Walter Le Page, L'homme des Pignons - Bryony de Lat

At the Model Yacht Pond, he's feeding the pigeons
never on Sunday, though, he's to church
they climb all over him, pecking the seed
sometimes, even on his head, they perch

Bryony de Lat

Modern Poets - Bryony de Lat

I wish to declare my long-held disquiet
regarding the inaccurate image of modern poetry
presented by media, schools and the like
where the poet's a recluse, strange and solitary.

'Au contraire!' in my experience, (quite varied,very long)
yes they step back, but only to digest, philosophize,
by their very nature, folk easily become friends, and more
they hear everyone's woes, an ear kind and wise.

Bryony de Lat

Port Soif revisited, on a calm day - Bryony de Lat

Some years away, I may decay, or die today, . . either way
I listed some sick soundtracks, for the day I'm to burn
and at this special venue, may I ask, can you . . .
scatter my ashes, without pomp, turn the urn.

Here, when the tide's high, it's a tropical lagoon
yet some locals still race off, on an annual chase
having saved up their wages, they scour travelogue pages,
but there really is no more beautiful place.

Bryony de Lat

Daydreams - Bryony de Lat

I used to use dreams, to create and design
but now my dreams come, cemented in rhyme
before, there was an exact brief, a strict deadline
but now, the only constraints are mine.

Don't underestimate the power of imagination
the ability to float away, thus boredom forsaking
to mentally stroll off, for a whimsical walk
later returning to now, neither wheezing nor aching.

Store in your mind, a place to wander
whistle, or sing, if you think you can
and always have that daydream ready,
for when the shit starts hitting the fan.

Bryony de Lat

Sorry, you're a poet - Bryony de Lat

It's no bed of roses and you know it, poet
but you were born to be one, always will
maybe a modern performer, with your mate, mic.
Or ye olde school scribe, with ink and quill.

You're not like news-hacks, who just scribble, and spew
with you everything that happens, hits home
you take it all to heart, no escape for you
it's neither rag, nor paperback, it's a life-long tome.

Everything affects you, with your caring heart
it's your best virtue, but it's also your curse
your emotions are constantly ignited, excited
and to temper and contain them, you oft' turn to verse.

You wouldn't really want to be like some people
full of themselves, with their masquerades, and poses
strutting through their own garden of life
without ever smelling the roses.

Bryony de Lat

I Can't Bear Grylls - Bryony de Lat

Several years ago now, I'm not sure when, exactly
my husband's choice of TV programmes drastically changed
instead of the plethora of war films and sport
he's only watching one thing now, he's completely deranged.

It's Bear Grylls, countless programmes, a new 12 part series
and there's the old repeats on Dave and Shed
he's already got two essential box sets
and he's sent for more, he's well off his head.

One man's lifestyle has become his religion
he's actually jogging now in the hall, pathetic
in a BG onesie, and he's trying press-ups
it's dangerous, he was never at all athletic.

Blitzed his wardrobe, thrown out bright-coloured clothes
smart shirts, posh trousers, even his dressing gown
now he orders from the BG Blog and Army surplus
everything's 'camo', slime green, or excrement brown.

He's obsessed with making life more difficult
sneakily adding elements of danger, or luck
the other day he attempted an emergency exit
broke the Toilet window, and got himself stuck.

One morning, last Winter, our drive was really icy
but in his 'special' snow boots, he had to go out
he slipped, and impaled himself, on his prickly roses
a teenage neighbour rescued him, an actual Boy Scout.

Now he's started cooking vegetable peelings
and grubs around in the garden for roots and stuff
he tried sleeping in the shed, but a "huge" spider attacked him
so he's got a tent, for the garden, "gonna sleep rough".

His ambition is to survive on a desert island
he fantasizes about being shipwrecked, it's sad, I know
of course, in reality, he hasn't got the balls
but I won't discourage him, I'd help him go.

Bryony de Lat

Heirlooms - Bryony de Lat

Mother was born, between wars, to a wealthy family
her Dutch businessman father died suddenly, she was eight
he'd left his Guernsey wife and 3 children unsupported
St. Margaret's Lodge soon gathered cobwebs, and rust on the gates.

My Mother was evacuated, but joined the WAAF's
when World War Two started, amid devastation and strife
her widowed Mother down-graded, still an ample town-house
keeping all the trappings, along with memories, of a much-better life.

Years later, my Mother still kept all the posh stuff
wrapped up in boxes, under her bed
she'd open it up sometimes, to check it was there
it was much too valuable to use, she said.

I think she was saving it, for when the 'good times' came back
or perhaps we were too common to use it
she probably felt it still belonged to her Mother
and she couldn't allow anyone else to abuse it.

And the lounge suite always had DOUBLE loose covers
a mahogany dresser hid some treasures, but she hid the key
an ivory-panel Chinese fire-screen, covered in hardboard
and original childrens' toys, that we never did see.

In a tea-chest, in brown paper, the Chinese Famille Rose
silver serviette rings, with engraved family crest
and Waterford crystal knife-rests, we'd used it all, when small
at Grandmother's for dinner, in our Sunday best.

Sunday Dinner, like a Dickens novel, or mini Downton Abbey
children, seen and not heard, it was torturous
except if asking to 'leave table', and saying Grace again
so we could go and pick fruit in the orchards.

We children were grown up, when our poor Mother died
all that priceless stuff, with which she couldn't part
was still in the loft, and under her bed
she'd preserved it, and amongst it, . . was her broken heart.

Bryony de Lat

Double Dutch Marvels - Bryony de Lat

One morning, on our lawn, after two stormy days
two pigeons were staggering, in a bit of a daze
we thought it best if they rested, in the shed
and made sure they were safe, warm and fed.

We saw from their rings they were racers from Holland
so we'd let them go when they were stronger
We phoned a pigeon fancier, that we knew
he said keep them overnight, or longer.

Because he had more suitable facilities
we drove them 3 miles to him, covered up in a crate
The next morning, we were staggered to see them
back on our lawn, by the gate.

We rang our friend, he wasn't surprised
he said, when he set them free at dawn, /
he thought they'd retrace their flight back home
but, without Sat-Nav, how did they make it back to our lawn?

Bryony de Lat

For You - Bryony de Lat

What can I do now, all I wanted in life
on that cruellest, blackest day
stolen from me for ever
please take this nightmare away.

All the good stuff in me's been taken
everything that was pure, made me proud
inspiration to strive, be brave, be strong
vanished, gone in a hideous black cloud.

Every new day, these constant reminders
slash at any chance of a new life, they sever
they cut without warning, jabbing, stabbing
and I'll be bleeding inside forever.

If all the precious things had vanished with you
I'm sure I could easily had gone with them too
easier than these empty todays & tomorrows
just wishing for, . . living for, . . dying for, . .you.

Bryony de Lat

Give and Take - Bryony de Lat

Life was a jigsaw before you came
lots of pieces broken or lost
you came along with a simpler game
caring, sharing not counting the cost.

After all my dark depressing days
suddenly bright and free
a new straight road, so clear, no haze
all I had to be was, me.

No matter now what fate dealt me
little hopes dashed, small dreams shattered
being worthy of this heaven-sent love
was the only thing that really mattered.

She's been stolen now, so soon
and I've gone back to a cold dark place
I seek no help from this private doom
to an evil world I cannot face.

Bryony de Lat

The Treehouse - Bryony de Lat

Not long ago my life was simple,
a world full of magic and toys,
my den in the trees, where no-one could find me
away from all trouble and noise.

With only the sky and the birds,and the leaves
up there,where Nature's beauty surrounds,
no people, no evil, up here in the trees,
imagination and time have no bounds.

I can't go up there now, my trees are gone,
like a circus, long left the town.
How I miss the beauty, the magic
and the clown, who had to come down.

Bryony de Lat

Fragments Of You - Bryony de Lat

This crumpled sweet wrapper down the back
of your favourite sun-lounge chair,
this half scribbled recipe in the drawer
along with the neater ones there,
or this beautiful dress in the wardrobe
that I never saw you wear.

That last sweet wrapper,
that meal you can't cook,
that dress you'll never put on
endless reminders
stabbing my heart
now that you are gone.

Bryony de Lat

The Chain Ferry - Bryony de Lat

The chain takes the strain, as the ramp swings up,
so long she's been crossing the tides
the creek is flat calm, but the waves awake
to start their dance along her riveted sides.

The grand old lady has crossed the water so often,
in hazy sunshine and Winter's cold rains
on each new day, and each new tide
that chug, and the smell of huge oily chains.

Now time and rust have ended her days,
she's grown old, and tired, and weak,
but at dawn, when it's quiet, I'm sure I still hear
The chain ferry crossing the creek.

Bryony de Lat

Somebody Missing - Bryony de Lat

Wandering now along the coastline, as we used to stroll, before
it seems the same waves that we watched are returning again to shore
listening as the grasses swirl in the breeze, just the same
but this time it's different,.... I hear them whisper your name.

It's so easy for me now, with all purpose gone
with this tide, to just slip away
with no-one now to really miss me,
with no-one so dear, to bid me stay.

Another tide ebbs, revealing the rocks,
the seaweed slumbers again, as ocean leaves land
endless movements, as the earth still turns round,
and our precious lives,. . . just grains of sand.

Bryony de Lat

Streams and Dreams - Bryony de Lat

We watched the stars gleam, reflected in the stream
I've come back now, there's no stars, and I'm thinking
how could we, in our own little dream
ever have had the slightest inkling. . ? . . .
that those stars, dancing in the water, there
twinkling, but you thought, just at us . . . winking
and your little paper boat, made with such care
like our days together, would soon be sinking.

Bryony de Lat

Port Soif, January - Bryony de Lat

The faded-green dune-grass sways, gripping the sand
in the harrowing, howling, harsh winter gales
shimmering and swirling, unfolding, unfurling
like yachts with billowing wind-filled sails.

The white sand swirls, swept up by the tide
tossed up into towers, in twirling trances
clutching the crests of the grass on the dunes
all swaying together in wild winter dances.

Bryony de Lat