What a noise crows make
When hawks approach their high nests
Din could wake the dead
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.
For the past few weeks I have been digging in my spare time for papers, packed long ago and forgotten for a few years. I did mention some time ago that years ago I had written poetry about Fish and Chips. For those of you who are from the U.K. or have visited the british Isles this will be no mystery. However, for some, this may be new. Fish and Chips used to be a staple throughout the country, until perhaps the advent of Indian “take-out”. Anyway, be that as it may, here is a short piece I found which I wrote on June 10th, 2000.
For the Brits, you may remember advertising for England’s Glory matches.
Who Invented Fish and Chips (in newspaper)
Dr. Foster went to Gloucester
for some matches ran the story.
For a certain strike and steady flame,
he asked for England’s Glory.
But that story’s old folk lore,
it was Fish and Chips he went there for.
So back to Bristol on his horse,
There were no buses then of course (not even late ones).
But, from his quest he was prevented,
because Fish and Chips had not been invented.
So to his spouse he said “Right!”
Let’s make some Fish and Chips tonight.
But how? she said, “what is this dish?”
and “what are chips that go with fish?”
“Just watch this spud” the Doctor cried,
“soon he’ll be peeled and cut and fried”
“And what about the fish, does that not matter?”
“wife get some flour and water and make some batter!”
And with this mix, just like skin,
The dead fish in hot fat learnt how to swim.
The dead fish swam around and round,
until he turned a golden brown.
Too hot to eat, so, until later,
they laid him out on last night’s paper.
The Doctor said said he could not linger,
and began to delve with just a finger.
And just to get some more,
he found it better if he used four.
And Mrs. Foster said “I need some salt,
and soured cider with some malt,
and give me pepper by the peck.
This tastes so good so what the heck?’
So here ends this fishy story.
Fish and Chips were England’s Glory!
But there is a sequel to this ryhme
I’ve pondered it from time to time.
Because, Dr. Foster did not stop there,
he went to Oz (Australia) and invented beer.