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Caro Field Author

~ Thoughts and musings and poetry

Caro Field Author

Category Archives: poetry

Can I Have A Glass?

28 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in poetry

≈ 13 Comments

images-3Why is it so seductive?
What makes it so divine?
Is it the colour?
The flavour?
The Marque or the mousse,
That makes it the king of wine.

images-5From small quarter to Nebuchadnezzar,*
Why can’t I resist yet again?
It’s all the above
Plus the fizz and the zing,
The miraculous, magnificent
Joy of the thing,
That I find in a glass of champagne!

* For champagne aficionados everywhere to remind them of what (in their wildest dreams) they are aspiring to!

Quarter Bottle = 18.75 cl
Half Bottle = 37.5 cl
Bottle = 75 cl
Magnum = 1.5 l
Jeroboam = 3 l
Rehoboam = 4.5 l
Methuselah = 6 l
Salmanazar = 9 l
Balthazar = 12 l
Nebuchadnezzar = 15 l

Embellishment

27 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

embellishment, love, poetry

If I’m a song, then you’re my score,

If I’m an apple, you’re my core,

If you’re a diamond, I’m your flaw.

If I’m a river, you’re my source,

If I’m a jockey, you’re my horse,

If you’re a meal, I’m your first course.

imgres-6If I’m a spider, you’re my fly.

If I’m your bring, then you’re my buy,

If you’re a needle, I’m your eye.

If I’m a glass, then you’re my drink,

If I’m a fur, then you’re my mink,

If you’re a pen, then I’m your ink.

If I’m a boxer, you’re my clout,

If I’m a wager, you’re my tout,

If you’re a teapot, I’m your spout.

imgres-7

If I’m a dancer, you’re my barre,

If I’m a driver, you’re my car.

If you’re my jam, then I’m your jar.

If I’m a wallet, you’re my fiver,

If I’m a golf ball, you’re my driver,

If you’re my mouth, I’m your saliva.

If I’m a caber, you’re my toss,

If I’m an employee, you’re my boss,

If you’re a tooth, then I’m your floss.

June Photograph Tossing The Caber Newburgh Games Scotland

If I’m an egg, then you’re my yolk,

If I’m a comedian, you’re my joke,

If you’re a pig, then I’m your poke.

If I’m a leaf, then you’re my clover,

If I’m a herd, then you’re my drover,

If you’re a white cliff, I’m your Dover.

If I’m the icing, you’re my bun,

If I’m a trigger, you’re my gun,

If you’re my day, then I am done.

Alchemy

27 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in poetry

≈ 26 Comments

images-1

A pinch of this.

A squeeze of that.

Spice.

Seasoning.

Flavour.

Taste.

Cooking.

20th Century Alchemy.

images

Horses

26 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in non-fiction, poetry

≈ 4 Comments

imgresTug of muscle,
Stretch of sinew,
Smooth, silky,
Rugged, strong.
Soft, subtle,
Quiet, electric.
Tender, fierce,
Intelligent.
Synchronicity.
Magic.
When we get it right,
Poetry in motion,
Moving meditation,
Symmetry.
We KNOW one another.
TRUST one another.
UNDERSTAND one another.
Tiny adjustments made by us both
To attempt perfection.
When it works,
A knife through butter,
A sailing boat leaning away from a following wind,
imgres-2A balanced boat, an eight, slicing through water.
Emotive words set to a beautiful tune,
Resonant, familiar.
We are two, yet we are one.
Sensuous.
Nourishing.
Intoxicating.
…………… BLISS.imgres-3

Marmageddon

24 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in poetry

≈ 9 Comments

images-3 They called it Marmageddon,
Back in August 2012,
An earthquake closed a factory,
Panic buying off the shelves.
The food concerned was Marmite,
That luscious, salty spread,
Made by Sanitarium,
A company in NZ.
230312WCSMmarmite1_t460.
You “either love it or hate it”,
It elicits nausea or balm
In NZ just five months ago,
The PM urged some calm,
‘Cos people, desp’rate without it,
Were raiding friends and shops and bars,
To fulfill a fix, to get their kicks,
They were auctioning half full jars!
imgresSo what’s your verdict, dear reader?
Is it a force for evil or good?
Is it the filthiest taste on the planet?
Or the latest Superfood?
I personally love ‘my mate Marmite’,
For me, it’s the tops, there’s no doubt!
But according to millions of others,
The verdict is, strangely, still out!

Something Few People Know About Me

23 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in non-fiction, poetry

≈ 19 Comments

ImageThe matter concerns my birthday,

Which I share with a writer who’s brill!

She’s an author, an artist,

She’s simply the smartest,

I love her and always will.

She wrote of the wonderful Pigling Bland,

Samuel Whiskers and all his tricks,

She wrote them as pieces,

For nephews and nieces,

So big up for the marvellous Beatrix*!

*I was born rather more recently,

Ms Potter? 1866.

Image

The Ballad of Dan Donoghue (or how to survive the Zambezi)

22 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in non-fiction, poetry

≈ 13 Comments

ImageTook a raft trip down the Zambezi,

There were 8 of us in the swim,

Peter, Rob, Malcolm, J and myself,

2 sisters from Medellin.

And our guide, Dan,

‘The man who can’,

Who was intent on keeping us in.

Dan was a page 2 Adonis,

With a truly awesome physique,

He’d spectacular pecs

Wore minuscule kecks,*

And an air of intrigue and mystique.

Yes, Dan, Dan,

A peach of a man,

Displayed his outstanding technique.

We all had to paddle as hard as we could,

In order to simply survive,

We’d a rule book to follow,

“If you fall out, don’t swallow!”

We were warned in the event we capsized.

So said Dan, ‘the man’,

His face dead pan,

“If you don’t you will simply nose-dive!”

“Keep both hands on the top of your paddle,

And I beg you to never let go”,

If we did it would be

A catastrophe,

As future events would show.

So Dan, Dan

Warned each ‘man’

“The result, you just don’t want to know!”

He also instructed us, what to do,

If, God forbid, we came out of the boat,

“Relax, and don’t worry,

Don’t struggle or flurry,

I’ll throw you a line, so just float.”

And Dan, Dan,

Said, “If you can,

You all need to learn this by rote.”

We got to the very first rapid,

The water just dropped away,

And a wave of real dread

Loomed six feet overhead,

So we forgot what he had to say.

And Dan, Dan,

Could not help his clan,

And I ended up in the spray.

I got sucked right under that rapid

With a horrible blood-curdling hiss,

Down there in the gloom,

I had a feeling of doom,

A million miles from bliss.

But Dan, Dan,

Gave the river a scan,

To see when I tried to surface.

That rumbling white water was fright’ning,

And there was a terrible din,

Didn’t know up from down,

It was dark, it was BROWN

I counted my every sin.

But Dan took great care,

And when I came up for air,

Threw his rope out, to pull me in.

We were fine till the fourth big rapid,

Then every one of us tumbled out,

We lay in that pool.

All enjoying the cool,

‘Cos the full midday sun was out.

Till Dan, the man,

Said, “Get back in if you can,

You know there are crocs about!’

In the next big shoot of water

Something hit my face with a thud,

With that mighty thwack,

I saw stars, it went black,

And it felt like my nose was in flood.

And Malc** screamed to Dan,

“Stop the boat if you can,

My wife is all covered in blood!”

It seems that one of the Medellin twins

Had lost control of her oar,

In the hubble and bubble,

She’d got into trouble,

Couldn’t hold on to it any more.

And even though Dan

Had outlined that plan,

She hit me fair and square on the jaw.

Dan swiftly gave an appraisal,

Of the lump on the side of my face,

It was frankly obscene,

I was red, blue and green,

With bruises all over the place.

So Dan, Dan,

With great élan,

Steered us out of that race.

He ‘surfed’ that boat through the waters

Through the rapid’s throaty roar,

While we all lay prone,

He paddled alone,

He proved what his knowledge was for.

And Dan, Dan,

Proved ‘he’s the man’,

And guided us safely to shore.

* slang term for underpants/pants, in this case, the tiniest swimming costume in Christendom

**Malc/Malcolm – my ex-husband

Hopeful

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in fiction, poetry

≈ 18 Comments

IMG_0002He doesn’t have clothes, like Rupert,

Doesn’t jive like big Baloo,

He doesn’t go funny, for shed loads of honey,

Like tummy-led Winnie the Pooh.

Not Paddington, named for a station,

Unlike Yogi he isn’t smart,

He just isn’t Okey, like woodsman Smokey,

Can’t act like the thespian Bart.

Not fit, like a bear from Chicago,

Not wise like the wondrous Bear Grylls

And this little fellow

Unlike Fozzie ain’t yellow

But he does have the cure to all ills.

His name’s Hopeful, it isn’t Barney,

He travels wherever I roam,

At the end of the day, I am always OK,

Because wherever HE is, is home.

Someone Came To My Door

20 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in fiction, poetry

≈ 9 Comments

images-6Someone came to my door today
And asked if she could read me ‘a text’.
Not quite sure what I wanted to say,
But with nothing better to do that day,
I shrugged and said, “Well yeah, OK”,
To see what would happen next.
She came on in and had a drink,
Her bible clutched close to her chest,
She said her piece, she didn’t blink,
Her ‘truth’ was clearly a missing link,
She kind of told me what to think,
I guessed it was a sort of test.
Was I one of the chosen few,
By accepting her ‘truth’, would I get into heaven?
Residing there, not passing through,
As I nodded and smiled, her confidence grew,
But she’d be disappointed, this I knew,
I’d not be part of her first eleven.
Never object if others choose
A life that’s structured by a creed.
But I won’t follow other’s ‘dos’,
If I did that, I’d feel I lose,
I just won’t walk in other’s shoes,
To tell me what I should believe.
Don’t need rules to tell me what to feel
I don’t have religion, I do have faith.
Won’t genuflect, and I won’t kneel,
My belief is strong, and it is real,
Compassion and love will always heal,
This knowledge gives me grace.

Flavas

19 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by Caro Field in fiction, poetry

≈ 12 Comments

imgres-2

Slink into the shop,
Don’t know what to choose…
Something that’s fruity
Or lashings of booze?
Chocolate fudge brownie?
Sprinkles or wafer?
Dulcé de leche?
One that’s a bit safer?
A hazelnut bombe
Of complex construction,
A superlative sundae,
Its an icy induction.
Vanilla? Banana?
Constructed with brittle?
Two scoops or three scoops?
Something quite little?
And what of the cone?
Waffle or boring?
Is sauce there for slurping?
Or is it for pouring?
Blackcurrant sorbet?
A raspberry ripple?
A mocha delight?
So what is my tipple?
Daiquiri? Egg nog?
Something less hip?
Oh heck, I’ll just settle
For mint choc chip!imgres-3
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