RIP Dave

In the realm of flavours, where pots and pans sing,
A biker with heart, to joy he’d bring.
Dave Myers, a legend, on roads so wide,
With a spirit untamed, a culinary guide.

Through the twists and turns of kitchen delight,
He conquered the challenges, day and night.
In the dance of spices, a maestro so grand,
A taste wizard’s touch, like a magical hand.

On screens he biked, with laughter and cheer,
A duo unique, with Si always near.
Together they rode, through gastronomic lands,
Creating memories, like grains in the sands.

Cancer’s cruel whispers, alas, took its toll,
Yet, in our hearts, Dave remains whole.
A legacy of flavours, a zest for life’s ride,
In culinary heavens, forever to abide.

Let’s raise a spatula, a toast to the skies,
For Dave Myers, who now with angels flies.
In kitchens of eternity, his flame won’t wane,
A biker, a chef, forever in our gastronomic refrain.

Time to go Home

In Central America where sunsets blaze,
A traveller’s heart in twilight sways.
Jungle whispers and ocean’s hum,
The end draws near, the journey’s done.

Through ancient ruins, mysteries unfold,
Mayan tales and histories untold.
Mountains high and rivers wide,
In the heart of adventure, we did confide.

Under the stars, by the fire’s glow,
Stories shared in the afterglow.
From Guatemalan peaks to Costa Rican shores,
In Central America, our spirits soared.

But now the call, like a distant chime,
Home beckons us, the end of the climb.
Flight awaits, wings in the sky,
Yet memories linger, refusing to die.

Bittersweet farewell to this vibrant domain,
In our hearts, Central America remains.
The quetzal’s song, the toucan’s call,
Echoes linger as the curtains fall.

As the plane ascends, through clouds we roam,
An adventure’s end, but in us, it’s sown.
Homeward bound with a soul reborn,
Central America, forever adorn.

The Trabant in Snowy Prague

In Prague’s old heart, where history breathes,
Through snowy streets, my Trabant weaves.
A relic of the past, in shades of grey,
A journey unfolds on this winter’s day.

Beneath the spires, where echoes linger,
My Trabant hums, a nostalgic singer.
Through winding lanes, where tales are told,
A canvas of white, the city unfolds.

In whispers of snowflakes, secrets untold,
Prague’s mystique in each story, it holds.
Trabant’s engine purrs, a rhythmic rhyme,
As cobblestone streets freeze in wintertime.

Past ancient bridges, by the Vltava’s flow,
My Trabant glides, a ballet in the snow.
Casting memories on each frosty pane,
In Prague’s embrace, a timeless refrain.

Through castle shadows and narrow lanes,
My Trabant journeys, where history remains.
In a snow-kissed waltz, with the city in view,
A poetic ode to Prague, my journey anew.

The Mole and the Trabant

In the heart of Czechia, where snowflakes dance,
A mole embarked on a journey, a trance.
Behind the wheel of a Trabant, so small,
Through winter’s embrace, it bravely crawled.

In tunnels of white, the countryside unfolds,
A mole in a Trabant, courageous and bold.
Fields of frost, a pristine delight,
As the little car cruises through the night.

Snowflakes whisper secrets in the cold air,
The Trabant and mole, an inseparable pair.
Through hills and valleys, a magical ride,
In the Czech countryside, with snow as their guide.

Headlights cutting through the wintry veil,
A mole at the wheel, leaving a snowy trail.
Furry chauffeur in a world so divine,
Driving the Trabant, a masterpiece design.

Through the Czech winter, a whimsical chase,
The mole and Trabant, a picturesque embrace.
In the snow-kissed landscape, a tale to be told,
Of a mole’s adventure, in a Trabant, so bold.

Motorway Frustration

We’ve all come across this!

In the middle lane they linger without care,
Their pace a languid drift, unaware,
Ignoring passing lanes on either side,
As queues form behind them far and wide.

Oh, middle lane hoggers, lost in reverie,
Do you not see the chaos that you decree?
Impeding the flow, causing frustration,
A symphony of horns in exasperation.

Shouldn’t the left be your chosen abode?
Yet there you sit, a stubborn traffic node,
As faster cars approach, you hesitate,
A dance of frustration, we must navigate.

Perhaps you relish this kingdom between,
Unperturbed by the chaos you convene,
But remember, the motorway is a shared space,
Not a haven for your sluggish embrace.

So yield to the rhythm of the road’s design,
Let not your ego make others malign,
For harmony lies in lane discipline,
A courteous dance where we all can win.

Release the middle lane, let others fly,
A smoother journey under the open sky,
Let’s navigate together, with patience and grace,
And leave the middle lane’s hogging to erase.

Art Deco Air Travel

Almost a bygone era, but still very relevant today.

In sleek silver skies, they take to flight,
The heroes of travel, soaring with might.
In Art Deco’s embrace, they paint the air,
A symphony of elegance, beyond compare.

Their wings, like gilded sculptures, gleam,
As they dance amidst the clouds’ soft seam.
Propellers spin, propelling dreams on high,
With grace and power, they pierce the sky.

Passengers, adorned in glamour’s attire,
Board the metal birds, their spirits aspire.
Leather seats, polished wood, and mirrored walls,
A setting enchanting, as opulence calls.

The stewardess, a vision of grace and poise,
Serves cocktails and smiles, amidst the noise.
Her uniform, a testament to style and class,
A modern muse, in a world moving fast.

Art Deco lines adorn each cabin’s space,
Geometric patterns, a visual embrace.
Chrome fixtures shine, reflecting dreams and hope,
As time transcends, in this celestial scope.

From Paris to New York, across the globe they roam,
Uniting cultures, creating a new home.
Air travel in the Art Deco era, a marvel to behold,
Where elegance and adventure forever unfold.

Departures

In the bustling airport lounge,
Where journeys commence with dreams so high,
A symphony of footsteps, a chorus of voices,
An orchestra of emotions soaring in the sky.

Suitcases rolling, people rushing by,
Navigating the maze of gates and signs,
Anxious whispers, eager laughter,
Each traveller with a story that intertwines.

The air abuzz with anticipation’s dance,
As flights ascend, hopes take flight,
Destinations calling, horizons expanding,
In this transient haven, a captivating sight.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, a tapestry we weave,
Connections made, farewells exchanged,
In this departures lounge, a world in motion,
Where wanderlust and longing are forever estranged.

Robo Control in the Skies

An interesting concept. Would you trust a robotic pilot or air traffic controller?!

In skies of steel, a robot takes flight,
A marvel of metal, an AI’s might.
With wings unfurled, it soars above,
A pilot of circuits, guided by love.

Its heart, a processor, pulsing with code,
It communicates seamlessly, on its own it rode.
Through the ethereal waves, it connects to the sky,
Speaking with data, no human reply.

Air Traffic Control, the voice in the air,
Listens intently, for the robot’s share.
Commands in algorithms, instructions precise,
The robot obeys, its flight a seamless slice.

A symphony of logic, the robot’s mind,
Navigating the heavens, no fear to find.
Through turbulence and storms, it safely glides,
Mastering the skies, with artificial tides.

No human touch, yet a partnership formed,
Between circuits and towers, a bond transformed.
For in this age of AI, we find,
Technology’s triumph, the future defined.

So let us marvel at this robotic embrace,
A new era of flight, with elegance and grace.
With every journey, a story to be told,
Of a robot and its wings, a tale bold.

Airport Woes

In the airport’s bustling fray, they stand,
Those souls who test the patience of the band.
With bags overstuffed, they saunter through,
Unaware of liquid rules they misconstrue.

“I have just makeup, what’s the fuss?” they plea,
As security queues stretch wearily.
But rules are set, no matter their intent,
To keep us safe, our skies from harm, unspent.

And then, they argue, hair gel in their hand,
“Why should it matter in this vast expanse of land?”
But liquids, gels, and creams, a potent brew,
In skilled hands, they may wield danger, true.

So let us educate, and gently remind,
That rules exist, for safety’s cause designed.
Respect the limits, minimize delay,
And together, smoothly, we’ll fly away.

Homeward Bound

Ok, so it’s not the Simon and Garfunkle version, but it’s not bad!

I’m sitting in an airport terminal,
Waiting for my flight to take me home.
But oh, I hope this ain’t a journey ill-fated,
Praying to the travel gods, don’t be belated.

Homeward bound, I’m longing for my plane,
Just wanna fly, without delay and pain.
Airport blues, won’t you set me free?
Let me soar through the sky, oh, can’t you see?

The intercom crackles, announcing delays,
Passengers groan, their patience decays.
I’m looking at the clock, time ticking away,
Hoping my flight won’t be delayed.

Oh, the departure board, it’s a sea of red,
Canceled and delayed flights, messing with my head.
I see weary travelers, faces filled with despair,
All hoping to escape this airport nightmare.

The gate agent smiles, a glimmer of hope,
Announcing boarding, I grab my tote.
Finally, it’s time to leave the ground,
Praying no more delays will be found.

As the plane takes off, I let out a sigh,
Leaving behind the airport, oh, so high.
Though delays tried to keep me bound,
I’m finally homeward, touching down.