Colourful World

Blue skies, panorama to delight.

Twilight’s gentle fingers reach up to touch the hem of midnight’s velvet skirt

As she chimes to sparkle the stars with songs of love.

Drawn to the toe-tapping rhythm of dance, she is fulfilled

And sleeps serene in the lap of time,

Waking in the morning to the rosy glow of dawn’s eternal hope.


One Irish spring morn,
a wee leprechaun
saw a little pink pig
a-dancing a jig.
Its trotters were flying
all over the place.
Leprechaun cried “Pig,
you are a disgrace.”
“I’m full of the whisky,
that’s why I’m so frisky,”
cried Pig, with a shout
as it fell on its snout.
The folks came a-trotting
to see what was what-ing,
to gaze on the sight
of the pig who was tight.
They proceeded to pick up
that pig with the hiccup.
They took it away
and late that same day,
they dined on some Spam
and lots of boiled ham
and washed it all down
with a drop of the ‘brown’.
The leprechaun went back home to his dell
and took with him lots of boiled bacon, as well.
So, pink pigs take warning,
who drink in the morning,
if you want to get tight,
drink your whisky… at night!
Marion Sharville ©

A Carrot in the Toaster

I’ll put a carrot in the toaster,
a pot of face cream in my shoe.
Anything will do
as long as it is out of place;
a silent clue what I must do
to see me through
this ‘clean forgotten’ phase.

A handkerchief, tied in a knot,
once helped a lot.
A different issue, is a tissue.

A diary to rely on,
is the answer, if I choose it,
but then, I’d only lose it.

I will create a memory-mate.
Not a lot of people boast a
carrot in the toaster.

© Marion Sharville

The Pimple-headed-noceros

The Pimple-headed-noceros,
Despite its hyphened name,
Has no distinctive features
And has no claim to fame.

In sleep, it counts the pimples,
Which pustulate its head
but if it reaches ninety-five
They burst and wreck the bed.

© Marion Sharville

The Easter Gift

© Marion Sharville

The Easter Feast is a wondrous story
of Sacrifice, Hope and Love and Glory.
To children today; the things long ago,
may not seem true; not on facebook, you know.

Why choose a donkey, to ride into town?
Why not a carriage for a man of renown?
No red carpet for the path of a King,
Just Palm leaves strewn ‘neath the donkey and Him.

It’s hard to believe a man really would
suffer and die for other folk’s good.
Yet, Dad said, two firemen recently died
saving some strangers, trapped there inside.

Excited children will hurry, when bidden,
to find chocolate eggs, playfully hidden.
Renewal of Life, the eggs represent
after carrying the cross through the six weeks of Lent.

He doesn’t mind the colour of our skin
or if one is fat or painfully thin,
ugly or beautiful, tiny or tall.
He gave us His Son to die for us all.

Then, three days later to rise and to live,
was not just for those who declare they believe
but for ‘not sure’ or ‘don’t know’; the world and his wife
and, on Easter Sunday, the true Gift of Life.

© Marion Sharville

Facing up to Ninety

It’s queer to find that, at last, I am old.
I’ve never been brave and I’ve never been bold
and to wake up each morning is really a must
if you want reach to ninety years plus.

With life inside me, still bubbling away,
it’ll be a blessing to wake up each day.
I find my body has started to rot,
then again, my figure was never that hot.

I’ll make the most of every minute
find Pandora’s Box, to see what is in it.
There’s a freedom now that I’ve reached ninety-one,
I can do what I like and have lots of fun.
but if I should cause embarrassment to you,
just wait until I get… to be ninety-two.


The summer sun has risen and slowly
warms this July day,
the chance to eat alfresco is commanding
so I totter to the garden with my
breakfast-laden tray.

Relaxed, I butter toast and pour the tea
and sit regarding
the Hollyhocks that peer at me above the
Today for once, no tasks await too
pressing or demanding.

Seemingly alone, I’m made aware my
special place is dense
with a myriad fellow creatures, flying
The exodus from the high-rise block of
nests is so immense
they brush graffiti with their wings on
the canvas of the sky
and swoop across my path with so much
zest, Oh!
there are so many of them that I cannot

I sit with buttered toast and marmalade
from Tesco
and wonder, was it wise, to decide to eat
s © Marion Sharville

SLEEP by Marion Sharville

Sleep, soft blanket flung across the cradle of night,
bridgeing the chasms which lie between the days;
elusive until the magic switch plunges us into oblivion.

This parallel world of repose, infiltrated at times
by dreams, good or bad to disturb or pleasure the hours,
is awash with hidden memories and desires.

Dreamless sleep girds us with the armour of rejuvenation
to face the challenge of the coming day,
as we reluctantly unwrap the blanket
and crawl into the morning.

EAGLE’S WINGS AND CAT’S CLAWS by Marion Sharville ©

A soaring eagle may know nothing of God
or Capability Brown.
It does not admire the view.
but spears through the beauty,
lazered only on its prey,
the precision of its wings
appreciated only by man
…the imitator.

A suburban garden conceals a coiled spring;
deadly swift arc of hunter.
The terrified, scampering target,
fatally destined for play,
is not aware of an alter ego,
a cat curled before the fire;
a woman offering a saucer of milk.

A snail is deaf to the music of the thrush,
the thrush, blind to the architecture of the snail.
We alone, admire the view,
share the pain.
We, the graceless, the imperfect,
can, if we choose,
walk in another’s shoes.


Auntie Bessie was a tickler
for the simple rules of life.
She said, one should not co-habit
with a man, if not his wife.
So she married Arthur Truegood,
who was tall an ddark and lean,
but she very soon discovered
he was also cruel and mean.

As divorce was not an option,
she began to ponder how
her release could be achieved
without the breaking of her vows.

She reviewed them to the letter;
richer; poorer; better; worse;
staying true to one another
until death; a life-long curse.

She began to dream of murder;
studied books; chapter and verse.
But, if arrested, not succeeding
t’would put the court before the hearse.

`in the end, her one solution
was to drive him from her home,
so she took up music lessons;
played all night on her trombone.

Arthur, with his eardrums ringing
rushed to get away quite far;
jumped a ship to cross the ocean.
and now resides in Zanzibar.

© Marion Sharville


Blog at

Up ↑