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The Woman in White Marble

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A Poem by Joy Lennick

Joy LennickAs an evacuee in World War 11 (up a mountain in South Wales), I read my library books by candlelight: frightening tales by the Brothers Grimm and magical stories by Hans Christian Andersen. That was it, I was hooked. Books always featured as presents and I loved nothing better than putting words on a blank page. I wrote a modest play, which was acted on the school stage, plus short stories and simple poems. With maturity, came marriage and three sons. I wore many hats in the business world and was offered the chance to write a factual book (having ran a small hotel with my husband) aptly called Running a Small Hotel. I updated a few other authors’ books and wrote another factual book: Jobs in Baking & Confectionery. Poetry followed, and when I retired to Spain with my ‘other half,’ I won first prize in the

lst International Short Story competition held in Torrevieja. Hurricane Halsey, a true sea adventure followed (as biographer), then my memoir My Gentle War, containing excerpts from my late father’s war diary written in France was published.  My most recent book The Catalyst is my first faction novel. I am a group leader for the local U3A writing class, and belong to WordPlay, who have published several anthologies containing some of my short stories. My husband has just hand-written his memoir: A Life Worth Living, which I edited (just published) and I’ve recently finished ‘semi-ghosting’ another book for publishing in the new year.

For me, writing is as necessary and addictive as cleaning my teeth (and more pleasurable!)

Hooked by reading ‘n’ writing when quite young (evacuated in WW11 up a mountain in Wales; and by candlelight…) I’m an eclectic writer: books/articles/poetry/short stories; many poems and short stories included in various anthologies. Latest adaptation “From the Prairie to Passchendaele” memoir of a brave man: Frederick Knight, an immigrant to Canada from the UK; trained as a farmer but was caught up in WW1, where he nearly died and lost his right arm. He then trained as an accountant and wrote the m/s with a head device as Parkinson’s disease had affected his left arm. Quite a man!

More books marinating!

PS I’m rubbish with a computer…Wing and a prayer comes to mind!

Joy Lennick


Talent Night

I had an ‘Uncle Morrie,’
who thought that he could sing –
he exercised his tonsils –
to the public thought he’d bring….
his dulcet tones,
his baritone:
his songs of exultation.
On to the stage of The Rivoli he strode
to sing unto the nation.
“Come into the garden Maud,” he bade –
his voice not strong or true –
in truth so bad, the audience had a lively thought or two…
On Mile End’s ‘waste’ there lay around
cabbage leaves, tomatoes: all squishy on the ground.
Theatre-goers, disgruntled, (ignorant Uncle he…)
gathered them to throw – full face – a dish of uncooked ratatouille!


(Historical note: In the 1920s and 30s in London, England, many cinemas and theatres held ‘Talent Nights.’ An area in the East End of London called ‘The Mile End Waste’ held markets and the waste produce lay on the ground for theatre goers to pick up. Tomatoes in particular were popular as they were messy, squishy and colourful to throw at displeasing acts. It is said the pastime was very popular…)

Copyright © 2017 Joy Lennick


To Skype or Not to Skype That is the Question

The first message was explicit:
(I imagined him cock-sure and slick),
I giggled but quickly recovered,
got rid of him quick with a click…

I’m ‘spoken for’ and happily married,
and let’s face it I’m ‘over the hill…’
but it took me back decades of years,
provided an ‘egotistical thrill.’

‘Twas as if I’d sent out a photo,
‘doctored’ and faintly erotic,
where my boobs were ‘in place,’
and an unwrinkled face
suggested a jolly good frolic.

Dear reader, I’m totally innocent,
except for writing on line;
don’t wear fancy drawers,
(prefer metaphors),
although the thought was sublime.

These days my pleasures are simple:
coffee on patio, pastry snack,
hot chocolate at night,
a book and ‘to write,’
not gymnastics in bed on my back.

What triggered this poem you may wonder,
I’ll tell you the truth – it’s a fact,
in twenty-four hours,
I was suddenly ‘showered’
by four ‘Generals, ‘ a ‘sir’ and a ‘hack.’

Of course most of ‘the others’
intentions were pure, white as snow,
but it’s safe to be wary,
and quite necessary,
for how is a woman to know?!

Copyright © 2017 Joy Lennick


Lament of a Sheep Farmer

My lambs are dancing the lambardo...
My ram is nearly deranged;
my once docile sheep
(sometimes half asleep)
are, all at once, acting so strange.

'Betty' was found in a stupor:
her eyes crossed, and smiling was she,
While Larry the lamb -
(the current flock's 'ham')
nearly jumped as high as a tree.

'Benjie' was found,
whirling around...
as fast as a Dervish on speed,
while Bella - my 'fave'
just wouldn't behave,
their antics I couldn't believe.

Ioan Richard, the Councillor, was fuming,
"I've never seen such a  sight," he opined.
"Those psychotic sheep
have ruined my sleep,"
he left and his teeth he did grind.

Some villagers found it quite funny,
they guffawed and said "What a lark!"
But the sheepdogs and shepherds got busy,
and peace reigned, once again,
in Craig Cefn Parc.

Copyright © 2016 Joy Kennick