The lovely Lulu G, a former beauty queen, Miss Fleetwood, Miss Blackpool and runner up in Miss T.V. Times. She is a Lancashire lass who now lives in Surrey and is a complete dog nut, which is rather sad because every man who meets her falls head over heels in love with her. She recently published her first book of poems called "Dolly's Wonderful New Life", about a stray dog (what else) that she rescued and renamed Dolly Daydream and is now working on her second book "I Won't Dance If You Don't Sing" with our mutual friend Dan Lake - (see Dan's Page) which will be published later this year. All this talent and an adorable beauty too! . . . . J.C.
A Walk at Twilight
I love to walk at twilight
When gulls no longer screech,
Feeling the sand between my toes
As the waves assault the beach.
When the sun’s below the horizon
And the moon starts to appear
I search the beach for seashells
To take home a souvenir.
Soft breezes kiss my cheeks
Wafting from the squally sea
As I watch a lobster fishing boat
Navigate the ancient quay.
The ozone fills my senses
As I kick the soft warm sand.
Breathing in the sultry air
That has me freckly and tanned.
I love this time of day....
When there’s no-one else around
We have the beach all to ourselves
Our very own playground.
Finding a piece of driftwood
We wonder where it’s from
And was it here on this spot
Last year they found a bomb?
Looking towards the lighthouse
A pair of sea lions frolic
Swimming in the foamy surf
Both hilariously comic.
And beyond the far horizon...
A cruiser..... lights ablaze
Is sailing towards France
And the waters of Marseilles.
Alas, the sky is turning black
As day turns into night
And the sandy dunes look eerie
In this diminishing light.
Pulling my wrap around me
I paddle one last time...
Humming ‘I Believe in you’
By the great Stephen Sondheim.
Moonlight is now glistening and
Shimmering upon the sea,
Casting flickering shadows
Like silvery filigree.
I smile into my lover’s eyes
As we run side by side,
Away from the crashing waves
Rolling in on the high tide.
Our footprints wash away
As though we’ve never been
Here on this beautiful beach
Awash with carrageen.
Now standing on the bluff
We kiss and say adieu
Our parting is sweet sorrow
Till our next rendezvous.
Lulu G
A walk round my Home Town
Jack’s nipping my fingers and toes; even the Wey no longer flows,
Everything is crisp and white and frosty in the glistening light.
A freezing chill has come at last blowing with an arctic blast.
The sky is blue, tinged with pink, signs of snow again....... I think.
I’m wrapped warm against this chill as I make my way towards Frith Hill.
My dogs scamper to and fro panting as on the scent we go.
Dolly sees a fox to chase so Ted and I quicken our pace.
The fox leads Doll a merry dance across the Lammas lands, perchance.
Wild Canadian Geese fly low over the Lammas towards Meadrow,
In the distance Charterhouse School where they teach young men to rule.
Their chapel remembers our war dead, Carthusians who fought and bled.
Seven hundred names inscribed hence seven hundred lives subscribed!
And so we walk towards the park to feed the swans before its dark.
Passing Church House towards the cloister I hear the voice of a solo chorister,
Rehearsing hymns for evensong we pause before traipsing along!
Her voice transcends me to a height that’s sacrosanct in this twilight.
This Saxon town built on flood plains depends on sluice gates in the rains,
Gates and locks in operation controlling the water‘s elevation.
To-day the Lammas lands won’t flood but it will snow and chill my blood.
I turn my face against the sleet as we approach the town’s High Street.
Standing beside the Pepperpot a horse goes by at a gentle trot....
Reminding me of times of yore this Market House was the town’s core.
Bustling with busy stalls while children played with hoops and balls.
And sheep herded through the streets to be slaughtered for their meat.
Buildings dating from Doomsday are daubed in wattle and muddy clay
And ancient shops below maisonettes on pavements laid with granite setts.
Stagecoaches from London town would stop at the King’s Arms or Crown
To let the travellers take a rest and feast on mutton and jugs of best.
Now shops are closing one by one with nearly all the shoppers gone,
Modern shops like Boots and Dyas, coffee shops and fresh fish fryers.
A dentist and an undertaker, butcher, baker and cabinet-maker,
Shops with ancient dates on doors and some with the original floors.
Now daylight is fading fast I wonder at Godalming’s past.....
The bridges made of Bargate stone, the Pepperpot that stands alone.
The day the Tsar of Russia came and Gertrude Jekyll of flora fame.
She who wrote Old West Surrey, (the weather’s worsening I must hurry)!
Sleet has turned to snow at last and Ted and Dolly look aghast
As everything is turned to white in this cold December night.
We’ll soon be home and in the warm sheltering from this chilly storm,
We’ve walked around the town today; tomorrow we’ll go out to play.
Lulu G
Holding Back the Years
My dressing table’s laden with oily balms and ointments,
Serums, anti-wrinkle creams, emulsions and emollients.
There’s everything to smooth my skin and wipe away the years,
As I squander and waste money to abate my ageing fears.
The pots of creamy luxury advertised in Vogue and Elle
That promise to de-wrinkle me..... Do they bloody-hell!
I follow the instructions morning, noon and night,
But still these bloody wrinkles are putting up a fight!
I scrub my face until its’ clean and apply the mask,
They say to leave it half an hour; a tiresome, irksome task.
Perhaps I’ll have a face-lift to make me young again,
But could I stand the suffering and the weeks of awful pain?
I know a man who’d do it for rather a large sum.........
He’d fold and pin and tuck to stop me looking like my Mum.
My face would be distended, black and blue and sore.
My eyes puffed up and weepy and my skin mottled and raw.
Maybe while he’s at it he could give my neck a press.....
To iron out the creases, the crepe and sagginess.
I’ll plaster on this new cream that’s guaranteed to work,
At least that’s what Jane Fonda says, (with a wily smirk)!
I turn towards the mirror, is that my Grandmamma I see?
I touch her wrinkled brow.........Oh my God, Oh no it’s me!
Lulu G
Just a Dream........
I feel that life has passed me by
As I sit here all alone.
My friends say, ‘make the most of life
Don’t sit all day and moan.’
A holiday is what I need
Somewhere far from here
Maybe Naples or Capri
Gibraltar or Tangier.
I’ll sit all day upon a beach
As white as pristine snow,
Listening to my iPod
Or browsing June’s Hello.
At night I’ll dine on lobster
And drink the best of wine
And maybe even have a laugh
Like Shirley Valentine!
The sun will tan my skin
The colour of molten gold
And like a little chrysalis
I’ll gradually unfold.
I’m passed the mid-life crisis
But life has dealt a blow
I need to find myself again
And let my feelings go.
I need a lovely romance
To come into my life
To make me come alive again
Away from toil and strife.
One day I dream of going
To those far-flung shores,
To maybe swim with dolphins
Just off the Azores.
Or shall I go to India
As did Princess Di
And sit outside theTaj Mahal
And just like her.............. I’ll cry.
The Orient Express
I’m on the Orient Express at Victoria
And any minute now we’ll pull away.
I’ve saved for this trip so I won’t miss a thing,
I’ll just enjoy this very special day.
I’ve been up since dawn deciding what to wear,
Should I wear a hat or should I not?
Under dress or over dress I’m sure to get it wrong
And should my hair be tied in a topknot?
The steward is now showing us our table
As we take to our seats we gasp in awe....
The linen covered table is laid out for our brunch
With a crystal vase of pink hellebore.
Steam is building in the engine...
The Flying Scotsman’s pulling us to-day.
With everyone on board the conductor waves his flag
And this lovely antique train begins to sway.
Leaving the station my hands clap in delight
As I settle down to savour a bucks fizz.
The steward now appears with a tray of scrambled eggs
And this promises to be a spiffing whizz!
The carriage is resplendent in cream liveries....
With panels of mahogany and ash.
The upholstery and carpets are as they were when new
And to summon for a steward we pull a sash.
I’m assured this trip will be tranquil
Imperturbably unruffled and stress free
So I sit back and relax in my Victorian armchair
And drink another cup of ‘Rosie Lee.’
The countryside is like a woven tapestry
That makes me feel proud of this great nation.
As I sit here chattering to my girlfriends
On our day of swanky sophistication.
You have to see the toilets for yourselves,
With mosaics and brass fittings in the room
And Victoriana sanitaryware brought bang up to date
And fresh marguerites in bloom.
In Westbury we have to fill with water
And the train enthusiasts are out in force.
The platform is chocker and everyone is waving,
And I’m waving back at them........of course!
In Bath I feel saddened to disembark
But a coach is to whisk us to the Spa.
We’ll sip the waters from the springs in The Pump Room,
While some attend a costume seminar.
At four we board the train for home
And eating a la carte of rack of lamb
While stewards pour the finest French champagne serving
Summer pudding..... with hibiscus jam.
Everyone is now in party mood
As this old steam train clatters along
There is every tribe, race and nationality on board
And I’m chatting to a couple from Hong Kong
I enjoy my feast for all my senses....
Savouring each morsel that I try.
Served by my steward who attends my every need
As the hours much too rapidly fly by.
The atmosphere is not one to be rivalled
And the first class service is unique.
But now I’ve spent all my hard earned savings
I guess the future for a while is bleak.
Lulu G
Before I’m sixty five
I’ll go to Twickers with Toby my grandson....
We’ll hoot, howl and holler ‘Cos England tried and won.
Fly off to Madison Square to watch a champion fight
And see ‘Grease’ on Broadway where the lights are bright.
Après ski in diamonds in glorious St Moritz
But when it gets too icy cold I’ll fly off to St.Kitts.
I’ll dance a raunchy Tango in Argentine of course
And ride the pampas bare-back on a palomino horse.
With my trendy rucksack I’ll trek to Kathmandu
And standing on the highest peak I’ll holler, ‘Toodle oo!’
I’ll meander into China to swot up on Tai Chi....
Do yoga in the park and in ‘Geisha style’ take tea.
Of course I’ll see the terracotta army on display
And buy a silk kimono in Hong Kong along the way.
Off the coast of Fiji I’ll dive for deep sea pearls
Wearing sarongs and flowers like the native girls.
Learning haute cuisine in a lovely French chateau
Drinking Beaujolais where the vines do grow.
Of course I’ll see friend Julie who lives in Amsterdam,
Shopping till we drop, then stopping for a dram.
I’ll climb the Tyrolean Alps in a cable railway car
Whilst gazing at Vienna in the distance not too far.
Gambling in casinos in Monaco, Cannes and Nice,
I’ll maybe rent a villa with a pool on short term lease.
Stopping off in Budapest to have my old face lifted
By Joan Collin’s surgeon, who is immensely gifted.
I’ll bungee jump off bridges and learn to fly a plane
Dance away the hours and drink Dom Perignon champagne.
On the Champs–Elysees I’ll eat brioche for brunch
Then tuck into escargots with burgundy for lunch.
When I’m sixty-five I’ll pop back home for tea.......
But when I’m sixty-six .......I’ll book a Saga cruise, you’ll see!
Lulu Gee
I Dream of being a Dishonest Politician
I wish to be a politician
With lawless, hedonistic greed
Standing up in Parliament
On behalf of those in need
Fighting for the homeless
And the ordinary bloke
Working for a living
His country and kinsfolk
It’s no difference where I live
I can claim a second home
Maybe with a moat
Most definitely a gnome!
Should it have dry rot
We’ll call the builders in
Expense should not be spared
I’ll just create more spin
Oh, it’s a spiffin’ tax dodge
Being an MP...
If I get a ‘grace n favour’
Everything is free
With my housing windfall
I‘ll sidestep a Capital Gain
Without questions asked
Or having to explain
As half term approaches
I’ll take the kids away
Claiming enough fuel
For a round trip to Bombay!
The Green Book says,’ no limits’
So I’ll travel first class
Thus, resting in opulence
My political defunct arse!
Then in the summer recess
I’ll desire a barbecue
And a Poggenpohl kitchen
For my flat at Waterloo
Hoping no-one will notice
My accountant’s claim
For filling out my tax form
In this ‘ere fraudster’s game
I’ll have complete freedom
To conduct an iffy scam
Then go on to Question Time
(Like a slaughtered lamb)
To bamboozle the audience
With stupid MP’s lingo
Before claiming on expenses
For a night out at Bingo!
So vote for Lulu Gee
I’m a scandalous, swindling liar
Feathering my nest
Like a balding lammergeier
When I finally get ousted
A pay-off l’ll receive
Just for being a rogue
With tax dodges up my sleeve
Lulu Gee
29 July 2009 - Lulu needs little excuse to fire off yet another poem much my chagrin; I think sometimes that she does it to make me feel inadequate.
Last week she went to Buckingham Palace to a Garden Party hosted by Her Majesty for a charity The 'Not Forgotten' Association for the ex-Service Disabled. She told me that she felt so humbled to be in the presence of such brave and courageous men and women. She was moved to tears hearing the tales of horror from men who had been prisoners of war, young soldiers back from Afghanistan with no limbs to speak of. One young man was walking on his knees. She told me that she could have cried a million tears . . . . . . . There had to be another poem there . . . . . . J.C.
‘The Not Forgotten’
At Buckingham Palace they’re changing the guard,
The police are in force, wearing each a brassard.
The marquee’s erected, the guests all arrive
And the Queen’s lovely garden is in overdrive.
At the palace...
‘Tis “The Not Forgotten” July’s garden party,
No sign of fatigues, or camouflage khaki!
But ladies in hats, who look chic and appealing,
(A rare sight indeed, for the tourists’ sightseeing.)
At the palace...
An empty black coach, drawn by horses four,
Denoting the carnage caused, in ‘The Great War,’
Drives up to the Palace and enters the gate,
Quietly, sedately, while we all wait.
At the palace...
Old soldiers, and seamen and airmen forgather,
To pay their respects and to have a good blather,
There’s talk about comrades, they fought alongside,
On the beaches of France and the banks of Port Said.
At the palace...
I listen to stories of Dunkirk and Arnhem,
By men in their nineties who fought for our freedom,
I see medals worn, with both honour and pride
And at old wizened faces, who’ve seen genocide.
At the palace...
Campaigns have been fought in the west and the east,
In the air and at sea, sometimes on a geest.
There’s talk of the ships, by the Mariners’ there
And the planes taking off, on a wing and a prayer!
At the palace...
There are prisoners of war, who survived dreadful pain
From the Japanese camps, cruelly inhumane,
But now they are laughing, regaling us all,
With memories of briefings, (direct from Whitehall.)
At the palace...
They went into battle, for you and for me,
To free us of Hitler and Mussolini,
Some never returned to their mothers or wives,
Heroically, they laid down their young lives.
At the palace...
As I look around here there’s a new generation,
From modern day wars, suffering limb amputation,
From Afghanistan and the dunes of Iraq,
We must hail and salute, as our wounded come back!
At the palace...
“The Not Forgotten” bequeaths comfort from fear,
To the mentally ill and the wounded, with cheer.
They alleviate tedium with laughter and mirth,
Giving back to the serviceman, all that he’s worth!
At the palace...
From the world of showbiz, I see famous faces
Who’ve entertained troops, (in too many places,)
They’ll respectfully honour, as I have today
While enjoying our tea from a sumptuous array.
At the palace...
Our own, “Forces’ Sweetheart,” Dame Vera Lynn,
Wearing her medals on a blue velvet pin,
Smiling and chattering to soldiers and sailors,
Her friends and well wishers and brave aviators.
At the palace...
Now its four thirty, The Royals must depart,
The Countess of Wessex and The Earl looking smart
The tall Duke of Kent, well, he’s taking a while
Shaking everyone’s hand, as he chats with a smile.
At the palace...
The Irish Guards’ Band, play “Beating Retreat”
As Her Majesty The Queen, looking petite
Appears at her window, waving to us all,
As The Chelsea Pensioners’ march back to the hall.
At the palace...
This exceptional party now draws to conclusion,
I feel reverential, without delusion,
About the benevolence I’ve witnessed today,
I applaud, “The Not Forgotten,” to cheer, ‘hip, hoorah.’
At the palace...
Lulu G
24th August 2009 - Even more congratulations are due to Lulu G. She has won the Bronze Medal in a worldwide completion for War Battle Poetry with a poem thst she recently wrote as a tribute to the young men of the Parachute Regiment who were recently killed in Afghanistan.
Lament for a Red Beret
Go forward brave Paras
Into the breach,
Young lads, young men
Going out of our reach.
Go, obey orders,
You’ve sung lullabies
To your young babies,
With tears in your eyes.
Go fearless Paras,
Campaign with pride,
Come home heroic
To your wife, lover, bride.
Go with our love lads,
We wish you all well,
As you take command
In Afghanistan’s hell.
Go out on patrol
Into hostile terrain,
Where the Taliban threat,
Is so bloody insane!
Go valiant Paras
Into the hot sun,
Where food is deprived
And you sleep with your gun!
Go over the hill lads
And the ravine,
Watch where you tread,
For the bombs are unseen.
Go onward brave Paras,
Seek out the scourge
Of the raging insurgents,
We’ll sing you a dirge.
Go into your battles,
With God by your side
And angels above you,
To guard and to guide.
Go to your chaplain,
Kneel down in prayer,
Wanting to make sense
Of this bloody warfare!
‘Beat the Retreat’ Paras,
Enough has been said,
For another red beret
Is among our war dead.
Amen...
Lulu Gee