My Good Friend Ruth, comic poem 164

 I have a friend, whose name is Ruth

The kind who always tells the truth

If you promise, please deliver

She'll recall and tell for ever

She won't lie, she'll tell passers-by

If you're the crying sort, you'll cry

I haven't seen her, for so long

I wonder: What did I do wrong?

I'll phone her up, give her a shout

Ask what her exit's all about

She's pleased to speak, seems glad to hear

"I've only got a minute, dear!

I'm tired of speaking, and room booking

Left Toastmasters, back to cooking 

Here's a reminder, tell the truth

At cooking classes, run by Ruth.

-ends-

Photo of Trevor cooking with home made bread. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

The Extravert Meets The Introvert comic poem 163 by Angela Lansbury

 by Angela Lansbury

Spot the extravert. Photo by Angela Lansbury.

The extravert and the introvert

What are they going to do?

The sooner we know, the better

To predict the links from me to you

Extravert or introvert?

How do you recognize?

Extravert or introvert

Doesn't depend on their size

The extravert laughs loudly

And runs to shake your hand

The extravert's the solo singer

The other hides at the back of the band

When it comes to taking a picture

The introvert plays second fiddle

Takes the photo, stands to the side

The extravert pushes into the front - and the middle!

An introvert wears gray or black

He or she hardly speaks at all

Go and inspect their hand writing

Hard to read, the letters are all - too small

What puzzles analytic me

What's contradictory and strange

Is experience or training

Over years, can make both exchange

I was born a shy, only child

I was an introvert, small girl

Then I grew old, fat and jolly

Strutting and shouting to the world

I stayed alone at home, tearful, alone

I wrote dark thoughts, folded the page

Now I'm smiling and wearing red

Standing and dancing, centre stage

An introvert or extravert

Two striking words which chime and rhyme

Kind extravert meets introvert

Both have their right place and good time.

-ends

Poem by Angela Lansbury. Preview for book edited by Carolyn Street.

Up in the Dumps, comic poem 162 by Angela Lansbury

Renovation site with attractive arched windows. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

Litter bins, old style and new kiddie style. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.
 

When others feel down in the dumps

I feel happy, up in the dumps 

Each day's a new-found pleasure

Hunting treasure, down by the dumps

My best photo's upside down

You can't see what I want to show

'Just turn your head,' I've always said.

So what went wrong? -  I do not know

I find a shoe box

Two half pairs of socks

Scales which won't weight

And a broken clock

And a suitcase, a bit dirty

With broken locks

A scurry and hurry

To leave my crime scene

I hope nobody knows

What has that camera seen?

Look at that! I look every day

My treasure's what they throw away

They are careless, impatient, blind 

To the fact they're being so kind

Every habit grows is a habit

Which forms an acquired new taste

I'm feeling smug, convinced myself

I'm almost a saint, saving waste

Even when there's no shining sun

So long as it's not hard raining

I take my brolly to the dump

I'm smiling, I'm not complaining

My husband rebukes me

He says, admit, you're a hoarder

I think it's high time

That you set these rooms in order

I sneak back, creep back, I'm heard, caught

'Hi, what have you brought back today?'

'Nothing at all - er - just something small ...'

I rush off to hide it away

So I start to sort

So what if I'm a hoarder!

I recall what I was taught

Create order from disorder

Wipe up the dust, sweep away hairs

Make sure everything's clean

Lift the rugs, move tables and chairs

Run the new washing machine

The new one plays a little tune

To say the washing cycle's done

It's funny, happy, futuristic

Music, comic, oh what fun

Don't hang wet clothes inside closed rooms

Because the result, so I'm told

Is condensation, water pools

In three days you're growing black mould

Forget your fears, forget your tears

Keep busy, you've a job to do

Organizing every small thing

Pencils, and words, masks against flu

Boxes, pyramids in sizes 

The shoes are straight, in pairs

Cushions neatly spaced on sofas

Covers, tied onto the chairs

I have a grandchild

She's only a toddler

So I've so much to teach her

So much to explain to her

She'll know so much more

Than I did, when she's older

Shell throw, or save

But be even bolder

While I am swimming

The day is dawning

A poem's beginning

The lines of rhymes are forming

Writing is like swimming

If you do it every day

Words like wild flowers

Decorate the way

I'm not a good swimmer

But not a beginner

I can speak all day on Zoom

A featured speaker, after dinner

A rhymer's not a sinner

I'm an explainer

But I choose to amuse

An angelic entertainer.

What more do I need

I could use more pay

Then I could pay a cleaner

Now that would be the day

If I have a lot of friends

I need only one

To step forwards to help me

To get each job done.

-ends-