Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain
The Memorial Fountain is really rather fascinating in its design,
As the water doesn’t always follow its course in one straight line.
The Fountain in itself is an extremely interesting feature,
As it moves in all different ways, just like a living creature.
It’s a focal point to which many people make their way;
Where adults can sit and relax and young children can play.
Parents sit on the lush green grass next to the flowing water,
Whilst keeping a watchful eye on their sons and daughters.
On the side of the Fountain, visitors can choose to take a seat,
And sit chatting away together, whilst paddling their tired feet.
The Fountain aims to represent the different aspects of Diana’s life:
The times of joy and happiness, and the times of trouble and strife.
The flowing water runs down an incline, not too steep.
At some points, it’s very shallow and at others, it’s deep.
Around the channel there are various depths and widths:
At some points it rises up, while at other points, it dips.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Remembering 9/11: Ten Years On
Ten years have now passed since that fateful September day,
When many people’s loved ones were cruelly whipped away.
Children, who lost parents, have turned into young women and men;
Husbands and wives still feel their loss now, as they did way back then.
Also on that day, many Mums and Dads lost their daughters and sons.
Many people were in the prime of their lives and were still so young.
Aunts and uncles too, lost much their loved nieces and nephews;
No decent human being could believe the heart stopping news.
I remember how I watched the events unfold, that day, on TV.
I found it very difficult to take in the images which I could see.
I distinctly remember seeing the Twin Towers falling
And found the terrifying footage so extremely appalling.
How could the culprits sit there and watch them fall,
Knowing, full well, that they, alone, were responsible?
It’s bad enough when you kill or injure someone by accident,
But those untimely deaths were planned and were cruelly meant.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Season Of Unrest
Watching TV, I really can’t quite believe my eyes.
The country’s losing control, I’m starting to realise.
If I was caught up in the riots, I’d be shaking with fear,
But, to be honest, I wouldn’t even dare venture near.
All that people can see for many miles around,
Are buildings on fire, being razed to the ground.
Some people have literally lost all their possessions,
Which hits them harder in this time of recession.
Faced with rioters with masks to hide their faces,
Riot-trained police are put through their paces.
The authorities seem to be rapidly losing control,
And their lack of strong presence is taking its toll.
In some places, are police dressed in their riot gear.
All around, you can almost smell the sense of fear.
Cars and buildings are being deliberately set on fire.
People are running amok till their heart’s desire.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Old School House
Through an open window, ivy creeps and winds its way;
Just one of the obvious signs of impending urban decay.
Girls once went about their daily lives in this old place,
But now they have gone, all that’s left is an empty space.
In these halls, girls once laughed, and excitedly chattered,
But, now, these halls look decidedly unloved and battered.
There were tennis courts, and a pool, and a large sports field,
But any sign of physical activity, has long since been stilled.
The tall, turreted tower, which housed the school’s ‘sick bay’,
Is now falling into a state of disrepair, and has seen its heyday.
The well stocked Library shelves have been cleared of books.
In the Refectory, no delicious smells linger, as no-one cooks.
The spacious dormitories all bore the names of popular birds,
But, now, from within them, not a single sound can be heard.
No lessons are taught in the now long abandoned classrooms,
And around the once chaotic corridors, girls no longer zoom.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Journey Home
I arrive back at Gare Du Nord
Only to discover that I'm already off to a bad start.
Due to the heavy snowfall in the UK,
It's hours till my train will finally depart.
I join the already snaking queue,
And I can feel the panic rise inside,
But there's nothing I can do about it,
So my time, I just have to bide.
I listen to the bi-lingual announcements
Telling us there's at least a four hour delay.
I stand there feeling tense and tearful,
And in my head, I'm worrying away.
During my stay in Paris,
I didn't come across many Brits,
But now, stood here in this queue,
I realise many people here are my fellow citz.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Giraffes: The Gentle Giants
One of my most favourite animals on this Earth, is a gentle giant – the giraffe;
But did you know that some people are killing them just for a so-called ‘laugh’?
These creatures, with their crazy-paving patterned coats of caramel and cream,
Are amongst the most marvellous and majestic, which this entire world has seen.
There was a time when they roamed around the African bush, wild and free,
But recently things have changed, and are now no longer as they used to be.
Rather than leaving them alone, to live out their lives in relative peace,
People are shooting them dead, and, sadly, this trend is on the increase.
Blessed with a long, tall, slender neck, and large, dark, gentle eyes,
Above the rest of living creatures, their noble heads elegantly rise.
Giraffes make an amazing ‘musical fluttering sound’, so I have read,
But their call will dwindle and die, and we’ll just have silence instead.
Their lifeless bodies seem to be seen as some kind of sickening prize,
By heartless hunters who only see a blaze of glory before their eyes.
If only animals and humans could live in harmony upon this great earth;
If only we all lived together, side by side, and valued each other’s worth.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Written Word Rules!
At the idea of poetry, some people seem to scoff,
As they consider it is an art form only for toffs.
They may think that the concept of poetry is boring,
And that it will leave them fast asleep and snoring.
There are all types of poems: modern and classical.
There’s something for everyone: it’s not boring at all.
The lyrics of songs are poems as such;
They often rhyme together very much.
People like to sing along with their favourite songs,
So why does the concept of poetry feel so wrong?
I’ve only started writing poetry in the last few weeks,
And, I have to admit that I thought it was just for geeks.
But, now I can see, that whoever you are,
Everyone has the potential to go really far.
I have to admit, I much prefer
The written, to the spoken word.
At night, I lay awake tossing and turning in bed,
With random thoughts running through my head.
By my pillow, I keep a pen and note pad,
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Paris By Night
I’ve decided to spend a few days away,
To celebrate one of life’s big birthdays.
So, here I am in the famous ‘city of love’,
Wrapped up in my coat, scarf and gloves.
I’m at the Eiffel Tower, up on the second floor;
Taking in the City’s panoramic views, with awe.
I text my friends, but my fingers are frozen cold;
So that my mobile, my hand can hardly now hold.
Being less than a week into the brand New Year,
It isn’t long before the daylight begins to disappear.
It’s nearly six o’clock and, soon, the tour bus departs,
So my descent of the Tower, in earnest, now starts.
But, when I reach the bottom, I find I’m a little too late:
The back of the tour bus is just pulling out of the gate.
At first, I feel worried, and I admit, just a little bit scared,
But, the sights I see are ones, which, are beyond compare.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Weird Food Combos!
Consider a roll, with a bacon and fried banana filling;
To take a bite, would you consider yourself willing?
Worcestershire sauce poured over cheese on toast,
Is a concept which, to me, seems really rather gross.
Apple pie, topped with a melted cheddar cheese slice,
Is something, which is considered, by some, rather nice.
Chilli and dark chocolate, I think is really delightful,
But marmite and chocolate, strikes me as just frightful.
A sandwich filled with strawberries and double cream,
May be rather squidgy, but, to me, it would be a dream.
A meal served to me, with both chips and sprouts,
Is not something which I would definitely rule out.
For bacon and marmalade sandwiches, I would not rush,
But there are some people, who think that this is just lush.
It seems really popular, and I wondered what you’d make,
Of dipping French fries in custard or chocolate milkshake?
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Carnival!
The Notting Hill Carnival is a great celebration,
Which unites many people from across the nation.
The carnival celebrates the diverse Caribbean culture;
Upon Notting Hill, the revellers descend like vultures.
You can hear the sound of traditional steel bands;
See people partying, and clapping their hands.
Along the streets, the procession winds its way,
To the colourful beats of both calypso and reggae.
To the music, you can't help, but tap your feet;
You will soon be moving your body to the beat.
From static sound systems, comes a bellowing bass.
Throughout your whole body, adrenaline will race.
The procession snakes on for miles and miles;
There are vibrant colours, and infectious smiles.
Participants always put on a truly dazzling show,
Which encompasses every colour of the rainbow.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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