Let Me Entertain You

To the man playing his music loudly onboard my train:
Both you and I can hear your music, oh so very plain.
It doesn't seem to be appreciated by this here crowd.
Tell me, does your music really need to be quite so loud?

To play loud music in a public place, I would not dare,
But, to me, it is very obvious that you just do not care.
If you bought yourself a pair of groovy new headphones,
Then your fellow travellers, on this train, won't need to moan.

To you, your music will still be heard loud and crystal clear,
But, your music, your fellow passengers will not have to hear.
During their journey, some passengers like to have a chat,
And that's perfectly fine by me: I'm totally okay with that.

Spare a thought for those poor people who are trying to read:
To play your music quite so loudly, is there really any need?
From the people who are trying to read newspapers or books,
You certainly seem to be acquiring some pretty dirty looks.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Music Exam

I sit outside the exam room, waiting, patiently, for my turn;
Anxiety has, long since, set in, and my stomach is all a-churn.
These music exams, have always been really rather formal,
So, I guess, to get this nervous, is just completely normal.

I enter the exam room, and, having warmed up, I start,
But, all too soon, things, very slightly, begin to fall apart.
For this moment, in my life, I have, relentlessly, rehearsed;
Of the times, I’ve played this piece; this is, by far, the worst.

I’m unable to stop my two hands from, literally, shaking,
And I’m feeling annoyed at the mistakes, I’m now making.
At home, I’ve played this piece, hundreds of times before,
But my fingers just don’t seem to want to work any more.

At my mistakes, I’m now feeling really rather frustrated,
And deep inside, my spirit is now, somewhat, deflated.
At home, feeling relaxed, I played these pieces just fine;
Now my fingers, no longer feel as though they are even mine.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Sand Storm

We make our way along Bournemouth prom,
To a favourite pub of ours, for a lazy late lunch.
But long before we ever make it that far along,
Our mouths fill with sand, on which we crunch.

The sand from the beach is being blown by the wind.
We watch it as we walk along the almost endless prom.
Despite having to battle through the gusting gale,
It’s quite a novelty to see the sand being blown along.

The fine granules form ever moving designs.
Many an interesting pattern the sand makes.
As it’s perpetually blown this way and that,
It twists and turns and twirls, just like snakes.

The sand has collected in patches here and there,
And some of them really are pretty deep.
Rather than walking along the tarmac prom,
We could almost be walking along the actual beach!

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Trouble On The Trains

Many of us often have to travel by train,
But the delays and overcrowding drive us insane.

The announcement at the station, informs of delays due to leaf fall,
But the computerized voice used, doesn’t sound very sorry at all.
Your train is now running well over twenty minutes late,
But, annoyingly, you have no choice, but to stand and wait.
At the watch on your wrist, you constantly look,
While some others immerse themselves in a book.
Then there are times when we have the wrong kind of snow,
Which means all of the trains are on a complete go-slow.
Stood on the crowded platform, you look down the track,
But, of a train approaching, unfortunately there’s a big lack.
The train slowly pulls in to the station – it’s finally here,
And from the waiting passengers, up goes a big cheer.

More often than not, there isn’t a spare seat,
So you spend your entire journey stood on your feet.
You stand tightly packed together like a tin of sardines,
Along with a large group of loud, gobby, young teens.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Dumped

I used to work in a large general store.
My eyes were certainly opened by what I saw.
The way some people behave is so frustrating.
Their lack of care is the thing that I'm really hating.

Empty packages were left on the shelf:
Their contents stolen using a lot of stealth.
You wouldn't believe the things which people steal.
I used to find rotten apple cores and pieces of peel.

Half eaten pasties, still warm from a shop.
Half drunk plastic bottles of fizzy cola pop.
Still in their cartons, discarded burgers and chips
And cups of coffee abandoned after only a few sips.

Sticky sweets which stuck to your shoe:
Sucked, then spat out, as children do.
Soggy, half eaten biscuits which children had chewed,
Always in areas where there shouldn't even be food.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Arrival Of Georgia Jayne

A brand new baby has just been born on our block;
She wears pretty little dresses and dinky little socks.
The recent arrival of gorgeous, little Georgia Jayne,
Has made all the waiting worthwhile – and the pain!

I go to visit her and her family, at their house;
Georgia doesn’t cry: she’s as quiet as a mouse.
She’s looks so very innocent and so very small;
She looks around, trying to make sense of it all.

A fleece blanket protects her against the cold;
Of her mother’s finger, she takes a firm hold.
Her curious, bright eyes constantly look around;
Her delicate little ears, alert to every little sound.

I see her safely cradled in her mother’s arms,
And I am instantly captivated by her charm.
Lying in her mother’s arms, she looks so content;
She is unaware of her visitor’s kind compliments.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Facing The Frost

People, around me, are confidently striding,
While I worry about slipping and sliding.
Where it is clear, my confidence grows,
But where it is icy, my pace, again, slows.

People are walking, looking fairly relaxed;
While I walk, head down, watching my tracks.
I approach an icy patch, and pull a funny face,
As, once again, I find I have to slow my pace.

I see some children on their way to school;
With walking on ice, they seem pretty cool.
From the looks on their faces, it is very clear,
That, unlike me, they do not hold any fear.

Where I am able, I walk along on the grass,
So that icy patches, on the pavement, I pass.
At times, I have no choice, but to face the ice;
With the threat of potential injury, I now dice.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Jenny Greenteeth

There's a hag by the name of Jenny Greenteeth;
Of human life, she is a well-known thief.
She waits under the water of the Old Mill Pond,
For an unsuspecting victim to happen along.

She claims her victims at the dead of night,
When many folks' hearts are full of fright.
It is always under the light of the silvery moon
That her terrified victims meet their final doom.

The victim won't believe what they are seeing,
When, from the water, they spy a strange being.
The victim will think that it is all just a dream;
They will open their mouth and begin to scream.

She bursts forth from the water with staring eyes,
Filling her chosen victim with shocked surprise.
With her long, bony fingers, she grabs at limbs,
Then having taken a hold, she drags them on in.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Week Before Christmas

Everyone has now decorated their Christmas tree.
The winter weather is now beginning to freeze.
Supermarket queues are getting extremely long.
On radio, being played, are many Christmas songs.

People are attending their works’ festive party;
Filling up on booze, and food, hot and hearty.
Children are happy to have broken up from school,
Which, by them, is thought to be extremely cool.

People are writing their last minute Christmas cards.
Twinkling, coloured lights decorate the front yard.
People are embarking on Christmas gift wrapping;
Stress is kicking in, and there’s now much flapping.

Last minute deliveries are now arriving by post.
Christmas parties are being planned by the hosts.
Santa Claus seems to be everywhere that you go:
Dressed in his bright red suit, calling ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! ’

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Summer Nights

Oh, how I hate these hot summer nights,
When a good night's sleep is far from sight.
Lying on my bed, I constantly toss and turn,
While the air around me continuously burns.

My window is slightly ajar to let in some air;
I wonder if I'd be slightly cooler downstairs.
I have rolled down my blanket and my sheet,
But despite doing all this, I still feel the heat.

I watch the clock and the time ticks on by,
But, I just can't sleep, however hard I try.
Feeling restless in the middle of the night,
I climb out of bed and switch on the light.

Feeling so far away from the Land Of Nod,
I sit reading a book and then I play my iPod.
I'm having a bad night, and am not impressed:
I didn't sleep much last night, and need my rest.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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