Sunset By The Sea

I'm unable to visit a seaside town, and not see the mighty ocean;
I find myself being pulled there, with a sense of magnetic motion.
I sit surveying the sea, for a while, with a completely rested mind;
Moments like these, in everyday life, can be so very hard to find.

The lamps which line both sides of the long, wooden panelled pier,
Shine brightly, through the gathering gloom, bringing some cheer.
Despite the bitterly cold weather, and the now fast fading daylight,
Dozens of joggers disappear down the prom, running into the night.

Between the sea and sky, there is usually a distinct horizon to see,
But the sight which I see before my eyes, seems very strange to me:
The sea and sky seem to appear as one: both a shade of light grey;
To onlookers, only the foam crested waves, give the game away.

Waves rapidly rush towards the beach, and they furiously foam.
Along the water's edge, only the odd few stragglers still do roam.
On the shining, sodden sand, I see a young couple's reflection;
Looking relaxed, they stroll, hand in hand, in the sea's direction.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Phone Call

The eleven digit number, I very carefully dial,
Hoping that my query, will only take a while.
I am greeted by a cheery, automated voice:
To sit and listen, I don’t have much choice.

The speaker, I admit, sounds very polite,
But, I don’t require details of their website.
I really just wanted to find something out,
And, avoid all this, unnecessary, faffing about.

I’m given a list of options: one through to four.
Having chosen option ‘one’, I’m given six more.
The options, once again, to me, are explained.
Already, I’m starting to find this all, a real pain.

This time, I decide to go for option number two,
But, to a human adviser, I still can’t be put through.
Having dialled two, another list of options, I endure,
But this time, I will admit, there is one option fewer.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Girls' Night Out

To our favourite pub in town, my friends and I, hurry.
For just over a fiver, we can order a drink and a curry.
From the bar, we grab our change and various drinks,
And there’s a loud chorus of ‘cheers! ’ as glasses clink.

At our table, we catch up on each others lives,
As a waitress brings each of us, forks and knives.
There’s a delicious aroma of food lingering in the air,
And my pangs of hunger, I almost can no longer bear.

We sit there chatting and laugh at each other’s jokes,
Whilst eyeing up some really dropp dead gorgeous blokes.
A waitress approaches, and puts our food on the table;
We’re starving and we all tuck in, as soon as we are able.

As we all get stuck in, our chatter is held, slightly, at bay,
Until the waitress returns, to clear our empty plates away.
I peruse the dessert menu and find myself unable to resist
Chocolate fudge cake, served with cream. Mmm! Pure bliss!

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Autumn Leaves

The autumn leaves swirl to the ground in their millions.
Gold, russet, ochre, burnt umber, and deep vermillion.
Down to the ground, the dying leaves flit and flutter;
On to the grassy bank, the pathway, and into the gutter.

Some of the colours of the leaves are deep and so very rich.
Whirling along the ground, some leaves tumble into the ditch.
A thick layer of multicoloured leaves now carpets the earth,
Leaving the trees bare, in readiness, for next spring’s rebirth.

With changing leaf colours, many people love this time of year,
But, that summer is well and truly over, it is now perfectly clear.
The many colours mixed together are a magical sight to behold;
I love the shades of yellow, crimson, sienna, and ruby red, so bold.

Some leaves are mottled, with two glorious colours or more;
Adding to the fabulous display, which now lies upon the floor.
Children love nothing better, than to frolic through the fallen leaves;
When workmen collect them up, they’re left feeling very aggrieved.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Fussy About Food

I’ve always been really fussy about what I eat,
But I’ll tolerate most foods, if the cook cheats!
It really depends on how a food has been cooked,
Whether or not, it has a place in my good books.

Examples of my some of my most hated foods,
Are sliced roast beef and apples that are stewed.
I’ll eat beef that’s been minced up into a pie,
And apples diced into a crumble are also fine.

Fresh coriander leaves, I definitely will not touch,
But cooked in a curry, I don’t mind them so much.
On potatoes that have been boiled, I’m not that keen,
But eating mashed potato or chips, I can be often seen.

Egg and cress sandwiches, by me, are never approached,
But I love eggs that are hard boiled, fried or even poached.
I dislike the taste of carrots that have been picked fresh,
But with the taste of tinned carrots, I’m really impressed.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Choir Rehearsal

(This poem was inspired by the choir rehearsals I attend with Voicelab, based at the Royal Festival Hall in London.)

The day that I joined the choir,
I satisfied my singing desire.
Music is such a magical gift.
My sleepy soul, it awakes and lifts.

It’s heaven to listen to the four voice parts,
Singing together with all their hearts.
The four tunes all twist and entwine,
Sending shivers of excitement down my spine.

They come together and are heard as one.
It sounds beautiful and I’m totally stunned.
It’s wonderful being part of it all.
I really am having a magical ball.

When I leave home sometimes, I may feel down,
But when I get to rehearsals, it soon lifts my frown.
My face feels as though it’s always ready to smile

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Steam Dreams

In this day of electric and diesel, very rarely is seen,
A shining locomotive, which is powered by steam.
Back in the days, when my parents were born,
The sight of a steam train was quite the norm.

Whenever a steam train catches my eye,
I stand, watching in awe, as it passes by.
‘Oh wow! Look! ’ I say, as I point a finger,
And the memory of it in my mind will linger.

Steam trains will never completely die out,
As, thankfully, there’s still quite a few about.
About a steam train, there’s something really quite dramatic.
And at the chance of riding on one, people are often ecstatic.

I remember seeing The Flying Scotsman at Salisbury station,
And I stood there marvelling at it with such great admiration.
The engine and all of its carriages just looked so smart.
The sight of such a train, never fails to quicken the heart.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Invisible

Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually even here:
If the space where I am supposed to be is, indeed, just clear.
Stood in a queue, a man walked in, and got served first:
It makes me so annoyed, that I feel like I want to burst.

Do people just not actually see me standing there?
Or is it because I’m so quiet, they basically just don’t care?
People don’t seem to worry how long, I may have been waiting.
Although, my pushiness factor doesn’t score that high a rating!

Sometimes in the street, I say ‘hi! ’ to people who I see,
But they don’t even react and just look straight through me.
When a guard on a train enters my carriage, and shouts ‘Tickets please! ’
How come he bypasses me and it’s only everyone else he sees?

When a person acknowledges that I was next in line, I’m very grateful,
But people who push in front of me, I find just very hateful.
When people queue jump, maybe I look the type, who won’t say anything,
And, maybe, that makes them feel important, just like a king.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Wonky Weather

Never in my life before, can I ever remember,
Such mild weather, at the start of a November.
The grey squirrels, in the park, are still running wild,
As the weather, for this time of year, is warm and mild.

At the popular pub, a way along the seafront,
Some people sit outside, to enjoy their lunch.
Some brave souls, have rented themselves a beach hut,
While, along the shore, dog owners exercise their mutts.

Girls wear dresses, which leave their arms and legs bare;
That it’s now winter time, they don’t seem to really care.
On the crazy golf course, players are still having much fun;
All so eager to try and score that, often elusive, hole in one.

The weather in November is traditionally cold and grey,
But we’ve really enjoyed a most warm and pleasant day.
I would guess, this is all to do with global warming;
That a whole new pattern of weather is now forming.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Market Day

There’s a market in our town, two days a week.
It’s nice to have a browse and take a quick peek.
There’s a riot of colours up and down the street,
And mouth-watering smells from all the food to eat.

There’s an explosion of different sights and sounds,
And dozens of people are leisurely milling around.
At the market, there’s always a great atmosphere,
And there’s nothing for sale there which is too dear.

A mobile van serves up spicy German bratwurst,
Plus a variety of different drinks to quench your thirst.
On one stall, they sell leather purses and handbags:
Cheap ones, plus designer ones, for the would-be WAGs.

In his mobile truck, a rotund butcher chops up some meat:
He promises his customers that his prices can’t be beat.
There’s a stall which sells low price pet supplies.
This is always a big attraction for the penny wise.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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