THE WANDERLUST THAT BIT THE DUST

Feeling very guilty at NOT blogging for far too long- not because I’ve nothing to say( as if!), but because I have so little faith in the look of these blogs.  Will definitely do what it takes to make my blog look more appealing – if I can find out how.

However, today I  would like to talk about last week’s All Wales Comic  Verse competition, finals of which were held at The Priory. Caerleon, Monmouth.  Thrilled to be among the finalists at this tremendously fun event which I didn’t win a prize at but where everybody was so friendly and where the winning poems were such a hoot.. As one of my visitors said afterwards, “I haven’t had so much fun in a tent on a Sunday afternoon since 1984.”

On the advice of a few people,I’ve added my poem here for your perusal.  It really needs to be performed – as did they all- to get the full flavour but  I have no video footage ( thank heavens!).

All other previous writing schedules now on hold as I begin Volume 3 of The Foxwood Saga, so I shall retreat to that lovely place on the Welsh Borders ( in my head only, unfortunately), and reimmerse myself in the lives of Viv, Maggie, Julia, Jeff, Lewis  et al.

THE WANDERLUST THAT BIT THE DUST

There was time not long ago

I had so much get up and go

I simply just got up and went

Cambodia, Chile, Chad, Tashkent-

To desert, jungle. Ice floe, peak,

From Kurdistan to Mozambique.

I scorned the package tour, of course,

My journey was a tour de force.

No posh hotels, no B and B,

I sneered at needless luxury.

 

Alas, those days are gone for me,

My tastes have changed considerably.

I find I cannot take the heat,

My feet rebel. I cannot eat,

The local food upsets my tum,

My best friend is Imodium.

A coach tour’s now on my agenda

My independence I surrender.

Our guide will tell us what to see

And where to shop, to eat, to pee.

“Now don’t get lost,“ she says to us.

“At three I want you on the bus.”

We buy our postcards, pay our dues-

And then go off to find the loos.

 

 

I’m glad I did the earlier stuff,

The bungee jumps, the treks, the rough

And tumble travel in my prime.

In every life there comes a time

When trips become too hazardous,

And Saga beckons, “Come w

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