A proverb is written below. Writers and poets are then invited to write up to a 30 line poem or a 300 word story incorporating it. Send your submissions to [email protected] and they will be published on this page. In time they will feature in their own book. Good luck!
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush
I’ve been chasing that bird for a while
it starts with a sound sort of a whoosh
then comes the pursuit and it’s not all smiles.
I’ve climbed terrain, crossed water, dug sand
money’s been spent for the skill of the hunt
it’s elusive and ends in the bush never the hand.
The chase continues, no relenting just take on the brunt
new tools can close the gap on a snare
they’re wood and iron, made for hacking on the trail
it’s close now so birdie beware
I’m on the green at St. David’s in Wales
he’s close now maybe ten feet away
the tool for the coup de grace comes out "the putter"
but it looks like the birdie will wait one more day
and a frustrated golfer sends his next shot in the gutter.
Tom Bowler
FRED TWITCHER
Fred Twitcher is a bird lover and has a passion for exotic birds, the feathered kind. The problem is he lives in a small ground floor flat and doesn’t have much room for an aviary. Furthermore, exotic birds are very expensive to buy and maintain. So, his live bird collection is small; a budgie called Norman, who he keeps in a tiny cage in the flat. He has many books on the subject though. A couple of days ago Fred was having a pint in his local and was approached by a guy called ‘Slippery Ron’, a well-known local wheeler dealer.
“Hello Fred. How are you doing. You like birds don’t you? I’ve got three beauties I can let you have on the cheap…..get it? Anyway, I know you don’t have much room but you can keep these in a cage outside. They don’t mind the cold and they feed off scraps. They don’t need special food. Interested?"
“How much?” asked Fred.
“Fifty quid for two, Beaky and Squeaky, and one hundred quid for the other, he’s a bit special and I call him Wingo,” replied Ron.
“Can I see them?” enquired Fred.
“Yeah, let me finish my pint and I’ll take you to see them now.”
They drank up and headed off to Ron’s garden shed. Fred could hear the birds twittering as they approached.
“Careful as we go in, they’re not caged,” said Ron.
He opened the door a crack and immediately Beaky and Squeaky flew out and landed in a nearby rose bush. Wingo tried to escape too but Ron managed to grab him in his hand…… a case of a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?
Garry Davidson
At the casino
Throwing money away at the casino
was always a disgrace.
He viewed its disappearance, as it vanished without trace.
Placed on the horses, the roulette, the games of crap cards.
He wanted more and more, gambled long and hard.
Until he realized it was better, to keep what he had.
Why throw good money on games that turned out bad?
Broken and lonely without a friend,
he knew his gambling days must draw to an end.
Counting meagre dollars was the final push,
And realising that a "bird in the hand was better than two in the bush".
Laura Sanders
February 2025
Fortune favours the brave
The dragons den
She faced the deadly panel,
she stared down at their feet.
Her worried gaze slowly lifted,
she could feel her loud heartbeat.
She muttered about her invention,
eventually she became loud and clear.
She raised her voice by coughing,
so Peter Jones could hear.
She explained with well remembered figures,
the profits, net and gross.
The dragons looked interested -
her business has excited most!
They each tried out her health drink,
they all seemed quite impressed!
She had offers from three dragons.
But would she choose the best?
She was in quite a quandary,
to choose Deborah Meaden, Suleyman or Jones?
They offered her all of the money,
it was better than that miserly bank loan!!
She gave away 15 per cent of her business,
but least it would "ride" the waves.
The saying was true,
she thought fortune favours the brave!
Laura Sanders
Fortune favours the brave
A red Indian chief called big buffalo,
led the chokeree tribe with great pride.
Then one day he had an accident,
he fell off of his horse and died.
His son little buffalo, a strong young brave,
should have become the chief.
But this was challenged by a rival,
much to little buffalo’s disbelief.
The challenger was called big mouth,
he certainly lived up to his name.
He didn’t like the way the tribe had been led,
to big buffalo he attributed the blame.
It was agreed there would be a ballot
to determine who would be chief.
Little buffalo knew he had lots of support,
much to his relief.
They had the ballot the following day,
all of the tribe members were there.
Little big trump, the oldest one,
adjudicated to ensure all was fair.
All of the tribe members voted,
chief big buffalo looked on from up high.
After several challenges and recounts,
the vote was declared a tie.
The outcome would be decided by the toss of a coin,
big buffalo turned in his grave.
Little buffalo called ‘heads’, and ‘heads’ it was
fortune favours the brave!
Garry Davidson
Fortune favours the brave (or does it?)
by Don Magee
Burbank had a relative who, going for his annual blood test, had been informed (that wasn’t the word used by his GP), that his PSA was ‘abnormal’. Burbank asked the relative ‘what is abnormal?’, to be told that it meant he needed a prostate biopsy to tell him exactly what abnormal was. This triggered in Burbank a thought that Gubenheim (his friend) thought by itself was ‘abnormal’, as Burbank was little inclined to thought, but more panic brought on by the onrush of events because he did not think. So Burbank decided to have his own blood PSA test (now reader keep up as like him, he had little inclination on how to go about it). Burbank considered it opportune and ‘brave’, Gubenheim, who was prone to inaction over all and everything that might have adverse consequences, labelled Burbank a ‘pillock’ whom fortune would not favour (this nicely brings us to the story title).
Gubenheim, who by now was irritated, said, ‘Why not go private for the test and results?’
Burbank’s reply just about sums up the health service dilemma. ‘Trying to get an appointment with my GP…… well it’s easier to get an audience with the Pope.’
The nurse (who he could see quickly), said the GP would only refer him to a hospital consultant, whereas going private would only send him to the same consultant. Gubenheim interrupted. ‘So you pay large amounts of money (ongoing) to see the same person?’
‘Yes isn’t the health service illogical in some ways? Albeit I’ve only had excellent attention so far.’
Gubenheim reminded him, ‘You never go to the doctors, so…’ he gave up and rolled his eyes then retorted, ‘Do it!’.
To save the reader eye strain, Burbank waited for an NHS appointment, had a blood test PSA, which came back as just above normal, waited months for a hospital visit, had a biopsy which gave him a negative prognosis, i.e. he was ‘Big C’ clear.
Burbank stated that fortune indeed favoured his bravery; Gubenheim more inclined to introspection merely concluded that if you avoided unnecessary brave actions (not his words as expletives are not worth recording) then fortune favouring anyone was pointless.
I have no idea who is right.
Fortune favours the brave
A rational and well reasoned suicide won’t take a moment,
and will hardly bring a grimace to a vacant face.
Depression lobs a mighty kick to the unfortunates
whose mindset dwells in the world of
not getting up today, not washing and personal neglect.
Because they see things, others don’t.
They hear voices that tell them where the unfavoured go.
Aimless wandering in and out of shops is a game to them.
As is walking into glass
and seeing skeletons in mirrors.
They adopt the sullen delusional look.
Their conversation wanders off the point.
Something to do with the empty days that stretch ahead.
They know, and instinctively understand the well-known saying
fortune favours the brave.
But no brave thoughts enter a suicide’s head
their reasoning is, they’re better off dead.
Tina Shaw
December 2024
Better late than never...
Better late than never
When I was very young
I enjoyed life to the full,
a different adventure every day
then they made me go to school.
The teachers and the pupils there
were quite nice I suppose,
but my freedom had been stolen
and that got up my nose.
The only lessons I yearned for
were English language and drawing,
the rest I admit passed me by
- I found them a little boring.
Secondary school was no different
and employment got in the way,
all I wanted to do with my life
was write and paint every day.
I worked for thirty seven years
writing and painting when I could,
an hour here and hour there
but for me that was no good.
Enough was enough and I retired
at last I could fulfil my dream,
I write and paint now whenever I want
and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
I waited for so many years
for my life to come together,
heed a word of advice my friend
it’s better late then never!
Garry Davidson
Better Late Than Never
“Potiusque Sero Quam Numquam” (Latin...)
Interpretations of life,
varied thoughts and perspectives.
Inspiring portraits of life,
characterized by elaborate qualities,
compassionate, generous, illuminating goodness,
standing for truth, revealing beauty beyond measure.
Are you afraid you have left it too late,
is it your eleventh hour?
Are you seeking a vibrant joyful life?
Is it a time for a new beginning?
Do you have the capacity to live
an influential and bountiful life?
It is never too late…
Your paradise awaits.
Karen Lee Mills
April 2024
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence...
There was green
by Kamran Connelly
For years we yearned, some more so than others. Some in days, some in decades. For me the wait has lasted for more than seventeen long and drawn out years. Entombed by brick, bolder and bar. Starved of colour, we exist in shades of brown and grey, away from the reach of the sun, and its canopy of beautiful blues. And then, on an idle Tuesday morning, hope manifested into reality with a bang on my cell door.
“Clarence 27-12-42. On your feet inmate. Warden wants to see you.”
The warden, Mr Murphy was sat at his desk, holding a letter and an unpleasant look on his face.
“Well I hope you're happy inmate. It seems your persistence has finally paid off,” he said.
He held the letter up like evidence.
“This is from the Board of Governors, your request for a prison garden has been approved. Providing that is, that you agree to stop sending them letters,” he said with a small grin that he removed as soon as it appeared.
“Really?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a cruel joke or a vivid dream from which I would wake.
“Yes, really. They have allotted 150 square meters for a garden patch and grassed area. Scheduled to be completed by the summer. So not long. You must have really annoyed them, they don’t approve anything. How many letters did you send them?” the warden asked.
“I lost count after four hundred.” I replied, and a chuckle that I couldn’t stifle slipped out.
“Well inmate Clarence, better late than never.”
Sixty-two sluggish days later, for the first time in nearly two decades, my feet touched grass. And all of a sudden, in the midst of our brown cold world, there was green. Wonderful green.
There is no Green
by Kamran Connelly
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. The words bounce around my head all night and into Monday morning.
Father high and mighty O’Brian ends every month with the same sermon, a lesson to heed God's warning not to covet thy neighbour’s something or other. He’d do well to remember his congregation is made up entirely of captive convicts. Easy for him to say. We sit wallowing away in concrete cages built for one and made for misery. Our world’s reduced to a skewed view through five inch thick glass, distorting nature’s pallet to a mudded mixture of blues, whites and greys. But never green. Even from the exercise yard, there is no green. Eight long years have passed, and I, trapped behind brown alabaster stone walls, so high I can barely fathom any being without wings passing over it, yearn to see green. Clarence-271242, an alien designation for an alien world of stone and steel. Cold all year, the smell of damp haunts the space, and the weight of men’s anguish languishing in its halls, emanates from the walls. My stretch will pull me to sixty-eight years old. Twenty-seven years of freedom it seems is the price to put down a rabid dog. Perhaps my reward awaits me in the afterlife. Father O’Brian preaches from a privileged position, his abstinence from life is voluntary. His attempts to dissuade desire for things that don’t belong to you is redundant to his audience. The men locked behind the gargantuan walls of this institution, no longer covet possessions or money. We long for colour, and empty space. To us, in here, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
The grass is greener
There was no man meaner than
Augustus Sebastian McKay
at the mention of his name
the English Redcoats would
hang down their heads in shame
he had made them look foolish
at the Battle of Ballachullish
his clan came across Loch Leven
at the dead of night and then
started whooping and hollering
the English immediately took fright
and tried to turn and take flight
but though they scampered
they were hampered by the mountains
behind them and as the morning broke
they were scattered alongside The Loch
and McKay awoke to gloat
over such a cheap victory
and from then on he was feared
as the leader of a villainous gang
who rampaged over that district
not so far from the home of Rob Roy
another cattle dealer who aspired
to restore James VII
to the English throne known
as the Jacobite Rebellion
he was buried where he died
on the side of Glencoe valley
when he tried one last rally
against the hated English
and I could swear that where
lies his grave and that of his friend
Peter McNally who also met his end
the grass on that side is greener
than on the other side.
Benny Cardwell
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence
Maybe it is and maybe life is not as it seems.
Seems to me, we look at others and are envious!
Envious of their grand accomplishments.
Accomplishments that required significant sacrifices.
Sacrifices consciously made with steadfast determination.
Determination to push through the inevitable challenges.
Challenges require us to make difficult decisions.
Decisions to charge forward, seeking brighter outcomes.
Outcomes contributing towards the greener grass of life.
Life, what are you are really wanting?
Wanting what appears to be desirable.
Desirable, yet, are you prepared to put in the hard yards?
Karen Mills
The grass is always greener
The grass seems always greener on the other side of the fence.
We're always looking over, thinking the other side is best!
Should we take the leap, shall we take the plunge or risk?
Or should we stay put, after all our lives can be short and even be brisk!
Eyeing up another location, house or country, in which to belong,
we yearn to do better, and temptations often come along...
But along comes a know it all to shatter all our dreams,
our yearnings are shattered, when they say, "The grass isn't always green!"
It may seem better to live in the rustic countryside,
but they would stay in the city! So our dreams inside have died...
before we've even tried...
Laura Sanders
Project Number 163
by Carolyn Mandache
“The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”
My mum says that a lot, I truly don’t understand why. I’ve examined our neighbouring gardens, and as far as I can tell, their grass is exactly the same shade as ours.
Maybe if you were a mantis shrimp with vastly superior colour recognition; sixteen colour receptive cones compared to the three in the human eyeball, you would stand a greater chance of proving that expression right. Then again… when would a mantis shrimp ever have the opportunity to be comparing the tonal variations of neighbourhood gardens?
Anyway, I’m straying off topic, a common personal inconvenience.
My photography experiments continue, project number 163 involved LomoChrome purple, a rather unique film roll created in 2013. Digital photography is all well and good, but nothing compares to the science, artistry and chemistry of the real thing. LomoChrome purple turns nature on its head in terms of the colour spectrum. My delightful results revealed that the grass is absolutely NOT greener on the other side of the fence… it is vibrant purple.
I posted my “evidence” of this strange phenomenon through the neighbour’s door, along with a handwritten note asking them to explain their strangely coloured lawn. I had hoped for some sensible deductions on my photography techniques, an opportunity to reveal my secrets further down the line. However, no such luck. A few days later I received an amusing, but somewhat childish response. I suppose they thought it would appeal to an average twelve year old boy, but everyone knows, I’m far from average.
The handwritten card (since talking face-to-face is banned in this strange, germ-infested Covid landscape) stated that they regularly water the grass with Ribena to maintain the attractive purple hue. Mum found it hilarious, me… not so much.
A green eternity
Sent by emperor on his life's quest
so travels a young samurai
suddenly lost in a raging tempest
a humble cottage catches his eye.
A welcoming host within this place
father, mother, and their daughter
she of great beauty and grace
as a green willow, beside water.
Exchanging poetry, the two see
their kindred spirit is one to share
both seeing the same destiny
a vow to each other they swear.
Happy years pass, then one day
she gasps in pain, falling into his arms
her being is linked to a willow's sway
someone is cutting down its charms.
She is gone, her robe falls to the ground
the samurai rails at this cruel blow
so he visits where she was first found
no cottage, just stumps of green willow.
Then he sees one green shoot
he stays to tend it and sing
before long his endeavours bear fruit
it grows into a fine sapling.
His vigil maintained until he dies
leaves rustle music, as if they know
the sapling sends a seed where he lies
rooted forever with his green willow.
Dave Larcombe
(author's note: the tale of Tomotada)
The grass is always greener
Fred, the groundsman at our football club,
was driven to despair.
The sprinkler system for his beloved pitch,
was just dribbling water here and there.
All agreed it should be changed,
they called an expert, Bill Evergreen.
He concurred and had to confess,
it was the worst he’d ever seen.
Bill suggested a system
he thought would do the job.
The downside, it was expensive,
and would cost the club a few bob.
They agreed to give it a trial,
but only on one side of the pitch.
They would extend it to the other side,
if the trial went without a hitch.
A temporary fence divided the pitch,
the new system in one half installed underground.
The old one left untouched in the other half,
to dribble and squirt around.
The trial commenced and within a few weeks,
a big difference could be seen.
The ‘old’ side of the pitch like a desert,
the ‘new’ side an oasis, lush and green.
Fred stood in the desert,
and made his decision without hesitance.
We have to go for the new system because,
the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Garry Davidson
March 18, 2024
Actions speak louder than words
Words
Spouting mere words can come easily,
but actions come much harder, each day.
Anyone can just say words for all to hear,
but it's whether we do what we say!
Thus words are empty if not carried out
and meaningless and just a lie.
If we do not back them up somehow,
the least we can do, is but try!
Laura Sanders
Lying Louse
He said he loved me, and what a glorious thing
that I'd always be the "apple of his eye!"
I waited and waited patiently, still no wedding ring.
Old and grey now, the years have now, passed me by.
He said he would help me and make me his wife,
so I would have to strive no more.
I've been stuck in this dead end job, all my life
his words were a meaningless bore!
He said together, when right, we'd have a family,
two or three kids, would be a gift.
Today I am childless, can't he see
it's now too late, so I am miffed!
He was always bragging, boasting to me,
sending sugary, cards with flowers and birds,
I just wish he'd prove truly he loved me,
'cause actions speak louder then words.
No glitzy ring, no wedding band of gold,
no wedding ceremony, or my own house.
His words were false, fake, I was sold,
wish I hadn't met the lying, disreputable louse!
Laura Sanders
All wind and no rain
Man enjoys one trait above all other creatures
from the baby’s first “Mama” to all the words
of loved ones and teachers
though this unique gift to speak has two ways about it, both sweetness and dramas
like when expectations fall short because of broken promises.
Words offered in apology are consoling where there’s injury and condemnation
if he responsibly applies the energy for correction and rehabilitation
but cheap talk won’t repay a debt or sow kinder temperament with neighbor or home
say nothing until you can mean what you say then respect will come back and maybe be shown
so if you’re drinking too much then put the jug down and go to AA
quit making promises then meet at the waterhole the next day
meet your obligations, speak sincere and you’ll start getting taller
you might find you like it to be a doer not a talker.
Tom Bowler
Actions speak louder than words
Do you remember Marcel Marceau?
A mime artist of great renown.
He called mime the “art of silence”
and on stage he was Bip the Clown.
He spoke to you via his movements
and the expressions on his face.
A visual vocabulary,
a word never out of place.
His Walking Against the Wind routine
inspired Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.
An incredible achievement,
not requiring the need to talk.
This man was truly a genius
his performances quite absurd.
With painted white face and a flower,
always seen but never heard.
Garry Davidson
January 31, 2024
A bad workman always blames his tools
Cowboys of the West
The workmen rushed off hastily,
time was money they knew.
But the window frame they'd fitted,
whistled shrilly, as the wind blew through!
The garden lawn looked peculiar,
the landscape gardeners tried their best,
the turf dried up, and shrank - all brown,
they were the cowboys of the west!
The shed the craftsmen erected,
crashed down, in a gale force wind.
It revived itself as a garden fence,
the idea soon got binned.
The plumber came to fix a leak,
couldn't find where it had sprung.
A swimming pool of water, swamped the house
from the ceiling lamp, the owner clung!
Their mugshots ended up on Watchdog,
they'd blamed lack of money and shoddy tools.
The people in the neighbourhood had said,
"Do you take us for bloody fools!!
"We want our money back,
we know that you all lied.
Work firms saying they are the best,
today there's no standards, or pride!!"
So Watchdog shamed the villains
The Cowboys of the West.
Told folk to look at the reviews,
to decide who was the best!
Laura Sanders
A Voicemail From My Builder
“Allo mate I got yer message,
I’ve been meenin' to call yer back,
troof is I’ve ‘ad a few tuff jobs,
and it’s knocked me a bit off track.
About the winder I put in for yer,
I got it to fit best as I could,
but the ‘ammer and nails I used for the job,
wouldn’t go froo the wood.
I tried a screwdriver and some screws,
electric, it cost a few bob,
but although I tried everyfink,
it wouldn’t do the job.
The silicone should ‘old the winder togevva,
I piped it round the edges meself,
just to give it some extra oomph,
I stuck the bottom to yer shelf.
The sink woz a bit of a bugga tho,
I ‘ad a problem wiv the washers,
I turned the water on, there was a leak,
and I ‘ad to wear me galoshes.
The last job you wanted woz the wall,
but the cement mixa wouldn’t start,
I ‘ad to mix the cement by ‘and,
I fink I’ve done somefink to me ‘art!
Oh yeah, annuver fing about the wall,
they sent the wrong size bricks,
but I did me best and got it dun,
using some old builders’ tricks.”
Do these people take us for fools?
We all know a bad workman always blames his tools.
Garry Davidson
January 10, 2024
Many hands make light work...
Another pair of hands
There are a multitude of tasks I must do each and every day,
household chores - that will not go away!
I wish I was a squirmy Octopus, with tentacles of eight,
so I could do lots more, and my work would soon abate!
But alas, I only have two small hands, to get everything done!
Praying for help, another hand, from someone - anyone?!
Peel the potatoes, retrieve the post, comb mum's hair,
do the shopping, make dinner, it is me, who HAS to care!
A carer's work is never done, they say, and I agree,
but who will look out for and help, little ol' me?!
So I prayed and wished, yearned for another pair of hands,
to make my work lighter, hands to show concern and understand.
Then my wish came true, and my fairy godmother came,
and waved a magic wand, so things were not the same...
My chores were lighter and were easier to do,
a kind heart came to my rescue, a love so real and true.
It made a huge difference and when I relaxed from my work,
I felt strangely redundant, as work, never did I shirk!
So yes , many hands make work lighter, team work especially.
It sure makes our lives flow and helps us cope, more easily!!
Laura Sanders
When we all pull together, we make life flow,
doing God's work on earth, it's how it's supposed to go.
Easing the burdens of life, on each and everyone,
but working as a team, soon gets the workload done!
Managing, supporting, helping - we all can do our bit.
Like fitting pieces of a jigsaw, to make a whole picture knit.
It is what life is about, as many hands make light work,
all aiming in the same direction, no one wanting to shirk!
Laura Sanders
Many hands make light work,
an old German proverb you know.
I met a man in Bremen once,
he’s the one who told me so.
“Can you tell me the origin?” I asked,
“Of course,” came his reply.
He sat right back in his chair,
and looked up at the sky.
“Many years ago lightning struck,
hit that beacon on the hill.
It put out the light instantly,
to fix it required some skill.
I chaired a public meeting,
they said, “Hans, we need electricians”.
I offered my family company,
but that aroused a few suspicions.
Finally they all agreed,
so I mustered my cousins and brothers,
coincidentally they are all called Hans,
but we invited along a few others.
We set a date to do the work,
assembled men and machinery on site.
They were all totally focussed,
on rekindling that blessed light.
After many hours of sweat and toil,
the odd blown fuse and quirk,
the people let out a massive cheer,
many Hans make light work!”
Garry Davidson
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush
I’ve been chasing that bird for a while
it starts with a sound sort of a whoosh
then comes the pursuit and it’s not all smiles.
I’ve climbed terrain, crossed water, dug sand
money’s been spent for the skill of the hunt
it’s elusive and ends in the bush never the hand.
The chase continues, no relenting just take on the brunt
new tools can close the gap on a snare
they’re wood and iron, made for hacking on the trail
it’s close now so birdie beware
I’m on the green at St. David’s in Wales
he’s close now maybe ten feet away
the tool for the coup de grace comes out "the putter"
but it looks like the birdie will wait one more day
and a frustrated golfer sends his next shot in the gutter.
Tom Bowler
FRED TWITCHER
Fred Twitcher is a bird lover and has a passion for exotic birds, the feathered kind. The problem is he lives in a small ground floor flat and doesn’t have much room for an aviary. Furthermore, exotic birds are very expensive to buy and maintain. So, his live bird collection is small; a budgie called Norman, who he keeps in a tiny cage in the flat. He has many books on the subject though. A couple of days ago Fred was having a pint in his local and was approached by a guy called ‘Slippery Ron’, a well-known local wheeler dealer.
“Hello Fred. How are you doing. You like birds don’t you? I’ve got three beauties I can let you have on the cheap…..get it? Anyway, I know you don’t have much room but you can keep these in a cage outside. They don’t mind the cold and they feed off scraps. They don’t need special food. Interested?"
“How much?” asked Fred.
“Fifty quid for two, Beaky and Squeaky, and one hundred quid for the other, he’s a bit special and I call him Wingo,” replied Ron.
“Can I see them?” enquired Fred.
“Yeah, let me finish my pint and I’ll take you to see them now.”
They drank up and headed off to Ron’s garden shed. Fred could hear the birds twittering as they approached.
“Careful as we go in, they’re not caged,” said Ron.
He opened the door a crack and immediately Beaky and Squeaky flew out and landed in a nearby rose bush. Wingo tried to escape too but Ron managed to grab him in his hand…… a case of a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?
Garry Davidson
At the casino
Throwing money away at the casino
was always a disgrace.
He viewed its disappearance, as it vanished without trace.
Placed on the horses, the roulette, the games of crap cards.
He wanted more and more, gambled long and hard.
Until he realized it was better, to keep what he had.
Why throw good money on games that turned out bad?
Broken and lonely without a friend,
he knew his gambling days must draw to an end.
Counting meagre dollars was the final push,
And realising that a "bird in the hand was better than two in the bush".
Laura Sanders
February 2025
Fortune favours the brave
The dragons den
She faced the deadly panel,
she stared down at their feet.
Her worried gaze slowly lifted,
she could feel her loud heartbeat.
She muttered about her invention,
eventually she became loud and clear.
She raised her voice by coughing,
so Peter Jones could hear.
She explained with well remembered figures,
the profits, net and gross.
The dragons looked interested -
her business has excited most!
They each tried out her health drink,
they all seemed quite impressed!
She had offers from three dragons.
But would she choose the best?
She was in quite a quandary,
to choose Deborah Meaden, Suleyman or Jones?
They offered her all of the money,
it was better than that miserly bank loan!!
She gave away 15 per cent of her business,
but least it would "ride" the waves.
The saying was true,
she thought fortune favours the brave!
Laura Sanders
Fortune favours the brave
A red Indian chief called big buffalo,
led the chokeree tribe with great pride.
Then one day he had an accident,
he fell off of his horse and died.
His son little buffalo, a strong young brave,
should have become the chief.
But this was challenged by a rival,
much to little buffalo’s disbelief.
The challenger was called big mouth,
he certainly lived up to his name.
He didn’t like the way the tribe had been led,
to big buffalo he attributed the blame.
It was agreed there would be a ballot
to determine who would be chief.
Little buffalo knew he had lots of support,
much to his relief.
They had the ballot the following day,
all of the tribe members were there.
Little big trump, the oldest one,
adjudicated to ensure all was fair.
All of the tribe members voted,
chief big buffalo looked on from up high.
After several challenges and recounts,
the vote was declared a tie.
The outcome would be decided by the toss of a coin,
big buffalo turned in his grave.
Little buffalo called ‘heads’, and ‘heads’ it was
fortune favours the brave!
Garry Davidson
Fortune favours the brave (or does it?)
by Don Magee
Burbank had a relative who, going for his annual blood test, had been informed (that wasn’t the word used by his GP), that his PSA was ‘abnormal’. Burbank asked the relative ‘what is abnormal?’, to be told that it meant he needed a prostate biopsy to tell him exactly what abnormal was. This triggered in Burbank a thought that Gubenheim (his friend) thought by itself was ‘abnormal’, as Burbank was little inclined to thought, but more panic brought on by the onrush of events because he did not think. So Burbank decided to have his own blood PSA test (now reader keep up as like him, he had little inclination on how to go about it). Burbank considered it opportune and ‘brave’, Gubenheim, who was prone to inaction over all and everything that might have adverse consequences, labelled Burbank a ‘pillock’ whom fortune would not favour (this nicely brings us to the story title).
Gubenheim, who by now was irritated, said, ‘Why not go private for the test and results?’
Burbank’s reply just about sums up the health service dilemma. ‘Trying to get an appointment with my GP…… well it’s easier to get an audience with the Pope.’
The nurse (who he could see quickly), said the GP would only refer him to a hospital consultant, whereas going private would only send him to the same consultant. Gubenheim interrupted. ‘So you pay large amounts of money (ongoing) to see the same person?’
‘Yes isn’t the health service illogical in some ways? Albeit I’ve only had excellent attention so far.’
Gubenheim reminded him, ‘You never go to the doctors, so…’ he gave up and rolled his eyes then retorted, ‘Do it!’.
To save the reader eye strain, Burbank waited for an NHS appointment, had a blood test PSA, which came back as just above normal, waited months for a hospital visit, had a biopsy which gave him a negative prognosis, i.e. he was ‘Big C’ clear.
Burbank stated that fortune indeed favoured his bravery; Gubenheim more inclined to introspection merely concluded that if you avoided unnecessary brave actions (not his words as expletives are not worth recording) then fortune favouring anyone was pointless.
I have no idea who is right.
Fortune favours the brave
A rational and well reasoned suicide won’t take a moment,
and will hardly bring a grimace to a vacant face.
Depression lobs a mighty kick to the unfortunates
whose mindset dwells in the world of
not getting up today, not washing and personal neglect.
Because they see things, others don’t.
They hear voices that tell them where the unfavoured go.
Aimless wandering in and out of shops is a game to them.
As is walking into glass
and seeing skeletons in mirrors.
They adopt the sullen delusional look.
Their conversation wanders off the point.
Something to do with the empty days that stretch ahead.
They know, and instinctively understand the well-known saying
fortune favours the brave.
But no brave thoughts enter a suicide’s head
their reasoning is, they’re better off dead.
Tina Shaw
December 2024
Better late than never...
Better late than never
When I was very young
I enjoyed life to the full,
a different adventure every day
then they made me go to school.
The teachers and the pupils there
were quite nice I suppose,
but my freedom had been stolen
and that got up my nose.
The only lessons I yearned for
were English language and drawing,
the rest I admit passed me by
- I found them a little boring.
Secondary school was no different
and employment got in the way,
all I wanted to do with my life
was write and paint every day.
I worked for thirty seven years
writing and painting when I could,
an hour here and hour there
but for me that was no good.
Enough was enough and I retired
at last I could fulfil my dream,
I write and paint now whenever I want
and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
I waited for so many years
for my life to come together,
heed a word of advice my friend
it’s better late then never!
Garry Davidson
Better Late Than Never
“Potiusque Sero Quam Numquam” (Latin...)
Interpretations of life,
varied thoughts and perspectives.
Inspiring portraits of life,
characterized by elaborate qualities,
compassionate, generous, illuminating goodness,
standing for truth, revealing beauty beyond measure.
Are you afraid you have left it too late,
is it your eleventh hour?
Are you seeking a vibrant joyful life?
Is it a time for a new beginning?
Do you have the capacity to live
an influential and bountiful life?
It is never too late…
Your paradise awaits.
Karen Lee Mills
April 2024
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence...
There was green
by Kamran Connelly
For years we yearned, some more so than others. Some in days, some in decades. For me the wait has lasted for more than seventeen long and drawn out years. Entombed by brick, bolder and bar. Starved of colour, we exist in shades of brown and grey, away from the reach of the sun, and its canopy of beautiful blues. And then, on an idle Tuesday morning, hope manifested into reality with a bang on my cell door.
“Clarence 27-12-42. On your feet inmate. Warden wants to see you.”
The warden, Mr Murphy was sat at his desk, holding a letter and an unpleasant look on his face.
“Well I hope you're happy inmate. It seems your persistence has finally paid off,” he said.
He held the letter up like evidence.
“This is from the Board of Governors, your request for a prison garden has been approved. Providing that is, that you agree to stop sending them letters,” he said with a small grin that he removed as soon as it appeared.
“Really?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a cruel joke or a vivid dream from which I would wake.
“Yes, really. They have allotted 150 square meters for a garden patch and grassed area. Scheduled to be completed by the summer. So not long. You must have really annoyed them, they don’t approve anything. How many letters did you send them?” the warden asked.
“I lost count after four hundred.” I replied, and a chuckle that I couldn’t stifle slipped out.
“Well inmate Clarence, better late than never.”
Sixty-two sluggish days later, for the first time in nearly two decades, my feet touched grass. And all of a sudden, in the midst of our brown cold world, there was green. Wonderful green.
There is no Green
by Kamran Connelly
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. The words bounce around my head all night and into Monday morning.
Father high and mighty O’Brian ends every month with the same sermon, a lesson to heed God's warning not to covet thy neighbour’s something or other. He’d do well to remember his congregation is made up entirely of captive convicts. Easy for him to say. We sit wallowing away in concrete cages built for one and made for misery. Our world’s reduced to a skewed view through five inch thick glass, distorting nature’s pallet to a mudded mixture of blues, whites and greys. But never green. Even from the exercise yard, there is no green. Eight long years have passed, and I, trapped behind brown alabaster stone walls, so high I can barely fathom any being without wings passing over it, yearn to see green. Clarence-271242, an alien designation for an alien world of stone and steel. Cold all year, the smell of damp haunts the space, and the weight of men’s anguish languishing in its halls, emanates from the walls. My stretch will pull me to sixty-eight years old. Twenty-seven years of freedom it seems is the price to put down a rabid dog. Perhaps my reward awaits me in the afterlife. Father O’Brian preaches from a privileged position, his abstinence from life is voluntary. His attempts to dissuade desire for things that don’t belong to you is redundant to his audience. The men locked behind the gargantuan walls of this institution, no longer covet possessions or money. We long for colour, and empty space. To us, in here, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
The grass is greener
There was no man meaner than
Augustus Sebastian McKay
at the mention of his name
the English Redcoats would
hang down their heads in shame
he had made them look foolish
at the Battle of Ballachullish
his clan came across Loch Leven
at the dead of night and then
started whooping and hollering
the English immediately took fright
and tried to turn and take flight
but though they scampered
they were hampered by the mountains
behind them and as the morning broke
they were scattered alongside The Loch
and McKay awoke to gloat
over such a cheap victory
and from then on he was feared
as the leader of a villainous gang
who rampaged over that district
not so far from the home of Rob Roy
another cattle dealer who aspired
to restore James VII
to the English throne known
as the Jacobite Rebellion
he was buried where he died
on the side of Glencoe valley
when he tried one last rally
against the hated English
and I could swear that where
lies his grave and that of his friend
Peter McNally who also met his end
the grass on that side is greener
than on the other side.
Benny Cardwell
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence
Maybe it is and maybe life is not as it seems.
Seems to me, we look at others and are envious!
Envious of their grand accomplishments.
Accomplishments that required significant sacrifices.
Sacrifices consciously made with steadfast determination.
Determination to push through the inevitable challenges.
Challenges require us to make difficult decisions.
Decisions to charge forward, seeking brighter outcomes.
Outcomes contributing towards the greener grass of life.
Life, what are you are really wanting?
Wanting what appears to be desirable.
Desirable, yet, are you prepared to put in the hard yards?
Karen Mills
The grass is always greener
The grass seems always greener on the other side of the fence.
We're always looking over, thinking the other side is best!
Should we take the leap, shall we take the plunge or risk?
Or should we stay put, after all our lives can be short and even be brisk!
Eyeing up another location, house or country, in which to belong,
we yearn to do better, and temptations often come along...
But along comes a know it all to shatter all our dreams,
our yearnings are shattered, when they say, "The grass isn't always green!"
It may seem better to live in the rustic countryside,
but they would stay in the city! So our dreams inside have died...
before we've even tried...
Laura Sanders
Project Number 163
by Carolyn Mandache
“The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”
My mum says that a lot, I truly don’t understand why. I’ve examined our neighbouring gardens, and as far as I can tell, their grass is exactly the same shade as ours.
Maybe if you were a mantis shrimp with vastly superior colour recognition; sixteen colour receptive cones compared to the three in the human eyeball, you would stand a greater chance of proving that expression right. Then again… when would a mantis shrimp ever have the opportunity to be comparing the tonal variations of neighbourhood gardens?
Anyway, I’m straying off topic, a common personal inconvenience.
My photography experiments continue, project number 163 involved LomoChrome purple, a rather unique film roll created in 2013. Digital photography is all well and good, but nothing compares to the science, artistry and chemistry of the real thing. LomoChrome purple turns nature on its head in terms of the colour spectrum. My delightful results revealed that the grass is absolutely NOT greener on the other side of the fence… it is vibrant purple.
I posted my “evidence” of this strange phenomenon through the neighbour’s door, along with a handwritten note asking them to explain their strangely coloured lawn. I had hoped for some sensible deductions on my photography techniques, an opportunity to reveal my secrets further down the line. However, no such luck. A few days later I received an amusing, but somewhat childish response. I suppose they thought it would appeal to an average twelve year old boy, but everyone knows, I’m far from average.
The handwritten card (since talking face-to-face is banned in this strange, germ-infested Covid landscape) stated that they regularly water the grass with Ribena to maintain the attractive purple hue. Mum found it hilarious, me… not so much.
A green eternity
Sent by emperor on his life's quest
so travels a young samurai
suddenly lost in a raging tempest
a humble cottage catches his eye.
A welcoming host within this place
father, mother, and their daughter
she of great beauty and grace
as a green willow, beside water.
Exchanging poetry, the two see
their kindred spirit is one to share
both seeing the same destiny
a vow to each other they swear.
Happy years pass, then one day
she gasps in pain, falling into his arms
her being is linked to a willow's sway
someone is cutting down its charms.
She is gone, her robe falls to the ground
the samurai rails at this cruel blow
so he visits where she was first found
no cottage, just stumps of green willow.
Then he sees one green shoot
he stays to tend it and sing
before long his endeavours bear fruit
it grows into a fine sapling.
His vigil maintained until he dies
leaves rustle music, as if they know
the sapling sends a seed where he lies
rooted forever with his green willow.
Dave Larcombe
(author's note: the tale of Tomotada)
The grass is always greener
Fred, the groundsman at our football club,
was driven to despair.
The sprinkler system for his beloved pitch,
was just dribbling water here and there.
All agreed it should be changed,
they called an expert, Bill Evergreen.
He concurred and had to confess,
it was the worst he’d ever seen.
Bill suggested a system
he thought would do the job.
The downside, it was expensive,
and would cost the club a few bob.
They agreed to give it a trial,
but only on one side of the pitch.
They would extend it to the other side,
if the trial went without a hitch.
A temporary fence divided the pitch,
the new system in one half installed underground.
The old one left untouched in the other half,
to dribble and squirt around.
The trial commenced and within a few weeks,
a big difference could be seen.
The ‘old’ side of the pitch like a desert,
the ‘new’ side an oasis, lush and green.
Fred stood in the desert,
and made his decision without hesitance.
We have to go for the new system because,
the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Garry Davidson
March 18, 2024
Actions speak louder than words
Words
Spouting mere words can come easily,
but actions come much harder, each day.
Anyone can just say words for all to hear,
but it's whether we do what we say!
Thus words are empty if not carried out
and meaningless and just a lie.
If we do not back them up somehow,
the least we can do, is but try!
Laura Sanders
Lying Louse
He said he loved me, and what a glorious thing
that I'd always be the "apple of his eye!"
I waited and waited patiently, still no wedding ring.
Old and grey now, the years have now, passed me by.
He said he would help me and make me his wife,
so I would have to strive no more.
I've been stuck in this dead end job, all my life
his words were a meaningless bore!
He said together, when right, we'd have a family,
two or three kids, would be a gift.
Today I am childless, can't he see
it's now too late, so I am miffed!
He was always bragging, boasting to me,
sending sugary, cards with flowers and birds,
I just wish he'd prove truly he loved me,
'cause actions speak louder then words.
No glitzy ring, no wedding band of gold,
no wedding ceremony, or my own house.
His words were false, fake, I was sold,
wish I hadn't met the lying, disreputable louse!
Laura Sanders
All wind and no rain
Man enjoys one trait above all other creatures
from the baby’s first “Mama” to all the words
of loved ones and teachers
though this unique gift to speak has two ways about it, both sweetness and dramas
like when expectations fall short because of broken promises.
Words offered in apology are consoling where there’s injury and condemnation
if he responsibly applies the energy for correction and rehabilitation
but cheap talk won’t repay a debt or sow kinder temperament with neighbor or home
say nothing until you can mean what you say then respect will come back and maybe be shown
so if you’re drinking too much then put the jug down and go to AA
quit making promises then meet at the waterhole the next day
meet your obligations, speak sincere and you’ll start getting taller
you might find you like it to be a doer not a talker.
Tom Bowler
Actions speak louder than words
Do you remember Marcel Marceau?
A mime artist of great renown.
He called mime the “art of silence”
and on stage he was Bip the Clown.
He spoke to you via his movements
and the expressions on his face.
A visual vocabulary,
a word never out of place.
His Walking Against the Wind routine
inspired Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.
An incredible achievement,
not requiring the need to talk.
This man was truly a genius
his performances quite absurd.
With painted white face and a flower,
always seen but never heard.
Garry Davidson
January 31, 2024
A bad workman always blames his tools
Cowboys of the West
The workmen rushed off hastily,
time was money they knew.
But the window frame they'd fitted,
whistled shrilly, as the wind blew through!
The garden lawn looked peculiar,
the landscape gardeners tried their best,
the turf dried up, and shrank - all brown,
they were the cowboys of the west!
The shed the craftsmen erected,
crashed down, in a gale force wind.
It revived itself as a garden fence,
the idea soon got binned.
The plumber came to fix a leak,
couldn't find where it had sprung.
A swimming pool of water, swamped the house
from the ceiling lamp, the owner clung!
Their mugshots ended up on Watchdog,
they'd blamed lack of money and shoddy tools.
The people in the neighbourhood had said,
"Do you take us for bloody fools!!
"We want our money back,
we know that you all lied.
Work firms saying they are the best,
today there's no standards, or pride!!"
So Watchdog shamed the villains
The Cowboys of the West.
Told folk to look at the reviews,
to decide who was the best!
Laura Sanders
A Voicemail From My Builder
“Allo mate I got yer message,
I’ve been meenin' to call yer back,
troof is I’ve ‘ad a few tuff jobs,
and it’s knocked me a bit off track.
About the winder I put in for yer,
I got it to fit best as I could,
but the ‘ammer and nails I used for the job,
wouldn’t go froo the wood.
I tried a screwdriver and some screws,
electric, it cost a few bob,
but although I tried everyfink,
it wouldn’t do the job.
The silicone should ‘old the winder togevva,
I piped it round the edges meself,
just to give it some extra oomph,
I stuck the bottom to yer shelf.
The sink woz a bit of a bugga tho,
I ‘ad a problem wiv the washers,
I turned the water on, there was a leak,
and I ‘ad to wear me galoshes.
The last job you wanted woz the wall,
but the cement mixa wouldn’t start,
I ‘ad to mix the cement by ‘and,
I fink I’ve done somefink to me ‘art!
Oh yeah, annuver fing about the wall,
they sent the wrong size bricks,
but I did me best and got it dun,
using some old builders’ tricks.”
Do these people take us for fools?
We all know a bad workman always blames his tools.
Garry Davidson
January 10, 2024
Many hands make light work...
Another pair of hands
There are a multitude of tasks I must do each and every day,
household chores - that will not go away!
I wish I was a squirmy Octopus, with tentacles of eight,
so I could do lots more, and my work would soon abate!
But alas, I only have two small hands, to get everything done!
Praying for help, another hand, from someone - anyone?!
Peel the potatoes, retrieve the post, comb mum's hair,
do the shopping, make dinner, it is me, who HAS to care!
A carer's work is never done, they say, and I agree,
but who will look out for and help, little ol' me?!
So I prayed and wished, yearned for another pair of hands,
to make my work lighter, hands to show concern and understand.
Then my wish came true, and my fairy godmother came,
and waved a magic wand, so things were not the same...
My chores were lighter and were easier to do,
a kind heart came to my rescue, a love so real and true.
It made a huge difference and when I relaxed from my work,
I felt strangely redundant, as work, never did I shirk!
So yes , many hands make work lighter, team work especially.
It sure makes our lives flow and helps us cope, more easily!!
Laura Sanders
When we all pull together, we make life flow,
doing God's work on earth, it's how it's supposed to go.
Easing the burdens of life, on each and everyone,
but working as a team, soon gets the workload done!
Managing, supporting, helping - we all can do our bit.
Like fitting pieces of a jigsaw, to make a whole picture knit.
It is what life is about, as many hands make light work,
all aiming in the same direction, no one wanting to shirk!
Laura Sanders
Many hands make light work,
an old German proverb you know.
I met a man in Bremen once,
he’s the one who told me so.
“Can you tell me the origin?” I asked,
“Of course,” came his reply.
He sat right back in his chair,
and looked up at the sky.
“Many years ago lightning struck,
hit that beacon on the hill.
It put out the light instantly,
to fix it required some skill.
I chaired a public meeting,
they said, “Hans, we need electricians”.
I offered my family company,
but that aroused a few suspicions.
Finally they all agreed,
so I mustered my cousins and brothers,
coincidentally they are all called Hans,
but we invited along a few others.
We set a date to do the work,
assembled men and machinery on site.
They were all totally focussed,
on rekindling that blessed light.
After many hours of sweat and toil,
the odd blown fuse and quirk,
the people let out a massive cheer,
many Hans make light work!”
Garry Davidson
