South Chingford Poetry

Michelle is a volunteer on the Saturday morning shift at South Chingford Community Library. She spends part of her time at home in Saudi Arabia, and part in Chingford where her mother lives. I find this poem very moving.        DEAR GRANDMA   She sits alone, small and frail, childlike in an adult's chair. But there is life inside that wizened shell. Her heart and soul burn on untouched.                🌺 But that soul cries to be free from strains of age;    she's lived her life, why should she struggle on?                                          🌺 But for me, I cannot be free, let go of ties that bind, of memories of those times gone by when I was young and small and weak, and it was she who cared for me.                         Many years later, when with my baby boy I returned, great grandma was so proud. And just as if clocks had turned back in time, she rocked his cot and fed him by her hand. Full of love she bought him toys and proudly called him 'my little man'

Now, turning to political issues! (thank you Gillian)   R E F E R E N D A   CLEARING THE AIR Atmospheric pollution cries out for solution; Getting agreement is another matter. Nuclear fission or exhaust gas emission – Even the trees have given up hope. Sad to say, over recent times, Political hot air has been squirted around. From helicopter, battlebus and on the ground. After all the talking show us some action. Less pollution – more solution  Let’s have a referendum!   THE ARMY Fourth largest in the world. None feared more, yet very much under strength (Where have we heard that before?) Why are we always the first to send forces To trouble spots in world trouble sources? It does seem barmy to turn us into a salvation army!  Let’s have a referendum!  PRUDENCE Must it always be jam tomorrow? The drastic shortage of teachers and doctors Call for equally drastic measures. So a few billions there and a few millions here Then patience for a few more years. Patience or patients? But whilst

  Received from my cousin Gillian NINETY FIVE Miscellany No longer am I an Essex man now Norfolk by adoption. Essex may be very glad or even sad, but Norfolk had no option. I once wrote with understanding of the chap up on the landing who didn’t know if he was going up or down. Now I have no landing but a better understanding of the foibles that bring misting to the windows of the mind. Eleven years ago I received a MENSA award. Today alas that is all going by the board. Although I’m getting podgy and eyesight more dodgy I can still count on my fingers up to ten. IQ gone for a burton does it mean for certain I’m a late developer in the digital age? Maybe second childhood would suggest a new tutor, extending knowledge via a simple computer. But with modems and software it’s a safe bet I would quickly be trawled up in the dot com net. So it seems without doubt computers are out. When I get to ten I must start all again. Myriads of little ads. confront us with persistence. Stair

  Thank you again Gillian for this one! MEDICATION   -   MEDICATION   -   MEDICATION           An election plea to support the pill, pills, pills, wonderful pills. What a palliative for most of our ills. From Holt to Devizes they’re in all shapes and sizes. For complaints of every description chances are you will get a prescription for pills, wonderful pills. In this period of medical dearth, and all are promising the earth of the future we can only guess, but spare us from recruiting Spin Doctors for the N.H.S. Let’s not be carried away by statistics, instead be simply more realistic. Please bring a Bill to keep the pill. Let the election winners select a pill, and have it made in the Party’s colours. This would signify Victor Ludorum for the term, and it would inspire the others. To show a link with business too, by agreement by the parties, they might negotiate a profitable sponsorship with Smarties!   But for us old run-of-the-mills, just remember the drill. Whether it’s wi

This poem was written as a complement to "South Chingford Spring 2020" to cover the situation half a year on. Listen to recording                         SOUTH CHINGFORD AUTUMN 2020 The blossom’s gone, there’s queues no more, next masked marauders filled the store. But depleted shelves soon replenished, our fears to allay, things largely back to normal, with just the odd delay. Sometimes with mask and fogged-up glasses, some searches are in vain, while milk chocolate bar with fruit, fear we’ll never see again. The ducks are on the pond no more, but they’ll return next year for sure! While Love South Chingford   keep things spick and span, we’re lucky they’re there with their talisman Jan. And with refurbished courts and outdoor gym brand-new. Thanks are due to local councillors and the council too! Most shops were open, then they gave us tiers, and we upped one, more closures, increasing our fears. As for the giant yellow crane, she was kept so busy, buildi

This poem describes Frank Ashen's move from Buckhurst hill to Norfolk (from Cousin Gillian again!) MOVING INTO THE NINETIES After forty-one years getting to know number five I thought it was time to make a new life.   The reason was plain. There was nothing to gain from waiting at spots aptly described as bus stops. No corner shop handy, the one-seven-nine was proving to be an uncertain lifeline. From a peaceful existence where I was the king, to estate agents, solicitors, oh dear, was I doing the right thing? Anticipation, expectation, frustration became part of every day. I wondered, is it worth it? corner shops, bus stops, or nay.   I very soon found the real size of my task. To attempt this alone was too much to ask. Happily the family were soon on the scene to guide, and sometimes to push, with a shove in between.   From Elbury to Sheringham for a closer watch on Holt. But delays on the site, oooh! More frustration, I wanted to bolt. Gradually things changed as activ

  A nature poem from Frank Ashen (thank you Gillian!)         THISTLEDOWN Proud and erect the thistle stands, purple headed, thrusting to the sun. Defiant in its outward stance, yet welcoming without second glance, to butterflies and bees that hum. As flowered head ages and petals fall ‘tis crowned again with puffy ball. A feathery, silvered plume, soft as down, usurps the purple coloured crown.   Atop the plant which gave it life this fragile daintiness sits exposed to Nature’s whims and fancies, responding to each breath or swell.   Kissed by the summer breeze the translucent orb changes in amoebic shape, returning with subtle shiver as breeze abates once more in heavenward expectation. When Natures comes to take a deeper breath, exhaling with quickening wind, staunch stands the thistle, though bending in respect. While thistledown is whisked toward the trees on its unknown journey to procreation.   Carried on the undulating wind the thistledown’s journey lacking destinat

  Thank you again Gillian for this one. THE EIGHTIES IN THE NINETIES It’s nineteen hundred and ninety two, one more year has passed. Reflecting on a general view it seemed shorter than the last. Routine continues much the same, though with noticeably less go. No special high – no feat to claim, and still can’t set the video.   Shopping just the same old bind, still fighting with the trolleys. It really needs a Sinclair mind to outsmart all the wallies. It doesn’t seem the greatest thing to rid us of the awkward ‘barrow’. Please, someone with the will to win, get us on the straight and narrow. Ideas abound for things to do to keep one occupied. Cut the lawn or paint the loo. (Still a smidgen of pride). But when time comes for a decision it seems much easier to watch television. T.V. alas, for all its good, has much to answer for. The ratings list is paramount; each Channel has to score. The viewing times dictate the terms, and the fashions, too, in sport. Now pansies rise from t

  Frank's part of the Ashen family were football supporters. Our team will invite no inter-tribal rivalry now, as it no longer exists, at least not at a high level. Walthamstow Avenue FC was a leading amateur club in mid last century. Some of its playing highlights were drawing with Manchester United at Old Trafford in the FA Cup in 1953 (the replay was lost at Highbury), and winning the FA Amateur Cup at Wembley in 1961, beating West Auckland Town 2-1. Both Frank and myself were present at the match. This poem was written around the turn of the 21st century. Frank appears to be somewhat disillusioned with the way the game was going at that time! With thanks again to Cousin Gillian for a copy of this poem.       FOOTBALL AND THE WORLD CUP Some views of a nonagenarian Oh! What has happened to football, that grand old British game? So many signs suggest it has been hijacked, for it’s really no longer the same. Money, and the glamour of internationalism have introduced contentious

Another amusing contribution from my late Uncle Frank, kindly supplied by my cousin Gillian. WAS THE DOUGH REALLY KNEADED? I have heard with consternation, since confirmed by affirmation, of a loaf that brought the purchaser some dough! It started life as wholemeal bread but proved to be holemeal instead. For as the loaf was being sliced a hole appeared; it wasn’t nice. The slices, replete with holes and all, looked like rings for a hoop-la stall. The confrontation with the store, who hadn’t seen such holes before, brought echelons of management with profuse apologies and amazement. They promised an investigation large, and provided a replacement loaf – “no charge”. Complainant walked boldly through check-out, clutching loaf, with chin stuck out. End of story, oh dear no. A letter came from the store’s H.O. They were taking it up with the bakery, to trace the cause of the mystery. From the bakers, regrets galore. Even they hadn’t seen holes like this before. This sent the boffi

 LLoyd was a much cherished friend who I worked with in Harlow in the very late 70's and early 80's. He had a delightfully dry and drole sense of humour. After our ways parted, we exchanged Christmas cards. His always included a pithy comment. My favourite is " I think about you sometimes, but not very often ". Sadly, he passed away at the beginning of the pandemic in 2020. He sent me this poem in a card on the occasion of a significant birthday. You are 60 young Richard, old Lloyd said, and yet you have not seen the light. You still explore old Maxwell's laws, do you think at your age this is right? In my youth, young Richard replied to old Lloyd, I used to be riding my bike. But then all injury I didst avoid by riding on a trike. You are 60 young Richard, as I said before, and still imbibe the beer and wine? But are practiced in computer lore so I suppose at your age this is fine.         Lloyd Garnet Knight                 RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS