The lovely Lulu G, a former beauty queen, Miss Fleetwood, Miss Blackpool and runner up in Miss T.V. Times. She is a Lancashire lass who now lives in Kent and is a complete dog nut, which is rather sad because every man who meets her falls head over heels in love with her. She recently published her first book of poems called “Dolly’s Wonderful New Life”, about a stray dog (what else) that she rescued and renamed Dolly Daydream and is now working on her second book “I Won’t Dance If You Don’t Sing” with our mutual friend Dan Lake – (see Dan’s Page) which will be published later this year. All this talent and an adorable beauty too!
 . . . . J.C.

26th January 2010 – Yesterday Dan and Lulu’s promised new book hit the streets and is now available to purchase from:-

The other good news is that they have also signed their second book deal . . . . Watch this space . . . . .

NEWSFLASH – Next year 2010, Lulu has been invited to Buckingham Palace to a Garden Party hosted by Her Majesty for a charity The ‘Not Forgotten’ Association for the ex-Service Disabled where she will read her poem “The Not Forgotten”, before the 3,000 guestsincluding Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and The Duke of EdinburghDon’t forget that you read it here first . . . the poem was written by Lulu after she was a guest at this year’s Royal Garden Party for the charity. “The Not Forgotten” is published here on Lulu’s Page. Is it possible to feel honoured ‘by association’? Any way many congratulations Lulu, can you get me an invite? . . . . . J.C.

‘The Not Forgotten’

At Buckingham Palace they’re changing the guard
The Police are in force, wearing each a brassard
The marquee’s erected, the guests all arrive
And the Queen’s lovely garden is in overdrive
At the palace . . . . . . .

‘Tis “The Not Forgotten” July’s garden party,
No sign of fatigues, or camouflage khaki
But ladies in hats, who look chic and appealing,
(A rare sight indeed, for the tourists’ sightseeing)
At the Palace . . . . . . .

An empty black coach, drawn by horses four,
Denoting the carnage caused in ‘The Great War’,
Drives up to the Palace and enters the gate,
Quietly, sedately, we all wait.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

Old soldiers and seamen and airmen forgather,
To pay their respects and to have a good blather,
There’s talk about comrades, they fought alongside,
On the beaches of France and the banks of Port Said.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

I listen to stories of Dunkirk and Arnhem,
By men in their nineties who fought for our freedom,
I see medals worn, with both honour and pride
And at old wizened faces, who’ve seen genocide.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

Campaigns have been fought in the West and the East,
In the air and at sea, sometimes on a geest,
There’s talk of the ships, by the Mariners’ there
And the planes taking off, on a wing and a prayer!
At the Palace . . . . . . .

There are prisoners of war, who survived dreadful pain
From the Japanese camps, cruelly inhumane,
But now they are laughing, regaling us all,
With memories of briefings, (direct from Whitehall)
At the Palace . . . . . . .

They went into battle, for you and for me,
To free us all of Hitler and Mussolini,
Some never returned to their mothers or wives,
Heroically, they laid down their young lives.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

As I look around here there’s a new generation,
From modern day wars, suffering limb amputation,
From Afghanistan and the dunes of Iraq
We must hail and salute, as our wounded come back!
At the Palace . . . . . . .

“The Not Forgotten” bequeaths comfort from fear,
To the mentally ill and the wounded with cheer.
They alleviate tedium with laughter and mirth,
Giving back to the servicemen, all that he’s worth!
At the Palace . . . . . . .

From the world of showbiz, I see famous faces
Who’ve entertained troops (in too many places)
They’ll respectfully honour, as I have today
While enjoying our tea from sumptuous array.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

Our own “Forces Sweetheart” Dame Vera Lyn,
Wearing her medals on a blue velvet pin,
Smiling and chattering to soldiers and sailors,
Her friends and well wishers and aviators.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

Now its four thirty, The Royals must depart,
The Countess of Wessex and the Earl looking smart
The tall Duke of Kent, well, he’s taking a while
Shaking everyone’s hand, as he chats with a smile
At the Palace . . . . . . .

The Irish Guards’ Band plays “Beating Retreat”
As Her Majesty The Queen, looking petite
Appears at her window, waving to us all,
As the Chelsea Pensioners’ march back to the hall.
At the Palace . . . . . . .

This exceptional party now draws to a close
I feel reverential, without delusion,
About the benevolence I’ve witnessed today,
I applaud, “The Not forgotten” to cheer ‘hip, hoorah
At the Palace . . . . . . .


In 2009 Lulu won the Bronze Medal in a worldwide competition for War Battle Poetry with a poem that she wrote as a tribute to the young men of the Parachute Regiment who were recently killed in Afghanistan.

Lament for a Red Beret

Go forward brave Paras
Into the breach,
Young lads, young men
Going out of our reach.

Go, obey orders,
You’ve sung lullabies
To your young babies,
With tears in your eyes.

Go fearless Paras,
Campaign with pride,
Come home heroic
To your wife, lover, bride.

Go with our love lads,
We wish you all well,
As you take command
In Afghanistan’s hell

Go out on patrol
Into hostile terrain,
Where the Taliban threat,
Is so bloody insane!

Go valiant Paras
Into the hot sun,
Where food is deprived
And you sleep with your gun!

Go over the hill lads
And the ravine,
Watch where you tread,
For the bombs are unseen.

Go onwards brave Paras,
Seek out the scourge
Of the raging insurgents,
We’ll sing you a dirge.

Go into battles,
With God by your side
And angels above you,
To guard and to guide.

Go to your chaplain,
Kneel down in prayer,
Wanting to make sense
Of this bloody warfare!

Beat the Retreat’ Paras,
Enough has been said,
For another red beret
Is among our war dead.
Amen . . . . . . .

 The following selection of poems are some her latest from her large portfolio and we added after August 2012   JC


I Wish I were a Poetess

I wish I were a poetess,
To write of lazy summer days
With picnics on a yellow beach
While watching quiet, lapping waves.
And maidens who, freckled by sun
Are sweet as pie and cherry-lipped,
Who stroll with lovers hand in hand
Beneath moonbeams silvery tipped.

And when the autumn shadows come
To blow away the leaves so green,
I’ll write of clouds soft in the skies
O’er veils of rain on Halloween.
Or waking to a dew-lapped morn
Where gardens wish to sleep not stir,
Except for spiders spinning webs,
Except for mice with velvet fur.

My muse in winter’s frost may sleep,
As will the hedgehogs under mould
Curl up and dream of seeds to eat,
‘Neath warmer skies sprinkled with gold.
But I am greedy for a kiss
From stars that shimmer in the night,
Upon a land that’s cold with snow,
Upon a land that’s crisp and white.

In spring I’ll see the fairies wake
To skim the air on dragonflies,
Bejewelled in greens and mystic blues
To halt my pen with blissful sighs.
I’ll write of primroses in bloom
Begowned in every shade of dress,
Then close my eyes perchance to dream …
I wish I were a poetess.


Oh!  My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed,
The blue grey hills and valleys
Of early Autumn’s kissed.
For not since young I’ve seen it
Beneath an Autumn sky,
When at dawn in soft grey mist
I watched the clouds race by.

The lakes ‘neath mountain summits
Are deepest peacock green,
With trees aflame in Autumn,
The like you’ve never seen!
For colours rich in texture
Are painting gold the hills
As heathers bathe in purples,
Ahead of winter chills.

While in the amber sunshine
By silver tarns that flow,
The low-land sheep are grazing
Where Autumn breezes blow
And o’er beyond in Keswick,
You’ll see the ospreys there,
Among the blue of shadows
Where sights of them are rare.

And should you walk yet higher
To climb the tallest peak,
There’s snow as white as crystal
Where clouds will brush your cheek.
My heart so loves this landscape
That Autumn’s long desired,
The lakes and fells and mountains,
Where poets are inspired.

The bronze and gold this season
Will nestle on the brink,
Of shores beside pearl waters,
Where trout and salmon slink.
Oh! My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed
But hope prevails I may return
To keep an Autumn tryst.


At twilight when the wild things wake
around my weary feet
when owls are drifting off to hunt
and all the earth smells sweet,
I walk beyond the sycamores
where shadows meet starlight,
to wonder what at close of day
it is that shines so bright.

A robin with his feathers fluffed
is looking satisfied
as crickets sit about his feet
with spiders alongside
and sat aloft on robin’s back
a fairy singing low,
with bells adorning feet and hands
on limbs as white as snow.

I hear the robin call her Belle
then puff his scarlet chest,
prompting the crickets now to sing
with vim and renewed zest,
while beetles dance with ladybirds,
their jeweled wings polished well
with spots of green or black as ink,
in this light who can tell.

Her bells ring out a symphony
within my garden walls,
while I eavesdrop this charming scene
where tender starlight falls.
The air is softly magical
for who has gazed before
upon this sight before my eyes
I silently encore.

After The Rain

Before the hour I kissed you,
before the dawn grew light,
a gentle rain fell softly
to glisten crystal-white,
upon my wide veranda
where breezes serenade,
with millions of voices
to herald rain’s cascade.

After the hour I kissed you,
after you’d said goodbye,
the cool-soft grey of rain clouds
in mourning rolled on by,
and from my wide veranda
‘neath skies of pigeon-blue,
I saw the earth anointed
and thought, only of you.


When petal cups start sleeping, here and there and in-between
The shifting velvet skies for my delight,
Small faerie-maids in thousands rendezvous upon the green,
With thoughts of naught but stardust at twilight.

Ahead of when the wild things wake, before the naked moon
Has cast her beam upon the sleeping trees,
Their shadows lie in readiness for stars to pale bestrewn
The curfew of the dragonflies and bees

And in-between the shadows where the river flows at will,
A spider scuttles home beneath the bridge,
While kingfishers in turquoise suits sit prettily until,
The warmth of sun takes refuge o’er the ridge.

More distant where the skies illume and in-between the mist,
There’s neither voice awake nor foot astir,
As now it’s time to light the fire beneath the twilight-kissed,
Where sleepily the crickets cease their chirr.

The Moonshine Cats

When half the world is fast asleep
And winter nights are cold with chill,
With only shadows left to peep
Around the garden, tired and still.
The gold of autumn’s clearly gone,
No longer do my roses smile,
Yet violets still linger on
Beneath the gorse in single file.

The only smile I see tonight
Is from the bubble of the moon,
As cats on rooftops bathe in light
With talk of going mousing soon.
Some cats are fat and some are thin
And some are mad with silly names,
While some create an awful din
Should they be playing mating games.

They care not that I have to rest
Below their yawning caterwaul,
For in the night they seem obsessed,
No matter if they’re big or small.
By day they are somewhat aloof,
But night for me comes all too soon,
For then they gather on my roof
To dance a jig beneath the moon.

They seem to have mystical powers
From midnight ‘til the light of dawn,
No matter if it’s dry or showers,
In hurricanes, or windswept torn.
For there is nothing enjoyed more,
As I account for countless sheep –
And they escape the cat-flap door,
When half the world is fast asleep.


If you chance upon a toadstool

When the moon is riding high,

O’er a softly singing whirlpool

‘Neath a purple velvet sky,

You may catch sight of a faerie

Just beyond the dragon’s lair,

Where the verdant shades may vary

From wild flowers that are rare.

She’s cross-legged upon her toadstool

As a lark swoops on the wing,

Watching voles with crickets tomfool

Round the little faerie ring,

While  the blackbirds one and twenty

Sing of puddings and a pie,

There are ladybirds aplenty,

Curious,but rather shy.

If you chance upon this faerie

She’ll be ‘neath the moonbeams glow,

And I know her name is Mary,

For the dormouse told me so.

She’s the keeper of the moon’s shine,

Making sure it glistens bright

For the lovers who will entwine,

While the nightingale’s in flight.

I’ll Bathe The Twins

I’ll bathe the twins tonight mama,
I’ll sing a nursery rhyme,
I’ll read them fairytales I heard
From you in my springtime.

I’ll tell them how the crickets sing

And dance at close of day.
I’ll see the laughter in their eyes
At silly things I say.

I’ll tell them how the fairy folk
On wings of fine white lace,
Shall take their baby teeth away
As new ones take their place.

I’ll tell them of the seven seas,
That one day they may sail
And of the mermaids swimming there
Beyond the beach so pale.

I’ll tickle each of all their toes
Just as you did to me,
Then kiss with cuddles when they laugh
And say, ‘it’s just a flea!’

I’ll tell them how you used to bathe
Me when I was a child,
With soap as pink as candyfloss,
So gentle and so mild.

I’ll tell them of the love I had
From you my dear mama,
And how within the midnight sky
You are the brightest star.

Will you Love Me

Will you love me in the morning, beyond the velvet sky,
when frost lays cold upon the ground with snow clouds wand’ring by;
or in the warming rays of sun when finches harvest fruit,
for their pretty newborn chicks in my old discarded boot?

Will you love me in a rainstorm that lasts the whole day long,
when out of tune I sing for you a silly ragtime song;
while yet again you cook for me with garlic and red wine,
with not a care for anything…not even my waistline?

Will you love me when I laugh with a tear here in my eye,
when your idiotic jokes make me catch my breath and sigh
or when we dance beneath the moon that shimmers with delight,
before we pour a nightcap, kissing tenderly goodnight?

Will you love me every springtime for all of evermore,
when the bluebells smell delicious upon the forest floor,
and sycamores don every shade of green in every hue,
and songbirds tell me once again that I’m in love with you?

Leave a Reply