Dogeral, Verse and Poetry

By Kathy Hansford

Kathy Handsford is only a pen name, my true name is Kathleen Fleming which I used for my first book for fear of upsetting my husband. Kathy Handsford is my small contribution to women's lib, why should I have to use the same name as my husband ,or father for that matter, when poetry is a very personal creation. I wrote my poetry in small booklets ,one each year, that I then sent to family and friends each Christmas with their Christmas card.I have now put all my musings into one book and here it is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499087413

Kathy Hansford

I am now in my eighty-sixth year, and my eyesight has now failed, and I am almost blind, and arthritis has caught up with me too. This last year has seen me go back to my beloved farmhouse, where I spent so many happy years working hard on the farm with my husband and raising eight children along the way. I now have a live-in carer, and so I am able to still visit family and friends with her support. I continue to dictate stories about my life and travels so that I am able to share these with the readers.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Kathy Hansford.

ISBN:          Softcover          978-1-4990-8740-6

                   eBook                978-1-4990-8741-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/03/2014

Xlibris LLC

0-800-056-3182

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

618078

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

THE FOREST IS MY CATHEDRAL

THE FOREST IS MY CATHEDRAL

BUTTERCUPS

LACE

JUST A THOUGHT

SNOW IN THE FOREST

THE FARM

THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING

FETCHING THE COWS

FEBUARY 1983

THE COWS RETURN TO PASTURE AFTER MILKING

THE BULL

OUR COLLIES

NOSTALGIA (1982)

WASHING UP

THE BUS RIDE

CANDLES

MY FRIENDS AND I

A WINTER WALK IN THE PENNINES

ON A HILL ABOVE MATLOCK

IRONBRIDGE, near Coalport Potteries

IRONBRIDGE, Two Bridges

NORWICH RAILWAY STATION 24 June 2003

CLIFTON SUSPENSION BRIDGE

A DAY IN CARLISLE 18 May 2004

BERWICK ON TWEED

AND SOMETIMES I TURN TO DEEPER THOUGHTS…

TRAVELS IN THE BRITISH ISLES

DARTMOOR

ON A WALK NEAR GAINSBOROUGH

SHEFFIELD’S CLAIM TO FAME

SHEFFIELD GENERAL CEMETERY

A THOUGHT

THE BEAR PIT, SHEFFIELD

PETERBOROUGH’S TWO CATHEDRALS 4/2/05

BIN LADEN, THE RED DEER

IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

BRAY

DUBLIN SUBURBS

CEIDE FIELDS

GALWAY BAY

THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY

CHILDHOOD MEMORY

TAIL PIECE

FARM POEMS

OUR FIRST FARM

HARVESTING

LITTLE AND LARGE

AUTUMN ON THE LINCOLNSHIRE LEVELS

BALES

HEDGES

HORNCASTLE HORSE FAIR

AND THE FARMER’S MARKET

OUR PIGS

GEORGE

THE THUNDERSTORM

MY VISITOR

THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH…

MOTHERHOOD

A PRIVILEGED MUM

REALITY

FARM MOTHER’S WORST NIGHTMARE

OUR THREE TREES

WILDLIFE ON THE FARM

I AM EIGHTY NOW

A FRIEND

A WORLD WAR ONE DITTY

APRIL 28th 2010

THE TREADMILL

THOUGHTS OF A RETIRED FARMER

MOTHER OF EIGHT

MARGARET THE FIRST OF MY CHILDREN

THE BABY KEVIN

MARTIN’S BIRTH 5th JAN 1962

THE RED PIXIE HOOD

THE MEASURING JUG

ANGELA’S BIRTH

RONI’S BIRTH 12th January 1965

RONI’S NAME

THE VISIT

THE BIRTH OF PADDY AND PAUL 1st October 1966

A MOTHER’S WORST NIGHTMARE

JOHN’S BIRTH

THE YELLOW DUSTPAN

KEVIN AT INFANT SCHOOL 1962

THE POTS OF JAM

THE RACE

A SONG FOR KEVIN WHEN IN HOSPITAL HAVING HIS TONSILS OUT

RONI’S BAD NIGHT

BACH’S PRELUDE AND FUGUE IN D

RONI AT JUNIOR SCHOOL

THE LAST TIME I SMACKED ONE OF MY CHILDREN

THE CHOICE

HALTHAM CHURCH

ANGELA’S NIGHT OUT

JOHN’S EXPERIENCE

LOST ON SNOWDONIA

THE TWINS IN AMERICA

PAUL AND AMY’S HORSE

MAGGIE, THE THOUGHTFUL ONE

THE ROWING BOAT

ANGELA

JOHN

THE STOLEN BOAT

A HISTORIC VOYAGE

MAGGIE’S MUSIC

THE NAME FLEMING

MARMITE

RAILWAY POEMS

MY FIRST SOLO TRAIN JOURNEY 1932

THEN… in the 1980s

ANOTHER EARLY MEMORY 1934

OUR HOLIDAY FROM WATERLOO MAIN LINE 1930s

ON LONDON BRIDGE, HIGH LEVEL 1930s

AN ABORTED TRAIN JOURNEY IN THE 1930s

SEMAPHORE SIGNALS

GETTING TO LONDON BRIDGE STATION DURING THE 90 NIGHTS BLITZ

THE SOUTH DEVON COASTAL ROUTE

A NIGHT ON BRISTOL TEMPLEMEADS STATION

CROSSING GATES

A TRAIN JOURNEY

SHEFFIELD RAILWAY STATION December 2007

WANDERLUST ON SHEFFIELD STATION June 2003

SCOUT CUB OUTING

THE VIADUCT, BERWICK ON TWEED

MIDDLESBOROUGH STATION

SAM THE DOG ON EDALE STATION 2003

A DAY ON WHITBY’S RAILWAY Oct 2007

STIXWOULD STATION

ON THE WAY TO SHEFFIELD, AD 1999

RAILWAY GOODS TRAFFIC

NOW

LIAM, MY GRANDSON

RAILWAY LINES

TRAVELLING IN THE SEVERN VALLEY Feb 2006

TICKETS

IN 1963

TEACHERS AND PUPILS

GRAMMAR SCHOOL TEACHER’S PARENTS’ EVENING

MAGGIE’S PROBLEM AT THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL

TEACHING MUSIC

OFFICIALDOM

RONI’S CHILDREN

ONE DOESN’T ALWAYS KNOW ONE’S CHILDREN

RONI’S GLASSES

DEREK, THE DEAF BOY

BENDING THE SYSTEM

A GOOD NATURED HEAD

TATTERSHALL CASTLE

NURSERY

TATTERSHALL CASTLE

AND TONY

THE MONKEY

AND THE ELEPHANT

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

MICHAEL

A SCHOOL TRAIN TRIP FROM BOSTON TO PETERBOROUGH

GENERAL ELECTION

OFSTED

OFSTED INSPECTIONS

JOHN

ME, MY FAMILY, FRIENDS AND OTHER FOLK

ME

I AM COMPUTER ILITERATE 1996

I’VE BOUGHT MYSELF AN ELECTRONIC TOY 1998

THE LONDON TO BRIGHTON ROAD

THE OLD COG

MY SLAVES

SEAN, MY HUSBAND

SEAN’S MEMORIAL

ON THE WICKLOW MOUNTAINS

MY GREAT GRANDFATHER

FISH KNIVES AND FORKS

AUGUST TO OCTOBER 1926 A.D.

A MOTHER’S BROKEN NIGHT

PAUL, On being the proud owner of a moped 1982

PAUL, SCHOOL BOY AMBITION

MY FRIENDS AND I

THE STOLEN FRISBEE

A WOMAN OF FAITH

MY NEIGHBOUR

ROBERTA HALL

TRILOGY AD 1885

TRILOGY AD 1985

TRILOGY CONVERSATION AD 2085

LIFE IS CHEAP IN BLACK AFRICA

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

GONE ARE THE DAYS

THE GULF WAR

JIM

MY FINAL PRAYER

CHRISTMAS POEMS

ROBIN

KING JOHN’S CHRISTMAS

THE YELLOW WELLIES

THE CHRISTMAS TREE IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE

THE OLD LADY

WE THREE KINGS

ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING

THE HOLLY AND THE IVY

TO THE TUNE OF ‘GOOD KING WENCELESLAS’

SANTA CLAUS

CHRISTMAS 2002

MY LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE

CHRISTMAS IN A MUSLIM STATE

SANTA RIDES THE ROCKING HORSE

SANTA CLAUS 2

THE DOLL’S CHRISTMAS PARTY

THE LEGEND OF ST NICHOLAS, THE BISHOP OF PADUA

THE ROCKING HORSE

TEDDY

TWO CHRISTMAS CARDS

THE CHRISTMAS CARD

MARTIN’S BIRTH

EPIPHANY

THE AFTERMATH OF EPIPHANY

DIFFICULTIES WITH MILKING

THE NATIVITY SCENE

A MEASLEY CHRISTMAS

MY BEST CHRISTMAS, BUT NOT SEAN’S

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS

INTRODUCTION

Kathy Handsford is only a pen name, my real name is Kathleen Fleming, which I had to use for my last book for fear of upsetting my husband.

Kathy Handsford was my small contribution to women’s lib, why should I have to use the name of my husband, or my father for that matter when poetry is a very personal creation?

Handsford, is my middle name.

The Germans, under Hitler, were very wrong in culling any body with a handicap, because my handicap is a very mild form of dyslexia.

My grandson has inherited it from me unfortunately. But I didn’t find out why I was such a bad speller until he was diagnosed. However, the handicap has helped me write poetry because where as you usually choose a general subject, in poetry you choose a title for each poem and précis your thoughts to fit the verses and this is something I have become good at as I had to use it a lot at school.

My first memory of school was confusion between SAW and WAS, the teacher tried so hard to show me the difference by saying ‘S-S-S-Saw and W-W-W-Was’, but I couldn’t see a difference.

One started from the left, the other from the right. She eventually gave up and slapped me on the knuckles with a ruler as she thought I was playing up!!!!!

I wrote my poetry books as small booklets, one each year and sent them to friends along with their Christmas cards, and here they all are in a collection for you to enjoy.

THE FOREST IS

MY CATHEDRAL

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Painting used to be my hobby, but now that my sight has deteriorated, I have turned to poetry.

I call the wood behind my farm, ‘my forest,’ which the Forestry Commission and the local shoot kindly look after.

THE FOREST IS MY CATHEDRAL

The forest’s my Cathedral,

With countless columns of oak

Much loved by country folk.

Tall pines make the nave arcade.

Hazels grow in the glade,

Gothic windows they create,

Fan vaulting too, they decorate

With pendant catkins of old gold.

As warmer summer days unfold

The trees reflect the liturgy,

Green the colour of Trinity,

Pigeons providing the plainsong chant.

Countless songbirds join the choir,

Descant skylarks on the wing,

Blackbird’s solo anthems sing,

Each with careful chosen perch.

Autumn colours paint my church,

With copper, bronze, and yellow leaves,

They gently flutter from the trees.

When winter days are damp and cold,

Advent’s sombre grey and brown

Await the season’s gorgeous crown

When the Christmas babe is born.

With coming of Epiphany,

All is clothed in purest white

Glistening in the hoar frost light,

And flakes of snow, the New Year greet.

Again, in penitential Lent,

Nature’s still in slumber deep,

No warmth to rouse her from her sleep,

Then, with longer, lighter days.

Comes the long awaited Spring,

With Easter’s resurrection theme,

Nature rises from her dream,

And all the forest bursts with life.

BUTTERCUPS

We used to pick buttercups in our play.

‘Do you like butter?’ we would say,

With the yellow colour transforming the skin

Of an unsuspecting playmate’s chin.

No longer do I rob the grass

Of spangled jewels, as in the past.

Yellowiest of yellow, flowering gold.

Do you see the yellow that I behold?

What a monochrome of brilliant tone,

Are buttercups to cattle known?

The passing fly’s mosaic eye,

What prismed pattern does he spy?

Do minute creatures see each cell,

A hologram who can tell?

Are multiblends of colour bred

With ultraviolet, infrared?

Mischievous light, reflecting bright

On so many forms of sight.

When varied hues does yellow display

When buttercups blossom in glorious array?

LACE

Walking down the dyke in autumn,

I see many a spider’s web,

Embroidered with the morning dew.

They’re gracefully spun from reed to reed.

Me, the clumsy monster beast

Rue the damage that I do

Ripping apart delicate thread,

Which spiders diligently repair,

Patiently mending every tear,

All to catch the unwary fly

To make a luscious morning feast.

They eat until they’ve had their fill,

Then, growing