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.

Is This Poetry Or Prose? Comical poem 773 by Angela Lansbury

 Who knows, and do you really know

If you wrote poetry or prose?

If you've read lots of poetry

When you write prose, strong feeling shows

But is it really poetry

With rhythm and with proper rhyme?

Did you count feet or syllables

Make sure each line took the same time?

A poem can be short, sharp, swift 

Be a piece of propaganda

Unlike a smart, reasoned essay

Which should be an even-hander

I often see so-called poetry

Religious rant, or political

It doesn't sound quite right to me

Cut lines are verse, not poems at all.

Some people write a quick, loud rant

Whilst others moan and groan all day

if you've got no rhyme nor rhythm

Maybe you should write sn essay

If you are so fraught with strong thought

But lack time for punctuation

Don't foist muddled struggle on us

Send words to another station.

-ends-

World Poetry Day comical poem 537 by Angela Lansbury

 

Today is world poetry day

When every budding poet knows

You have to speak in poetry

And not one wasteful word of prose

I tried to speak in poetry

Asking prices from the plumbers

One cut the call. Seriously.

I got strange looks from the builders

I said, "Write down your quotation

So that my husband can compare

And please punctuate the numbers

Don't stick dots, commas, everywhere!"

Now that poetry day's over

We all breathe big sighs of relief

Poetry's best left to poets

Not busy builders, that's their belief.

-ends-