Saturday Is Nearly Here Again

And I'm going to post another double spread from Dad's album. He served aboard an HMS Fowey at one point in his career, and I think the drawing probably represents an earlier sailing ship of the same name.
After a week of minimal posting from me, it's good to have a ready made one waiting in the wings, thanks to the unsung talent of my nautical Pa - a perfect offereing for Sepia Saturday.

You Are Always On My Mind

Erm...not quite! But yesterday, Pobblebonks were. Such a lovely word could not be lightly dismissed, and all day I could sense a nonsense rhyme struggling to croak to the surface, which it finally did, but too late for me to start posting.
As the following unadulterated lunatic rhyme is enough to make anybody cry, I'm sneaking in one of Dad's drawings this morning, where the effect has already taken place. Happy Tuesday, peoples...

A Pobblebonk sat on a log.
He knew he was some kind of frog,
but he felt so unsure
of his froggy allure,
that he hopped off to hide in a bog.

But, as he was leaping,
a lady frog, creeping
nearby while hunting for flies,
twitched with surprise -
got stars in her eyes -
here was the Prince she was seeking!

Before very long,
they joined in song
the pobble-bonks rang loud and clear
as together they croaked -
he was all she'd hoped -
But boy, did she get things all wrong?

For with the first kiss,
the amorous Miss
found her Pobblebonk pal,
had turned into Prince Hal-
had transmogrified,
it could not be denied,
into Prince Harry -
not a beau she could marry!
Then Right Royal Harry,
not inclined to tarry,
called for his horse
and skedaddled, of course!

This comes with my humble apologies to The Royal Family, as well as any other Frog Princes who may still be waiting for a magical kiss to release them from an enchantment...

Pobblebonks

I couldn't think of a better word to preface a typical napple note on this Saturday morning. For those intrigued by it, YouTube will supply an explanation, complete with sound, and for those not blessed with a curiosity gene, I can tell them it's another name for Banjo Frogs - inhabitants of Australia.

There are two reasons why Pobblebonks came to mind.

1. A fellow student in my creative writing group chose to write a clever poem about them last Tuesday.
2. For the past few days I have been croaking like a frog myself, thanks to a free gift of a bug-of-unknown-origin with which fate has seen fit to bless me.

However, as I am able to talk the hind leg off of a donkey* in Blogland, with no ill effects, I shall proceed unabashed.

My Dad's sketch fired peoples' interest last weekend, so I thought I'd post another today. It illustrates exactly the right sentiment, don't you think? A permanent smile always makes other people wonder what you've been up to, while they yearn for a little of the same medicine. Which brings me nicely back full circle to Jinksy Germs and Croaking Frogs.



* For another jolly jape on an equine theme, do take the time to go and see Dr FTSE who, I happen to know, has written a post guaranteed to make a horse laugh, or in my case, to make me laugh hoarsely...
Come to think of it, a doctor could be just what I'll need myself soon, if my symptoms worsen.

"Knock, knock!"
"Who's there?"
"The Doctor."
" Doctor Who?"

Sorry, folks, you can see I'm in a bad way when I'm beseiged by such thoughts...That padded cell looms closer by the minute. But before the men in white coats come to take me away, I'll just have time to give you the link to Sepia Saturday.

One? Two?

No, this is not a BOGOF, (Buy One Get One Free, for anyone who may have thought I was being nasty!). It is me realising I have created a split personality by starting a second blog. Time was, napple notes swallowed everything I fed it without complaint - I could concoct any recipe and more or less knew who would come to my table to sample the menu.

Since I became inundated with tempting, ready made menus from Flash Fiction 55, Sepia Saturday, Magpie Tales, The Poetry Bus, Big Tent Poetry, Monday's Child, Microfiction Monday, Poets United and last, but not least, Writer's Island, I have been very remiss with creating my own Dish Of The Day, and I know Hilary, for one, has an aversion to Double Blogging. For those who have yet to meet the lovely Hilary, aka The Smitten Image, she has a hard enough time following one blog per person, when choosing her Post Of The Week, without nuts like me suddenly creating a second one.

Why did I do it? I thought I could, and would, keep poems separate. However, I am finding the lines becoming blurred between my two blogs. What shall I do, Blogpals? Keep two? Loose one? Look for the nearest padded cell immediately?

Writer's Island Prompt #24

See beyond the veil;
all future pathways embrace
possibility.
The challenge is to decide
which may give the best outcome.



 Inspired by Writer's Island prompt "  Envisioned".

Monday's Child # 16

What's Cooking?

"I will sprinkle in fairy wishes
so this brew will be delicious
in a twinkling" said the gnome,
chanting over bright green foam
through flowing beard. From pointed hat
he added bits of this and that
as he was elegantly sitting
beside the Witchy Sisters, spitting
spells into the brew,
each foot dangling (minus shoe)
in the way that people's do
whose legs are short, like me and you.

Two rats, three bats and one black spider
wondered what could be inside the
pot that bubbled on the fire,
as the flames curled ever higher.
Would they be allowed to drink
a sample droplet, d'you think?
Or would the witches be too greedy
to share supplies with any needy
animal who might be near?
Come, whisper answers in my ear!

Thanks to Monday's Child for finding the Beccy Blake illustration featured in this week's prompt.

Sepia Saturday With A Difference

You can see from the date at the bottom of these two pages,  that they were drawn in 1938 by my father, Francis Edwin Jinks.

I have two of his autograph albums, with drawings which span the years between 1922 and 1939. He seems to have used them in lieu of a sketchbook.

I realised this week that I could scan and save his drawings on my computer. Many of them are pencil sketches, but this one has colour added as well, and I decided to post it under the Sepia Saturday banner, as it's a historical document!

I seem to have inherited his love of drawing. Aren't I the lucky one?

I'm sure I'll be posting more of his sketches, as it'd be a pity for them to stay tucked away in the albums with only me being able to appreciate them. As he travelled all over the world  for twenty two years, in his capacity of Petty Officer in the Royal Navy, I'm sure he'd love to think his drawings are now travelling abroad in a different way!

Time For A Chat?

It's all very well, rushing out bits of so called poetry or prose at the drop of a hat, to comply with somebody's prompt, and it may keep one's writing urge on tiptoe, waiting to see who will think up what next, but plain old Blogland gets a raw deal.


Despite today being National Poetry Day, according to BBC news, I intend doing no more than a Napple Waffle about my own illustration...Monday, as you will notice in the picture,  my room was open to the elements for a goodly part of the day, as two workmen demolished old, cheap-and-nasty patio door/window and replaced it with an A rated, energy saving, up-dated version.

At the crack of dawn, I'd teetered up a step ladder and taken down heavy curtains (in the foreground you can see their Rufflette tape waiting to be un-pleated), then waited...and waited...until the men eventually arrived at 10am. They'd come from Bournemouth - from where, I assume, they'd had to collect the units they were to install. Late starting they may have been, but they worked steadily and methodically straight through to 4pm, when they took my money and had me sign on the dotted line before going to their next assignment.

Having learned from previous attempts that my washing machine had difficulty coping with even one of the big curtains, I decided a trip to the local cleaners would be the best idea. Hmm. When I'd unpicked the hems and trundled my trusty trolley full of curtains and liners into Havant, I was told the price would be £45 for the curtains, and £45 for the liners, as they were separate, thermal ones which I attach  with hooks, not the sewn in variety whiach would have been included in the one price of £45. They also told me, unpicked hems were not acceptable, as curtains might fray. They suggested I took them across the road to a Launderette, which advice I was glad to follow. There they will do a service wash, dry and press curtains and liners for the princely sum of £25 pounds. That was a no brainer, wouldn't you say?!

Monday's Child # 15

In any Wonderland, imagination can,
and should, as if in an enchanted wood,
unlock the doors to a magic place
where all newcomers may enter the race
on equal terms. They'll walk, fly, swim, or crawl,
and whether large and bold, or meek and small,
participants of every kind will join in,
with feather, fur, shell or tender skin
rubbing shoulders, as they tumble ever on
in a frenzied, helter-skelter marathon.


Thanks to BKM at Monday's Child for supplying this prompt.

Second Class

No, not citizen, nor yet goods, merely a chance for me to bemoan another afternoon spent chasing rainbows, as it were. There was this extremely accomplished model, adept at creating and holding wonderful poses, yet again, forced to change them after three, five, or at most, ten minutes. It was as bad as it would be to have a tasty plate of food before you, only to have it fed you on the tip of a match, or with a salt spoon, instead of the heaped dessert spoonful  that your taste buds craved!
I promised to post some results for you today, which I will do, although I didn't stop to think that my A3 drawing pad wouldn't fit in my A4 scanner. Using my camera to capture the images is far from satisfactory, but I've managed to get a few to share with you, but apologise for any poor quality images.

 

Piglet

I've a poem that goes well with him HERE, and this quickie post is simply to let you know my time this week has been busy with other concerns. I thought Piglet could make my apologies for being conspicuous by my absence. Tomorrow will be Life Drawing Class No. 2, so watch this space for details!

N.B. Life Class No.1 is chronicled on Alias Jinksy

Short, But Not Necessarily Sweet

A Microfiction Monday offering  from a Stony River prompt - told in 140 characters or less.

Now she understood. Ships that pass in the night may leave waves that linger, causing more damage than a tsunami.

Brrring, Brrring !

She talks of a school reunion, when I answer the phone, it is to be the final one, the last of its kind. She is a bustling woman, aery-faery mixed with a degree of organisation, who has been resposible for keeping track of former pupils and teachers of a school long since shrouded in mists of memory. She has a high pitched, breathy, little girl voice which belies her grey locks and ample stature, when you meet her in person, a good hearted, if somewhat misguided soul, who has apparently chosen to make it her life's work to keep a flag flying for her schooldays...

I had already politely declined her invitation to attend this year, so her phone call just now took me unawares. I was pleased with myself for remaining adamant in refusing, for I could tell she was fishing for me to change my mind.

Last October, for the first time, I had rallied to her call, and did rediscover one fellow pupil, and one school secretary who had been part of my world between the ages of six and eleven. After almost sixty years, I was surprised at recognising anyone.

So, because it is Saturday and Sepia calls, I will share with Blogland my one remaining image of that long ago schoolgirl, me.

A Day In The Life

 Today’s shopping occupies my mind, but below the surface. I feel I should dredge practicalities into the light, or risk arriving home with my trolley still empty.  I have no list of items to which I could refer –only an awareness, as my eyes regard rows of goods on offer, of those which are in need of replenishing in my larder.  It won’t be an organized collection by the time I reach the checkout, I guarantee.

Sometimes the urge to allow myself free expression with some kind of creative work overrides the need for living in the now of everyday life. I would have done better to stay at home, perhaps, and let the muses win the battle for my attention today… I feel them hovering behind my back, willing me to finish the task in hand.  “I know you are there, and I promise to listen to you soon.” I project a thought in the way a mother might reprimand a bothersome infant who demands too much attention.

With a colourful selection of fruit and vegetables teetering in the basket, I decide I have enough, and march resolutely to the checkout, before I spend any more time or money in Waitrose…

Then I begin to understand the muses' insistence. As I approach the slatted bench beneath my favourite plane tree, I know I have to take time out to sit and write for them, drawing a word picture of that particular time, that particular place.

Dappled shadows waiver on bricks-
muted red-brown, dust covered-
beneath the plane tree's canopy
of rustling, summer's-end leaves.

In blocks of cool grey, shading to umber,
the bark flaunts a rich, textured surface,
while one bright spot of gamboge
draws the attention like a beacon.

Specks of eau-de-nil moss, or fungus,
are embroidered in a sparse pattern
down one side. They lift the colour palette
into another dimension, alien to the tree,

whose branches spread a benison of calm
over all below. The day's breath
slows at the approach of dusk, until
a sudden crescendo sends a few dry leaves

spiralling to earth, where they scutter
over the cobbles, rasping, brittle, whispering,
as they scurry across the road's surface
in a wind-whirled dance of Autumn.

Thank goodness my purchases had included a spiral bound notebook…

Okay - Here's The Others!

As the wedding subject seems to have brought out the curiosity factor in more than one of you, I'm letting you see all my attendants. From left to right they are Susan, Peter, Nicola, Cynthia, Jeremy and Amanda. Jeremy's expression is only due to the sun in his eyes, not disgust abut hs outfit. He was actually pleased as punch with such sartorial elegance!

The hectic aspect of the day continued after the reception. The new Mr and Mrs went on a tour of friends and relations who hadn't been able to make it to the ceremonny, bearing (naturally) pieces of cake for them all, and managing to scrounge a couple of pillows from Mr and Mrs P (parents of the best man), because said bride and groom hadn't remembered to buy any to go with their brand new bed linen!

Then it was back to the ongoing party at Mum and Dad's, and a great packing-the-car-with-wedding-presents, until we eventually set off to take up residence in our sparsely furnished new house at Havant. The kitchen cooker and  bedroom furniture had been delivered earlier, as in both these rooms the flooring was down, but the Ercol table, chairs and sideboard, and the three piece suite, were still being stored at the shop, until we could get the carpet fitted in the open plan lounge. Mum had lent us some old, black and yellow kitchen cutains for the lounge window at the front, until I could make up the arty material I'd bought, so the only luxurious thing that night was the great fire in the closed in stove with the back boiler, which provided gallons of hot water and had heated the house to an almost tropical temperature.

We discoverd that this had its drawbacks, too, as the cover to the ashcan was not quite in place, with the result that the stove reached almost white hot heat, gave an enormous retort, and the fire bars and back of the basket lining both cracked, vociferously! Thus the day ended wth a bang...Would you have expected anything less?!

Has Your Halo Slipped?

I wish I could claim this photo as my own creation - sadly not. But when I noticed it in the same folder as the wedding cake picture, it made me smile all over again, just as I had when I first set eyes on it. I don't know which bit I like best; the lopsided coronet, which had difficulty sitting straight on such glossy hair, or the cosy vest and petticoat straps peeking out the side of the neckline!

This was not the fourth-slice-of-cake bridesmaid, but her younger sister, and you'll have to use your imagination to supply the colour of the dress and headdress. A deep, pinky-red, shimmering chiffon over a slightly darker taffeta, made this adorable infant look like a tiny rosebud herself.

The November day was particularly cold and windy, and I even had a thermal vest and long johns (red ones) on under my dainty gown, as did my attendants. The family had rallied round, with everybody helping to prepare the food in advance for the reception, which the groom and best man set out in the church hall while us girls were putting together the bridal bouquets. Because I'd chosen to have chrysanthemums, my cousin and her husband went rushing around on his motor bike early that morning, looking for white ones, as our combined gardens had only been able to produce flowers in autumnal shades. Bearing in mind the wedding was scheduled for 2pm, you can imagine how busy we all were! I remember making at least 100 buttonholes, of various types and colours, so's people could choose one to tone with their outfit, as they arrived at the church.

When Dad and I finally pulled up to the church entrance, somewhat early, (both he and I hated being late!) we were shooed away, as either the minister or the registrar hadn't arrived.  So I ended up having an unplanned trip all along Southsea seafront,  waving royally to curious folk who were out and about that busy Saturday. Good job the Taxi Driver was a friend of the groom, and quite happy to take us on a circular mystery tour, at no extra charge!

Still On The Wedding Kick

I thought it only fair, after the previous somewhat traumatic post, to let you see a happier side to the day! The following photo of Me and Mine preparing to cut the cake, has several funny tales associated with it. When I made the cakes, I didn't realise the shelves in Mum and Dad's oven were not necessarily as horizontal as one could have wished...When the three tiers were assembled on 'The'Day', my cousin had to use silver threepenny bits on top of some of the pillars, to stop the ensemble looking like the leaning tower of Pisa!

I was a novice at wedding cake production in those days, though rich fruit cakes were my speciality, and I used to be roped in to cook them for all family occasions.

I owe my success to a free, Stork Margarine Cookery Book, which was given away as part of an advertising campaign when the product was first launched. The recipe never fails, and only needs doubling or trebling to accommodate the required size and shape of cake tin.

So, just three weeks before the wedding, there were the cakes (slightly wonky) ready for the marzipan. No ready made, shop bought stuff, but proper, home made almond paste. Yummy. 

I was so inexperienced, I didn't know any of the tricks of the trade - like allowing plenty of time for the paste to dry out and harden to support the weight of the tiers above. Nor, when it came to the Royal Icing, did I know that fresh egg whites will stop it ever beating to a stiff enough consistency to  pipe! I have learned by my mistakes!

The result of my lack of knowledge was, that when I tried to pipe a design around the sides of the cakes, the icing slid slowly but relentlessly in the direction of down wards... I finally got round the problem by buying several yards of silver lace to wrap around them, instead! The end result was quite pretty though, don't you think?

And one of my very young, exceeding slim bridesmaids sidled up to me during the evening party, and asked if she could have another piece of cake. My  "Of course! Help yourself!" brought back the rejoinder "Thanks - I've had three already - this will be my fourth!"

Old Photo, Old Memory

I well remember the date I got married -Saturday, seventh November nineteen sixty four.No honeymoon, or wedding night pictures are stored in my mind, only tragedy,for late on Sunday morning, the eighth,my father came to our door bearing news of death. Auntie Glad was pronounced D.O.A.at the hospital after a motorcycle accident while she was crossing the road for Morning Service. A great churchgoer, was my Auntie Glad...

 And this picture shows Gladys May in her younger days, before life

had left its mark...

The Poetry Bus this week set challenges for passengers, which included the option to write about a person at a wedding. The first photo was taken at my wedding reception, on the last full day of Auntie Glad's life, so I hope you forgive me for not actually producing a poem, as such, for this bus journey. However, there is a second, more romantic offering on Alias Jinksy.

The inclusion of two old photos will also let this qualify as a late, Sepia Saturday post - I'm nothing if not economical! LOL

Life Drawing

The class was scheduled to start at 1pm. I arrived in plenty of time to get myself  and my odd assortment of folders, pads, pens and pencils organised, ready for off. The whole escapade was a last minute whirl, as I'd only found details of it a couple of days ago. With Havant being limited in available artist's supplies, I'd cobbled together anything already to hand that I could use -a piece of hardboard, a plain, A4 pad of dubious quality and a couple of clutch pencils with the softest leads I could find.

Don't be fooled by the photograph. There was no chance of making a detailed drawing of this pose, or any other. The object of the whole exercise, apparently, was to 'capture movement'. The young model is a dancer, and was asked to perform a sequence of steps, A, B, C, which she then repeated   in sequence, over and over for the next twenty minute or so, before the 'organiser' ( I use the term loosely) of the class, called a halt. We were expected to produce lightening sketches of this beautiful, but blurred, activity, like demented Leonardos.

To begin the class, the model held a pose for exactly three minutes, which was supposed to allow us to 'get our eyes in' , as the 'organiser' put it. The only thing mine got in was whirl of frustration... There was this delightful girl, who made every artistic bone in my body want to capture every one of hers on paper ! Fat chance. I was told 'all life classes are like this now'. Thank God that the life classes I attended were 'Then' not 'Now', or I'd never have been able to hone my skill as much as I did, which is still not as much as I would like. Can't see much new honing going on unless the timing is better structured, and the movement less phrenetic during the next class in a fortnight's time. Thank goodness I took my camera...

P.S. I've been valiantly trying to scan a couple of liittle sketches, but scanner is obstreperous, and I have threatened it with a visit from my son, who will beat it into submission at the weekend! LOL :) 

Thanks to AC's suggestion, here are photos of some of my lightning sketches, bearing in mind they were either  done as the model was moving, or at most, in 3 minute windows of stllness.

Autumn

Leaf Drop

My thoughts fall like Autumn leaves;
grown in my unconscious mind,
they bloomed in my awareness,
their substance feeding my imagination.

Now they flutter to rest on this page,
their dried remains rustling skeletons
which adorn the paper beneath my pen-
the only produce from their parent tree
which remains on offer to the reader.

I shall be linking this to Mr Knowitall's 55 blog on Friday. Okay, it's a little ahead of  its time, but better that than being behind the times, or even in my case today, on time. I need to be punctual this afternoon, for I'm treating myself to ten pounds worth of Life Drawing class, which is something I've not done since I left college. It remains to be seen whether I can still wield a pencil as opposed to a pen...

Late Edition Addition! as Willow's Magpie #35  of 6th October is all about Autumn leaves, I thought I'd use these ones of mine, which had already fluttered to the ground some time ago. I do like getting the most from the least!

Now I recommend you go HERE, to read my good friend Mrs T's interpretation of the same subject- it's well worth a visit...

Radio 3

Mozart is dancing in my ears, and I've decided to post another doodlypic-mostly because I can!

I call this 'Italian Fountain' - but then you all know I have an odd imagination.

This answers  RWP and Jabblog's comments!

Pea Soup

No, not a recipe post - though if I'd had my wits (and camera) about me, I could have taken a delightful photo of our lunchtime soup before we scoffed it... My friend was in Havant to visit her dentist, so it was natural for me to 'do' lunch. Being aware that some dental appointments limit the food chewing capabilities if the patient, I decided soup was a safe option. As it turned out, the weather was on my side - chilly, windy, dull and dismal enough to make a hot soup a pleasing prospect while we chewed the fat, as the saying goes.

Now she has pootled off home, I have the afternoon to let my fingers tap dance a blogpost into existence, and Pea Soup remains on my mind, as well as in my stomach. It is a most homely, unpretentious foodstuff, but I equate it with the very essence of hospitality. It uses natural ingredients which need to be lovingly prepared  and cooked well in advance of the coming meal, as split peas cannot be rushed - they take their time. The advantage to this is, when a guest finally arrives, the cook can relax and enjoy their company to the full. What more could you ask of a menu? Soup with some tasty granary bread  and a little sweet treat to follow is the perfect accompaniment to a friendly lunch date. When can I expect to see you? Just let me get my diary...

And for seconds, I give you...

The Mock Turtle's Song 
by Lewis Carroll


Beautiful soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup.

Oh, What A Grey Day!

Is your Monday Morning glum?
Lacking any sense of fun?
"Dim and colourless", you say.
Well folks, follow me this way >
the colours will come out to play!

Click on the little arrow to see more colours in a poetic form, thanks to today's Poetry Bus. 

It's A Funny Thing

Inspiration. That's what's funny. Having recently joined in with various Blog sites which provide prompts for aspiring poets, I've realised the jinksy "I" is  beginning to feel a tad stifled. This is a bit of a conundrum. To start with, I thought prompts would serve to nudge me into writing more - which I suppose in one way, they have, and are to be applauded.

But in another, I'm beginning to feel the constraints on the jinksy imagination, which is used to roaming freely where it will. Do you think this is simply down to my being an ornery, born awkward critter, or does it go deeper than that? Am I contemplating my navel too much? (On which subject pop over HERE if you have a moment.)

For instance, today I feel like this doodle which I made a while ago, and which seemed to call to me this morning.




Bubbles float skywards,
ephemeral spheres bearing
a glowing rainbow
circumscribed around each shell
of living, dying beauty.


Sometimes I need adjectives to float my boat.

Bang The Drum!

It's Sepia Saturday again, and after letting you see my paternal grandparents last week, with their young family, I thought I would gradually post photos of the children in later years - much later, for the most part. This picture intrigued me when I came across it, for the boy looks so young! He had to be one of my uncles and I hazard a guess at George, but here he is anyway, in all his finery.

If I get bitten by the muse later on today, I might come back and add a suitable poem, after using the drum picture as a prompt, but I make no promises...

Having finished lunch, I suddenly thought  to look for a drum poem, ready made, on the Internet. How could I not have done so before?
There follows one from The Cambridge Intelligencer of August 3, 1793.
It was written by a Quaker, one Mr John Scott, and entitled, appropriately enough ...

The Drum

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace and glitt'ring arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To fight and fall in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill a catalogue of woes.

It is hard to imagine in these days of sophisticated weapons of war and modern communication systems, that young drummer boys were used in the armies, or indeed navies, of long ago, to drum signals to the men. There's an article on the subject HERE that you might like to read if you're interested.

More Havant

In this morning's sunshine, this was the rear of
St Faith's Church, which featured in my previous post, and whose earliest parts go back to the eleventh century.

The whole area feels old, especially the path where I stood to take the photo, although it was not my 'time out of time' spot.  That lies further to the right, and would not have given such a picture postcard view of the scene had I stood on it.

There is no connection between this illustration and the lines I'm inserting next - I simply thought it was a pretty picture to share with you.  From here on, I'm going back to the subject of clarity, or not, of much of the writing on offer in Blogland...

Hidden Meanings

Words behind a veil of mist
swirl in vague allusion
as comprehension hides beneath
illusion of intelligence.
What purpose does this serve?
Beyond Confusion's urge
to cloak a poet's dreams
with a secret manifesto, lies
a creed whose images could birth
an undisputed presence
in the world of fact not fiction,
were they but given clarity of truth.

Please Adjust Your Vertical Hold...

I seem incapable of taking a photo in which verticals are vertical! But I thought I'd let you all see this delightful pub anyway. 'The Old House At Home' has the date 1339 inscribed deep in its outside wall, and centuries of memories enfolded in its heart, no doubt.

I first visited it in my student days, before it had been 'modernised' (dreadful word), There was a huge open hearth in the main bar, a stone floor, a slate shove-h'appeny board and a wooden, table-top skittles game with which local yokels could while away the evening as they quaffed their beer. The bar room was tiny, and it didn't take many bodies to make it feel like a rugby scrum. Modernisation saw internal walls removed between it and the next cottage to the left, and now there's enough space for groups of small tables where good, plain but tasty pub food is served.

You can see the top of St Faith's Church clock tower nestled among the trees round the graveyard whose ancient graves are at shoulder height - level with the top of the encircling brick wall that leads your eye into the picture.

Between the pub and the church, a short fight of stone steps lead up to a narrow, dirt pathway  (dividing line between God and Man ?) which has now had flagstones laid along its length, and thereby lost some of its magical appeal. Wrought iron railings of the church boundary were overshadowed by graceful old trees - beech or sycamore- and there was a certain spot roughly half way along this path, where I always had to pause and savour the 'time out of time' awareness that it held.

The first occasion that my brother visited me, after emigrating to New Zealand, I led him along this pathway, but made no mention of  'the spot'. I walked slowly ahead, but suddenly he called me back. 'Stop! Pen, wait!' and I looked round at him and smiled. He grinned back at me, and said 'You know, don't you?' and I nodded. There was no need for words...

Any Visitors...

Who think I'm still asleep, can find me taking a trip on the Poetry Bus here, but I may be back home before bedtime if the journey is a short one! TTFN, folks...

Afternoon! I have popped back long enough to explain that this photograph is one I took of my TV screen, during a programme about China. I was curious to know how such an experiment might turn out.
I now have proof that the results could have been  extremely satisfactory - if only I'd put the camera on a tripod. Clicking the shutter while holding the camera in my hands, was enough to make many of the shots a little fuzzy, which was a pity, as this one proves how effective they might have been, had I taken a little more care.

This got me thinking about some of the poems I've been reading around Blogland, over the past few days. Many struck me as having similar fuzzy edges to them, and I've been wondering why.  I think often, a disregard for basic rules of language contribute to the feeling of unease, coupled with what seems to be a deliberate attempt to 'be clever' poetically. Sometimes this seems to me, to push the meaning of a poem into obscurity. Should meaning only depend on the reader's interpretation, by-passing the poet's intent completely? The corollary would appear to be, it doesn't matter what a poet writes, as only the reader gives it life...Wonder what you think?

Only Just Made It

...In time for Sepia Saturday! These were my paternal grandparents and offspring, but I can't be sure which of their children are in the photograph, so my father may or may not be amongst them.You may recognise Grandfather from the 'Horse in the Tent' photo I posted a while back. Don't they all look solemn?

Overheard

Do you listen to what people are saying as they pass by in the street? I own, I do, and that's where the germ of an idea took root and resulted in this motley assortment of phrases:-

Snippets Of Conversation

He hasn't had a bath since last October... 
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
Do you think I need to change my outfit?...
That IT bloke just hasn't got a clue...
Will this train take me to Wolverhampton?...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

Don't talk to me about the price of basics...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
She said, 'You'll never shift a stain like beetroot...
and I think this needs a spot of super-glue...
The blue light on the trembly bit's gone out...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

I never do that ever on a Monday...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
why don't you go and ask your blooming Father?...
Well, shall I buy just one of those, or two?...
Now the Doctor thinks he'll have to snip it...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

Today,  Big Tent Poetry is asking for submissions created from random words or phrases taken from life, so I've chosen to offer these verses as my reply.