Appearing cold as death, I gasp for air.
A breeze gives me the kiss of life, I flare
and once revived, I dance like Fred Astaire,
my flying steps, a pistol-crack of sound.

Content to be alive, I dance my fill,
then hunger strikes, a gnawing need to kill;
to reach, to touch, devour, it’s such a thrill,
destroying every place where I am bound.

Gaze deep to see the pictures there, they taunt;
reflections of the world you humans haunt.
Aflame, my chorus line of death, I flaunt
or softly warm the lulled recumbent cat.

I can be warm and gentle, at my whim
that coaxes back to life the frozen limb
or heats the backside of the Master, him
who straddles, owner proud, astride the mat.

I broiled, imprisoned in Earth’s rugged crust,
erupting now and then before men’s lust
for knowledge caught a spark which freed and thrust
me central to his life and power beckoned.

If given pride of place, the centre-piece,
I condescend to dance, that’s my caprice.
Pay homage to my glow, but never cease
your vigilance, don’t trust me for a second.

© Marion Sharville


I feel it is behove of us
to learn to love the octopus.
To demonstrate its fishy charms
it loves to take you in its arms.

I’m sure no harm is meant, at all,
when groping with its tentacle.
This creature, as it drags you down,
has no idea that you will drown

and if you should, this octopus,
with slurp and suck, would then rescus-
itate your still and lifeless form.
Its kiss of life might make you squirm.

I’m sure t’would be a great surprise
for it to witness your demise.
I bet you, ten to fifty quid,
It’d be a most unhappy squid.

Its grip is such a tender trap,
for it’s a most endearing chap.
We shouldn’t really make a fuss
but learn to love the octopus.

© Marion Sharville


A dinner plate, ‘Sunday Morning’ picture,
last of a set; treasured in our first home.

Gift from loving parents, now gone
like the dishes…just one left to remind me,

stirring memories in the washing-up bowl;
thankfully, not dishwasher-proof.

Dad squatting on the back door-step,
tea cupped, viewing his garden.

Mum’s knitting…hopeless, but
scrabbled eggs, creamy smooth perfection.

Dad’s wit, sense of the ridiculous
living on in our children,

blessing us with laughter
in the remembering.

© Marion Sharville


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
then 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 ©


Our restless feet tread the grapes
of our everyday endeavours
and the wine seeps
into the yielding soil.

It colours, destroys or solidifies
the grit of our traditions.
Skirting the bed-rock flints
of our survival, it seeks pockets
of rich loam in which to age.

Lidded with spreading pavements
and battened with high-rise
developments, it marbles,
patterning the present for future eyes
in another Ephesus.

© Marion Sharville


From different entrances they approach
the stage, un-rehearsed, nervous.

Double-billed as lead players
they open the first act,
striving; failing; hating; loving.

Forming a bitter-sweet symphony
backed by the chorus of their family ties,
they pace the stage, hand in hand.

Treading the boards of married life,
the drama unfolds, the curtain
rises and falls on each day…

every scene, the plot changes.

Improvisation conceals the faltering step,
drawing breath in the intervals
to refresh their supporting roles.

Slowly, the diamond years come to rest
in the delicate setting of their frailty.

The spotlight shifts to the understudies
waiting in the wings.

© Marion Sharville


A young man of vision
felt, given the chance,
he could brighten up Sundays
with song and with dance.

He gathered about him
the old and the young
and showed them all how
a fling should be flung.

They waltzed down the aisles
and danced in the pews
and all in an effort
to spread the ‘Good News’

But after the service,
the young girls all flocked.
He cried “Now behave
or you’ll get me unfrocked.”

The Bishop was worried;
things had got out of hand.
“It’s time that young man
had a sharp reprimand.”

“Don’t be so hasty,”
the Arch-Bishop said,
“He’s just very keen
and it’s gone to his head.

You know, nowadays,
we can’t get the staff.
At least this young man
is a bit of a laugh.”

God sighed as he watched
“He’s rather a terror.
To make him a priest
was a clerical error.”

© Marion Sharville



Which path to take
beneath the beckoning branches?
All avenues tempt me
with promised delights.

The well-worn path
is easiest on the feet, yet,
I hesitate to crush again
the faint thrust for growth.

A side path, little trod, catches my eye,
leading me where, splashed upon
the canvas of the forest floor,
the early primrose lie.

The summer sun, in turn,
through the leafy shield of lace,
coaches with warm fingers
nature’s self-perpetuating struggle.

Summer passes, Autumn’s
burning glow makes all paths
look alike. The last leaf falls

and shriven trees filigree
the bleak winter skies.

© Marion Sharville

INFATUATION by Marion Sharville ©

I met him in the shoe shop,
he was trying on a shoe.
His socks were full of holes
but Oh!… his eyes were blue.

Dad says he needs a haircut,
short back and sides would do.
I like his little pig-tail
and Oh!… his eyes are blue.

He wears Bob Dylan’s sweat shirt
that was worn at every ‘do’.
Mum says he should have washed it
but Oh!… his eyes are blue.

I’m meeting him on Sunday,
what is a girl to do?
Mum says to keep on walking
but Oh!… his eyes are blue.

WORTHING WOOD (To the rhythm of Teddy Bears Picnic)A tanker, ICE PRINCE sank off the coast of Dorset on 29th Jan ’08 and jettisoned all of its cargo of wood. Mountains of it ended on Worthing and nearby beaches.

If you go down to the beach, today, you’re sure of a big surprise.
There’s tons of it on the beach today, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

Seems, every plank that ever there was, has gathered there for certain, because
a tanker sank and jettisoned all of its cargo.

Every-one in the neighbourhood thinks they’re in luck, today,
with floorboards needing to be replaced and sheds that have had their day.

They do not care if anyone sees and hang around as long as they please
until they find a chance to have a quick nick.

Quick-nick time for passers-by, the lucky D.I.Y’s are having a lovely time, today.
See that gleam light up their eyes and watch them start to drag it all away.

Watch them gaily run about, they even sing and shout, “Just take a look at my stack.”
At six o’clock the policemen will stop them and send them all away
but not before they’ve made them put it back.

If you go down to the beach, today, you’d better beware your toes.
There’s danger down on the beach, today, it won’t be just hard stones,

for every splinter that ever there was, is gathered there for certain because
a tanker sank and jettisoned all of its cargo.

©  Marion Sharville 

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