On The Contrary

Rallentanda, I see wrote her own little ditty, which, thanks to the machinations of Blogland, has only just come to my attention. Therefore, I reproduce it here for the delectation of all, together with my reply. I have a feeling that more of you may be tempted to add a few of your own verses, judging on what happened last time I gave you all a chance wax lyrical.

Rallentanda says -

The child that's born on the seventh day
is much worse than the others at play;
she mucks up the hop scotch, doesn't catch balls,
eats all the cup cakes from the school fete stall.
She pulls the cat's tail and sneaks her dad's ale
and then blames her brother or somebody t'other.


On the contrary, says Jinksy -

The child who is born on the seventh day
likes dancing and singing on her merry way,
spreading some sunshine is always her aim
plus helping all others to share in the same.
Life is surely too short to be lonely or sad -
and so Sunday maidens can't be all that bad!

Come on people - join in the fun! If you email me with some of your own creations, I'll go into my blog, and add them here so's everyone can see! Let's get this party started. You can pick on any of the weekdays, positive or negative as you choose. Get creative?

Here's Technobabe now-

The child born a on a Saturday
is born to win and lead the way,
her body and soul ever prancing.
She uses words to join the dancing
and spread the word along the way.
Hooray! Rejoice! Dear Saturday!

Here's Ronda Laveen

I grabbed Monday,
Jumping to the
Head of the line.
Now all the rest
Of you can
Just fall in behind.

Here's Vagabonde

L’enfant née un mardi
est intelligente – pardi!
Elle mange des crèpes pour Mardi-gras
Et fais des exercices à tout de bras.
C’est vraiment une petite moqueuse
Mais elle parle peu – j’en suis heureuse!

And Bernie

I arrived on Tuesday morn
as cute as I could be.
My mother, who was not impressed,
said..."She don't belong to me!"
So I smiled at my Daddy
who held me close with care.
"Oh, yes, she is most surely ours.
Like me she has no hair!"


And Titanium's Domenica

A child born on the seventh day
Is vibrantly alive in repose;
She dances on thinner air, at play
And sees words as colors she knows.
She braids ropes from black sand shores
And waters Silver Sword at crater’s edge-
The world is hers, for where she explores
Sunday tips her hand, painting knowledge

Here's Enchanted Oak

Friday’s child is loving and giving
She finds delight in the act of living
Human beings make her smile
All God’s children are worthwhile
Their laughter is her source of joy
But she’s truly glad she’s not a boy!

I seem to be having problems with posting your verses on this actual Blogpage, so anyone joining in after GMT 3.30pm Monday, please simply write your versions in as a comment, as I'm going gaga editing!

I'll Let You Into A Secret Or Two

The first secret is the title of the book I'm reading. Now, all over Blogland there are many books mentioned every day, from erudite classics to children's favourites. I guess my claim to second childhood lets me join in this last category with gusto. My book, on the desk before me, is 'For Laughing Out Loud' - Poems To Tickle Your Funny Bone, selected by Jack Prelutsky and Illustrated by Marjorie Priceman.

The second secret - well, almost, as I have shared it with one or two of you - is that I was born on a Sunday, and we all know a version of the old rhyme 'Monday's child', don't we? Yep, that's me - bonny and blithe and good and gay (in the original accepted meaning of the word). So my funny bone was most decidedly tickled by the following version, which I am now giving you, in case you got me wrong...It's by Colin McNaughton, and I apologise to all Blogpals, whichever day they happen to have been born on!

Monday's Child Is Red And Spotty

Monday's child is red and spotty,
Tuesday's child won't use the potty.
Wednesday's child won't go to bed,
Thursday's child will not be fed.
Friday's child breaks all his toys,
Saturday's child makes an awful noise.
And the child that's born on the seventh day
Is a pain in the neck like the rest! OK?

Drat - it's Friday

It does come around with amazing regularity, and it seems I'm being egged on from all sides to join the manic world of G-Man and produce 55 words of practically anything but wisdom, to entertain my happy band of followers. Once again, I have tried to use a light touch that won't tax anybody's brains at the end of a working week, when all they want to do is get on with their weekend and have a respite from care. Smile, people! You have a whole week before the 55 bug bites again.

Are You Checking Up On Me?

Friday folk come looking
to count my every word.
It keeps them very busy
although it is absurd

to set myself a limit
where verses are concerned;
I may discover I end up
with all my bridges burned!

The count is low?
Add one more row...
The count is high?
"Oh, no!" I sigh.

"Bother!"

A Serious Moment

This was a little something I wrote for a friend who was in a bit of a glum mood, and I decided this morning it was probably worth sharing with everyone, as we all have odd moments when we feel the same!

Admonition

Be not sad, when darkness looms. It comes
to balance times of great illumination;
that spark of brilliance which may otherwise
obscure the bigger picture with its glare.
A photograph requires tints and tones
of white and black to capture images
on paper. So life requires us to move
through shades and shadows in our search
for the brightness of an ideal world.

Water, Water, Everywhere

The Weaver of Grass has had more than one watery post lately, and today she has prodded me to jump in and splash around with her, as I follow her train of thought. I've had a life long fascination with stuff, from the days when I dabbled in my Gran's water butt and scrubbed her garden path enthusiastically with the soft rainwater, to now, when I prefer water as a drink over tea and coffee.

An architect friend once told me that Havant is built over many underground streams and watercourses which eventually make their way to the nearby sea. In the oldest part of the town, just to the rear of St Faiths church, the ancient Homewell spring comes bubbling up from the ground, and must have been one of the major factors in the settlement of the area.
When the children were small we always had to visit Homewell whenever we parked in the nearby car park, even if it was only a fleeting visit on the way to the shops. But best of all, was when we were merely ambling round and about and could give the spot our full attention for some time.

The spring fills an area of no more than three or four square metres, if that, with a low, curved wall forming a shape almost like a quadrant of a circle, with two brick walls which join at ninety degrees at the left and top of this near quadrant. They have small, semi circular grills for the water to flow through, after it has bubbled mysteriously up through the little stones on the bed of the pool.

Tiny water creatures are sometimes discernible in the clear water, but the bubbles are the real source of wonder. If you perch on the wall and wait, you can see strings of them chasing each other leisurely to the surface, never twice in the same place, never with bubbles of the same size; little vertical bursts of spherical oxygen bubbles with inexplicable origins.

To this day it remains a source of wonder to me, that my son never ended up falling head first into the water as he dangled over the wall to feel the bubbles, or to reach for a stone to plop back into the pond. Despite many pleas on his behalf, he was never allowed to paddle, because there was no way of knowing how many broken pieces of glass hid amongst the seemingly innocuous stones. Strangely enough, I don't remember his sister being so vociferous with paddling requests, but I freely admit to my own almost overwhelming urge to do so!

Plus, I confess, on one sultry summer evening whilst on my own, waiting for a lift home, I did surreptitiously straddle the wall, and let one rather hot and dusty foot escape its flip-flop and sample the delights of cool, fresh water. Who says I couldn't still be a big kid in my thirties?

I Like To Follow My Nose

Are you a 1) Planner Ahead, a 2) Let's Jump On The Band Wagon At The Last Minute or a 3) Laissez Faire type? Possibly I can be any of the three, depending on where my nose is leading me at any given time.

Whilst feeling in the 1) mode, I ordered a book from Amazon several days back. This morning I showed definite signs of 3) by not having the least idea as to whether, or what, I might post.

Now I'm most certainly hanging on to 2) section, as upon picking up said book, I decide to share with you this delightful poem by Jack Prelutsky.

Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted in some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes;
that clearly would not be a treat
as you would have to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head.
It soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted in some other place -
be glad your nose is on your face!

You Can Never Have Too Many Cooks

Yesterday, for the first time in many long moons, I made a Victoria Sponge as a birthday surprise for a neighbour of mine, who, by her own admission, 'doesn't do sponges'. It was from a recipe given me by my Auntie Nell, and is so basic, it's unreal - three eggs and their weight in butter, sugar and flour. The only 'secret ingredient' is a tablespoon of boiling water added last thing before spooning the mix into two sandwich tins. I believe this is what makes it special of its kind.

As the cooking time grew near to its close, the unparalleled aroma of cake filled my nostrils, and I breathed deeply - it was a near as I would get to sampling the finished product! Eventually, two golden circles sat cooling on my work top, and I turned my thoughts to the butter cream filling which would complete them. I was unsure of the quantity to make - that shows how long since I last needed to know!

I reached my old, trusty cook book down from the shelf, and removed it from its cardboard sleeve. Immediately I was swamped with a rush of memories, almost as though a lifetime of cooking rewound in my mind. I remembered the book new, when I got married, and first read all the do's and don'ts of kitchen hygiene, food preservation and storage, and glossary of cooking terminology. At home, I had cooked various different things from the age of eleven upwards, but now it dawned on me this was the start of a whole new ball game. For the rest of my life, I was COOK, in capital letters.

There was a section at the back of this 'Woman's Own Cook Book' that had several blank pages, ready for recipes to be added, and over the years I did just that. But the pages were too few. I then had scraps of paper, snippets from magazines, hasty notes from friends on tiny pages torn from diaries - each one a new to me but tried and trusted favourite for somebody else. The spine part shredded: several pages became loose: the edges of the leaves became discoloured and brown, a bit like a well cooked biscuit.

As I held the book in my hands. I was overwhelmed by an invisible, jostling crowd of people who had at some time added to my collection, and now left their energies ballooning and swamping me across time and space. They gathered round me, as if eager to come close, as I carefully turned the fragile pages to find the recipe I sought.

It was a Blogpost moment, and no mistake. I knew I'd have to share it with you today, even though you may have come looking for a laugh. Sometimes even jinksy has to be serious.

What? Friday Again?

Go have words with G-Man if you don't know what a 55 is all about - apparently he is the ringleader! It will then leave you with all the weekend to recover...

A 55 Morning Awakening

If people wake up very grumpy,
like a camel with a humpy,
I like to try and make them smile
by being silly for a while
until their frowning faces brighten
as they feel their burdens lighten.
Then like a golden buttercup
they can cheer some others up!

Join me in a love in, folks?

N.B. :- Thanks to Dan's careful counting, it came to light that I'd copied and pasted my Mark 1 55, which only had 54 words. In Mark 2, I'd added an extra one to get the total 55. I have now come back to edit my mistake, before any other sharp eyed reader takes me to task. I never mind being corrected!

Better Out Than In

I woke up around 1.30am, with a distinct awareness that my feet were cold. Maybe they'd tried to escape the duvet. Who knows? Anyhow, there I was , more awake than I should have been. My brain clicked into gear and before I knew it, I'd composed a couple of verses all about twin-tubs and twins that seemed rather fetching at that hour. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated finding a pen and paper, but the effort was too great. Come the morning, and I sat here expectantly, waiting for the poem to resurface and - Nada- Nowt- Nothing.
Then a string of words came to me... 'There's a Gurgler in my sink.' They chose me - I didn't choose them, but here is the result. Sorry.

A Plughole Poem

There's a Gurgler in my sink
and I think he wants a drink.
When I slowly shift the plug,
that is when he starts to glug
as the water's rushing down;
I do hope that he won't drown.
It can't be very nice to swallow
soapy water from a hollow
gushing, pipe so dark and gloomy
in the sink of my bathroomy.

Starting Young

This one must be a record. L7 has recently begun his own book review blog. The clue is in his name, seven years young! Why not pop by and say hello? He needs encouragement - and he would like to get dots on his counting-thingy, from all over the world, please...

Monday Glumday?

Never! Not while jinksy treads the halls of Blogland. I've had a delightful email from a non-Blogging Buddy of mine which contained the following:-

The Washington Post Submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
And the winners are:

1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.

2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.

3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.

5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.

6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.

7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.

8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.

9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.

11. Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.

12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.

14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

Now I'm pretty sure, once I post these, there will be a veritable avalanche of words and meanings added by you, my own dear, quick-thinking, word revellers who come traipsing to my door in expectation of a bit of a giggle. Hope your Monday isn't Glumday.

P.S. Thought of one of my own:- FORMAT - a thing by the front door for dogs to wipe their feet on. Come on people - try hard...

Not Quite Smellivision

In the wakeful wee small hours of the morning, what should I begin pondering but perfumes, aromas, smells, whiffs of fragrance lingering in the air, or on skin, hair, fabrics. As my teenage years approached, I was pleased when Auntie Glad presented me with Tweed toiletries, my first brush with perfumes. Before, there had been only carbolic, Wrights Coal Tar or sometimes Pears or Cussons soaps that left their trademark smells on my person.

Then, further into my teens, this same Auntie and my cousin Peg, kept me supplied with fragrances of their choosing - Lily if the Valley, Rose , Lavender and eventually, the one I liked best for many years - Elizabeth Arden's Blue Grass. During my college days this was the smell that announced 'jinksy woz 'ere!'. I bought a tiny bottle a few weeks ago, after many years of eschewing any kind if fragrance at all, and found it somewhat overpowering until it's worn off a little. These days, Johnson's shower creme has enough perfume for me. On the whole, I prefer an absence of smell!

Chanel No.5 was my eventual grown up choice, closely followed by Hermès Calèche, or Madame Rochas, and Panache when the funds were running low. So next time you stand before a row of perfume bottles, you could see if you can find one that will say to you 'Hm.. jinksy might be here!'

A Turn For The Verse?

As it's Friday, here's one in the spirit of Flash 55, with apologies to G-Man!


A 66 Flash 55

There are many ideas
in Blogland at large;
I knit them together
like Madame Defarge.

There's Wordless on Wednesday:
on Thursday a Theme,
and everyone knows
when Flash Friday has been.

On Sunday there's Scribbling;
on Monday the Blues
descend upon Blogland.
But not if you choose

to ignore the day's name
and to write, will nilly -
for people like me
were born to be silly !

Thinking Can Lead To Madness

Over on Friko's Fridge Soup is a post showing two people playing one guitar at the same time. In amongst the comments, there was talk of a double bass duet, and this sparked my magination.

What other instruments could be used in this novel way? Imagine, a person who'd always wanted to play a tuba, but didn't have enough puff, could team up with a real windbag of a soul who could blow hot air for England, let alone a Tuba. If you thought about it, you could probably nominate somebody for the job right now.

And how about a trombone? A person with the urge to play, but with arms too short to stretch out as far as needed, would only have to find their own Mr Tickle, as per Roger Hargreaves, and there'd be no stopping them.

Even when you descend to the smaller instruments like a triangle or a tambourine, people with missing left hands could team up with people whose right hands were absent, and once again, you
would have a perfect duet scenario.

Perhaps I should search for a ventriloquist partner; that way I might be able to stop talking through the back of my neck...

No Photos Here

All over Blogland we can see pictures of people, living or dead, from full colour happy snaps to faded sepia, posed portraits. On the walls in my hallway I've a collection of my own, the oldest being a picture of my Mum, aged about four. I have very few surfaces for standing photo frames on, so the walls have been hammered into submission to display my personal rogues gallery.

Apart from these, I favour keeping my snaps in a small vanity case. They are easily accessible, and can be lovingly handled, one by one, each time I choose to wander back in time. Albums don't fill me with the same joy, though I do have a few organised samples in my bookcase.

Anyhow, the whole point of this post, is to let you share one of my favourite poems from childhood, which is all about photos on a wall. It's by Marion St John Webb, and is the last one in her volume called The Littlest One His Book...

What Andy Didn't Know

There's lots of people's faces
in photos on the wall
inside my Granny's parlour
an' all along the hall.
An' Andy said, "Let's see which makes
us laugh the most of all !"


An' some of them was nugly,
an' Andy laughed a lot,
an' said " Gee, look at this one !"
The whiskers he has got !"
An' me an' Andy laughed an' laughed
until we got all hot.

Then Andy found the one that made
him laugh the most of all.
A tiny baby's photo -
so nugly - on the wall,
an' sittin' in a pram it was,
all wrapped up in a shawl.

An' Andy laughed, an' I laughed
an' we kept laughin' so
that Granny came to find us.
She said, " Why, don't you know?
The baby in that photograph
is Andy - long ago ! "

Then no one laughed...And Andy's face
got red as red could be.
An' Andy wouldn't play again,
not anymore, with me

All Good Things Come To An End

So I think it's about time I gave the answer to my Brain Teaser - it is WATER. Several of you worked it out, and may collect their gold stars for effort from the jar on my shelf. Others, who failed to fathom the answer, must remain with waterlogged brains swimming in an ocean of despair (to continue with a watery theme)... I hope those who read all the comments, noticed that my Australian Blogpal added a teaser of her own, just to keep us in the riddle mood. I've given you a link to her doorstep, for I'm sure she would welcome you in.

Until Blogger managed to lose the first post I attempted today, I was feeling chuffed with mysef for having had a poem accepted by the orchestrator of Bolts of Silk. Juliet chooses poems to weave into her cloth of gold which passes for a kind of online poetry magazine. It's good to think a poem has been chosen, as opposed to my simply foisting one on readers of my wittering blog.

And last, but by no means least, I want to wish my No.1 Son Many Happy Returns Of The Day as, due to the vaguaries of our weekend post, I think it unlikely his cards will have been delivered on time. At least Blogland Post will arrive at the push of a button.

********
Here is a late update with explanation, especially for Lakeviewer, and anyone else who has been puzzled by the Suldog comment. It came about like this...

On my 1st February blogpost comments, Suldog said:-

But, Jinksy, are you SURE you want my filthy mind to construct verse? Well, if that's what you want...
There was an old man from Nantucket... [*Jinksy slams a frying pan over his head*]

To which Q quickly replied:-

Suldog, allow me to finish it for you......

The was an old man from Nantucket,
who had a small hole in his bucket.
It leaked in the kitchen, the hallway and garden,
where he finally decided to chuck it!

Anybody want to buy a Suldog shaped frying pan???

Which brought Suldog's repartee :-

To #1 Son - Many Happy Returns!
Yours Truly,
Frying-Pan-Headed Suldog

(Most who read this will think I've gone daft. It's not true. I was daft all along.)

Hope this helps? Love, jinksy X

A Teaser

Here is a little something I dreamed up earlier this evening, whilst contemplating the word 'cryptic'. I know it has 55 words, but as it's not Friday, I don't feel duty bound to offer it up to anyone other than my readers. Let's see how your grey cells meet this latest challenge, shall we? I tested it out on Doctor FTSE, to make sure it is feasible. I wonder how long it will be before some clever clogs leaves the right answer...Of course, if you think you've got it, you could simply email me. That way, it'd give more people a chance to pit their wits against The Jinkster.


My first is in shower
but not in rain,
my second's in parched
and also in flame.

My third can be pointed
and pushed in the ground,
or used to slake thirst
wherever it's found.

Together, the last two
could sound a mistake,
but not if you're clever
and do an out-take.

What am I, folks?

Two Heads Are Better Than One

This Friday, I give you an example of a two-headed collaboration. With an amazing stretch of Blogland space, Jinksy and Doctor FTSE put their heads together, despite the distance between them, and concocted a Flash 55 offering for the G-Man.
If you've not met the good Doctor before, I suggest you make an appointment without further delay. You may have a long wait though, as by the end of today, I think his surgery may be full of patients complaining about bruised posteriors.

There are more group minds to be found at the newly opened gastronomic off-shoot of Friko's.
As head chef, she is currently masterminding the daily serving of Fridge Soup, to whet our appetites. I'm sure she will let you have a free sample, if you ask nicely.

It's An Idea

What? You may ask. Those hardy souls who have been reading the last few editions of napple notes, may have seen the suggestion put forth by Dave of Pics and Poems, that we launch a Rhyming Nit-Wits Club. However, while this may be a tempting prospect, the logistics of how it could be arranged have managed to bring my brain cells to a grinding halt. I know many of my posts sound as though I'm an inmate of the local Funny Farm, but I do also have a serious side, and would be loath to channel all my efforts into being a host for mirth to the exclusion of all else.

However, what I'd like to know is, what is stopping all the potential rhymers from occasionally posting a rhyme of their own? Let's consider what they might need in order to begin. First essential, I'd say, are two ears.

No, I know you don't write with them, but you need to hear the rhythms and patterns in language.

If I was to say 'flight' and ask you to tell me a word which rhymed, you wouldn't find that too hard, would you? Sight, blight, height, light, night, white - wait a minute - white? The spelling is different, yes, but your ears hear the same sound. So listening to the sounds of the words you choose to write is number one, and most people have no problem with this!

However, rhythm often poses a problem to begin with. As we speak, we naturally emphasise some parts of a word or sentence, without thinking about it. For example, 'potential' has the emphasis on the central syllable - po-TEN-shal - whereas 'combination' emphasises the first and third - COM-bin-A-shun.

Whether you realised it or not, what you did when you wrote a last verse for me, was copy the rhythm I'd set out in the first one.

So, if you're not quite sure how to begin writing a rhyme, start by looking at one some other poet produced, and copy the lilt of the words. Don't let me hear anybody say 'I can't write a rhyme'.
Now go forth and multiply rhymes in Blogland. I'll even give you a prod to get you going.

A Poem Of Words

Pip, Polemic, Pacify,
Frugal, Frumpish, Fortify.
Astral, Ankh, Antimony,
Artful, Angst, Agrimony.

Words are fun, they've got potential
especially when experimental
combinations come to mind -
try some out, see what you find!