Going Back, The Good Old Days Don't Look The Same. Comical Poem 844 by Angela Lansbury.

I go back, good old days have gone

Babies are men, life has moved on

The shops have changed, staff rearranged

Paths motorways, are not the same

The elderly have all passed on

Those teeny cute wild flowers gone

Small houses all doubled in size

That 'stupid' child's now worldly-wise

Dahlias like sunflowers when you're small 

Are gardens buried in concrete

The small cafe has gone away

Italians - kebabs in each street

The teens have married and grown fat

The Dads have all gone bald and old

The teens are wearing caps not hats

No skiing, it's no longer cold

Acorns tall trees, or jungles wild

And yet, some things are better now

The Satnav takes me to the town

I'm never lost with new know how

Fresh fruit - oranges. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

The supermarket offers me

Fresh fruit all seasons from afar

Trikes are replaced by bikes for hire

Maps, languages are on the wire

So going back is not the same

Summers are warmer, not wetter

In truth, I should praise and not blame

On balance, my life now's better.

-ends-

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Noise and Music. Comical poem 747 by Angela Lansbury.

Photo by Angela Lansbury.

 When you are young you dance and are bold

I heard you lose your hearing when you're old

But that doesn't cause me fear and spoil my joys

It makes appreciate every little noise

I heart the audience happily clap

The ticking clock, the dripping tap

The high voice child, the deep voice man

The train, bus, plane, car, van, coach, tram

The old may be stooped, frail and lame

But brighten when you call their name

Choose to be happy, it's a choice

The greatest joy - hear a friend's voice.

-ends-

Steam Train, Praise And Blame, Comic poem by Angela Lansbury - comic poem number 204

 

Author

Poetry Which Rhymes

That train, that train, that train again, 

It trains my whole mind to reframe, 

To times when I, a wondering child, 

Enjoyed time wandering in the wild, 

Would see the puffing , swirling steam, 

A white delight to save for dreams.

 

Good to behold, but truth be told

Steam trains would turn white washing black

And veil the air, pollute your lungs

Cleaner times now, no going back

Some kind driver has spent all day

To bring this vision down our way

Amazed that with our legislation

Who lets pollution hit our station?

Arrive by day, escape by night

I don't ask. I am too polite.

So let's just keep our fantasy

And let our eyes feast on steam's dance

And dream of good times in a trance

Re-living innocence - rare chance.

We now have clean, fast electric trains

Yet let, slow, steam trains, decorate our brains.

-ends-

Comic poem by Angela Lansbury on blogspot, poems by Hazel Nutter.

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The link to this poem is

https://comicpoemsbynutter.blogspot.com/2023/07/author-poetry-which-rhymes-that-train.html

International Poetry Day - Comic Poem 167

Hail the global Poetry Day! 

Set your syllables in order

Sort old, lost rhymes, blow dust away  

Print a pretty, fern-filled border

Proudly pick out your best poem

Buy, and unwrap, a gold, fine frame

On the wall, enhance your sweet home

In a child's eyes, you have found fame.

The world's best poem is mother's

Like cooking, hers outshines others.

Except gran's historic pleasure

Awesome as a Roman treasure.

-ends-

Copyright Angela Lansbury 2023 March 21st.

Author's comment

The word International pushed the syllable count up to 10 from 8, so I changed the word to global.

I now see other on The Fertile Brains in WhatsApp calling World Poetry Day.  I thought that so long as the correct term was in the title, that was good enough.

A couplet or four line verse is enhanced by a nature scene background or border. 

Unwrap the frame because I often buy a frame which is too good for any item which needs framing. The new frame lies in its dust-defying wrapper.  But if it deserves framing, it deserves a good frame. The old, improved, poem has been elevated to wall status and deserves the special saved frame, which clears clutter. 

Just as every mother and grandmother thinks her toddler's daub is a masterpiece, each child thinks a poem written by an adult and printed is genius. Children's or child's?

I tried alternating the rhymes of the couplets lines in the last verse  from aa bb to abab, but the aa bb made better sense and had more impact. Any purist editor who hates couplets is welcome to move those lines around. So long as I get the credit.