THE BLOG 

By Peter Woodgate 

Since lockdown

it has been a lifeline,

the RLWG,,

a lantern in the darkness,

a visit you can make from home,

tangible, within our minds,

it’s there for all to see.

 

Stories full of guts and gore

of romance, humour, and much more.

Muses too have filled our minds,

with thoughtful verse of many kinds,

I swear that I have loved the chat

with comments made to this and that.

It’s wonderful and kept me sane,

stopped me from going quite insane.

Of course, this blog, is not by chance,

a sudden sight, just worth a glance,

it has been crafted, without pen,

by Mr Morgan, our mate Len.

This tribute then I give to him

and raise a glass (that’s full of gin)

to say a thank you from us all,

reminding Len with this roll-call.

 

There’s two Bobs and a Robert too

who likes to write a nice Haiku,

Richard of the many words

and Phil who uses guns not swords.

Shelley, Dawn and Sis use verse

to capture emotions without curse.

Janet is a story teller

bends your mind like Yuri Geller.

Not to forget Sujata Narang,

who calls for girls to join her gang.

I’ll mention Bob, French that is,

a novel from him would be bliss,

and Jane, whose stories are never dull,

no despair, a glass half full.

Rosemary too will right this world,

with her verse that’s been unfurled.

Some names missing, it would seem

who’s works, as yet, we haven’t seen,

however, this may be for reasons

as varied as our yearly seasons.

Encouragement is what we need

to observe the final bloom from seed

and so, I offer up this rhyme,

acknowledging lots of their time

that Len and others have all made

to haul us out from lockdown’s shade

and finally, to lift the gloom,

Chris will show us all, with ZOOM.

             

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

The Last Journey?

 The Last Journey?

By Len Morgan

All-around her the sound of thunder as the herd rolls across the plain.

 

A seemingly unchanging dust bowl, but each year it grows and the waterholes shrink.  She blinks, clearing her vision momentarily.  Every year they make the same journey, their survival depending on it.  They travel from here to there, for the lush green grass and cool, clear, deep water.  Then travel back again when the weather turns and they receive that irresistible urge to make the return trek.

 

  Don't think about it, just do it!  Keep with the herd, there is safety in numbers, follow the line towards the setting sun.  Look forward, never look back.

 

But, our numbers are dwindling, food and water becoming harder to find.  Surely we must all know the end is coming.

Will this journey be the last?

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

TO LINDA LUNT WITH LOVE.

TO LINDA LUNT WITH LOVE.

by Rosemary Clarke

 Your wheelchair never held you back
 In fact you were so driven
 To never let the illness win
 You were a gift from Heaven.
 And on first Tuesdays you would come
 To fill us all with laughter
 And we'll remember you with love
 Forever ever after.
 Your arms were always open
 For the hugs you always brought
 And happiness and joy and fun
 These were the things you taught.
 You talked of Jesus like a friend
 As though he lived next door
 We thought that it would never end
 We want you back for more.
 But angels are sent so rarely
 And we know we were sent one
 We Bookworms all are grateful
 For your lovely sense of fun.
 We'll miss you in Rayleigh Library
 When Covid's gone it's way
 But we'll love you and remember
 For the rest of all our days.

 Thank you for being a Bookworm.  You'll always be special.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

Through Your Eyes

 

 by Rosemary Clarke

 I want to look through your eyes
 And see the world through you
 Then I won't pass the world by
 I'll have a different view.
 I want to walk in your shoes
 And feel your very feet
 To know just how you really feel
 When walking fields or streets.
 I want to feel with your heart
 To know the very core
 That way we'll never be apart
 No prejudice anymore.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

Hope II

By Len Morgan

A distant metallic glint & sporadic flashes of light forewarned of the approaching supply train, heading for the Thaal stronghold at Gasponar.

“Remember your training, and remember to aim for the “T” of their helm that’s your target.  Your bow’s are not powerful enough to pierce armour.  So, leave the body shots to the crossbowmen.  When the Pikes engage, pick only clear targets.  We do not want to injure our own people do we?”

“No Jazz!” the resounding response.

.-…-. 

“Curse that damned sun,” the Haltocapt, raising his hand to economically shade his eyes from the midday sun, and bring the wagon train to a halt.  The wagons ground to a halt amid protests from the teams.  He scanned the slopes to either side of the narrowing track.  A buzzard took to the thermals circling in the sky searching for prey; it’s mournful cry a momentary distraction that raised a grin, he watched it turn this way and that in its search.  Smiling he kicked his mount into motion, waving the train on.  He was leading 30 armoured and battle-hardened Thaal warriors, what had they to fear from this godforsaken waste.  In the past two years, they’d vanquished armies that outnumbered them 5 to 1.  Their last half worthy opposition had fed the larva of most of the flies worrying them today; maggot food months past.  More’s the pity he thought…  

His mount took six more paces before his corpse fell from the saddle. At that time half his force was facing the sky with glazed unseeing eyes.  The remainder turned to face the perceived enemy; six more fell, as 30 pikemen left scant cover to plant their halberds in opposition.  The armoured warriors charged; three were hoisted from their mounts their weight skewered them on the pikes.  The remainder engaged the pikemen as they retreated according to plan.  Two were cut down before they reached their trench.  The others ducked into safety as arrows flew like angry hornets.  The surviving pikemen grabbed the reins of the riderless horses.  In minutes, it was all over.  Thirty-odd Thaal slaughtered, the wagoners driven off, afoot.

The band of attackers now had wagons, weapons, provisions and food that would last them six months, all for the loss of two men.

“We beat them Jazz!  We destroyed them,” his young sergeant whooped, slapping his on back.

“Aye, we did that lad!  But, now they know were here, it won’t be so easy next time…”

Copyright Len Morgan  

 

ASTROLOGY

Peter Woodgate 

I used to think astrology

a hoax, a joke to me,

however, when considering

I’m not convinced, you see.

When I took up astronomy

I laughed at those who chose

to check their star signs daily

To see what each one shows.

But when I studied all the facts

It was feasible to accept

That all those planets, stars and moons

to us exert an effect.

for all the matter that exists

In some way interacts

And we are simply star dust,

Strange, but that's a fact.

Of course, it then depends on who

Interprets what we know,

I just don’t think Humanity

Is qualified to show

How each movement in this vast

and endless universe,

does affect each living thing

and this may be a curse

because we just can’t comprehend

It’s there but out of reach

Despite best efforts of those who

to all will try and teach.

 

I had a dream the other day

I’d been laid beneath the sod,

A final recognition that;

Astrology is God.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

Three Young Witches

By Sis Unsworth

 

Three young witches from afar, full of fun and mirth,

thought they’d cross the Milky Way and reach the planet Earth.

When the other witches were asleep, they set off in the night,

Jupiter lay straight ahead with Neptune on the right.

One young witch did lose control, halfway through the flight,

her broomstick missed a falling star, and hit a meteorite.

Another witch was filled with fear, when she lost control,

Trying hard to steer her broom, flew into a black hole.

The surviving witch did turn around, as she was heard to scream,

“Never will I roam again, well, not till Halloween!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth