Holiday On The Internet

Making Memories With You

by Angela Lansbury

Wear your sarong; the only thing to pack's
Your suitcase of memories you must bring back
Tomorrow we're taking our best trip yet
A holiday around the internet

We both wake up late at the crack of dawn
From dreams of tennis on a big green lawn
White cricket balls which arch overhead, slow
My holiday, garden bouquet - let's go!

We don't need taxis if we stay at home
You're in the en suite, so I'm not alone
Watch a stranger's tail-wag dog eat a bone
You march past, smile, on a fully charged phone

When at our peak we were admired
Now in a lull, when half-retired
We feel poor, take our holiday
At home, free parking on our driveway

Drink fresh coffee from our machine
Sit cuddling, sharing our travel dream
Travel back through the photo ages
We click, trek Everest on YouTube pages

First class flights, the best trips yet
Balloon world-wide around the internet
We don't need jabs, nor to pack sun cream
Change money, buy mosquito screen

We sit close, share what's on the screen
Make lists, screen capture where we've been
Toss dice, you choose first where you want to go
To ski past chalets in deep snow

Then I can sail for somewhere sunny
Take a long cruise which costs no money
Land on a shell beach in a foreign land
Cocktails, coconuts, palms, soft sand

Swim safely in wavy, white-blue seas
Drink endless red wine and eat blue cheese
Share bubbly on our best trip yet
Dance the crowded, colourful, musical internet.

In carry cot or wheelchair, seventy or seven
Sick or in five star hotels, live every day in heaven.

-ends-
Copyright Angela Lansbury, travel writer and photographer, comic poet.

Hoarder's Song by Angela Lansbury

Are you living in a clutter?
Did you learn it from your mother?
Just saving for a rain-swept day
So never giving stuff away?

Yes, collecting is rewarding
Wasteful folks may claim you're hoarding
They're not to bleu. You're not to blame
If you store two things, both the same

If you've two then they make a pair
Don't tell me that I ought to share
Don't say you're 'helping' 'cos you care
I'll lock all my doors, so beware

I'm tidy and dust when I must
Store leftovers, eat the last crust
I store what's broken or shows rust
There's no cleaner I could trust

Recycle, all can be repaired
Retired and poor I'm not yet scared
I can save cuttings from long hair
I've two lifetime's clothes yet to wear

I never lend, never borrow
But I'll tidy up - tomorrow.
-ends-
Author's note:
Inspired by
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3606311/Former-university-lecturer-59-clutter-spilling-letterbox-30-years-hoarding-thousands-books-lecture-notes-exam-papers-finally-clear-out.html#reader-comments

Angela Lansbury, May 24 2016 copyright

Today I'm Not One Hundred

100

Today I'm Not One Hundred
by Angela Lansbury

Today I'm not one hundred
I'm a hundred and one!
It's tomorrow in Australia
Wave to my iPad, oh what fun!

My arms are frail, my fingers thin
Don't ask me to shake hands
Don't ask about my future
What's the point of making plans?

I've been sent vouchers for bungee jumping
And balloon trips to Australia
And some kind folks in Switzerland
Have sent discounts on euthanasia

Who are my friends? My dear, all ghosts
Of the past, I hear their laughter
Don't send more money-making priests
With bills, wills - prayers for the hereafter

What have I done? Eaten birthday cake
You ask me where I've been?
Speak up! What? I'm lip-reading -
Did you ask me who I've seen?

You can see all my photographs
Fading faces on the wall
I keep signing books, giving autographs
Getting chocolates, eat them all

You ask me what is the secret
Of living long? So long? Too long?
Like the queen mother, who had health and wealth
Drink bubbly, smile and stagger on

What do I eat? Just mushy stuff
Good teeth soft, not yet rotten
Now what's your name? Tell me again
I've already forgotten

I'd love to hear about your life
Dear, I wish you all the best!
Tell me, is our five minutes up?
I need my commode, a bath, a rest.

You asked if I'm staying queen?
This sign language stuff is hard!
Yes, I'm treated like a queen!
Yes, future kings signed a joint card!
-ends-

Flying Home See 'Si' Sea

Flying Home (Singapore to London)

by Angela Lansbury

See - the sky’s blue; the sunshine’s gold

The clouds look soft, fluffy, bright white.

Watched comic films, dramas, warm, coldI

Yet slept sound, upright, half the night

Cross new Europe, Poland, not Spain

“Si!” Languages ‘oui’ understand

Back to face bills, take pills again -

Rain waters rose, pines, waved wheat land

Water glasses clink like di’monds

Omelette, like perfume, wafts through air

Smilers wheel breakfast, offer choice

Shut eyes, dream, rest - stretch - soon be there!

Houses like toys, stand in neat rows

Cute cars race past puffed tiny trains

Drop down! Below, maybe hail, snows

Who cares - clunk, bump - we’re home again!

Angela Lansbury

May 2016

Poet’s notes: 

Inspired by a Facebook post enthusing about flying back to London.

I wrote the poem about flying over Spain, then a member of my family said that you don't fly over France or Spain from Singapore but over Poland.

Puns on sea and si, oui and we.

I changed roses to rose to save a syllable, which leaves the word rose ambiguous between a noun and the past tense of a verb, no longer meaning roses in English gardens but evoking flood water from the river or sea which rises or rose.

I changed cute cars which is alliterative to allow an extra syllable for puffed tiny trains which is both visual, puffing train, and ambiguous, the puffed or exhausted train, stops to let cars overtake. 

The scenes in the films are serious and comic, warm and cold. So is the temperature change in the plane from warm when boarding in Singapore to cold when arriving in London, England.Then I reinserted cute and deleted small, since I already had toys and tiny to convey the idea of small.  I thought of ‘houses like toy teeth, tombstones,’ or ‘neat milk teeth rows’ but I left the sentence unchanged to flow. The clunk is the dropping of the undercarriage; the bump is the plane landing.

In May when we flew back reports in the BBC news were of snow in Scotland the Midlands and even London, where snow did not settle but hailstones fell. Previous weeks had seen a heatwave in London. At the time of writing, May 10 2016, another heatwave.

Waved wheat land. Land is a bit dull. What you see from windows above as you fly over England (or travel by train) is undulating land (unlike the miles of flat land in Holland or what I saw for several days in central America in the nineteen sixties when I took a Greyhound bus) and in England you see leaves and trees and crops waving in the wind

The Train Approaching

The Train Approaching
by Angela Lansbury

The train approaching platform two
Is not the train for me or you
The train approaching is not stopping
Thus evading pigeon dropping

The train's approaching very fast
We passengers think: 'Here - at last!'
It's racing past - but then it slows
To keep us hopefuls on our toes

Today I've made some mental notes
Schools close, open for adult votes
I have no need, I've done the deed
I choose my mayor with postal votes

I did not go to Northwick Park
But seedy Kenton - don't buy shares
Rebuilding, temporary bridge
I 'suppose it shows the mayor cares

The train approaching platform two
At last, the train for me and you
To a Wine Fair, we're on our way
A sunny London Transport day.
-ends-
Angela Lansbury B A Hons, author, poet, performer.

This Poem Is An Atheist's Gift To Believers

Gift of Religion

by Angela Lansbury

This is my gift to you

My first and last white lie

To tell you I saw heaven

A happy or sad sigh

When I was born

And when I die

This is my gift to you

Which I can leave behind

To paint a better world

From my mind to your mind

A touch to soothe the deaf

A word image for the blind

This is my gift for you

For me it has to use

Take it, I do not need it

You gain, I do not lose

An ornament, an art, a lie

I’m practical, I just need truth

What can I leave to you?

A poem or a song?

What can I leave in ribbons

Like a chocolate, when I’m gone?

A lie or just the truth

Am I right or am I wrong?

You may say, she didn’t mean it

You may say what you please

You may say that heaven is golden bells

And the moon is made of cheese

Just say what makes you happy

Stop, or move on, what will ease

The strangest thing is

When we are truly dead

My words still reach to you

Today’s thoughts from my head

Time, and timeless, still preserved

What we both thought, and read and said

And so I leave to you my friend

A friendship that will never end

I would not take away from you

It’s your choice, what you think is true

You do what you want to do

And I will leave a smile for you.

I showed this to my family

It went round and round

One said that it was funny

One said it was profound

So I’ve earned immortality

An atheist underground.

-ends-

Angela Lansbury, May 2nd 2016. Copyright.

Author’s note: The last word underground is slightly pessimistic, but by happy chance it is humorously ambiguous as it could be taken to mean subversive.

I hope this poem will please believers as well as atheists and agnostics. It might even be used as a witty and consoling funeral poem.

I was inspired by a BBC article about an Italian poet.  The theme of the article was how atheists may work against or with religion, seen like myths as providing comfort and common culture.

The translations convey the meaning but miss the emphasis. In the original, as is often the case in English, as should be the case in the translation, the last word of the sentence is the one emphasised by the writer and left most remembered in every listener's mind, as well as anticipated by some readers with a knowledge of that languages words which rhyme.