hello everyone
wesley has very kindly agreed to work with me in improving my story telling poetry.
so i am going to use my blog at the moment for this purpose
everyone , please, i would appreciate all feedback

so here is an old one wesley
question - should narrative be totally in particular meter, or can it be mixed as what follows?
of course, when i write the one i will for this lesson i will use correct meter - as i said -this poem is an old one... i really am looking to know, i suppose, how much more re length, descriptive, any hints on other devices, is the story complete insofar as 'rules' go etc xxx

also - i am aware the rhyme scheme is incorrect (is it)
(i read your notes on poetic and narrative ballades) - just ignore that for the moment :)

Country people are more laid back
than are those from the city.
So some say, and I agree,
they seem so much more friendly.

What may have boys from the big smoke
pulling out their well-groomed hair
is shrugged off as a part of living
out in the country air.

I have a few good anecdotes
regarding driving incidents
that exemplify what I'm saying
when it comes to accidents.

I've pulled this short story
from encounters with country blokes,
and it comes to you from my store of those
and passed down family jokes.

It is a tale from earlier years
and a classic against women drivers,
so I'm loath to tell it, but find that I must,
for it depicts best rural behaviours.

One day our mum, on a wide gravel road,
was driving the family car
(now she was a pretty good driver really,
here we speak of her early career).

A couple of young local farmers,
one headed to, one going home,
had stopped to talk business (or gossip)
on the road a few miles out of town.

Each vehicle was parked well off the verge,
ample road between the two.
They stood chatting between the two cars
as Mum came into view.

When she appeared they moved back to their motors and,
standing each in his place,
patiently waited for her to drive through,
as said, there was plenty of space.

But Mum being new to the game, she panicked
and hit the brakes really hard.
The sedan started a long slow skid
straight towards the left hand side

and the poor man standing there by his transport
had no chance to recognise
that, wide eyed, my mother was heading for him
with locked wheels and squealing tyres.

With gravel stones erupting out
in an amazing, spectacular feat;
with its owner holding fast to the door,
Mum dragged his car right off the street.

She pushed them both down into the ditch
that dipped from the road a full yard
and as he grimly held tight for his life,
on the ground his feet left long drag marks.

His friend, on the other side verge
looking on aghast with his mouth agape,
could do nothing to stop it, could only stand there
and watch what Mum did to his mate.

But he righted himself very quickly.
He brushed off sand and grass spores.
Then, limping to Mum's vehicle,
opened up the driver's door.

Once he'd assessed that she was alright,
in a gentle voice he said,
with wry country humour and a winning smile,
"Did'n we leave enough room for yuh Peg?"