“A true beauty for the ages, conqueror of all the stages, she most certainly is” Gun Roswell
Ode to Dame Angela Lansbury, a very happy 95th birthday!
A true beauty, surpassing all ages The soft and fair conqueror, of film and stages Nothing she has ever done, or will do, fades As the one true star, she will always, stay
Dame Angela, a gorgeous rose, by any other name, you might say Equal, to the one and true talent and all the following fame And because or despite that, all of us fans, love you just the same So a very happy ninety-fifth birthday to you, as we do our little parade In honour, of this truly, and one totally fine day!
“All the memories, filling the cupboards of the mind, of so much travel time, during holidays, now gone by” Gun Roswell
Reflections of a holiday gone by
The warm weather on a sunny day Under the parasol the traveler lay Wondering about nothing at all As this time, was reserved, for a ball
A long lasting party on the beach Food and drinks just, at reach Laughter and rhythmic music The one and only constant
As running in a movie like slow motion On the sandy beach without commotion Life simple and totally carefree Blue seas and skies forever to see
Nothing coming close to perfection As looking back at the reflection Of a holiday well spent in the past But alas, it was never meant, to last
Oh well, maybe will come, some other time There will be an opportunity for something so fine When the option of just trying to unwind Under the perfect palm tree, with a wide smile
“Wear the damned mask! It will, save lives!” Gun Roswell
The masked crusaders
The masked crusaders of these modern and fine days And much, to the raging epidemics dismay They have come, for the evil viruses, to slay And, they call themselves, the antivirus agents Their proverbial swords pointed against All those, apposing, any kind of good health
To educate all their fellow beings out in the cold By wearing masks of various colours and prints bold The antiviral agents also recommend disposable gloves Especially, when going outside to feed the doves But basically, when the need to touch anything That the fellow beings might been also doing
Keeping a safe distance, at least, a meter an a half Might seem, like causing a flutter of laugh Then again, even if it is nice in company time to spend The antiviral recommendation is: social distancing Hugging would be fine, but sometimes, one big smile From a short distance, can be also as divine
Remember to wash your face and hands When back at the old home stead you’ll land The mask either washable or disposable to attend to Then good health and happy lives ensue As from now on head the recommendations Of these, modern day, masked, crusaders
“The beach, of the summer long ago, still fresh, in my memory“ Gun Roswell
The memory of the beach
It was so long ago, so I have to think about it, really, really slow The memory though, still fresh in my mind, as if permanently there, intertwined It was such a fulfilling place, the one, where the summers were laid In perfect harmony with time itself, without running around, like a slave The beaches sandy and soft, the water the calmest and blue The sun always shining, but most importantly, no one was ever whining Of this place, being anything, but perfect as on that beach they played Sports, of all sorts, swimming until your arms would tire out And when it was time for a break, some sustenance and drinks, someone would shout “Come one to the table! The food is getting cold! Hurry up!” All of us, sprinted out and ran, like the fire was there under our cans Spending the days on end, on that sandy and sunny beach Until it was that time of the day, when the sun could no longer reach Only displaying a magnificent setting, as its rays in various colours kept on slaying The moonrise only a match, with the stars hitting the skies above Then at bedtime, dreaming of yet another day on that perfect seaside Yes, those where the days, where we all so had our eyes so totally wide Now, I can only reminisce, about the days gone by, but, with a soft smile
“Oh, by the by, did anyone notice, by any chance, that I, truly, hate, Mondays?“ Gun Roswell
Monday, is Murder!
Hate, love, hate, love, hate, love, hate! Yes! That was totally, what the last petal said Monday, oh dearest of Monday! Certainly and never, my own fun day! How I so, loath thee, for you see You always come, creeping up on me No matter how prepared, I think I have been You, are the one and true thorn, on my side I so can not, no matter, how hard, I try To seem to shake you loose, not even, if I so hard choose To completely, totally and utterly ignore, that very feeling That eternal, all compassing, and yes, awful stinging The pain of it all, like a sharp knife in a wound, being ground An ultimate relieve, of a permanent state of being free Is nowhere, no how, ever, never, to be found Your presence, always lasting so very long Grinding my teeth, trying, so hard, to stay strong But, am I really so alone and so totally wrong In wanting you permanently erased, totally, and completely, gone? For can’t you so not see, oh dearest of Mondays That to me, myself and I, you, are pure murder, always?
“Remember, to check behind each and every door, open and even closed, then only, will you find, that which, you seek“ Gun Roswell
Doors, Entryways and Gates
The darkened wooden door, most likely, had something special in store Shut close, tightly, even, if the red car up front, was in the sunlight gleaming brightly The short clotheslines, filled with every day garments, of lived lives But, when trying the handle gently, there was no granted, entry All the secrets, of those dwellers inside, continued to remain, in the hide The bright cream coloured house, with an off white entryway Planted pots evenly placed alongside, the narrow and tall stairway Almost scenic in view, alas the entrance to the house, was reserved only, for a few Alas, there was no sign, no written words, nothing, even slightly suggesting That the odd visitors, were welcomed, to this, fine local home The blue painted gate, lead the weary traveller, to speculate Was there something there, to be seen, here, at the gate and in between The yard totally sparse, and the house of the gate was protecting Lacking any kind of locks, soon enough, the traveller, inside did trot Then, quickly crossing the yard, in just a few steps smart Knocking, on the door, with anticipation, but eyes headed, towards the floor Soon enough, the squeaky sounds indicating the opening A small and timid crack only, but still, quite inviting The traveller softly and slowly stepping, to the darkened inside After all, at this point, turning back, was not an option And from now on, the best bet, really is, to just keep going, on
“The cool black cat, on the side of the street sat, and no, there was no hat involved” Gun Roswell
The Cool Cat
A blackest of cats, on the busy street corner, calmly sat He had nothing better to do, but on his furry ass sit and chew The yellow eyes, staring, glaring, all the passersby, spied It looked so scary, that some of them even started to cry Luring the cat into some kind of a food reduced trap Wasn’t an option, because this animal was no ordinary concoction Of fur and feline DNA, such you might find eating it’s pray Like a mouse or other type of pest, making the meal a fest But no, this was a spy, sent from another place so high It would take a spaceship just to reach there, in the stratosphere The alien cat, still in disguise, kept on spying The unsuspecting hooman race, sitting there, on his place Watching, taking notes, of those poor people dragging their totes And also making sure, they would stay put without allure To venture out there, into the great wild space without fear At least, not without some fish and catnip as a gift If ever they would the alien cats home planet reach!
“Everyone! Quiet on the set! Ready, lights, sound, camera and… action! “ Gun Roswell
On set, shooting the ultimate selfie
All was quiet, the crew and actors taking their places The lights were set, the camera was ready for recording all them faces As the director had ordered, before they closed the doors The only sound, the metallic clang that of a clapperboard It was that time, for the shoot, the shoot of some serious selfie photos As, in this modern day and age, no resume is complete without those
The proverbial needled dropped, on to the quiet floor As the camera clicked, making the shutter stall But only for a moment, as the dramatic duck faces image was captured The end result appearing, on to the monitor for screening
All eyes on the very spot, where the end result blocked A collective breath holding for a moment, waiting seemingly torment The pixels of the very image filling the once black screen with colours Some softly commenting, its a good thing there are no odours Finally, the end product is complete for all to see There eyes, the nose, the hair, nothing out of place if feared A perfect shot for the present and the prosperity Once some minor adjustments made with some filter trickery Nothing more to do, except save, upload, post and send And the world wide web, most likely will remain the same
“The monuments of yesteryear… yep, they are still here! “ Gun Roswell
Monumentally so
The dark and mysterious silhouette, against the night sky Bold, pompous and really big, is the character flying high
Animals, people and even abstract figures were applied The parks, streets and even museums, filled with all sizes “Monumental!” someone in awe sighed “Extraordinaire!” an other one was all smiles “Such beauty!” from off the sides “I want one of them to buy!”
The art works from yesteryear, were really pleasing, on the eyes And the great point being, it was all for free, with zero cents for buying!
“Roses of any colour are so gorgeous, even in black and white poses” Gun Roswell
Roses in monochrome pose
The neatly made arrangement, in the tall vase Making sure, the flowers, in an orderly stance stay The fresh cut stems, certainly trimmed to fit As all the colourful, roses inside of it neatly sit
The pose, so completely natural, it’s almost second nature The plush petals trimmed, to reminisce that of a statue The strong yet delicate odour, filling, the surrounding air As such is the nature, of this ever so romantic floras flair
Even, when stripped all the way down, to the bare basics The lush colours, the volume, and all other imaginable clicks These, as the most beautiful roses, still stand tall in their form Grey in colour now, but, that could have easily been the norm
But, it does not really matter in the end, too much really Whether the image can be seen sharp, or even so clearly And certainly no kind of colour, even black or white Can bring out the very essence or do just justice To this, entity, of a gorgeous rose, always, shining brightly
Rantings Of A Third Kind 