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About megustaleer

  • Rank
  • Birthday 31/07/1945


  • Location
    Sussex UK
  • Interests
    Reading, Gardening, Grandchildren
  • How did you hear about this site?
    via bookgroup.info

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  • Location
    Sussex by the Sea

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  1. Poetic Wanderings

    I'm just in love with all these three, The Weald an' the Marsh an' the Down countrie; Nor I don't know which I love the most, The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk coast! I've buried my heart in a ferny hill, Twix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill. Oh, hop-bine yaller an' wood-smoke blue, I reckon you'll keep her middling true! I've loosed my mind to out an' run On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun: Oh, Romney level an' Brenzett reeds, I reckon you know what my mind needs! I've given my soul to the Southdown grass, An' sheep-bells tinkled where you pass. Oh, Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea, I reckon you keep my soul for me! A Three Part Song by Rudyard Kipling
  2. Poetic Wanderings

    The King asked The Queen, and The Queen asked The Dairymaid: "Could we have some butter for The Royal slice of bread?" The Queen asked the Dairymaid, The Dairymaid Said, "Certainly, I'll go and tell the cow Now Before she goes to bed." The Dairymaid She curtsied, And went and told The Alderney: "Don't forget the butter for The Royal slice of bread." The Alderney Said sleepily: "You'd better tell His Majesty That many people nowadays Like marmalade Instead." The Dairymaid Said, "Fancy!" And went to Her Majesty. She curtsied to the Queen, and She turned a little red: "Excuse me, Your Majesty, For taking of The liberty, But marmalade is tasty, if It's very Thickly Spread." The Queen said "Oh!: And went to His Majesty: "Talking of the butter for The royal slice of bread, Many people Think that Marmalade Is nicer. Would you like to try a little Marmalade Instead?" The King said, "Bother!" And then he said, "Oh, deary me!" The King sobbed, "Oh, deary me!" And went back to bed. "Nobody," He whimpered, "Could call me A fussy man; I only want A little bit Of butter for My bread!" The Queen said, "There, there!" And went to The Dairymaid. The Dairymaid Said, "There, there!" And went to the shed. The cow said, "There, there! I didn't really Mean it; Here's milk for his porringer, And butter for his bread." The Queen took The butter And brought it to His Majesty; The King said, "Butter, eh?" And bounced out of bed. "Nobody," he said, As he kissed her Tenderly, "Nobody," he said, As he slid down the banisters, "Nobody, My darling, Could call me A fussy man - BUT I do like a little bit of butter to my bread! The King's Breakfast by A.A. Milne
  3. Poetic Wanderings

    A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one spring When she was a girl on the farm, she did A childlike thing. One day she asked her father To give her a garden plot To plant and tend and reap herself, And he said, "Why not?" In casting about for a corner He thought of an idle bit Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood, And he said, "Just it." And he said, "That ought to make you An ideal one-girl farm, And give you a chance to put some strength On your slim-jim arm." It was not enough of a garden Her father said, to plow; So she had to work it all by hand, But she don't mind now. She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow Along a stretch of road; But she always ran away and left Her not-nice load, And hid from anyone passing. And then she begged the seed. She says she thinks she planted one Of all things but weed. A hill each of potatoes, Radishes, lettuce, peas, Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn, And even fruit trees. And yes, she has long mistrusted That a cider-apple tree In bearing there today is hers, Or at least may be. Her crop was a miscellany When all was said and done, A little bit of everything, A great deal of none. Now when she sees in the village How village things go, Just when it seems to come in right, She says, "I know! "It's as when I was a farmer..." Oh never by way of advice! And she never sins by telling the tale To the same person twice. A Girl's Garden by Robert Frost
  4. Poetic Wanderings

    At times when under cover I 'ave said, To keep my spirits up an' raise a laugh, 'Earin 'im pass so busy over-'ead - Old Nickel-Neck, 'oo isn't on the Staff - "There's one above is greater than us all" Before 'im I 'ave seen my Colonel fall, An 'watched 'im write my Captain's epitaph, So that a long way off it could be read - He 'as the knack o' makin' men feel small - Old Whistle Tip, 'oo isn't on the Staff. There is no sense in fleein' (I 'ave fled), Better go on an' do the belly-crawl, An' 'ope' 'e'1l 'it some other man instead Of you 'e seems to 'unt so speshual - Fitzy van Spitz, 'oo isn't on the Staff. An' thus in mem'ry's biograph, Now that the show is over, I recall The peevish voice an' 'oary mushroom 'ead Of 'im we owned was greater than us all, 'Oo give instruction to the quick an' the dead - The Shudderin' Beggar - not upon the Staff! The Instructor by Rudyard Kipling
  5. A to Z Game

    The Simon Park Orchestra - Eye Level who remembers Van der Valk?
  6. Poetic Wanderings

    Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. God bless Mummy. I know that's right. Wasn't it fun in the bath to-night? The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot. Oh! God bless Daddy - I quite forgot. If I open my fingers a little bit more, I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door. It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood. Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good. Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed, And pull the hood right over my head, And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small, And nobody knows that I'm there at all. Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day. And what was the other I had to say? I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be? Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me. Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. Vespers by A A Milne
  7. Just Abandoned

    Two books I really enjoyed - must be the hot weather making it difficult to concentrate!
  8. Poetic Wanderings

    Prayer the church's banquet, angel's age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tow'r, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-days world transposing in an hour, A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, Exalted manna, gladness of the best, Heaven in ordinary, man well drest, The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, The land of spices; something understood. Prayer by George Herbert
  9. Poetic Wanderings

    There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. from Don Juan - canto XV by Lord George Gordon Byron
  10. Poetic Wanderings

    'Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that ne'er did flow That in the sun Did rivulets run, And all around rare flowers did blow The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale And the queenly lily adown the dale (Whom the sun and the dew And the winds did woo), With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew. So when in tears The love of years Is wasted like the snow, And the fine fibrils of its life By the rude wrong of instant strife Are broken at a blow Within the heart Do springs upstart Of which it doth now know, And strange, sweet dreams, Like silent streams That from new fountains overflow, With the earlier tide Of rivers glide Deep in the heart whose hope has died-- Quenching the fires its ashes hide,-- Its ashes, whence will spring and grow Sweet flowers, ere long, The rare and radiant flowers of song! The Forest Reverie - EdgarAllen Poe
  11. Poetic Wanderings

    Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? from Tarantella by Hilaire Belloc
  12. Poetic Wanderings

    Yes, I think a poem is a spell of kinds that keep things living in a written line, whatever's lost or leaving - lock off rhyme - and so I write and write and write your name. Spell - Carol Ann Duffy
  13. Poetic Wanderings

    I SAY that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows, But that is nothing new. Afraid they might be beaten Before the bench of Time, They turned a trick by forgery And blackened his good name. A perjurer stood ready To prove their forgery true; They gave it out to all the world, And that is something new; For Spring Rice had to whisper it, Being their Ambassador, And then the speakers got it And writers by the score. Come Tom and Dick, come all the troop That cried it far and wide, Come from the forger and his desk, Desert the perjurer's side; Come speak your bit in public That some amends be made To this most gallant gentleman That is in quicklime laid. Roger Casement - W.B. Yeats
  14. Have a Rant!

    So sorry about your injuries iff. I hope they mend soon. Also sorry about your brother not taking the ticket for Paul Simon & James Taylor. I would love to help you out there, but it's a bit too far to travel!
  15. Poetic Wanderings

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll