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Daily Archives: January 7, 2013

This Slimming Lark


I am wanting to look good.
It is high time that I should
The mirror in the wardrobe told me so
I am now no longer fit
Just an old decrepit git
Who lost his youthful figure long ago

My hair is going grey
Doesn’t look like it will stay 
My teeth are on the sideboard in a glass
I’ve somehow lost my zip
and put inches on my hip
I spend too much time sitting on my arse

If I’m not consuming grub
I’ll be boozing down the pub
At keeping fit I am an abject failure
And when I’m in the nude
My belly does protrude
So much so that I cant see my genitalia 

I must go on a diet 
I know that I should try it
No more Pork Pies, Sausage Rolls or Steak and Chips
No more will I take on
A sandwich of bacon
For I wish to reclaim those snake like hips

I think I’ll make a pledge 
To eat only fruit and veg
I will cut out beer and wine and stuff like that
If I tell the truth
My cholesterol’s through the roof
Yet I’ve never been unhappy being fat

I was reared on bread and lard 
So I sometimes find it hard
To take on board the things my Doctor said
I tell you I’m not joking
I enjoy food, beer and smoking 
And as for my old Doctor, well he’s dead.

So should I reduce my food? 
I’m not really in the mood
As I sit here watching Masters Chefs on telly
And when I’m no longer here
There’s no need to shed a tear
Just be happy that I went with a full belly.

Bugger the diet! ! ! ! ! ! ! 

roy may

The month after Christmas

‘Twas the month after Christmas,
and all through the house
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I’d nibbled, the eggnog I’d taste
At the holiday parties had gone to my waist.
When I got on the scales there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store
(less a walk than a lumber).
I’d remember the marvelous meals I’d prepared;
The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,
The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese
And the way I’d never said, “No thank you, please.”
As I dressed myself in my husband’s old shirt
And prepared once again to do battle with dirt—
I said to myself, as I only can
“You can’t spend a winter disguised as a man!”
So–away with the last of the sour cream dip,
Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip
Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
“Till all the additional ounces have vanished.
I won’t have a cookie–not even a lick.
I’ll want only to chew on a long celery stick.
I won’t have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,
I’ll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
I’m hungry, I’m lonesome, and life is a bore—
But isn’t that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!
~Author Unknown 



“January is here, with eyes that keenly glow,
A frost-mailed warrior 
striding a shadowy steed of snow.” 
–  Edgar Fawcett


“Nature has undoubtedly mastered the art of winter gardening and even the most experienced gardener can learn from the unrestrained beauty around them.”
–  Vincent A. Simeone  


“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.”  
–  Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 


“The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather we may look forward to in January and February, at least we notice that the days are getting longer.  Minute by minute they lengthen out.  It takes some weeks before we become aware of the change.  It is imperceptible even as the growth of a child, as you watch it day by day, until the moment comes when with a start of delighted surprise we realize that we can stay out of doors in a 
twilight lasting for another quarter of a precious hour.”
–  Vita Sackville-West


“January is the quietest month in the garden.  …  But just because it looks quiet doesn’t mean that nothing is happening.  The soil, open to the sky, absorbs the pure rainfall while microorganisms convert tilled-under fodder into usable nutrients for the next crop of plants.  The feasting earthworms tunnel along, aerating the soil and preparing it to welcome the seeds and bare roots to come.”
–  Rosalie Muller Wright, Editor of Sunset Magazine, 1/99


“There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter.  One is the January thaw.  The other is the seed catalogues.”
–  Hal Borland


“Here’s to thee, old apple tree 
Whence thou mayest bud 
Whence thou mayest blow 
Whence thou mayest bear apples enow.”
–  Wassailing Songs, England, January 5th

Saddest poem


I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.” 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer. 

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
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