Thursday, February 28, 2013



Brenda Bryant is indisposed.
RINKLY RIMES, therefore, is closed.
Thanks for all the many times
You kept me going with my rhymes.
She may return, or she may not;
Glance, sometimes, at this Blogging spot.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

November Song

I wonder how many people are left to recall this hauntingly melancholy song.
I've changed the words to suit my own mood.


The time was very short from May to November
And it's coming soon, the chill of December.
And sunny days decrease and the years fly by,
And we're all aware that we have to die.
It has gone far too soon,
This life of mine,
Remember September?
'So far, so good' we say, and yet we know
We've had our turn; it's time to go.

The lovely summer rose must bite the dust;
It curls and fades for it knows it must.
It sees the buds below, demanding room;
 It knows it dies for they have to bloom.
And the days dwindle down
To a precious few.
November. December.
And though it fades and dies and disappears
It still keeps smiling through its tears.

Monday, February 11, 2013


Rinkly rimes is temporarily suspended due to Brenda recently suffering a stroke.  She is on the mend and will back rhyming soon.
Dictated by Brenda to her daughter

Wednesday, February 6, 2013



We all know someone tetchy,

Someone who's touchy too,

Someone very easily riled

Who bridles out of the blue.

This man is clearly sulking,

Someone's spoken out of turn.

He could have turned the other cheek 

But such people never learn.

'Tch-tch' is his favourite sound

When he shows his irritation.

Others  have to watch their words

When making conversation.

If this man decides to stay in bed

That's better for everyone.

Living with a tetchy person

Isn't too much fun. 



Some would see a flaw and some a funny chance.

Some would stop and look, some give it not one glance.

But a certain someone saw this as a little artistic joke....

Instead of a flaw he saw it as the outline of some smoke!

He added a little factory and, lo, it was complete!

Now people stop and chuckle as they're walking down the street

To see a little  cartoon where once they saw a wall,

And to see a little  picture where nothing was at all.

' Don't look for the flaws as you go through life', my mother used to say,

Meaning that to notice them simply doesn't pay.

But I think we should notice them and see them as the start

Of a little bit of nonsense that's almost a work of art.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Hint of Truth/The Blues


It's just a throwaway line, that's meant to make us laugh

And yet a hint of truth is there as well.

Pretending we don't care is often the way to go

If someone makes our life a living hell.

A bully only enjoys his 'craft' if he can get 'results'

A happy smile can turn his wrath away.

Pretending not to care is a weapon of defense

So we can learn to cope another day.


I wonder why they say 'the blues'

As though that colour is bad news!

I find blues of every shade,

Even when, in time, they fade,

Restful, soft and really charming.

To say  they're sad is quite alarming

And yet the lyrics of blues songs

Always refer to unrighted wrongs,

Broken hearts and Love gone awry,

Words designed to make  us cry.

It's very odd! Nobody thinks

Of saying 'Listen to her sing the pinks.'

Monday, February 4, 2013

Take the Colour/Life Savers

                                      Brenda Bryant

Take the colour from the picture and see the shapes appear.

Suddenly the patterns are made visible and clear.

When colour rules the visual,  the lines fade out of sight,

But we can enjoy their beauty when they're seen in black and white.
Newcastle Life-Savers


Every summer they are out there dressed in red and yellow,
Every one a splendid and adventurous girl or fellow.
When the waves are enormous or there's a nasty rip,
The Life Savers dive in there and they give death the slip.
On their very special craft they bounce through mighty waves.
A Life-Saver never asks for thanks from the people that he saves.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Overdoing It!/Genetic Sandwich


I was never one for alcohol

Until I met Maureen;

She was the most delicious girl

That I had ever seen.

I had to get to know her;

I had to ask her out.

But I was a little weedy chap

And I was filled with doubt.

To muster up some courage

I drank a little drink

Of beer and wine and whiskey

And gin, which, of course, was pink.

I declared my overwhelming love

But then I struck a hitch!

The alcohol took over

And I ended in the ditch.
My Mother


I'm not a Number Cruncher; numbers don't appeal.

Though some are Number Munchers and enjoy them for a meal!

It's strains my little grey cells just to count above a ten!

And when I do I sigh and say' I won't go there again!'

Which is odd, because my mother loved numbers all her life;

She'd have much preferred accounting to being a stay-home wife.

Never 'allowed' to go out to work, she was tied to the kitchen sink,

Which was a waste of an agile brain that was crying-out to think!

For 'one brief shining moment' during the Second World War

 She told me she was happier than she'd ever been before;

She worked at an aircraft factory, doing accounts, of course,

As men were in the army or some other fighting force.

As soon as the War was over she was popped back in her box!

Women were made for bed and board and, maybe, pretty frocks.

But, unbeknown to her, her genes were lurking out of sight

Inside me, her daughter, so that made things all right.

I couldn't add or multiply; well, maybe just a bit,

But at algebra and geometry I certainly was no hit.

But now I have a daughter who finds work with numbers 'magic',

And, therefore, this sad little story isn't entirely tragic.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Teenage Blues/A Room Full of Candles


Put me in a freak show

Let that be an end to it!

Alongside the bearded lady

I think I'd be a hit.

I don't think I'll go out tonight

I'll stay at home and mope.

I am damned by this pimple.

I haven't any hope.

Everyone else is pretty,

From the head down to the toes.

Life just isn't worth living

When there's a pimple on your nose. 


My study is a room full of candles,

Candles that keep on burning.

(In truth it's a little spare bedroom

To which I keep returning.)

I climb up the stairs to my study

Where the candles are always waiting,

Standing stiffly to attention,

Eagerly anticipating.

Some are burned down to the wick,

Ideas that are long out-dated.

Some remain unlit

And, oh, how long they've waited!

Some are burning brightly

They are nourishing my soul;

I watch for the tiny flicker

As a flame relinquishes its role.

Some are ancient candles;

I scarcely recognise the flame;

Others are candles that will never be lit;

My indolence is to blame.

I have warmed my heart at these candles,

Which are lit by the urge to write;

Their flames have sputtered and flickered

Well into the night.

To others it's our spare bedroom,

A dull little room for sure,

But for me it's a room full of candles,

And I couldn't love it more.

Friday, February 1, 2013

Happy Birthday/The Map

(To be sung to the same tune as 'Twenty-one Today!')

Eighty-two today! Eighty-two today!

I've lost the key of the door

Never been eighty-two before.

Now's the time I can do as I like

But better not delay!

Who knows what's just round the corner?

Eighty-two today!

(A cinquain)


Ancient. Mysterious,

Intriguing, fascinating, compelling.

The edge of knowledge.


Thursday, January 31, 2013

The Bogey Hole/Golden Gooseberries


The name sounds very ominous,

Though it's innocent I've been told,

But a Bogeyman was a character

In fairy tales of old.

And a certain military Bogeyman 

Is associated with this scene,

A man in charge of Newcastle

Who was very cruel and mean.

One day he decided

That he needed a private pool

And his method of attaining it

Was typically cruel.

He lined up poor oppressed convicts,

Each one behind another

And made them beat the one in front

Brother scourging brother.

I hope he enjoyed his morning swims!

Morisset was his name.

Fancy being remembered

For such an act of shame!

(Watch out for alliteration!)

The golden gooseberries hung in splendour,

On my grandfather's garden fence.

Tantalising in fine fulfilment;

Round and illegally immense.

Illegal because the garden grower

Fiercely forbade our tender touch;

Gooseberries were for jams and jellies;

Dessert delights we loved so much.

But how they gleamed and glowed rotundly

Globular, golden, mouthwatering too.

We children chose to ogle odd ones,

Till growling Grandpa came in view.

Green gooseberries had a very sour taste,

Ripe red ones were always past their best.

The golden gooseberries! Pure perfection!

We'd steal one and leave the rest.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Lost!/I Remember Winter



Oh the tragedy! ( Capital T!)

It goes on and on occurring to me.

Two socks plunge into the sudsy foam

But only one of the socks comes home.

In the linen basket they've clung together

Hoping to dance in the windy weather

Side by side on the washing line,

(But only if the weather's fine.)

They may achieve this first ambition

And blow in the air in a clean condition.

But, alas, they're not free from danger....

Their next pirouette is even stranger.

Into the tumble-dryer they go

And this may be their greatest foe.

They're tossed around like leaves from trees

Are tossed around by a boisterous breeze.

They're parted, joined, then swirled again,

And every parting brings them pain.

It's up and down and side to side.

Exhausted, one of them tries to hide.

Secretes itself right at the back

And after a while they loose the knack

Of being joined at the hip for ever.

The tumble dryer has seemed to sever

A great relationship . It's rather sad

After all the togetherness they've had.

But the socks themselves are never blamed

Nor the dryer with the one sock claimed;

It's always the housewife, in this case me,

Who comes in for the usual commentary.

'You've lost a sock again,' 'he' cries!

'This has ceased to be a big surprise!

Every week you lose a sock!

And I am in a state of shock.'

Meekly, I run the sock to ground,

Hunting high and low until its found.

An Agatha Christie Mystery

Is 'The Search for the One Lost Sock' by Me.

(from my English childhood)

Windblown trees and long-lain snows.....

Ice on the pond where no lily grows.......

Needles of rain from a dull grey sky.....

Threatening clouds way up on high.....

Everything dull and dark and drear.....

Remembrances from a long-gone year.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Carbuncle/Those Hooded Eyes

(For ABC Wednesday)


Carbuncle.......not a  pretty word,

But rather fascinating.

We know it as a hideous boil,

Which is rather nauseating.

That meaning comes, in a curious way,

From the garnet, a precious gem.

It's fiery red and burning bright

In any diadem.

But that's not all! In architecture

A carbuncle is a mess,

A building which spoils the landscape

With harsh untidiness.

So carbuncle's a little word

Whose meanings we can guess;

Sometimes pretty, rich and red,

But sometimes just a mess.

Seen in a gift shop in Stroud NSW


You're not one to show your feelings;

No-one can guess your pain.

You're in a little gift-shop

And there you will remain

Till someone shows some pity

And takes you off the wall,

And hangs you in her town-house,

Maybe in her entrance-hall.

No doubt she'll be Caucasian,

Seeing you as perfect proof

Of the fact that she has artistic 'stuff'

Beneath her very roof!

You'll be part of a 'collection',

And you'll, maybe, gather dust,

Alongside the Japanese fan she bought

And the neat little Mozart bust.

But I know you yearn for Bali,

Or some other Eastern land.

When I look into those hooded eyes,

Then I understand.