It is so silent
Just a kitchen clock ticking
I hear, ergo sum
Stories in Rhyme No. 31 – Wanderlust
I had a nagging urge that told me I must write
And so, sitting at my keyboard I began to type.
At first the words came slowly Then gradually not at all
My mind it would not function, nothing to recall.
A thought then came to me, it was an awful shock
I had been stricken with this thing, they call it writer’s block.
This was not the first time, it had happened oft before
And so, I searched my memory for a quick and simply cure.
I began to think of old times, the days of distant past.
Days upon the high seas spent before the mast.
From Angola round the cape to a place called Zanzibar
With rum culls and Lascars and one, one-legged Tar
But now those days are done, no more do I quest
To view a new horizon from a place they call the nest
A garden plot is my place now, it’s where I ply my sport
Planting seeds I gathered up from many foreign ports
I have not seen every seed, there are many still unknown
But those taken and to my plot consigned were well and truly sown.
Did they grow to manhood or plant maturity?
Not always, but it was a wonder just to see
God’s miracle emerging from the soil
Green shoots searching sunshine, with just a modicum of toil.
Ampalaya, a bitter gourd has a taste to be acquired
A vegetable so good to eat, of which I’ve never tired.
And then Kamote, comes purple and it’s sweet
The original potato another tasty treat
With a glass of wine at hand, it’s good to reminisce
]and write down pleasant memories so the grand kids will not miss
Reading of adventure and so learn firsthand the truth
What grandpa was up to in the days of his youth.
And therein lies the use (perhaps) of stories told in rhyme
Many years from now will they stand the test of time
And become the stuff of legend or forgotten and then lost.
Or worse, consigned to boxes, (as I have done) to be buried in a loft.
What fun it is to find them, to blow off gathered dust
And relive forgotten moments and days of wanderlust.
At the corner, just up the street,
is a wonderful place for a wonderful treat.
No other country, no other land,
has this treat which you eat by hand.
That’s right! Your fingers get so greasy,
Try it you’ll like it because it’s easy.
Potatoes peeled and cut into sticks,
and when they’re fried we call them chips.
Cod, Halibut or Plaice and sometimes Sole,
as good as soup but, without the bowl.
We’re talking fish, serious fish.
When battered and fried it’s just delish!.
Flaky mouthfuls of fish so white,
tender and tasty at every bite.
And then we add some things thereto,
pepper and salt and malted brew;
to soak up all the fat they say.
But, actually it’s just another way,
to make this treat taste good for me,
whether it be for my lunch or tea.
I heard they throw new stuff into the frier.
Mars Bars? Ugh, you’re such a liar!
No, it’s true an idea that’s new,
Deep fried dessert, a melted goo.
Ah! no such muck will pass my lips;
Not when I’ve got fish and chips.
Written July 10th, 2000.