk home from work.
Now, when a day's work has taken its toll,
Through the park, I feel happy to stroll.
In the light, the park is a pleasant place to be;
Enjoyed by everyone, up to a hundred and three.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Summer Snapshot
High up in the sky, the sun is shining.
Outside restaurants, people are dining.
Over the sea, sailboats are dashing.
Against the shore, waves are crashing.
Up in the sky, seagulls are screeching.
Up to the sun, flowers are reaching.
In the park, children are playing.
In the breeze, branches are swaying.
From car windows, music is blaring.
More of their bodies, people are bearing.
Down at the beach, people are bathing:
A nice, healthy tan, they are all craving.
Through the sky, birds are flying.
On the clothesline, washing is drying.
Along the roads, cars are queuing.
In bed, at night, people are stewing.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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When The Snow Came
The snow started here, at about half past four;
Lightly, at first, but then it fell more and more.
Upon spying the first few flakes, I rushed to the shop;
The snow began to settle, but I hoped that it may stop.
But it continued to fall, creating a blanket of white;
Till snowflakes coated everything within my sight.
By nightfall, the world was bathed in an eerie glow,
Created by the bright reflection of the fallen snow.
Against the orange glow of a nearby street light,
I could see flakes falling, and swirling in flight.
Overnight, heavy snow had been forecast to fall,
But, luckily, for us, we had no extra snow at all.
I awoke in the morning, and saw patches of green,
And clear rectangles, where parked cars had been.
The snow was not half as bad, as I had anticipated;
I knew the snow would soon melt, and I felt elated.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The 'Potato' Poem
I love potatoes chopped up into chunky chips.
I love spicy potato wedges, served up with dips.
I love potato slices which have been fried in a pan:
Of sautéed potatoes, I am the world's biggest fan.
I love potatoes which have been pummelled and bashed
With butter and milk to make a real light, fluffy mash.
Jacket potatoes, I find a bit dry, but with a nice filling
Such as chilli, to give them a try, I am more willing.
With breakfast, I love hash browns or potato cakes,
And I love potatoes mixed up with leeks in a bake.
Crispy, golden potatoes, served up with Sunday roast
Are among the kinds of potato which I love the most.
Mixed in soups and casseroles, I love potatoes diced.
On top on minced beef hotpot, I love potatoes sliced.
Fluffy potato stuffed inside a crispy potato croquette
Is also rather nice, and, for me, it is another safe bet.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Time Of Our Lives
At our lives, we are only given one small crack;
Sometimes, we all wish we could turn time back.
Life is not something for which we can rehearse;
We can't fast forward it; can't put it into reverse.
Each day is a blank canvas, ready for us to paint;
Memories of some days are vivid; some seem feint.
It is up to each of us to choose how we fill our days;
There are so many options: so many different ways.
There are times when we all wish our lives away,
Especially when looking forward to a special day.
The days in-between, we wish just would not exist,
But, from our lives, those days would be sorely missed.
Some moments, we wish wouldn't fade into the past;
We wish we could pin them down, and hold them fast.
Those moments, we wish we could capture in a jam jar,
So that we can recall just how special to us they really are.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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At The Water's Edge
At the water’s edge, I stop and stand for a while.
Lost in thought, my face wears a hint of a smile.
Chalky cliffs are covered with a white, misty veil;
To spot them, in the distance, you could almost fail.
Across the sea’s surface, waves restlessly roam;
They break, and create lots of thick, frothy foam.
The water laps against the shore in a wavy line;
The lines of land and sea, are difficult to define.
My toes sink deep into the dark, sodden sand,
At the very point, where the sea meets the land.
The sand is peppered with pebbles and sea shells.
Nearby, I hear a child’s excited squeals and yells.
I scoop up a handful of water: it’s as cold as ice;
It sparkles in the sunlight, which looks rather nice.
Salty seawater rains down from my frozen fingers;
Suspended in mid air, for a split second, it lingers.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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