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? :-) 

Winter-dark Afternoon, and post script **

 There is a fly. Too small to be a FLY in capital letters, I dub it fruit fly. I don't know how it thrives; it tries to butt my desk-lamp. Caught in the beam it blushes red, translucent as a traffic light, till it changes lanes to disappear in darkness. 

All diversions are fruitless. It comes back, an irritant with a knack of avoiding each swat I swing...

Setting a trap with an open-paged book ready to snap, I become a hunter, judging the moment to dispel the torment of circling gnat or fly in the twinkling of an eye. Persistence wins. SPLAT! 

I've sinned; pray forgive this mindful murder. My sorry tale may go no further...

**P.S. It's 4.44pm on 9/3/2023, and I found a draft just now that had been sitting around unpublished for far too long.

Thus I've decided to send it out to sail the seas of Blogland, in the hope it may encounter signs of habitation on some far-flung outpost of the Blogland Empire! 

*smiles* ♥x♥ from Jinksy

Gestation

 

From some inner dark,

glimmer seeds of love and light;

a mother gives birth.

From emotion's well,

once-silent words are drawn forth;

a poet writes.

With thanks to The Sunday Muse for their inspiration.

Too hot to handle?

Heat-wave shimmer over an arc of sky

is echoed above the crowded cities;

houses huddle together, whispering

desperate pleas to an uncaring World

where selfishness rules. Natural order

is out of balance, and pollution reigns.

Blinkered by dark glasses, humanity

throws back its head, howls at this injustice

without admitting the part they had played

in its creation. A radical change

of consciousness is imperative, now.

Only Time's future seeds will be able

to witness final success or failure;

who will History blame for either end?

Thanks to the Sunday Muse for the inspiration

Internalisation

 

The artist's model sat as though entranced by some secret known only to herself, calm and detached from the real world; an ideal subject for any painter.  
Faced with a blank, white canvas, palette and brushes poised for action, he sensed this air of secrecy, and knew he must be the one to capture it in the portrait already taking shape in his mind's eye. 
As the image began to emerge, the very air thrummed with a mysterious energy, joining the painter with his subject in a dance of inspirational delight. A masterpiece was about to be born...

Thanks to Carrie at the Sunday Muse for another image destined to spark a Blogger's imagination. :-)

Time to Muse?

   

Sea Dreams

Carried on the rising tide of night, flotillas of persistent dreams set sail, while whirlpools circumnavigate my mind - attempt to drown it.

I pray for quiet sleep to steer a course towards a harbour's calm waters. But all the while I hear the cries of ancient nightmares sinking down towards night's ocean bed, biding time to resurface... 

Thanks once again to Carrie at The Sunday Muse, where a time warp happens to allow me to post an offering on a Saturday. Ain't time and technology wonderful? 

All in the mind...

 On a dull, damp weekend, what better than to visit Carrie, to see what is afoot... And the prompt picture subject is a four-footed being, just waiting for me to come out of retirement to play! With apologies for seeing (and capturing) the unexpected angle...

The Shaman

In dreamtime, he enters a Sacred Space, 

far from the baying hounds of whirling Dark.  

He summons forth great Spirit Energies; 

"Come, instil in us the Hunter's Power -

give us silent, padding feet as we stalk,

ever cautious, towards our wary prey.

Let our arrows fly true, kill with mercy

the wild beasts on whom our survival rests."

With his ancestral gods, his mind entwines

and travels far beyond those realms in which 

the anxious hunters wait for his return...

Cause and effect

 

Out of nowhere, the snow-blizzard hit. It whipped my wrap-around skirt into a frenzy, then whisked it away. Up, up it billowed skywards, baring my fishnet-clad legs to the raging elements... I screamed curses towards the leaden clouds... 

But the winds retaliated, blinded me with my own hair, which snaked across my face, stinging, like the locks of Medusa.

Why did I storm out of that party just because I saw them kissing?

Unusual, for me, to have a flight of fancy that doesn't land on the page as a poem. But thanks to the Sunday Muse for galvanising me into action!

Game for a Laugh?

 I guess any Bloglanders who happen to read this post, may identify with at least part of it - i.e. us Oldies do tend to harp back to the past, occasionally - if not a lot.

Today, while searching for something I know is tucked away on some blog page of mine, I happened to go here, and ended up laughing like a loon. It's not normally a good sign if one laughs at one's own jokes.  But I put it to you, that in view of the time lag between 2009 and 2021, it's almost as though I'm laughing at somebody else. Who is/was this odd person willing to share proof of idiocy with all and sundry?

And a not-only-but-also here.  And if neither of these links let you have a good giggle, then Jinksy's lost the plot...

Like the White Rabbit, I'm late, I'm late!

 But on discovering this photo on Sunday Musing's blog. I had an urge to let the words flow, so read on below:-

Poppy fields and paper planes? They shoot thoughts back to a war, when planes were metal and poppy fields ran with blood.

But now, any mention of poppies catapult thoughts spinning to the drug barons, who have succeeded in making red poppies more deadly than silver bullets, and our whole world a battlefield...

Four more lines and a title!

 OK, there may be a few days gap in real life, but in BlogTime, this is in direct response to my long-time Blogpal RWP's suggestion for making my last post's offering into a 'proper' Petrarchan sonnet.

Ever one to rise to a challenge, I've attempted to comply with the rules, and here goes, title and all!

April’s Plea

Without a sunbeam's brush to gild her frame,

brave April's countenance betrays her plight.

She calls her hero, 'Helios!' in vain.

Then, crestfallen, she cowers out of sight...

Capricious forces conjure sun and rain 

into eternal conflict. Dark lords and bright

wage their wars, as moon-tides wax and wane

throughout the universe's star-drenched night,

until, by morning, rotund Earth's revolved

in deference to laws decreed long since.

Then sun-flamed beams put shadow-clouds to flight,

their unshed tears like morning mists dissolved,

as Helios, our hero, on his plinth 

stands proud, the great defender of the light.

And the year rolls on -

 From December to April, this blog and I have remained silent, whilst all around the pandemic has raged , regardless.

Perhaps it was the sunshine that prompted me to post today. Who knows? But rather than creating something new, I'm copying a few lines I originally wrote on Alias Jinksy, but they are missing a title. Perhaps any Napple Notes reader who may wander by, could supply one for me? But I shan't be holding my breath, for wanderers may be scarce, hehehe...

 Capricious forces conjure sun and rain 

into eternal conflict. Dark lords and bright

wage their wars, as moon-tides wax and wane

throughout the universe's star-drenched night,

until, by morning, rotund Earth's revolved

in deference to laws decreed long since.

Then sun-flamed beams put shadow-clouds to flight,

their unshed tears like morning mists dissolved,

as Helios, our hero, on his plinth 

stands proud, the great defender of the light.

Strings

 On this dull, chilly Boxing Day, one little word catapulted several interpretations into my mind,  perhaps the noblest of which being 'strings of the heart'. 

For these are invisible bindings, the strength of which cannot be measured. Like a shimmering web of spider's silk, they weave their complex threads in and around us all, as life plucks its melodies from them.  Sometimes these are lyrical, uplifting, a song of joy. But discords are always possible - perhaps necessary - to help us appreciate life's orchestrations to the full.

On a different level, down to the brass band 'oompah' music, perhaps (sorry to brass band enthusiasts - no slur intended) come the strings of lights on Christmas trees, the strings of paper chains or garlands looping their way around our homes, or even the strings of onions  - does anyone still make those? - designed to hang close to the cook's chopping board in the kitchen...

And as we are on the downhill slope of this less than festive, Festive Season, then it's a fair to middling guess that there will have been any number of necks adorned with strings of pearls or beads (glass, clay, popcorn or even papier mâché)  either given as gifts (cheap ones), or exhumed (expensive ones) from a jewellery box for a once-a-year-airing.

Last but not least, I hope I haven't been stringing anyone along into a forlorn hope that the lofty start to this post would not descend to the depths, by mentioning strings which tied the legs together of any turkey, goose, duck or chicken carcass as it headed towards its final demise in an oven. 

Let's hear it for the Vegetarians or Vegans! 

Thinks:- Why does that last word hold echoes of Star Trek for me?

 

Spreading the word, perhaps?

 And which word would that be, I wonder, among the ever decreasing number of bloggers who post something each day? Let me whisper it in your ear - security!

The prefix http:// instead of https:// before your blog name, indicates the blog is 'not secure'. A simple adjustment within one's blog settings, will rectify this security issue with a single click.

  No time to delay - do it today!

Golly Gosh!

Once again, Blogger plus Google have thrown a spanner in the works! Will it spell the end of us ancient Bloggers, as we are forced to keep up with the times? Hehehe - and what times they have been for us so far in 2020.

There is one consoling thought, though. Wandering the paths of Blogland to greet Old Blog Pals  by giving them a virtual hug or handshake, will not involve anybody in yet another Hand Wash or Sanitiser routine! Be grateful for these small mercies, and good luck with the new Blogger enforced re-vamp. Long may our brains remain un-addled enough to cope! ♥♥♥

 

It's a Bug's Life?

By bug, I mean virus, of course. Thanks to its potency, it has encircled the world more quickly than  any other illness in recorded history.

But amidst the increasingly dire news bulletins which besiege our ears multiple times a day, a new sense of community has began to emerge. It may be the one and only good thing to come out of this whole debacle...

And now...

A bit of silliness goes a long way.

This is a piece of popcorn that I couldn't bring myself to eat! Can you understand why?! Hehehe....

Another sunny day -

But fraught with IT hiccups. Goodness gracious me- where have we seen that happen with Blogland before?!
It seems I am unable to leave a comment on Napple Notes today, even though I am the original Napple. Whatever next? I suppose I must remain grateful that my self photo can again be left on any other blog on which I leave a comment. Two steps forward, one step back, eh?
Maybe I'll contemplate my navel for a while, and try again later...
TTFN, folks. ♥

Topsy Turvey World

Outside of these four walls, the sunlight is dancing around through the branches of my buddleia, highlighting some leaves in vivid lime green, while others remain in shadow-shaded tones of  a 'green with no name' - or at least, not one I can dredge up from my memory.
Small details such as these, must grow in importance over the next days, weeks, months, as I obey  the 'self isolating' command which has been issued to the seventy-plus Oldies such as myself.  My head fails to acknowledge the seventy nine year time line of my life, although my body has other ideas!
However, I consider myself fortunate that my brain continues to live in it own realm of 'Now' and 'Then', both intermingled in a tapestry which has no 'Time Frontier' of border guards to keep them apart.
In a world where boarders are becoming ever more critical, news items focus often on scenes of  people attempting to 'get back home' - wherever that may be.
As Covid-19 decimates populations around the globe, it is the one common aim which overrides all others.
The media dwells on stories of grounded aeroplanes  and cruise ships banned from docking; we see anxious families awaiting return of their loved ones...
But yesterday, TV showed trains in India overloaded, inside and out, with people who no longer had jobs, all desperately trying to get back to the villages where poverty forced them to seek city life in the first place.
No matter how many people strive to make the world a better place, there are still the 'Have's' and the 'Have not's' . The border between them is the hardest of all to cross...