Vanilla comes from an orchid, did you know?

From Planifolia or flat-leaved vanilla,

Grown in Tahiti, Madagascar and Mexico,

It came back in Cortes’s flotilla,

Vanilla is such an exquisite spice,

It requires precise cultivation,

It’s a taste of heaven, of paradise,

Of joy, of celebration.

The pods cluster together along the vine,

And hang like dwarf French beans,

At this stage the flavour is NOT divine,

It needs “curing”, to grace cuisines.

The ‘little pods’ are blanched, and fired and dried,

So its production is labour intensive,

This curing process is ‘classified’

So vanilla is very expensive.

Chef William Chaney, I’ve granted your wish,

With a poem about this spice,

I hope I’ve served up a digestible dish!

What’s next? Have you any advice?

It may seem a trifle partisan,

To say she makes me proud,

But I really don’t know  or think that I can

Not shout these words out loud.

She’s diligent and she’s hard-working, 

She’s an academic star,

She cares for all her kith and kin,

At sport, she will go far.

She’s beautiful, both outside and in,

Brings both joy and happiness,

The name of this true paragon?

My daughter, Isla Ness.

My friend longed to give back to charity
So he decided to enter a comp
His brief to raise money for comic relief
He thought it’d be quite a romp.
It soon became clear that those near and dear
Were keen to give without any demur,
He prepared with real vigour, and impressive rigour,
He got himself booted and spurred.
He was really surprised at the size of his prize,
The amount that was put into his pot,
He didn’t know why their gifts went sky-high,
For a shaven moustache ’twas a lot!
He’d nurtured this ‘tache for 30 odd years,
It was big, it was thick, it was lush,
It wasn’t a strip, it clung to his lip
Like a monstrously big bottle brush.
And then the night of the shave loomed in sight
And he found his nerves moose overtaxed
It seemed he’d been fooled, had to play by the rules,
His moustache wasn’t shaved, it was waxed….

This beautiful photo was taken by Seth Johnson. He publishes a photo on his site at WordPress and urges his readers to write something to go with it. Go find him on Facebook/Wordpress or Twitter…www.sethsnaps.com

This was my poem to accompany his photograph….

Driving away, away from you,

I am desolate, bereft,

Without you the world is nothing,

There’s just no laughter left.

The trees arch and meet above my head,

With a delicacy and a grace,

Yet my eyes don’t absorb the beauty here,

The splendour of this place.

The road hugs the river that runs below,

It is shiny from the rain,

Whispers of darkness in my soul,

Till I see your face again.

I feel the need, the need to feed
My face with fruits de mer!
It IS a real passion, I don’t want to ration
Myself to a pauper’s share!
Pardon me whilst I grab for the winkles, the crab,
The lobster, the scallops (the Coquilles St Jacques),
I need to just cram in a winkle, a clam,
And, after that ‘snack’, give my lips a good smack.
I just cannot skimp on that prawn or that shrimp,
And nor can you wean me off langoustine,
Now let me just foister for that lonesome oyster
But a standard snail just shouldn’t be seen!
I cannot resist, cannot cease or desist,
By all that’s holy, I cannot eat slowly,
I’m into my stride, that mussel can’t hide,
So squeeze a lemon and pass the aioli!

Afghanistan’s a land-locked nation,

It’s been that way since its creation,

Which was in 2,000-3,000 BCE,

But you will find that it’s history,

In politics started back in 1709,

When Shah Durrani was first in line.

He founded his state around Kandahar,

As a buffer ‘twixt Britain and the Russian Tsar…

In 1947 the US-backed mujahideen,

Fought a war with the ‘Soviet Afghans’, a war quite extreme.

More than a million Afghans lost their lives,

The ones who live on struggle just to survive,

Because this is the world’s most dangerous land,

Despite its wonderful mountains, its rivers and sand.

It’s the world of the two-line landai,

A poem in which women say,

Just what they’re thinking about that day,

Of what they dream, for what they pray.

Farmers, in the absence of a radio,

Take songbirds with them, whilst they plough, they sow,

The schools are scarce, but they’re eager to learn,

So there’s an impromptu classroom at every turn.

So that’s Afghan hist’ry in just a small spoonful,

I’ll say that the capital is now situated at Kabul,

And it’s a beautiful country, ravaged by war,

I hope that, reading this poem, you will want to learn more…

I’ve been challenged to write

‘Bout onomatopoeia,

The  brief’s rather tight,

So you’d better offer a prayer,

That I find a word

That sounds like its sound,

And don’t just find myself

Going around and around,

To find  buzz or fizz, meow or boo hoo,

Or even the marvellous plop or choo choo! 

It comes from two Greek words,

For ‘name’ and ‘I make’,

You may find it absurd,

You may think me a flake,

My speech may get slurred,

But I love this form of expression,

I’m a dictionary nerd,

It’s a form of obsession.

My latest is ‘twonk’,

Which is slang for a berk,

It’s a  fool and a dunderhead,

A cretin or jerk,

A pinhead, an imbecile,

A git with a smerk.

So what about baa, or bash or boo?

Or clink, clank or clatter,

Ahem or achoo!

Crackle, crunch or chatter,

Or the wily cuckoo?

I love all these words,

The question is, reader, do you?

I have 3 choices open,
Milk, dark, or white,
The latter’s too rich,
Spoils my appetite.
Milk? Well, it’s milky,
The taste can be cloying,
So for indulging a pleasure,
This can be annoying.
Dark? Well it’s strong,
It is no counterfeiter,
It’s flavour’s intense,
And it’s smooth and it’s bitter.
For my palate that,
Hits the heights, it’s the top!
It’s the piece de resistance,
The cream of the crop!
Milk, white or dark,
The choice is quite stark,
Can I resist that strong urge,
To pamper, to splurge,
I make no pretense,
It will indulge every sense,
It’ll make me feel good,
‘Cause I love every bit of it,
It’ll make me feel bad,
For the weight gain hit of it…
White, dark or milk,
With a texture like silk,
And an assault on my taste buds
Like a minor explosion,
I cannot resist,
Cannot stop, can’t desist,
I’m a slave to my senses,
They must show their devotion.
I know I’ll regret it,
It’ll add an inch to my thighs,
But I just can’t forget it,
Though I gain a dress size,
Choc’lates my pleasure, but also my curse,
It’s the greatest known taste in the universe,
So I can’t take just one, it’ll be two, three or four,
And a few minutes later, I’ll be sneaking one or two more!
So let’s leave temptation up there on the shelf,
Admit that there’s little we ‘love more than choc’late itself’,
But with courage and will-power, I can walk past that box,
And resist every one of those delectable chocs,
I won’t have to say “Is my bum big in this?”,
If I forego that last, wonderful chocolate kiss,
Those truffles, those pralines, that unctuous ganache
Made by the Swiss with skill, finesse and panache,
Oh, who am I fooling? This isn’t Big Brother!
I can think for myself…and I choose another….

I went to a quiz in a nursing home,
And it quickly became clear to me,
Song questions  followed a syndrome,
To know any, you had to be 73.
The questions on books were a fiddle,
Because all of them were pre-43,
And so they became a bit of a riddle,
Unless you’re an author, like me,
Then there were pictures of statues,
And you had to say which town they were in,
All I can say is thank god for a Carer or two,
One from Russia, and one from Berlin!
We identified lines from a nursery rhyme,
And musical intros to Disney movies,
We found our minds wandering back in time,
I confess that I found this quite groovy.
Far more fun to kick start a recalcitrant brain,
And consider Biggles, a wonderful story,
Than something more current, but more arcane,
Like whether Nick Clegg is a Tory…
I really enjoyed my Quiz Night tonight,
You certainly couldn’t have called it boring,
When the main reasons for not getting a question right
Were your “youth” or that someone was snoring!

They say eyes are windows to the soul,
For you, it’s true, I see the whole,
Extraordinary, wonderful person you are,
My touchstone and my shooting star.
Your eyes show compassion and belief,
They bring me succour and relief,
They stretch my mind, they ease my pain,
They make me smile and laugh again.
They stroke me like a soft caress,
They’re full of hope and tenderness.
They’re subtle, loving, gentle, tender,
They have a certain jewel-like splendour.
They’re kind, forgiving, loving, true,
They always see the clearer view,
Your eyes display your unique heart,
That always takes another’s part.
They show a strong, protective urge,
In them, these instincts linger, merge.
For them, the world’s a treasure chest,
Of information to learn, digest.
Through them, this life’s exciting, new,
Above all, your eyes are the essence of you,
And there’s one truth of which I’m sure,
These sentiments are honest, pure,
So I confess, I’m a devotee,
For when you look my way, you just see me….