Writers' Holiday. Comical Poem 820 by Angela Lansbury.

The Hayes Conference Centre. Rear View. August 2026. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

The Hayes Conference Centre, bedroom in main house. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

I drive up to the old house

Who is watching as I pass?

The old cows pause to glance at me

Still chewing on the tasty grass 

I stop to take a photo

Don't miss an opportunity

Though no poem nor prose yet planned

One day that could inspire me

In my mind many scenes are played

I'll write a feature, or a book

A best-seller, made into films

Magazine letter, modestly paid

I find a handy parking place

It's early, so I grab the space

I run inside the open door

And search for a familiar face

It's so good to be me

When you say you're glad to see me

I'm sure it's good to be you

When I say, 'I'm glad to see you, too!'

In the bedroom I unpack

My brand new dress bought to impress

Discover vital things I lack

I must make do 'til I go back

I must admit a year has passed

An older face looks from the glass

We've had days and friends, good and bad

Erase the mad, embrace the glad 

Circle the lounges in the break

And then sit down with chocolate cake

Delighted with new friends I'll make

Whilst handy tips I give and take

There's one gone I used to know

Gone to the place where old friends go

Ask mutual friends, 'D'you remember ...,' while

I see the ghost of her great smile

While strangers chat, some of them frown

Another calls, 'Come here, sit down!'

So this happy day is giving

New memories of those still living

I had to sit by a silent nerd

But he explained, glad to be heard

I exclaimed, 'Your head's full of value!'

And he was complimentary, too

In the hall I find an empty chair

The old piano stool is empty 

But somebody new sits down

Their pounding music fills the air

Sometimes I read, sometimes I write

The happy days turn into nights

I listen, late night scribble notes

I don't want to turn off the light

Until the day we pack to go

Say goodbye, wave, to those we know

To new friends, now firm friends, so dear

I promise, 'I'll be here next year!'

-ends-

Writers' Summer School at the Hayes, Swanwick, Derbyshire, England. 

People, now gone, who I remember: 

1The piano player; I bought his signed book. 

2 I miss Kim, who made a space for me on the sofa by moving up when others said no room. She looked me in the eye, and whispered conspiratorially, 'Some people are givers, some people are takers'. 

3 Tony Greenfield, the luminary statistician. His son, Lance, was still active in the Swanwick writers' scene long after Tony was gone.. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Greenfield

4 The helpful, knowledgeable, newbie nerd later became a valued committee member and is still always active. 

I changed some folks made you mad. Now others make you glad, too many syllables. I wrote this poem in 2025, and found it before setting off for Swanwick in 2026. Lance not there.

I'm Searching For A Metaphor, Bed-ridden. Comical poem number 803 by Angela Lansbury.

Angela Lansbury in red and white dress by Thai style double beds beside Melia hotel swimming pool, Tenerife, Canary Islands. Photo by Trevor Sharot.

What can I say about this gorgeous, fancy bed?

I have a dictionary of words churning through my mixer head 

I want to inspire, with hopes, visions and dreams

The possible, impossible, what is is and merely seems

I climb every mountain looking for a metaphor

I swim a sea of similes and copy those who wrote before

I reflect and then reject originals which I suspect

Will not endure, and throw them on the floor

I look at pots, at kettles, at black, and red and white

I search through morn, dawn and torn, dark night, white snow and light

I'm happy seeing sunlight, and storms and rain and pain

I hope the night will put things right in spring, forget the years of winter tears sure to come again

I ride a mental horse along the river's course, back to the bubbling source

View the battle which does not stop until I reach the mountaintop

I wait for my ship, train, bus, bike, donkey, camel, plane, which end all pain and bring me joy again

Like a gift list, parcel, birthday song, which lasts so long it makes me strong

Ready to walk with boots or shoes, clad in my clothes of reds and blues

And eat ice cream with friends I meet, along the leafy, shady street

Until at last all words are said, and I can rest my heavy head

End my day my own way, and post four times from my silk-soft bed.

-ends-

The last line in a pun on four poster bed.