Heartlines

♫ Da Da Da DaDaDa Da Da Da ♫
And in at number 10, it’s Peter and Gordon’s World without Love
But do not lose hope pop pickers
Because at number 9 John Lennon tells us All We Need is Love
If you are lucky at No. 8 someone may well Light Your Fire
and Doors may open to
No 7 where you can Come Together with the help of that popular beat combo, The Beatles.
If your relationship is a bit rocky don’t despair because I’m a Believer at No 6, hope you are, too?
Come out of your shell, Monkee around and be
Happy Together at No. 5 by The Turtles

♫ Da Da Da DaDaDa Da Da Da ♫

In time you could be told, at No. 4, to Hit the Road, Jack by an unfeeling Ray Charles.
At Number 3 you might respond, please, please, please Love Me Do by those cheeky
chappies, those mop tops, the fab four, the immaculately garbed John, Paul, George and
Ringo.
But the answer at number 2 is I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by those loveable rebellious
scruffs The Stones.
It’s a tie at Number One with Nancy Sinatra studying your footwear and suggesting
your Boots are made for Walking.
More bluntly The Moody Blues give you short shrift and say Go Now.

Join me again next week. I predict, no not a riot – that’s 40 years in the future but that the
new 45 by Simon and Garfunkel will enter the charts at Number One with The Sound of
Silence. Good advice for this talkative pseudo-poetic DJ.

Malcolm Henshall 2024
From the National Poetry Day 2024 collection

Their eyes met across the roses, Ethel could not believe it.
She, a dinner lady, in the garden of Buckingham Palace.
He could believe it. He, a Count from the House of Lords,
in his element.
He wandered round the circumference of the flower bed,
“Hello,” he purred, “you are A1, A plus.”
“Can I have your number”?
Ethel was thinking the situation did not add up.
The Count saw the doubt in her eyes.
He was not used to a negative reaction.
“You can count on me” he said laughing at his own joke.
Multiple times he had used this chat up line.
nine times out of ten it was successful.
But Ethel was a wary old soul,
and whilst fantasising about using the Count’s body as an abacus,
she believed, in this case,
two plus two might well equal five.
And anyway, he must be 5 plus three score and 10.
She was a sprightly six times eleven.
She did not wish to be mean but age was a factor.
He pointed his digit at her but before he could say a fraction of what he wanted to say
Numero one, the King approached.
“Up to your old tricks, Count,” he said with an obtuse wink
“Well Charlie me old mate
You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?
One was not enough for you, was it?”
“Be careful what you say, Count
or else you will find yourself minus a head.”
“Oh, sire forgive me for overstepping the norm
and in addition, I am 110% behind you.”
Ethel made her exit figuring this was the best way to square the circle.
On average she felt much more in control when confronted by a butterscotch tart.

Malcolm Henshall 2024
From the National Poetry Day 2024 collection

The night is cloudless
My path through the forest
is lit by the moon

Above is the pole star
below, the ground still warm from the sun

Somewhere out in the universe
Stars are crossing, spinning and merging,
powerful collisions that no one hears
and new stars are being born

Here on Earth I wake from my sleep
waiting for the dawn, to continue
the never ending spiral

Jackie Parsons September 2024
From the National Poetry Day 2024 collection

The charter flight to LA with British Caledonian
was my third visit to the US, but my first
with a husband, our three year old daughter
and my mother-in-law

We paid extra to sit in the 747’s upstairs cabin
The seats were bigger seats and you were given a bucks fizz
and that’s where the glamour ended.

The airplane was old, it creaked and rattled it’s way
down the runway as we began the first leg of our journey,
landing in Winnipeg to refuel.
Passengers weren’t allowed to leave. The cockpit door was open
and while we waited, I could hear the pilot talking to the tower.

I wasn’t paying much attention until he raised his voice
and shouted ‘I’m not flying across the Dakotas with only three engines.’
Not long after we were all turfed off, put in hotels
and told to be back at six thirty in the morning.

Four of us in one room, was a bit of a squeeze
and sleeping was difficult with the words ‘only three engines’
circling my head as the hours passed slowly.

In the morning we were told a spare engine part was coming from
Boeing in Seattle along with someone to fit it because ironically
it was Labour Day so hardly anyone was working and no replacement
aircraft available.

Twenty four hours later we landed in Los Angeles.
I don’t know what the pilot thought might happen
high above the Dakotas with only three engines.
I guess we should thank our lucky stars
we didn’t have to find out.

Jackie Parsons August 2024
From the National Poetry Day 2024 collection

To walk that road again –
a lane? Passed stubbled fields.
Kildarra up to Nolan’s farm.
Pick purple blackberries on the way.
A small child’s handful.
Turn left at milk churns waiting
by wild fushias live with bees.
We squeeze their scarlet flowers –
lick sweet nectar off our sun kissed skin.
Norah’s there, Helena’s ma,
to mash our berries in a cup,
with sugar and churn top milk
so fresh it’s warm.
We cross the yard.
Open a splintery stable door
a crack, our mouths like rosebuds.
Banbhs run squealing between our legs,
drunk like us, with freedom.
And Norah watches, laughing from the kitchen door,
wipes hands on her cotton apron
and stirs the pig mash.

Cate Anderson

Someday I will go on a journey
to the mythical isle of Ithaca,
across Homer’s wine-dark sea.
I will be seduced by the singing
of the Sirens, sailing close
to the rocks and finding the key

to the realm of the unruly gods
who sport on Mount Olympus.
I shall follow the path of Odysseus,
visit the island of the Lotus-eaters
and succumb to the charms and perils
of the ancient Aegean’s allure.

Yes, someday I will sail to Ithaca
and there I will find, perhaps,
a latter-day Penelope whose arms
will comfort me with love.
I can only dream …. but still
I seem to hear those Siren voices
faintly calling, calling, calling.

Bill Fitzsimons

“A PASSAGE TO INDIA…”
…or some other far-flung destination
is what my disillusioned spirit craves.
To escape the humdrum of the quotidian,
the stress of everyday monotony is, I believe,
the duty – nay, the imperative – of the questing
mind, the hungry imagination.

And India would serve that hunger well.
Not the sweltering slums of Calcutta
or the hopeless misery of impoverished millions;
the fly-blown carcasses of the fallen dead;
the complete despair in the eyes of small children:
such brute reality demands a different response.

No, the India I seek is another realm,
where moonlight gleams on temple ruins
and colourful birds delight the eye
each sun-washed day; an India
where Dr. Aziz still yearns to impress
Miss Quested in the echoing Malabar Caves.

Such an India may not exist outside
the pages of Forster's novel; an India
of the pining heart, rather than
the reasoning mind, but the sorcery
lingers, the spell will not be broken –
my ship awaits and Miss Quested beckons.

Bill Fitzsimons