On the Horns of a Dilemma?

Be afraid ? Or not...

Hehehe - I happened across this, my alarming selfie,  just too late to give readers a touch of Halloween horror on that occasion. 

But time is a very elastic concept, so today I give permission for the Blogland world at large to have a laugh with, rather than at, a bearded lady like no other! 

Then, as I spotted  the name Sepia Saturday on my reading list, I couldn't resist the urge to post this anything-but-sepia snap that my sense of humour decided to share further. Apologies to serious photographers all...

I have spent too long not looking at said reading list every day, but with storm Ciaran giving UK Bloggers much to discuss on their favourite subject (!) of weather, I've taken to the keyboard to add my pennyworth - dreadful pun intended.  

Each news and weather report on TV is full of devastating scenes. We have been too complacent, expecting life to continue as 'normal'. Now, it seems that word is beginning to have less and less meaning by the day, not only as applied to weather fronts, but world events. As King Lear knows, "That Way Madness Lies..."

But if I managed to raise even a tiny smile at the start of this post, then my time has been well spent!

A different resurrection, perhaps?

A Story in Ballad Form

At the edge of the forest something stirred
and through the dark trees came
a figure cloaked and wrapped about
with a flash of lightening flames.

It muttered spells beneath its breath
and mists rose from the lake
where some poor maid had met her death
when bitten by a snake.

Rosamunda was her name
and beautiful was she,
but the poisoned bite had made her lame
and unable to flee

the cruel huntsman and his bow
who wanted his revenge
for vows she'd taken long ago
on the altar at Stonehenge.

She'd said that she would rather die
than ever be his bride,
so he let his angry arrows fly
to pierce her in her side...

The ancient crone, a witch, in truth
had spied the young girl bleed,
and taken by the fair maid's youth
swore to undo the deed.

" By fire and water, earth and air
you'll not meet your demise!
By all the powers good and fair,
I bid thee maid, arise!"

And slowly from her watery grave
Rosamunda stepped at last
rejoicing as she realised
her troubles all were past,

for the crone had sent the huntsman forth
with promise of reward
if he remained far from this land, OR
his head would meet death's sword!

The above illustration was created by Chelsea Bednar, and offered by her mother, Margaret, for writers to use as inspiration from IGWRT's prompt back in April 2013.

With Halloween approaching, I thought Chelsea's collage deserved to be brought back to life - along with my creepy interpretation, of course. :-)

I hope today's P&STU readers forgive me, if they've read my tale before! 

Unanswered Question

 

  Bright waters of oblivion

  in deepest streams of consciousness,

  ripple and refresh 
  all hidden corners of our lives.

  Their currents move us forward 
  at a pace the river chooses,
  and as human flotsam-jetsam, 
  we all float, but who knows why?

  Still across the crystal surface 
  of this source which bubbles upwards,
  shadow leaves continue swirling, 
  each a life with its own path.

  But these rivers do not falter, 
  are fulfilled by every journey
  without a thought of where they flow
  or what is meant to be...

Written earlier, but offered to P&SU #99, where today's prompt is 'Why?' 

A Late Night Muse

 Can be a help or a hindrance, and I'm not certain which one had me in its grip yesterday.

 

Although I knew this week's P&SU had a four-way prompt, it was AIR in it wildest form that grabbed my attention, thanks to several forty-plus wind speeds that have been swirling around my house recently...

Having been somewhat busy this week, I only set out to write something down late last night,  but knew I'd need a rethink in the morning, as my brain was beginning to switch off, never mind the Muse! :-)

And here's the result so far...

Air in Motion

Now winds no longer caress sun-soft skins

with delicate fingertips. They scour lips

with abrasive bites to rough and redden them,

as noses glow, eyes water, shoulders hunch 

against Winter's whirling, devil-dance storms.

Rushing Air becomes a hard task-master,

makes its young apprentices learn spiteful

arts of trickery. Their hoar frost cloaks, and ice 

- black as devil's spawn - smites victims down,

urges drivers to panic, lose control. 

For an invisible power, Wind holds

the strength of giants in its hidden depths.

A Translation!

 To see the original Odd Words Ode, click HERE  - for anyone who is curious to know what needed translating! Hehehe... 

A hairy buttock'd hound with a dose of delusional madness,

I’m still a dreamer with a love of wisdom.
I’m not covered in scales, or given to ticks, 
but divination from bones of sacrificed fish is one of my tricks,
as I bend over at a sharp angle to contemplate my navel - 
(I guess folks will wonder what the heck that is?)
I am known for philanthropy rather than love.
So I pray any Fist Footer who’s sent from above,
will be no shrewd, unprincipled person, but a good friend of mine.
Otherwise, why bother wasting my time?

Contrasts are the spice of life...

Around the world, Plain English is used as a communication tool. Today, as an English person born and bred, I decided to exhume this anything-but-plain snippet, created back in 2009, after a partaker of Fridge Soup listed (in random order) all the strange-looking words in the following lines. I promise my verse does make sense, once you hit a dictionary! :-)

Words, words, words...

A daysypigal hound with a dose of cynanthropy,

I'm still a romantic inclined to philosophy. 

I'm not furfuraceous or given to ticks, 

but ichthyomancy is one of my tricks, 

as I geniculate, pre omphaloskepsis - 

(I guess folks may wonder what the heck that is?)

I am known for philanthropy rather than love.

So I pray any qualtagh, who's sent from above, 

will be no snollygoster, but a good friend of mine.

Otherwise, why bother wasting my time?

Thanks go to P&SU Friday Writing's #97 for nudging me into action!

A translation (of sorts) is provided HERE, for those of an enquiring mind. 

Home is where the heart is...

                                              

Pack my life in a suitcase,

like one I had as a child,

with brown cardboard corners

rubbed grey and tin handle rattling

as it lollops side to side

between silver flip-clips

which open to display

a retro paper lining...

In first, goes a layer of war-torn sounds

to cower in corners.

Cover them with school uniforms

and scatter primrose memories

of picnics in the woods.

Layer paintings from college

with tears from teen dramas, until

confetti and a wedding veil shroud them

in mists of time, and baby powder scent

sends kisses and cuddles whirling

in ever growing spirals towards adulthood.

Tissue paper days of work and ageing,

of living, of loving, of life itself,

sandwich together as I press down

the lid to preserve my memories.

This is a somewhat off-piste offering for 

P&SU #96 Friday Writing's subject of 'Home', with apologies to anyone who happened to read it before - nearly ten years ago - under the title 'Suitcase' on my Alias Jinksy blog. :-)

Time Out Of Time

Time

is elastic;

it stretches as you try

to create another poem,

until words become lost in translation

and day-dreams take over the helm

to steer free-floating thoughts

spiralling through

time.

Cogs and wheels designed to fit together

seek a close harmony; any discord, jars.

Unrehearsed, it spins them out of kilter, 

and latent melodies remain unplayed

once life's gramophone-needle is static.

The interwoven records of our lives

grind to a halt. We can only stand by,

watch Catherine-wheel days spin out of control,

then spark, fizz, fade into obscurity.

Time is a certain victor in this race 

against relentless turning of both wheels

of life and fortune, twin brothers-in-arms.

All thoughts engendered by P&SU Friday Writings #95

Storm

I used a detail from an Andrew Wyeth's painting entitled "Squall" to create this rendition, and the words followed after...

There was none of the usual crisp cleanliness about the moonlight. It entered the coast-guard's cottage in the way that warm breath becomes visible on a cold night; a presence which comes from nowhere, hovers in the air like phosphorescence for a moment, before it disperses and lets the blackness rule...

Outside, rising winds chased clouds which raced from their grasp like naughty children evading bed time. But there was no fun attached to their game.  Instead, a sense of foreboding was tangible in the air that night.

See more stormy offerings at Friday Writings

Angel Dreams Revisited

Adrift in dreams, imagination whirls
and lilac angels' wings fly close at hand.
The flower scented air begins to swirl
and lulls us further. We can understand
concepts which, in daytime, make no sense.
For night time loosens bonds of black or white,
sends technicolour shades in recompense
to meld all boundaries of wrong, or right.

When waters of emotion lap the shores

of self expression, artists utilise 

that wave-swell of power, of creation; 

they may focus on their craft without pause.      

Visions refreshed in Dream Time are allies 

in the fight to free imagination.

Thanks to P&SU Friday Writings

Conundrum

With apologies to the musical score of Oliver, which gave me the title I've used as a springboard for this somewhat strange offering. 

Thanks go to P&SU for their prompt on Friday.

Food Glorious Food

Hot pudding and custard

will always cut the mustard 

in the Pantry Stakes. 

(A little known sport of kings

who choose to ponder on such things

to give themselves a welcome break

from hard decisions they must make.

Which functions would they rather miss, 

versus those they can't resist?)

Smart jockeys on horses,

jump menu's multi-courses;

flout a long held law

open to much hidden folly,

via Satan's Sweet Course Trolley.

The Betting Stakes rise ever higher,

fan the flames of inner fire

as the Bookies play their part, 

long before the races start.

To eat or not to eat? Aye, there's the rub...

Game For A Laugh?

I sense something silly - is it growing from my head?  

I knew that it was waiting, soon as I climbed out of bed.

It's not a hat, or hunk of hair,

but just a thought that took root there

and wanted to be captured on a page, 

despite my somewhat sober writing age.

I think it is a giggle, that's decided 'Now's the time!'

I can feel it start to wriggle, like washing on a line

that's pegged but longs to travel

(risking falling in the gravel)

for it wants to see what life is like below...

(It's all about the viewpoint, don'tcha know?)

Now it's off and flying free - Look out! There it goes!

It only just missed hitting you on your rosy nose-

and no one would be laughing

at such abysmal timing...

I hope it takes a new, far distant road

before it lets its giggle-bomb explode...

Oh beware! It's on the loose dear reader, have a care!

It may descend upon you. Before you know it's there

it will titillate your funny bone,

despite your being all alone,

and seeds of laughter may sail through the air

to plant themselves in people everywhere!

Thanks go to this blog for its inspiration.

And apologies for using the title before- you can see how laughing has me in its spell!

Thinking out loud?

This afternoon, I happened upon a TV programme with the arresting title of 'An Englishman Abroad', coupled with the name Alan Bennet.  He was 'talking to camera' about holidays with his parents, explaining how  his experiences then, lead to his writing a play of the same name, many years later. 

His early observations of human behaviour, are surely the yeast which has given rise to a feast of books and dramas that continue to delight us.

It would be foolish of me to aspire to such literary heights, but here, even a nattering Napple can post her silent thoughts in a Blogland post box, to be read by - who knows? One can but dream...

In search of rhyme or reason, perhaps?

 That pretty much describes my day...

Blogland, that wonderful place which allowed us to share many rhymes and reasons, has been steadily decreasing in size - exactly like the Polar Ice Caps.

Father Time will certainly call a halt to many of our number as we 'pass our sell by date', to use a modern concept, but spasmodic posts from various sources, can surface, if we go hunting with determination.

Today, I came across an old Blogpal, RWP, and you too can share his joy, if you click HERE. Isn't life grand? :-)