Our weekly poetry and prose evenings held on zoom every Wednesday evening at 8pm have yielded some home grown talent. This is a selection of their poetry.
Wednesday Evenings 2020
One day in March the UK closed
“Won’t be for long” we all supposed
Shut off from family and from friends
“Won’t be that long until it ends”
All plans we had were put on hold
We had to do as we were told
We must keep safe everyone
Wont be that long until it’s done
On Wednesday evenings stuck indoors
Staring at the walls and floors
Oh months have passed and still we’re here
Battling through this crazy year
We can go out but limits are
The shops, the gym, the park, a bar
The theatres dark. They had to close
No live music, poetry, prose
No audience could group together
(Except outside, if decent weather)
On Wednesday evenings, no end in sight
To restart Gage rehearsal night
We hold our breath and know we’ll whoop
When our little am dram group
Can meet again. I miss those times
I miss learning all those lines
An idea came – as there’s no show
We’ll meet online. Let everyone know.
We can read out poems from our childhood days,
Favourite verses, speeches from plays
On Wednesday evenings we’re on Zoom
No need to leave your living room
To date we’ve had a lovely time
Reading out some prose and rhyme
And some things we wrote ourselves
We’ve wracked our brains and searched our shelves
Those who wanted came and read
Their choices. Others came instead
Just to listen and to see
Their friends. Gage Players family
On Wednesday evenings eight ’til nine
Come join us. You can bring your wine.
We heard of Gus: The Theatre Cat
By T S Eliot, then The Bat
By D H Lawrence. What came next?
Gill’s limericks about her pets
In fact we all did have a go
At writing limericks, although
A few of us wrote of The Gage
And all who did rhymed Gage with stage!
On Wednesday evenings every week
Come join us if some fun you seek
Under Milk Wood and Fern Hill
By Dillan Thomas. What a thrill
To all us Zoomers tuning in
We sit there with our tea…or gin.
The Eighteen hundreds had much to teach
With Ulysses and Dover Beach
Then The Listeners – Walter de la Mere
A little Bard and some Pam Ayres
On Wednesday evenings ’til this ends
Please join us, and do tell your friends.
by Debbie Nichols
There once was a nice little ghost
Whose favouritest treat was hot toast
With marmalade, or dripping – his friends said he shouldn’t –
Or butter, or jam – but oh dear, he just couldn’t
Decide which of all he liked most.
by Gill Gibbins
ON A STONY BEACH
Ow ! Oo ! what a bad idea
These stones are really hurting
I thought they might be painful
And now I am quite certain
I should have bought those paddling shoes
But they’d have cost five pounds
I’d pay their weight in gold right now
To get across this ground
My grandson thought this would be fun
But then he’s very light
He thinks it is a lovely game
Precious little mite.
Brr ! Wow ! It’s freezing
How can it be so cold
Was it always like this
Or am I getting old ?
I choose exactly where I step
And tread with great precision
But nowhere’s painless for my feet
Whatever the decision
I tell myself I must remember
Not to use expletives
A civilised man would never swear
However bad his feet is
I’m sure it’s getting even worse
This is excruciating
No score at all for this one
On my Trip Advisor rating
No doubt I will forget all this
No doubt I will return
And suffer cold and battered feet
I’m sure I’ll never learn
by Pip Rolls
There once was an amdram theatre
That performed every play to the letter.
They became all the rage,
Their name was The Gage,
And they kept getting better and better.
by Gill Gibbins
There was an old fogey from Cheam
Who, of reading, really was keen,
He read Orson Scott Card
And the Marques de Sade
But the latter found rather obscene.
by Lars Sawyer
There was a young woman from Kent,
Who never could quite pay her rent.
Filled her landlord’s belly
With grub off the telly
He said, ” Nigella, my dear, you just ain’t!
by Franki Gray
There was a young lady from Surrey,
Who seemed,always, to be in a hurry.
When asked what the rush was,
She got in a tiswas
Which really became quite a worry.
by Franki Gray
There is no sun without shadows and it is essential to know the night‘
So wrote Camus…
Albert, I think you‘re right.
For every painting whether flattering or not,
There‘s many an artist, dipping brushes into pot,
Creating light and shade, in the painting that they’ve made.
Depicting every feeling, every mood.
Who cares if adoring publics think it‘s good.
You‘ve lived your feelings, worn your heart upon your sleeve,
In giving all to make your canvas live.
With every brush stroke infused by strong emotion,
When chisroscura is your ever present potion,
To lift the spirit, or to smooth it down,
Without the shadows, of the darkest sepia brown,
You cannot give a living face a frown,
Or the character from where our souls shine forth.
Why‘d we all be judged for just our photo‘s worth?
For beauty‘s only skin deep,so they say,
Yet, every line and shadow can betray,
What truly lies beneath that membrane,
Transcending others eyes…and ours.
Aren‘t we all a little tired of our constant wish to be admired.
They tell me contour‘s all the rage,
How often do I click upon a page,
To see a young, bright face, staring out,
Or pouting, as seems to be this lightweight trend,
At first, I hardly recognise a friend.
Oh, I know you, but, do you know what,
In reality, you’ve never looked like that.
Ah, illusion‘s clearly all the fashion.
What‘d we not give to experience such passion,
I‘m betting that , again, again,
This online world is filled with disappointed men…
In the real one…
by Franki Gray
There once were some keen chocolatiers
Consumed by such heart-rending fears –
As they stirred and they poured
All their vitals were gnawed –
Would the whole process just end in tears?
by Gill Gibbins
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