A Dismal Day

Damp Doggerel

It's a wet and gloomy morning
and the temperature is chill.
It must be time to write a rhyme,
be that for good or ill.

But I'll not give way to curses!
I'll dispel the air of gloom
by cranking out some verses
from this corner of my room

where the monitor is shining
in lieu of Mr Sun
who is currently in hiding.
Isn't he a thoughtless one?

He beamed away so brightly
for several days, it's true,
we thought summer was upon us,
as anyone would do.

However it was not to be.
Now we're back to feeling chilly,
because he can't make up his mind.
Mr Sun is such a silly!

Personal Opinions

Do you see things as black and white?
Are some things wrong and never right?
Or do you allow shades of grey,
leave room for doubt within your day?
Can justice play a vital part
and let you have a change of heart
on something which first, in your sight,
was seen as wrong - until hindsight
made it clear another view
was possible, and could be true?

Blogger has wiped out half of my draft before I got to posting it! Perhaps it is fitting, as I was holding forth on the subject of injustice. There follows an approximate Take Two of what I had in mind...

Today I feel as though I have been treated unfairly by a friend who tends to see things in black and white. When I had the temerity to mention I believed in shades of grey, they became angry with me and terminated our telephone conversation without further discussion. I was not allowed to express my own opinion without incurring their wrath. I call that injustice.
(Of course, this black/white/grey analogy is a simplified interpretation of the actual subject matter of our conversation, but it serves for illustration purposes.)

Then I realised, in a global setting, the same kind of dogmatic thinking, with no possibility of civilised discussion to find middle ground, is the root cause of world unrest.
Personal opinions are a basic right, but as soon as they tip tilt into an 'I'm right, you're wrong' attitude, then dictatorship looms. The only sensible option is rational discussion until a solution can be agreed upon.

I'm staying with my black and white theme, to include another of my Paint doodles, as I promised (threatened?) yesterday. I called it 'Bending The Truth.' I wonder if you can see why?

(In an effort to remove a big blank space at the end of this post below the image. I've just decided to try a bit of editing!)
Sadly, it hasn't worked - sorry folks!
...Ooops ...now it has... ain't life grand?!

P.S. For anybody coming to this late, Broken Biro has today (Thursday) written a wonderful poem entitled Grey Areas, over on Fridge Soup. Do go and read!

Exploration

Thanks to Fletch I am being tempted to explore Windows Live Writer. I may need time to ponder and wonder for a while, before embarking on the stormy waters of yet another sea of possible disasters in the oceans of Blogland.
But meanwhile, I've realised many Blogpals have yet to discover the theraputic joys of playing with Paint - the program, that is, not the medium. I may inflict you with some of my doodles, in the hope of inspiring a few of you to dabble, maybe for the first time?
This was one of my first flights of fancy, utilising a lot of freehand drawing with my mouse, but there are easier options, using pre-determined, automatic line drawing, like this:-
Why don't you surprise yourselves, and indulge in some play time aimed at the inner child, or the latent artist in you?! I may be back with more tomorrow...

Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

The spider builds
his fragile web
creating spangled universe
with self as the centre.

What thoughts go spinning
through his head
as spinnerets
send forth their threads
of glossy, tensile silk?






Now I'm getting daring, you see? Way back, using my Arcsoft+Paint program, I played with an early morning photo of this unsuspecting spider. The original picture was no great shakes, but once I got the blue effect here, I liked the way the background resembled a beach, more than a boring road and pavement. The whole atmosphere changed. I tucked it away in some odd corner of my computer, and there it has languished, forgotten.
But now I've broken my fundamental rule of no photos, I've decided to throw a few more variations into the melting pot. For a long time, with this Windows 7, I couldn't fathom out how to get anything from Paint to my ordinary picture folder. Then No. 1 Son explained how - attach the chosen pic to an email sent to myself, then I could save it in any folder I liked.
How come I never thought of that? Don't all shout at once!

History Is Being Made

I'm incuding a picture!
Because I have been holding forth on my lack of green fingers, I thought I'd give you all something different to ponder today.

This photo is piece of a shrub which decided to show its face in my garden. I believe it may have been trying to escape from next door neighbours, who'd abolished their own specimen... although possibly it simply sowed one of its own peacock coloured seeds on my side of the fence.

Be that as it may. Its rate of growth was prodigious, and for the first couple of years it provided a splash of life in what was then my barren back yard. Young leaves grew purple coloured, then turned to the green you see in the picture. If bruised, they smelled atrocious, but the white, starry flowers that appeared at the height of summer had an exquisite perfume, and the bracts and seeds were pretty in their own right, as you can see. I kept trimming lower shoots off the main stem, until it resembled a small tree, though I am sure it is actually a shrub, and set out on a long quest to discover its name.

Eventually, once I'd acquired a computer, thanks to the Internet I found the telephone number of a Nurseryman of some repute, according to his web pages. I rang, spoke to a minion(!) and asked for the boss. I was going to enquire whether I could post him a specimen for identification, but once I began describing my mystery shrub, he laughed. "I'm looking at one right now!" Talk about happenstance, eh? Of all the friends I'd asked, all the books and web sites I'd trawled through, the longest shot paid off fastest!

I can now tell you with absolute certainty it is a clerodendron trichotomum fargesii.
Aren't you glad I broke my 'no picture rule' just for that? What a mouthful!

Not Exactly Green Fingers

A Gardening Confession

I've been scrabbling in my garden,
though that's too grand a name;
it's more a 'normous patio,
or something of the same.

It's a little urban jungle
with paving slabs galore,
but shrubs and weeds now flourish
where they never did before.

I'm an intermittent gardener
and not one of the best.
I'm inclined to stand and daydream
each time I take a rest.

My mind supplies the pictures
of the plants I'd like to grow,
if space were not a problem;
I'd have flowers, row on row

and ornamental grasses
and lillies on a lake
and hoards of flowering fruit trees
of every kind and make.

Instead it's more a wilderness,
with, at least, no lawn to mow.
The plants, all tough and hardy,
let me ignore, 'em, though,

until... Today I notice
things are getting out of hand,
and I have to grab my secateurs,
go out and make a stand

against the creeping leafy things
before I'm overgrown.
But underneath I'm grateful
that they grew all on their own!

Good For A Laugh

Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, that is. Not so much in itself, but in its treatment. At least, when said treatment is carried out by a Spanish Doctor with a hilarious sense of humour.
After finding my notes on the computer, and ascertaining my Diz was still in place, he eyed up the couch in the consulting room, then suggested we wander round to the other side of the surgery, where there would be a proper hospital couch, on wheels, and with rise and fall mechanisms.
We marched in a convoy of two past all the curious patients awaiting their turns, and you could see the puzzled looks on their faces. " Why the route march?"
On the opposite, newer side of the building, the treatment rooms are better equipped, and Doc quickly pushed pedals, pulled levers, and got the trolley-type couch into the middle of the room. An animated computer diagram showed what was expected of me; the Epley manoeuvre.

"This is a series of four movements of the head; after each, the head is held in the same position for 30 seconds or so. Basically, they cause the posterior semicircular canal to rotate in such a way that gravity moves the otoconia fragments out from the posterior canal and into the vestibule, where they then settle, and cause no more symptoms."

So says the leaflet. The practice is a little more nerve wracking. Head to the right - room sways, then steadies. Head to the left - room sways violently, but eventually steadies. Roll over to left side and all hell breaks loose, giddy-wise. I am convinced I will fall off narrow couch onto floor. Doc reassures me by saying "It's all right - I will drop you gently!" Ha Bloody Ha.
I have to roll even further to the left, and fling one arm out towards the floor tiles, as I feel sure that's where I will end up. Meanwhile, Doc continues to assure me his legs will stop me from rolling off, and he clutches my hand in a vice like grip so's I know he's not aiming to drop me just yet...
Then in his beautifully accented English, he says "All we need now is for somebody to walk in the door!" My eyes are shut tight to combat Diz, so I can only imagine his posture, but it must have been strange, to say the least. We both start laughing. He says "It's a bit like a circus act", as he tries to stop me hooking my right foot over the back edge of the couch, as a kind of anchor.
At this point I laugh twice as much, and suggest he calls in a few of those grim faced patients we walked past, and charge them for the show.
When the last count of 30 seconds has run it's course, he hauls me up sideways to a sitting position, and I wait for the world to catch up with me.
Eventually he trusts me to walk back round the room to my chair, and he prints off three sheets of info, and books me in for 7.45 next Tuesday, for our repeat performance. "We will do that in the car park", he jests, "and charge everybody three pounds fifty for a ticket, to add to my retirement fund."
I have yet to see whether the Diz has gone for good. but don't you wish you had a doctor like mine?

Big Thank You Time

To everybody who left little ditties and kind wishes, many thanks. As I looked at all the comments this Sunday evening, I needed to write a few lines to mark the day. You are a great bunch of blogpals!

Blessings

We tend to take for granted
the days when life is good,
and forget to be as grateful
as perhaps we should.

If we start to count our blessings,
they can chase the blues away,
and create a shaft of sunshine
on an otherwise dull day.

For time we spend complaining
only makes our spirits sad.
So here I am, proclaiming
let's cheer up and be glad!

Blondes Don't Have Exclusive Rights To Dizzy

The Diz

At times I could be dizzy,
though not a blonde since youth,
but the Diz that got me recently
was certainly uncouth.

My head was like a fishbowl
with water sploshing round.
Diz whirly-pooled those fun ideas
which normally abound.

I swallowed lots of different pills,
but Diz managed to hover -
mostly after sleeping
as my head crept from the cover

and I had to stand up vertical
to face the coming day.
Begone, unwelcome vertigo!
I want the Diz to go away!

But worse than feeling sober-drunk,
pills damped creative juices,
and being minus jokey Muse
has left me feeling useless!

So far, I've consulted four doctors.The latest, Spanish by birth, showed me on a computer the kind of complicated manoeuvre he suggested I book a double appointment for next time. (I mentioned the Spanish bit, because, though he has a delightful accent, when he gave the three very long words naming my complaint (!) they didn't register in my consciousness, other than making me think 'How sweet that sounds!')

He wants me to book a double appointment, so that he and A. N. Other (yes, it will take two) can move the examination couch away from the wall to allow me to hang my head off the end, at which time I will have to move it swiftly right to left, before the two of them haul me up sideways to a sitting position. He said it will make me feel awful - as if I didn't know that - but apparently, it's the way to clear the little grainy crystals in the labyrinth that he thinks are the cause of my Diz.

Perhaps this is a good time to put out a plea to Blogpals to write some fitting ditties to help chase the Diz back to wherever it came from? Then maybe I won't have to undergo his torture regime...

Definitely Not Love At First Sight

But what a lasting impression! I'll get to that in a minute... First, I need to set the scene.

I'd only gone to post a letter in our 'old' Post Office - old because it's now a sorting office and the Post Office Counters are in the back of a shop in town - and as I stood waiting to cross the road to come back home, a trio of people on the other pavement caught my attention. I must explain, this particular area of Havant is one of its bygone days' former glories, for on the corner opposite the once thriving Post Office, is the Old Town Hall (there's that Old word again) which is now a jumbled mix of museum, theatre, cinema, art centre and cafe, lately renamed 'The Spring - Arts and Heritage Centre.'
At ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, it's not what you might call a hive of activity.

The Post Office corner has a huge yew tree which makes crossing the main road a slow process, as you have to choose your spot carefully. A few yards to the left, as you stand facing The Spring, a humpback bridge over the disused Hayling Billy railway line keeps oncoming traffic out of sight until it's almost upon you, as you stand teetering on the kerb. To the right, a curve in the road impedes the view of traffic coming from Havant, while before and aft, two more minor roads crossing almost a right angles, mean you need eyes in the back of your head, as well as front.

The whole point of this preamble, is merely to explain why I had several minutes to study the group opposite me, heading to The Spring. A sudden string of cars kept me rooted to the spot as I waited for my chance to cross, so the three figures were objects of interest.

They appeared to be a family group; Mum, slightly dishevelled looking, walking close to daughter, and both talking animatedly, turn and turn about with son, who was striding along a pace or two in the rear due to the narrowness of the pavement.

He it was who captured my imagination. He was like a time warp character, in his own little bubble. Although unprepossessing, his image captivated me. His was a slight, stooping build, narrow shouldered and young - at most late teens, early twenties - as his slightly gingery, thin moustache suggested. His complexion was pasty, and nondescript-brown, lank-hair spikes splayed on his shoulders did him no favours. A few bleached strands at the front only served to make him appear even more washed out in his all black garb. His long, fitted over garment, falling to just above the knees, gave the impression of an old fashioned frock coat, and two or three inches of white cuffs peeking from the sleeves bore rounded corners and added to the dated look. Shiny, black winkle picker shoes with turned up toes complimented narrow black trousers. Pale hands grasped a long, spiked, tightly rolled umbrella and he changed it from his right to his left hand, and began swinging it in time with his steps, as he tried to keep pace with the two females ahead of him.

Having written thus far, I 'phoned my 'listening ear' buddy, who kindly lets me read my waffle to her, prior to posting, and as luck would have it, she had a brochure detailing The Spring's forthcoming attractions. Today, at 2.00pm and 7.30pm, there is a Community Variety Show advertised. I have a sneaking suspicion that the vision of loveliness I described for you above, may well be explained away by this unexpected revelation! Have a nice weekend.

Horses For Courses

If only this could be applied to today's election, so the powers that be could make certain who ever wins will be the party we need to keep the country afloat in a style to which we are rapidly becoming unaccustomed, if you get my drift.
But enough of depressing political stuff. Let's stick with the first word of my title, 'Horses'.

Yesterday afternoon, on my way to having a smashing time at my nearest bottle bank, what should I see coming towards me as I approached the cross roads junction by the main road, but a horse and trap. It's not often we get to see one of those around here, and even less often from a full frontal angle.

Not being in the least a horse connoisseur, it was never the less obvious that the one before me would never win any beauty competitions, or horse shows, come to that. A rusty, golden brown animal with white stripes or patches here and there for a bit of light relief, it trotted closer while I watched in fascination at the strange way its front legs moved. They almost appeared to dislocate at the joints, then fall back into place with each step. Perhaps a head-on view of any trotting horse always looks the same - I wouldn't know.

It was very well behaved, and carefully stood still and looked both ways before turning into the main road, just as a child might do when waiting to cross. It gave the impression it was in charge, not the young lad driving alongside his mate in the trap.

My mind immediately made an association with BBC's Listen With Mother programme, where the following ditties would be sung occasionally, back in the days when my kiddywinks were tiny. I only wish I could sing them for you, complete with the Radio Workshop's best sound effects which always accompanied them...

This is the way the ladies ride

This is the way the ladies ride,
Trit trot, trit trot, trit trot, trit trot
This is the way the ladies ride,
Trit trot, trit trot. Trit trot.

This is the way the gentlemen ride,
Gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop.
This is the way the gentlemen ride,
Gallop, gallop, gallop.

This is the way the farmer rides
Jiggety-jog, jiggety-jog,
This is the way the farmer rides
Jiggety- jiggety-jog.

This is the way the old man rides
Hobble-dee, hobble-dee, hobble-dee, hobble-dee
This is the way the old man rides
Hobble-dee, hobble-dee, hobble-dee - and down into the ditch!

The clattering coconut-shell hoof beats that always accompanied this last line, used to send my two into giggles without fail, and the programme would be rounded up with the following little song- probably after a short, horse related story. Those were the days!

Horsie horsie don't you stop

Horsie horsie don't you stop
Just let you feet go clippety clop
Your tail goes swish
And the wheels go round
Giddy up we're homeward bound

More Animal Talk

The book which supplied me with the hippopotomus poem is full of other animal related gems written by all manner of people. This morning, my attention was caught by the following one, as it reminded me of the happy times I have spent, both at work and play, talking on the telephone, though switchboard operator duty did occasionally leave a lot to be desired.

Eletelephony
by Laura E Richards

Once there was an elephant,
who tried to use the telephant -
no! no! I mean an elephone
who tried to use the telephone -
(Dear me! I am not certain, quite,
that even now I've got it right!)

How'er it was, he got his trunk
entangled in the telephunk;
the more he tried to get it free,
the louder buzzed the telephee -
(I fear I'd better drop this song
of elephop and telephong!)

Off Shoot From Earth Day

Some of your will remember, on Earth Day, I posted a copy of Flanders and Swann's Hippopotamus Song. Now I give you a poem by Arthur Guiterman on the same subject - simply because I like it!

Habits of the Hippopotamus
by Arthur Guiterman

The hippopotamus is strong
and huge of head and broad of bustle;
the limbs on which he rolls along
are big with hippopotomuscle.

He does not greatly care for sweets
like ice cream, apple pie or custard,
but takes to flavour what he eats
a little hippopotomustard.

The hippopotomus is true
to all his principles, and just;
he always trys his best to do
the things one hippopotomust.

He never rides in trucks or trams,
in taxicabs or omnibusses,
and so keeps out of traffic jams
and other hippopotomusses.

The Kindness Of Strangers

I never knew an angel could drive a taxi. Today I know it's true; I was in his cab. Let me go back to the beginning.

Last week, my doctor promised to send a prescription to my local Boots Chemist for me to collect. Come Saturday, Boots denied all knowledge of any such thing, and I spent all weekend minus the anti-seasick pills needed to keep me on a even keel, to use an appropriately nautical turn of phrase.

Now, don't get me wrong. I've not been reeling around like a drunken sailor since Saturday, but nevertheless, the deck has not remained as stable as I might like. It's all due to the gyroscope in my head - it can't always be sure which way is up, once its equilibrium has been disturbed.

Anyhow, a 'phone call to the surgery proved the missing prescription was still within its hallowed portals, and I ordered a taxi to transport me thither post haste. I asked the driver to wait outside for the return trip, which he obligingly did.

On the ride back to the town centre, I told him the tale of the mix up, with the result that he offered to take the forms into Boots, so's I'd not have to hang around the dispensary when I called in later today. Bless him. I sat in his car, parked outside of St Faith's Church, while he trotted off to the chemists with them. But when he got back, he told me they'd be ready in 15 minutes and if I was OK waiting, he'd go back and collect them as well! Talk about kind!
He pootled off on a little errand of his own, and reappeared eventually with the bag of pills clutched in his more than helpful fingers.

Like I said, I never knew an angel might be found behind the wheel of a taxi cab...but I bet his wings got awfully crumpled inside that black leather bomber jacket.

I Cannot Believe It!

It's now ten to four in the morning. After a couple of hours or so of slumber, the wide awake hat had ensconced my head and eventually I gave up and came down to say "Hi! Blogland!" Like you would. Like I did.
Okay. So I caught up with emails, but decided sleep was still not on the cards, so I let my mind do as it liked to my fingers on the keys. Imagine my surprise, when, after about a quarter of a hour, the following piece sat on my screen notebook. I idly counted, and yes - you guessed - it's fifty five words, and today's Friday! G-Man has a lot to answer for. He even takes over my sleep deprived mind without a by your leave...

I'm Not Counting Sheep

Three o'clock in the morning;
other people sleep,
but I sit at the keyboard.
What strange hours I keep!
I went to bed and nodded off,
but woke up two hours later
and spent a long while fidgeting
and peering down a crater
devoid of dreams or sleep or rest.
Insomnia is such a pest.

And it Is still Earth Day - second edition

After my original fun post today, a serious note crept in, and I've just composed the following lines to maybe make you think about this day in a different way.

Ashes To Ashes

The silent skies, with clouds of high rise ash,
towered above unsuspecting Earth,
causing weary passengers distress
by dashing hopes of speedy journeys home.
Aeroplanes remained forlorn and still,
as stringent measures clipped their eager wings
and ringed these metal birds in safety's cage.
Unpredictable volcanic plumes
held the world to ransom for a time,
while people watched and had to pay the price
of insouciant reliance on the air
to ferry heavy planes from place to place.
Earth's supremacy to Man is very plain;
her rules will govern in the final stages.

Earth Day?

No connection with birthday, just a plea for folks to be aware of how they can help stop the Earth ending up as one huge landfill of rubbish. But in the Jinksy mind, where thoughts seldom stray too far away from the Piscean love of water, Earth soon becomes equated with Mud.
So for my Earth Day Post, I call upon the brilliant Flanders and Swann team to provide the words which will allow you to sing their poetic rendition of the famous 'Mud, mud glorious mud' verses... look on YouTube if you want to hear them singing - the title is:-

The Hippopotamus Song

A bold hippopotamus was standing one day
On the banks of the cool Shalimar
He gazed at the bottom as he peacefully lay
By the light of the evening star
Away on the hilltop sat combing her hair
His fair hippopotami maid
The hippopotamus was no ignoramus
And sang her this sweet serenade

Chorus:
Mud, mud, glorious mud
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood
So follow me follow, down to the hollow
And there let me wallow in glorious mud

The fair hippopotama he aimed to entice
From her seat on that hilltop above
As she hadn't got a ma to give her advice
Came tiptoeing down to her love
Like thunder the forest re-echoed the sound
Of the song that they sang when they met
His inamorata adjusted her garter
And lifted her voice in duet

Chorus

Now more hippopotami began to convene
On the banks of that river so wide
I wonder now what am I to say of the scene
That ensued by the Shalimar side
They dived all at once with an ear-splitting sposh
Then rose to the surface again
A regular army of hippopotami
All singing this haunting refrain

Chorus

(Extra verse:)
The amorous hippopotamus whose love song we know
Is now married and father of ten,
He murmurs, "God rot 'em!" as he watches them grow,
And he longs to be single again!
He'll gambol no more on the banks of the Nile,
Which Naser is flooding next spring,
With hippopotamas in silken pyjamas
No more will he teach them to sing...

Chorus

Nosey Parkers

...The lot of you! Wanting to see me in war paint? Nary a one sparing a thought for poor little me having to maybe suffer the consequences of itchy eyes, bright red rash or itchy skin!! Me and make up have a long history of incompatibility, so pardon me if I decline to satisfy your curiosity, dear Bloglanders. And as for Suldog and his body butter hint - well! Enough said! Mind you, if Hilary were a close enough neighbour to drop by with her camera, it might be a different story - I'm sure I'd trust her to take an elegant photo of me in any circumstances - buttered up or not.
I shall leave you to fantasise over that horrific prospect for the rest of today, while I go away to contemplate organising lunch for one of my real life pals. Don't let your imaginations run away with you too much...

Human Error

This can be quite endearing, in an odd sort of way; a kind of unspoken battle between man and machine. Fast thinking computers may still be outwitted by a human being's input, though perhaps I mean undermined, rather than outwitted.

Let me explain how I came to choose this subject today. Last Wednesday, I placed an online order for - wait for it- some Body Shop Body Butter (their description, not mine - I'd have called it simply a creme moisturiser) in - wait for it again - cherry blossom flavour! Okay, I'm currently obsessed with cherry blossom.

So yesterday, when I was upstairs deep in the process of attempting to restore order in one of the bedrooms, 'Bang, bang' rapped somebody's knuckles on my front door (they ignored my dangling bell rope), and I had to quickly rush to the window so's they'd realise I was at home, even if no where near said door. Too often, parcel deliveries end up being undelivered, because the man with the van is too impatient to await my answer, and I get to the door in time to see their tyres squealing away in a cloud of dust. (Do they imagine people in houses are always no more than two steps from the door handle?)

Man in brown uniform waits patiently until I get downstairs to receive small packet and sign on his little machine screen. At this point, I could tell it wasn't my Body Butter, but thought it might be another purchase expected from Amazon.

After the usual fight with super strong glue on the padded brown envelope, I finally reached the contents: one pot Mineral Cheek Pink Quartz: one pot Eye Shimmer Silver: one tube Mascara Super Volume and one delivery note, purporting to be for a person living in Templars Avenue, London. Unless I had been transported by aliens in the night, I was still in Havant, and not in the least interested in silver eye shadow, mineral rouge or black mascara. Yes, it was from The Body Shop; but that, and the label printed with my name and address, was the limit of its correctness.
There is obviously opportunity for many a slip twixt printer and parcel, thanks to Human Error...which is where this post began.

A swift telephone call resulted in apologies, permission to keep the items in question, and an assurance of another delivery as per original request. If there are continuing mistakes, I might be opening a Free Body Shop branch in my living room before very long... Mascara, anybody?

Monday Lack Of Memory

Over the weekend, I've wandered Blogland paths and discovered, round more than one corner, glorious photos of cherry blossom. I should have made a note of where I've been, then I could have put links to this morning's post. It's a piece I wrote some time ago, and one that I've emailed to several Blogpals 'behind the scenes', as I call it. However, it dawned on me this morning I might just a well post it here for the second time, as it remains as true now as at its first appearance.
I can direct you to some of the blogs where you will find appropriate images - MaggieGem, TSannie, and Merisi - but know there were more whose names escape me! Sorry! However, if any of you others would like a link put in, email me, and I'll be delighted to oblige. Here's the action replay of my words...

Cherry Blossom

Bunched on slim stalks,
tight-furled buds dangle
puckered, rosy lips,
offering a kiss of welcome.

Canopies blush beauty,
full-blown, short lived
cherry petals. Pink froth
becomes a tidemark
on trim emerald turf,
fallen blossom
marking ebb and flow
of capricious night winds.

Matching ruffle-edged flounce,
adrift alongside wall or path,
extends its gentle glow
to soften harsh perimeters
with flower-strewn finery.

Producing a composition
of pristine clarity,
Spring's light brushstrokes
overlay Winter's canvas.

Silly Me

Um... what can I say? Some mornings life is like that... or this...

Blame It On Saturday

I sense something silly; it is 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 wants to end up 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?)

But now it's out and flying free - Look out! There it goes!
It only just missed bopping you on your little nose!
Then no one would be laughing
at such a very daft thing,
so it's just as well it's taken to the road
before it lets its giggling explode.

Beware, beware it's on the loose! Dear reader, have a care;
it may descend upon you, before you know its there.
It will titivate your funny bone,
despite your being all alone,
and gales of laughter may sail on the wind,
until you wish they never had beginned!

Another Flash In The Pan

Or at least, a Fifty Five for Friday and the G-Man.

A Morning Moment

Torpid patio,
in enlivening sunlight,
begins to awake:
dandelion discs
raise dense yellow petalled whorls
to the golden sun:
grasses shoot long leaves
rocketing towards the moon
from cracked paving slabs.

All plants sense life sap
rising throughout their beings
and burgeon in joy,
while shy violets
nod heads in welcome.

The Spring has come.

Hand In Hand

As promised in my previous post, here are the results of our handiwork. Until I click the publish post button, I shall be holding my breath that Blogger has joined us in word and deed, and that Hilary and Jinksy are woven together on screen as they have been behind the scenes. Hope you enjoy the partnership, but do pop over anytime and see The Smitten Image in all it's singular glory; it will always be worth the trip, I promise!

the camera's eye
freeze-framed the quizzical glance
of the gliding gull





cereal puff balls
float in a nightmare landscape
of water logged dream

Ghostly echoes of the past

haunt the dried flower heads
as they dream of youth flown
and wait patiently for rebirth.

It's a dog's life standing still,

poised like a statue on the sill,
watching clouds go passing by
with never once the chance to fly
on scudding paws along the street,
free, excited, swift and fleet.
What dreams go racing through his head
at night, inside his doggy bed?

Three polished stones encircled by lace

each with a word carved on its face-
Truth for the seeking,
Faith in the finding,
and Wisdom to grant overall grace.

green pine-needle spray
disguises identity
of two brown mittens

Bright painted shapes protest at their sudden view
of a world tip tilted and stationary,
as the discarded board's metal wheels vibrate
with the hum of remembered movement.

on a glass surface
painted dragon fly hovers
intoxicated

willow branches bow

to greet golden, glow-worm spheres
of lighted windows

Never Say Never, Folks!

Despite many protestations of wanting to limit napple notes to the written word, I am now giving fair warning that Thursday will be quite some news day. Never being one to write prose when a jolly ditty may speak volumes, this is why I ask you to mark your calendar now for a return visit on April 15th:-

Watch This Space

It's all in the nature
of a tentative experiment;
I was smitten with her images
and she enjoyed my words.
We've amalgamated pages,
not without some merriment,
and hand in hand will launch ourselves
upon the Blogland world...

Hilary the snazzy snapper
mailed me several of her pics
and I set out to rack my brains
for suitable quick quips
or aptly thought out phrases
I could add into the mix
to combine artistic differences -
make togetherness our goal.

For surely, everybody knows
two halves will make one whole!

Having got into the swing of getting ahead of myself, I shall now include an early tribute to mid-week for those of you who still need to keep your noses to the grindstone of gainful employment, while silver haired surfers like me frolic around Blogland's primrose paths.

A Different Kind Of Pedal Power

Wednesday, lovely Wednesday,
the middle of the week.
You've pedalled to it's giddy height
and now will cruise down with delight
towards a level, weekend spot,
when work will intrude not one jot -
until - on Sunday, after lunch,
you'll turn into a gloomy bunch,
as thoughts of Monday morning loom
like elephants, in every room!

Here's hoping to see you all on Thursday!

Posthumous Reply to Gavin Ewart

On behalf of 21st century women...

Antiphon

Women prefer to have their imagination
cajole, caress, woo them - not rape.
Leave that to misogynistic men,
who overpower tender emotions
with vocabulary more suited to battle
or world domination.

Perhaps, when Ewart wrote, he'd not foreseen
the new breed of emancipated women
who'd take their place on equal terms with men
in poetry, and theatres of war.

Post

From the postman, that is; thanks to Friko, I've been introduced to one Gavin Ewart, and thanks to Amazon, his Selected Poems 1933-1988 plopped through my letterbox a while back. Diving straight in, I found this poem on page 13, and in view of my last offering, I decided to let you see it too.

Variation on a Theme of K. Amis
by Gavin Ewart

Sooner or later, most women poets
get locked in a lavatory with God.
Quietly they knit their little poems
receptive, contemplative and sad.

They are seldom raped by imagination
or highly excited or screaming for lovers
or drunk with the mad, leopard-spotted phrases;
Domestic virtues fit them like loose covers.

Perhaps words come to women too easily,
pouring out regardless like coffee or tea
or like the uncritical fountains in Renaissance palaces?
Nobody values what is given away free.

Can't wait to see what the Blogland reactions will be to this less than flattering description of women poets...

Dizzy Days

Literally, a couple of these have kept me from Blogland, as my ears' balance centres went AWOL. This may account for the rather strange offering today. When you are forced to remain horizontal and motionless, the mind wanders at will, and a chance idea can result in something like this:-

Beyond Science

Who can prove that love exists?
Who would want to try?
Are emotions infra dig
‘cause they can make you cry?

If names and dates and numbers
could create a way to prove
intangible emotions
like anger, hate or love,

where would this leave concepts
like happiness or joy;
fear or apprehension
or things that may annoy?

They can’t be proved by numbers.
No records will exist
of when they first were known to Man.
If gone, would they be missed?

Maybe tomorrow, once I finish taking the tablets, I shall have more and better stuff to offer!

Personification

I've just read Derrick's Monday poem here, where he is following a prompt to give his poetry a name, a gender and a personality. I hope both he and the originators of this intriguing concept, will forgive my horning in on the act as I struggle to give an identity to my Blogland Poetic Personae. Note I did not say Persona - on purpose. Derrick was happy to become George, his alter ego for the day, but when I began endeavouring to carve a name for myself, I found I couldn't fit into one skin, as I've never discovered who I really am. Therefore I decided I am The Terrible Twins, the embodiment of a split personality perhaps... I wonder, Who are You, or rather , Who is your Writing Self?

Duality

I'm the Terrible Twins;
one of us makes you cringe
with verse and worse,
though often terse.
Our laughter
follows after.

I'm the Terrible Twins;
one of us, when in serious vein
causes you to read again.
Our simple words
plead to be heard
and pondered upon...

Sometimes The Muse Is Late

For this got written today, but is really about yesterday. I had no intention of writing anything at all, but a magpie's sudden alarm call set my brain turning, and eventually fourteen lines needed to be sent on their travels trough cyberspace.

Easter Saturday

A magpie's shrill staccato chatter
punctuates the stagnant silence,
shattering air dead as unrisen Jesus,
this quiet Easter weekend afternoon.
Our small, deserted corner of the town
holds its indrawn breath in readiness
for tomorrow's hope of renewed life.
Is the eternal wellspring but a myth
that men have fashioned as a sop to wars,
to strife and heedless world pollution?
Will Easter Day fulfil its ancient augur
or will the people stumble blindly on,
gorged on chocolate covered promises
of salvation until the end of time?

Obey The Muse

Having woken up at the wonderful hour of three o'clock, the phrase 'doldrums of the night' lodged itself in my brain, and became ever more insistent. There was no hope for it, but to obey its call and come downstairs to allow it to take shape and be born into the world. But it was not satisfied. It pestered me until I had turned it into a Friday 55 for G-Man. So here it is.

3.30am

Doldrums of the night
when falling rain leads the dance;
time when no birds sing.
Silent motorway
adds occasional murmur
from speeding tyres
of night-owl drivers,
heading towards the new dawn.
They will alert larks,
birds who greet the day
and wake Morpheus from sleep
with gentle calling,
while dreamers nestle in his arms.