Summer Is...
Ice pops;
Flip flops;
Barbeques;
Strappy shoes;
Deck chairs;
Chests bared;
Swimming pools;
Keeping cool;
Sunny days;
Sandy bays;
Traffic queues;
Stunning views;
Seagull cries;
Butterflies;
Summer dresses;
Pretty tresses;
Ice cream;
Sunscreen;
Bees buzzing;
Beer guzzling;
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Kingfisher
On a gnarled piece on driftwood,
This plump little bird is silently sat.
It looks at me, then back at the river;
It looks all around, this way and that.
Its dark, piercing, beady round eyes
Are full of fierce intelligence and cunning.
The colour combination of its amber breast
And turquoise back, looks simply stunning.
It sits there statue-like, patiently waiting
For the right moment to finally arrive.
Then having spotted its unlucky prey,
It suddenly swoops and, into the river, it dives.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Winter Is...
Fires roaring;
Rain pouring;
Snuggling up;
Coffee cups;
Porridge oats;
Padded coats;
Snowball fights;
Early nights;
Sniffs and sneezes;
Freezing breezes;
Short, dark days;
Browns and greys;
Frozen fingers;
Carol Singers;
Icy puddles;
Warming cuddles;
Frozen lakes;
Christmas cakes;
Tea and toast;
Sunday roast;
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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No One Quite Like You!
You sit there, and listen
To my tales of woe.
You sit there so patiently
And you never, once, moan.
I always know that
You'll be my friend;
Right the way through
Until the very end.
In bed, at night,
Your hand, I hold.
You keep me warm,
When outside, it's cold.
You've seen my smiles
And you've felt my tears.
You're still a true friend
Even after all these years.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Evelyn
Her beautiful eyes
Are like opaque blue pearls.
Her fair hair hangs loose,
In light, delicate curls.
She is tall and slender,
And moves with elegance and grace.
There are lines of wisdom,
Blessing her once youthful face.
In her company,
You feel safe and sound.
In her soul, warmth and affection
Are constantly found.
Patience is a virtue,
So they often say.
She will wait forever,
Come what may.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Funeral Procession
I saw a funeral procession today:
No one I knew had passed away,
But as the cortege passed me by,
I felt as though I wanted to cry.
Gone were the teardrops of rain:
Left were the teardrops of pain.
It took me back, to the death of my Dad:
To how I felt then - so extremely sad.
I've always been such a sensitive soul,
And feelings of empathy took ahold.
I halted my journey and stood to one side;
My feelings of sadness, I could not hide.
I bowed my head as a mark of respect;
My mood, this encounter, really did affect.
The funeral cortege was very soon gone,
And, with my own journey, I carried on.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Setting Sun
Just before the sun starts to set, a gentle golden glow
Spreads across the weary world, way down below.
The sun has the Midas touch; a touch of pure gold,
But it’s not long until the world starts to fall cold.
The sky is streaked with shades of pinks and reds,
Signalling that, tomorrow, there’s a fine day ahead.
In the late noon sky, there’s a spectacular show;
A myriad of colours, before the daylight goes.
The colours that are seen, all have a warm hue:
They look so amazing against the sky so blue.
It’s when people, from their tasks, pack away,
And has always been my favourite time of day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Flaming Dragon Curry
On the menu, I spotted Flaming Dragon Curry,
But, to try this dish, I am in no particular hurry;
It has onions, red peppers, and chicken (diced) ,
Steeped in seasoning, herbs, and Indian spice.
I'd probably be sitting there with streaming eyes:
For me to try this dish, I think, would not be wise.
As well as watery eyes, my mouth would be on fire;
Neither of which is a sensation I particularly desire.
Five red chillies indicated it was the hottest dish there;
Certainly way too hot for my taste-buds to ever bear.
I consider that this curry is only for the very brave;
It is certainly not a dish that I would ever crave.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Dartmoor Pixies
Across the district of Dartmoor, there can be seen,
Little creatures with pointy ears and skin of green.
They dance in the shadows of the standing stones;
Across the misty moor-land, they happily do roam.
They have small, beady eyes with a mischievous gleam,
And they gambol happily around at the edge of streams.
They often steal horses and ponies, on which they ride;
They gallop across the lonely landscape, so far and wide.
These hard-working creatures thresh corn at night,
In return for bread and cheese, on which they bite.
They wear pointy hats, and their hair is worn long;
If you think they don't exist, then you'd be wrong!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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A Headful Of Thoughts
I'm lying here, wide awake
Trying hard to get some sleep;
But my brain is totally buzzing,
So it's useless counting sheep!
My mind is manically racing,
Thinking of words and ideas;
I think of the sad poem that I just wrote,
And my eyes suddenly fill up with tears.
I need to get some sleep,
As I'm actually pretty tired;
But my brain is so alive:
Like, it's been electrically wired!
Many times, I've had new thoughts,
And jumped out of my cosy bed,
To quickly grab a pen and paper,
And jot them down before they leave my head.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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