Rhymes come easily to Barbara
Barbara Stone has written poetry and short stories from an early age (8yrs) She loves to write pastoral poetry, but also writes poetry of a humorous nature, about people and animals, many poems are taken from real-life.
She has also written stories and poems about the pinewoods near to where she lives in Harrogate, and has had some published. She has recently published her book 'Yorkshire Cats' which is a humorous take on cats she has known, and others which live in her fertile imagination.
She has also written stories and poems about the pinewoods near to where she lives in Harrogate, and has had some published. She has recently published her book 'Yorkshire Cats' which is a humorous take on cats she has known, and others which live in her fertile imagination.
FELINEDead creatures in the hall,
food splattered up the wall, claws in my knee. Knocked-over canisters, fur between banisters, shredded settee. Mice slaughtered on the stair, black paw-prints everywhere, whiskers in tea; voles concealed under mat, who'd keep a rotten cat What about ME? |
PURRPLEXITYA cat, very rotund from birth,
but whose neck remains frightfully thin, has added so much to his girth, that his figure juts out and caves in, to such an extent that it's taken a jug-shape, or could be mistaken for a bottle such as one might see in an old-fashioned-type pharmacy. Whilst a vase that we own, small and fat, could so easily pose as this cat. LAMENT The inventor of cat-flaps for doors, can't have had much regard for clean floors, as it gives cats great pleasure to stroll through, at leisure, dispersing wet earth with their paws. |
WALKING THROUGH SPRING
I walked through Spring when roots had stirred from sleep;
and Winter's fog had cleared from the sky;
when streams had thawed, and water clean and deep
meandered over rocks; the curlew's cry
joined bleats of early, cotton lambs, newborn
and oak tree buds had started to unfold;
I saw the first, fine, leafy shoots of corn,
that, touched by warmth, would grace the fields with gold.
And when the sun set in a globe of flame,
transforming silver bark to orange-red,
a sleepy soul trudged back the way she came,
assured of even brighter days ahead.
So sad when we, involved with worldly things,
can fail to see the gifts that nature brings.
Barbara Stone
and Winter's fog had cleared from the sky;
when streams had thawed, and water clean and deep
meandered over rocks; the curlew's cry
joined bleats of early, cotton lambs, newborn
and oak tree buds had started to unfold;
I saw the first, fine, leafy shoots of corn,
that, touched by warmth, would grace the fields with gold.
And when the sun set in a globe of flame,
transforming silver bark to orange-red,
a sleepy soul trudged back the way she came,
assured of even brighter days ahead.
So sad when we, involved with worldly things,
can fail to see the gifts that nature brings.
Barbara Stone