A Tragic Year

As Adele quite rightly pointed out yesterday, a tragedy is an event that causes suffering, destruction and/or distress.

Quite frankly, for many people, this year is turning out to be a tragic one indeed. Our "adopted" family, the people we hold in high esteem; be they musicians, actors, composers, directors, playwrights, authors, designers, philosophers, footballers ... The list of names of note that have departed this mortal coil since Christmas 2015 is quite staggering. But of all the names on that list, all much loved, there are two that hit me hardest .... Alan Rickman and Victoria Wood. I first saw Alan Rickman in Die Hard and didn't think much of it (action films are ok, but not my favourite films). However, watching him in Love Actually hurt. I mean really hurt. How could he cheat? The sense of disappointment was palpable. Then came Snape in the Harry Potter films and my heart was hardened altogether on a character who, I thought, was a bad'un .... then shattered into a gazillion pieces on finding out the truth when he died. A talented actor who could draw you in and immerse the viewer totally. As for Victoria Wood, well who couldn't love a true northern lass who was funny ... And I mean FUNNY! Lord knows, we need more laughter in this world. I loved the sketch shows, the stand up shows, but most of all, I loved Dinnerladies.

Now bearing mind that this post is written in April ... This may need updating before the year is out.

The 2016 Starlight Parade:

In December 2015, the Grim Reaper declared
All out war on "celebrity".
Enough was enough, the scales had tipped,
Burning on his scroll, too many names awaiting eternity.
He sharpened the blade of his iconic scythe
'Til it hummed and sang with each stroke of pumice stone,
Sparks spitting, sulphurous fumes emitting,
It was time to call some legends to a new home.
The first name to appear quite fittingly was
Lemmy - a hell raiser indeed!
But it was not just rockers who would fall to his blade,
But any public figure held in high esteem.
So far we have lost musicians and playwrights, 
actors, directors, conductors and more ...
Not only they ... but designers, composers,
philosophers, footballers and authors.
Individually we will remember those we held close to our hearts,
And thank them for their talent, their gift to us all,
Look to the night sky and marvel anew,
The Starlight Parade growing in a bid to enthrall.


I can't make all their names fit into this poem,  although I did try. So below in no particular order, is a list of the majority of people who have passed this year. I apologise if I missed anyone.

Lemmy, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Victoria Wood, Terry Wogan, Ronnie Corbett, Paul Daniels, David Gest, Doris Roberts, Prince, Guy Hamilton, Actor Gareth Thomas, Sir Arnold Wesker, David Swift, Merle Haggard, Leandro "Gato" Barbieri, Patty Duke, Gary Shandling, Jim Harrison, Ken Howard, Phife Dawg, Rita Gam, Cliff Michelmore, Frank Sinatra Jr., Sylvia Anderson, Asa Briggs, Anita Brookner, Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, Keith Emmerson, Ken Adam, Sir George Martin, Michael White, Pat Conroy, Tony Dyson, Tony Warren, George Kennedy, Louise Rennison, Frank Kelly, Tony Burton, John Chilton, Johnny Murphy, Douglas Slocombe, Umberto Eco, Harper Lee, Geroge Gaynes, Daniel Gerson, Dan Hicks, Maurice White, Joe Alaskey, Initzar Hussain, Frank Finlay, Paul Kantner, Chyna, Signe Tole Anderson, Abe Vigoda, Colin Vearncombe, Jimmy Bain, Glen Frey, Dale Griffin, Clarence Reid, Dan Haggerty, Robert Stigwood, Vilmos Zsigmond, Natalie Cole, David Margulies, Richard Davalos, Johan Cruyff .... Rest In Peace all.

By losing these names, we lose a part of our youth. So, to other celebrities I say it brings to mind a poem by Dylan Thomas ... Do Not Go Gentle Into That Dark Night ...

Thanks for reading. x

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The circle of life?

The theme this week is Meat is Murder?

I have little to add to the subject except to say that I don't believe it is. It is a matter of survival of the fittest, the circle of life and all that. Humans have hunted their food since the dawn of time. I understand that many people I know are vegetarians or vegan. That is their choice and I respect that. But I am not. I like meat thank you. That is not to say that I agree with hunting for so called "sport" because I don't. That is just cruel and unnecessary. But that is a topic for another day. I do believe however, that any animal that is bred to be produce for us to eat, should be treated well. I don't hold with force breeding or caged animals etc.. In a world where far to much food is thrown away on a daily basis, I think it is better to buy what you really need on a daily basis rather than overbuy and let things go to waste. I hate throwing any food away. I also think that we've gone soft over the years. Probably due to health scares like Mad Cow Disease, salmonella and the like, we have stopped eating parts of the animals which were widely eaten before, such as Kidneys, tongue, heart, liver etc. Some may call it offal, but I like it! Ba-bum-tsh!

Anyway, each to their own ... That's what I say! Talking of Liver ....


Twisted Language:

This week my son proudly announced
That he'd eaten his Nanny's liver.
She'd been babysitting in my absence
And for a split second it made me quiver, 
The thought that my 7 year old
Had morphed into Hannibal Lecter,
And instead of a Chianti
He'd have a Fruit Shoot as his choice of nectar! (other drinks brands are available)
What diabolical event
Could have possibly occurred?
To turn my little angel
Into Devils' spawn, undeterred
By social niceties,
He was proud of what he'd achieved!
But of course, it hadn't actually happened.
Poor use of language meant my brain had been deceived.
For bubbling away in the kitchen
In a lovely gravy, rich and thick,
My Mum had prepared Ox liver,
Slow cooked, never quick!
The aroma had proved too tempting
For my little pickle to resist,
And as he's a picky eater,
It was an opportunity not to be missed!
Though she thought that he would hate it
My wonderful Mum had seized upon 
This moment to let him try some,
The little devil loved it! Ah yes, That's my son!


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Fade to black

I like films. I have an extensive DVD collection at home, but nothing quite beats being sat in a cinema as the plot unfolds before you with a bucket of popcorn in your lap and a drink resting in the arm of your seat.

The first time I went to see a film at the cinema was in 1985 and I was just 9 years old. My Mum had brought my friend and I to the ABC in York to see the Care Bear film, but there had been a mix up in the press and instead they were showing The Neverending Story.  I am sat here, with a huge smile on my face thinking of the memory. I enjoyed the latter much more that I think I would have the former, so it was a win win out of a mistake. Since then, it has always been an absolute treat to go to the flicks. Unfortunately, I don't go as often as I would like.


The Regal:

As she stands inside the doorway,
damp pinches at her nose
and creeps into her aching bones.
Dust motes sail
in intricate flight paths.
She can see the rows
of rotting seats,
some spilling their stuffing
where the mice and rats have been.
The carpet now an indistinct muddle,
no distinguishable pattern on show
due to fallen plasterwork,
where the ceiling had leaked 
and 30 years of dirt.
But like an old showreel
on a projector,
memories flicker to life,
at first in black and white,
through sepia,
into colour,
moments as real to her
as they were back then.
Oh, the nights she'd walked 
up and down these aisles,
showing people to their seats,
her torch lighting the way
and selling ice cream
by the tub
from the tray slung around her neck.
The night that the fire broke out.
A fallen cigarette 
had been all it had taken.
The day that it re-opened,
all shiny and new ....
almost.
Then there was the night she met her husband.
Such a charmer,
he was the type 
that her father had warned her about.
Or so she thought
at first ....
But like her husband,
The Regal was about to fade into history
and she couldn't resist the chance
to see the old place once more
before the demolition crews moved in.

Fade to black ...........


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

Don't forget that tonight at Cafe Dolce on Abingdon Street in Blackpool, is the Lancashire Dead Good Poets Open Mic Night. Get yourselves along, to read or just listen. It's an excellent night!

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A very lost Blackpool

With the demolition of many of the town's architectural gems from years gone by, in the name of "Progress" (which is laughably also the town's motto), there is much of Blackpool that its ever transient population know little, if anything about.

I have posted in the past, a poem written about Blackpool in its heyday, when the Wakes Weeks would turn out the whole population of mill towns for their yearly holiday break. Thousands upon thousands of people would descend on our seaside resort, to let their hair down, fill their boots and relax as best they could. In that poem, I compared then with now, and what this place has become.

I wanted to go back further though and write something which told of the origins of our "Black pull". In the following poem, there is equal measure of fact and fable (or artistic license as some might say), and I would like for YOU to discover where those lines are drawn. Blackpool's history is fascinating! I urge you ... go and find out more for yourself!


Origin:

I want to take you on a journey to Centuries past,
Picture it in your mind!
Close your eyes and come with me
As time begins to unwind ...

A coastal moor so very bleak,
windswept with bog and dune grass.
No inhabitants except for local wildlife,
birds wheeling and screeching en-mass.

The odd twisted tree bent from the Gale,
stands like an old man hunched with age.
Isolated, with its branches reaching out,
pointing the way like an ancient Sage.

Further inland, a line of deepest green
marked the start of a Forest so dark,
providing shelter of sorts from the elements,
away from the mire and landscape so stark.

There were settlements scattered here and there
throughout this densely wooded land ...
Gypsy encampments, this was their home,
Earth and Human living hand in hand.

Hunting and fishing just to survive,
it was a quiet and peaceful life.
Disturbed by none, they flourished here,
even through harshest winters and through strife.

Legally, the land belonged to the King,
to do with just as he chose.
But though the folk who lived here did no harm,
they soon found of it he wanted to dispose.

We come forward through time, just a little bit,
to find a Lord has been awarded this land.
Along he came and built a Lodge,
Vaux (Fox) Hall, his place to hunt and relax by the sand.

It became a popular place for his friends,
to come and enjoy the air by the sea.
Then he started driving out the local Gypsy’s
by burning the Forest, forcing them to flee.

It was the start of development along this coastline.
One by one, more houses appeared.
Mostly Fishermen just earning their keep,
on the land of the Lord they so feared.

As the Forest receded and disappeared,
a town slowly grew over the sand and peat.
With a reputation for curing all that ails,
To come to the “Black Pull” was a real treat!

But spare a thought for those Gypsy’s ...
They lost their home without real reason or rhyme.
This is a story of the origin of our town,
I hope you enjoyed our journey through time.

Thanks for reading! ;-) x

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Have you earned yours?

Society. We're a funny bunch aren't we?! Making rules about what is acceptable and what isn't. When it comes to laws that's fine ... we need them to structure our society with what is right and wrong, but dictating what a person should look like?  No. We are surrounded by images every day of super thin and airbrushed models dictating silently that we should aspire to be like them. Plastic looking, with trowelled on make-up, plumped lips, perky bosoms, tan, hair extensions, false nails and lashes, threaded eyebrows impossible high and thin. Collagen, botox, teeth whitening, fake tanning (if they're sensible), plastic surgery, implants, waxed to beyond an inch of their lives. They are the ideal, the look to be achieved.

Anything less, well .... Why though? Tell me why I should even try and look like a blow-up doll! I'd much rather look like me thanks! But that's what it's all about isn't it? Looking "good" for the opposite sex. Those magazines which began this perpetuation of how a woman should look were started by men for men. I fully appreciate that I sound a complete feminist at the moment, revelling in my rights to vote or burn my bra if I so wish, but that is not what I am trying to portray. That is not me. Yes, I enjoy the freedoms that this era, this country brings and I appreciate them wholeheartedly. But what I am truly saying is this .... we are each individual. It would be an impossibility for all women to try and look like that and frankly, why would they want to? So, I embrace all that I am. I take pride in my curves and rolls. I accept that not all men are alike. I know that in my heart (and outside too) I am beautiful in my own way. I am me ... and I'm ok with that!


Stripes earned ... not bought:

I wear my map of life
in glorious 3D and technicolour.
Each traceable blue vein,
laughter or frown line,
silver stretch mark or 
wiry white hair ...
they plot the paths
I have taken thus far.
Every mole and freckle,
dimple and pock,
fat pocket and scar,
symbolise each rise and fall,
high and all time low,
mountain and trough,
that this wonderful,
marvellous body
has endured.
I earned my tiger stripes
and I wear them
with goddamn pride ...
they are ME!!


Thanks for reading! ;-) x

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My favourite bells ...

Looking South East from Bishopthorpe

On the topic of bells this week, I became rather wistful and started to yearn for the village in which I grew up near York. The Church of that village (St. Andrews) had a set of bells which were rung with gusto every Sunday and although we didn't attend services as a family, I still find that sound a fond childhood memory. Being a village, set in the countryside, it had wonderful scenic views especially alongside the river and in the autumn it was evocative even more so. The smells of wood burning fires, damp leaves and sugar beet from the fields. Heaven!

So please forgive me while I take a trip down memory lane in this weeks poem:

St Andrews Church, Bishopthorpe.

Those bells

Cool autumnal morn
breaks across the landscape.
Broken cloud
in banks
roll imperceptibly
across the sky.
Muted tones of purples
pinks, oranges and reds
merge;
smudged together
with grey.
A low mist
blankets the ground
and as it rises,
trying to reach
the treetops -
all skeleton bare,
branches raking on high,
it fades and thins.
Crisp air catches the lungs
forcing cumulus billows
upon the exhale.
The slightest nip
bringing rosiness 
to the cheek.
Without a breeze
the stillness
does nothing to lift
the dampness
or the leaves
which lie
sodden and muddy
The path winds on
along the river bank
as I bird watch -
the Ducks, the Sparrows,
the Robin, the Thrush.
Sombre hued
Blackbirds and Crows
herald the coming day
in their own
individual ways
until a distant peal
of church bells
welcome the faithful
on a sleepy
subdued Sunday.


I love Autumn! Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Lovely locks?

Hair. We all have it. Some love theirs, some don't. Some just plain don't know what to do with it, like me!

Having always been a tomboy, from the age of around 5, my hair as a kid was always short. Easy peasy, brush and go. Some of my friends would sit with their Girls' World heads, applying the make-up and styling the hair. Not my thing though. The closest I got to being "girly" was a Curly Twirl Barbie. Complete with hair curler, I gave it a go for a little while at least. It made the ends of her hair ragged. So I trimmed it, very neatly I might add (I was quite proud of myself), taking off the tiniest, tiniest amount levelling it off. I don't remember how, but I got distracted, leaving the said Barbie with her REALLY long hair and the pair of scissors on the draining board. I came back to it to find the synthetic hair strewn ALL over the draining board, my Barbie lying on top looking like Yazz from the 80's group "Yazz and the Plastic Population". My brother had tried to "help" me. The only reason I got upset was that I thought I was going to get into trouble, besides that though, it wasn't my cup of tea so I wasn't too upset.

After I left High School I started growing it in an effort to shed my tomboy image, only occasionally getting it trimmed. My earlier years of non-girlishness had not prepared me for a lifetime of caring for my hair. I went though a phase, when it was waist length, of having it permed. However, my hair being so thick, the poor stylist had to use the skinniest rollers to make it stay put, otherwise it would just drop out overnight.

I have come to realise that I am a "brush and go" kind of gal. I am not one to faff, preen, spray, scrunch, backcomb or style in any way, shape or form.


Locks:

In 2014
my hair was so long
I could sit on it.
I wish I could say
that it was luscious
and healthy, 
it wasn't.
A thick head of hair
neglected
by a tomboy
wanting to feel more girly,
but not quite knowing how.
Never trimmed or pampered,
just washed twice,
conditioned once.
Eternally aching arms meant
I left it to its' own devices
slowly
growing.
Only brushed
and pulled back to avoid
tickling my face 
and getting in the way,
though it still did.
Constant ponytail
even at night,
again to try and stop 
a mouthful of hair.
Partway down my back
weaker strands broke
leaving split ends
and longer ones
resembling rats tails.
ENOUGH!
I finally snapped,
unable to cope
with the long ...
lank ...
locks.
I wanted to look smart
not like I was wearing
a witches wig!
Free to turn over at night
without tangling myself up
and giving myself
a crick in the neck.
So, on Remembrance Day
over two feet of hair
lay
languidly
on the cold floor
of the salon,
swept aside
as two old dears gasped
and marvelled
at my new
very 
short 
cut.
I still don't know
what to do with my hair.
So, I've started growing it ...
again!


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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My Mum calls them "Gamps" ...... ;-)

I've always loved the old style umbrella's, but then I'm a vintage kind of gal. I like parasols too and think it's a shame they died out fashion wise. I would much rather be pale and interesting than burnt. I think deep down, despite the day to day clothing of t-shirt, jeans and trainers, I am a Goth at heart. If you watch NCIS on the TV you will be familiar with the character of Abby. I love her style and she uses a lovely black lace parasol when it's sunny or when she attends a funeral. Due to the nature of the programme of course, she attends a fair few. Another thing I love ... NCIS.

Away from the small screen, my favourite way to relax is to sit in a dimly lit room (by candle or fire light) and listen to the rain on the window. Even better at my Mum's house, as she has a small conservatory style room on the back (which she calls "The Potting Shed"). The sound of the rain as it hits the roof is awesome! I love it!! The harder the downpour, the better. But then, I would say that wouldn't I? I am inside on a horrible day, nice and dry. I don't think I would feel the same if I was out in it!


Umbrella

Head bowed, shoulders hunched
collar upturned, grasped tight.
He moves through the town centre
searching
for shelter.
This is not his town ...
he is a newcomer
looking for a new start.
But, with no money
and nowhere to stay,
he walks the streets,
the good places already taken
by the natives.
He readjusts his rucksack
on his shoulder - 
the contents getting heavier
with the addition of rainwater;
those silver stair-rods
changing colour
depending on the neon behind,
glittering on his tired, weary eyes
as they watch ...
monitor for intruders.
Not just from the tutting shopkeepers
shooing him away from their doorways
denying him a temporary oasis,
or the pickpockets
who will take anything you've got ...
but the sting of steeley spokes
from a swarm of multi-coloured domes
bob, bob, bobbing
in time with the beat and thrum,
the ever onward drum,
of drops on the canopies
and hurried feet
carrying their owners home
or at least
away from the wet.
If only he had the luxury
of an umbrella ...
It would be some shelter at least;
instead, sodden toes
in sodden socks and shoes
trudge forward
carrying a wet man
in wet clothes
and the weight of a water filled world
upon his shoulders.


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Follow your dreams

I'm away on holiday this week. So I'll just leave this here ... ;-)


https://youtu.be/UkekqVPIc2M


It's one of my favourite songs by them. Enjoy and I'll see you next week!
:-D x

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Exposure

Cryptosporidium

It has been a slightly fraught week of illness around my family this week. There are bugs a plenty doing the rounds making people ill (including the Cryptosporidium in our water supply) and while any normally healthy person could shake it off given time, it would appear that one member of my family is possibly struggling more than normal. He has a damaged heart with limited working capacity and it seems that he may have caught a virus which it putting extra strain on it. He is in hospital as a result.

This got me thinking about how viruses spread and how easy it is for it to become a pandemic. In  the days before we had vaccinations against illnesses, the mortality rate was astronomical. I mean, just look at what The Plague did for us, or Spanish Influenza ...


 
A 3D rendering of the Influenza Virus                                                                         Image of the Bubonic Plague Bacterium

Fearful Illness:

The body lies, akin to lead,
strength sapped, feeble and weak,
skin chillingly cool, yet brow alight.
coldest sweat causing substantial slick.
Fever, raging and ravaging,
delirium dominating the brains' pathways.
Visits from the dear departed?
Choking coughing fits strangle airways.
Hurried heart beats unevenly,
struggling, the chest rises and falls.
Breath, raspy and rattling,
the outlook? Not good at all!
Spanish Influenza invaded our shoreline, 
the illness killing irrespectively.
Rank and file, even the rich,
the malady decimating mercilessly.


So remember folks, if you're in the Lancashire area near me, boil your water for the foreseeable. Do it gladly, with a smile ... It will save you from a whole load of gut problems!

Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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"I tort I taw a puddy tat! ... I did! I did see a puddy tat!!"

Ah Tweety! Poor old Sylvester's nemesis. Then there's Jerry of course. Tormenting Thomas (Tom to me and you), and getting him a whopping with a broom. Tsk tsk, naughty Jerry! Yes I prefer the cat characters to the others. I had a quick look on-line to see how many cats are in cartoons alone and was very surprised.

If I were to have a pet, it would be a cat. I like dogs but I'm afraid that I find them too "labour intensive", whereas cats, well they're much more independent. We've had family pets over the years, including 3 cats (namely Marmalade, Domino and Tigger), and they were my favourites to be fair. Sadly Marmalade (an un-neutered ginger Tom) ran away, Domino (a black and white rescue cat) had been badly treated by her previous owners and then when we took her in, she developed cancer and we had to have her put to sleep poor thing. Tigger (a tortoiseshell) however, stuck around for a good many years. He was a very good cat and would even bring home the occasional "gift" and leave it on the back step, but sadly got knocked down when out one day. He died at the vets. That was the late 90's and we haven't had another cat since.

So although, my track record with cats isn't exactly fantastic, I do love them. I wrote this weeks' poem with Tigger in mind. The picture above bears an uncanny resemblance to him.


Cat:

Lithe feline,
whether leaping or lazing,
stalking or scrapping,
how do you make 
everything seem
so effortless?
With poker faced practise
you look on,
dispassionate,
or occasionally
with contemptible glare,
when the blink
comes slowly.
Resonant purr
vibrates
through my chest cavity,
while your paws
knead
with a peek-a-boo
needle touch.
So independent,
yet needy.
Seeking strokes
or a lap
to curl up on.
The closeness
a comfort
as well as a warm.
While we turn to our beds
at night,
having snoozed the day away
you explore your domain,
marking your boundaries
and perhaps seek some tail? 
But an expression
of affection
lies dead
on my doorstep
in the morning.


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

P.S. Don't forget the Open Mic night tonight! It starts at the slightly earlier time of 17:30 hrs at a new venue for us - Cafe Dolce, Abingdon Street, Blackpool. The theme is Cats, although it's not mandatory, so come along and listen or read. We look forward to seeing you there!!

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I object!

I would like to start this blog with an apology. To say sorry for the distinct lack of posts from myself on this blog of late. I have writers block, pure and simple. What is annoying me more than anything is the fact that when it comes round to a theme that I have chosen (such as this week for example), my brain still can't get itself into gear. It is seemingly on strike, saying "I object!". And that, dear readers, is about as close as I can get to making a connection with this weeks' theme. I deliberately choose theme's which are open to translation by the people who write on this blog. So they may pick one of the many ways it can be translated and run with it. It also means that there is more variety on each theme, instead of us all writing about the same thing. But even this hasn't helped me this time. To be honest, it's really getting me down.

So, I am going to share a poem I wrote (an oldie) that will give me hope that I will come through this writers block in the end. Ever the optimist, eh?


POETICAL STORM

I can sit and the words come effortlessly,
Floating by on the breeze in my mind,
Plucked down and written upon the page,
Flowing smoothly, sometimes too easily I find.

A moment later as I sit engrossed,
Enjoying this freshness of air,
The Ethereal atmosphere changes,
And threatens to drive me into despair.

Storm clouds have gathered unnoticed,
The breeze picks up speed to a Gale,
Words rushing by too rapidly,
Unable to pluck, I seem doomed to fail.

Whooshing and whirling confusedly,
My pen unable to keep up the pace,
I scribble what I can greedily,
Trying to scribe what I can in all haste.

Ever faster and faster the wind goes round,
Becoming a Maelstrom within my mind,
The words now completely no distinct,
Just a blur which makes me almost blind.

Then …… Nothing …… A stillness envelops me,
A vacuum where nothing can stir,
Not a wisp or a breath, all is blank,
No word or picture can incur.

My pen lies helplessly upon the notepad,
Arms limply down at my side,
The fingers twitching, waiting to start once again,
But from my mind all the words hide.

How long do I spend in this wretched place?
I don’t know, it’s too hard to tell,
Minutes, hours or days go by,
With nothing to break the barren spell!

But wait! What was that? No, but  …… yes it is!
A whisper floating gently by,
Patiently waiting for the right time,
To express its sweetest of sighs.

Softly, softly, the words now return,
Emerging and drifting along,
Finally, I resume my task gladly,
Plucking words to finish my song!

I am currently at verse 8, desperately waiting for verse 9 to kick in ..... but hey-ho! Patience, patience ... *Sighs*

Any-hoo! Thank you for bearing with me. I WILL get back to writing properly again. ;-) x

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Lost in a sea of blue

I love it when the theme is a colour. It allows the creative juices to flow, I mean, it could be a blue anything, right?!

I have, however, gone with perhaps a more obvious topic as this week has been a bit of a hectic one to say the least, thereby meaning that this was a little rushed. For that you have my apologies.

Depression. A taboo that many do not want to discuss openly. Yet something that most of us encounter at some point in varying degrees. From the "milder" end of feeling under par and blue, to the extremes of Clinical, Chronic, Manic and more. I say, do not be ashamed! Why should you be? The human condition is weird, wonderful and downright bizarre. WE ARE ALL STRANGE! There is no such thing as "normal". Do not be afraid to talk to someone about it, and if you do and don't get any positive response, then go to someone else, because in all likelihood that first person is too scared to talk about it, or doesn't understand it. Many of the older generation were to just pull themselves together! Stiff upper lip and all that nonsense. No. Sorry. I won't condone allowing someone to suffer in silence!

I have been there at varying points in my life, at various degrees of severity. It isn't something to be ignored. My poem this week draws partly from experience and also fiction.


Blue: The swirling currents grab in a savage embrace. Pulling, dragging down in to the dark. Riptides wrapped around not only body, but lungs; the very air being wrung out. The heart pounding in panic, ... until ... too stressed, it barely beats at all. At this moment nothing matters. Despair weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach
plunging me further down. ... Then ... I see your face in the ripples above, distorted but definitely you! I reach towards you, beckoning, pleading, yearning for the touch of your hand; your embrace.
The words: "SAVE ME!"
escape from my mouth
in large violent bubbles
and float away,
zigging and zagging
up to you.
Then you're there! Pulling me towards you, wrapping your arms around me, keeping me safe ... and warm ... and loved! and that's how I am ... Blue ... until you return to my side. Must you go again?



Thanks for reading! Have a great week. ;-) x

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Making Waves

I'm not normally a confrontational kind of person. Once in a blue moon however, I do tend to "go off on one" and inevitably, it results in a reaction of total amazement, which at the time only adds to the fury that I'm trying to vent. Not a good thing really. This is the only way I seem to make waves. Quite boring eh?

However ..... They do say that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction don't they? In a "Butterfly Effect" kind of way .....

The actions of other people are the usual trigger for me to "lose my rag", and last week was no exception. Someone else "made waves" causing "after ripples". Imagine being in a shop with your 7 year old son and making your way towards the checkout when the man being served decides to rob the cashier as she opens the till. The realisation that I needed to make sure we stayed safe played quickly through my mind, but it all happened so quickly, it was over before I knew it and thankfully he didn't use a weapon. It resulted of course in a flurry of emotions; primarily shock, not only for the poor members of staff, but the onlookers too, alongside anger (that he'd put people in fear of safety/danger), fear itself and futility/frustration (that I couldn't see what he looked like as I was behind him). It's the anger that still remains though.


HOW DARE YOU?!!:

You thieving piece of scum!
How DARE you?!!
You PATHETIC and COWARDLY piece of S#*t!
You took that which wasn't yours
for your own greed and satisfaction.
In doing so, 
you did something 
which isn't big
or clever.
In fact,
all it does is to evoke
feelings of disgust,
venomous anger 
and a burning desire 
to hurt you.
And I mean REALLY hurt you.
Would YOU like it
if the people you loved
more than ANYTHING 
in this whole UNIVERSE
were threatened
or put in fear of their personal safety?
How would YOU feel?
There is NO such thing 
as a victimless crime!
You may think that all you've done
is to deprive a large company
of some of their profits,
but in robbing that store
you created a wave
of events
resulting in injury,
trauma, shock
and ANGER.
It's a dangerous emotion 
that last one,
especially when coupled
with a Mothers love!
Never not EVER 
underestimate it!


Ok. Calming down now. Feel a little better now I've got that off my chest! Thanks for reading! ;-) x

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A fairytale childhood shattered ....

It's always nice to think that the possibilities are endless, isn't it? That's why, as a child, I loved utilising my imagination to its fullest, taking myself on journeys and adventures encountering all manner of creatures and beasts, including Dragons. Which is why I would like you to think back to when you were 5 or 6 for a moment. What did you believe in back then? Fairies, Dragons, Ogres, Goblins, Trolls, Giants and Unicorns? The list goes on! Well, then you can probably understand my resentment of the C of E church for playing its part in taking a small part of that away from me. Popping a kids bubble just isn't nice!

Picture the scene; a child who attends a C of E Infant School sits down with the other children for assembly and as per usual, a hymn is sung. However, this is a new one that this child has never heard before, entitled "When a Knight won his spurs". The child, who loves to sing, thinks that this song sounds exciting and can't wait to join in, but .... as the song progresses the lyrics, in one easy, shattering moment, manage to destroy her belief in Giants, Dragons and Ogres. Gee thanks! Actually, I should (not) be thanking Jan Struther who wrote it in order for it to appear in the Songs of Praise Hymn Book in 1931.

Here is a link to the Hymn if you don't know it:

So, as a cheeky little get back, I thought I would share this:

Allan Ahlberg version.

When a knight won his spurs in the stories of old,
He was – ‘Face the front, David Briggs, what have you been told?’
With a shield on his arm and a lance in his – ‘Hey! 
Is that a ball I can see? Put – it – a – way.’

No charger have I and – ‘No talking back there.
You’re supposed to be singing, not combing your hair.’
Though back into storyland Giants have – ‘Roy, 
this isn’t the playground, stop pushing that boy!’

Let faith be my shield and – ‘Who’s eating sweets here?
I’m ashamed of you Marion, it’s not like you dear.’
And let me set free with – ‘Please stop that Paul King.
This is no place for whistlers, we’d rather you sing!’



Anyway, if you have this evening free, why not come and join us at the Moo Bar on Queen Street in Blackpool from 6pm for our Open Mic night. You can come along and read, or just sit back and relax and listen to others having a go. There's no theme this evening, so bring any poem you may have written and let us hear it! Other than that, have a great weekend and thanks for reading! ;-) x.

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Patterns

I am sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen at my Mum's house while I type this, listening to the background sound of rain on the window. Each time I pause to think, I look up and watch the patterns that the drops make as they hit the glass. Random patterns. Not the neat reoccurring type which, although I usually prefer things to be symmetrical and ordered, I love. It's one of my favourite things to do. Sit warm and snug indoors while listening and watching the rain. I find it an excellent time to discover the stillness and peace inside, to reflect with a nice warm cup of coffee or hot chocolate (marshmallows optional, but really tasty!).

But I suppose, although I do most of my blogs from this perch, it is the perfect place for inspiration today. I am surrounded by patterns here and I think it's great! I mean take a look at the lino ....

So, whether it is discussing patterns in sequences of numbers in my son's homework, watching the rain on the window, looking at decoration of some sort or other, the design in block paving or just the ripples in my mug, I am grateful for the multitude of patterns which surrounds us every day. It would be jolly boring otherwise!


Patterning:

I like the look of those circles
as they loop around and round,
intertwining, repeating
from on high to the ground.
I feel I could be swept up
on a never ending loop-de-loop,
swirling, swooping, spinning,
in a revolutionary hoop.
I'd know what it feels like 
to be a Catherine wheel,
always reeling and rotating,
like on a funfair ride I'd squeal!
But now I'm getting a little dizzy,
I really want to get off!
I'd better look at another wallpaper
that ones suddenly a turn-off!


As always, thanks for reading! ;-) x

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Basic Stuff

elemental (ˌɛlɪˈmɛntəl  ) 

Definitions

adjective

1. fundamental; basic; primal   ⇒ the elemental needs of man
2. motivated by or symbolic of primitive and powerful natural forces or passions   ⇒ elemental rites of worship
3. of or relating to earth, air, water, and fire considered as elements
4. of or relating to atmospheric forces, esp wind, rain, and cold
5. of, relating to, or denoting a chemical element

noun

6. (rare) a spirit or force that is said to appear in physical form

~ * ~ 

So, "elemental" hey? Okay. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Alrighty then. Whoever chose this theme wasn't being fair to those of us who may be struggling with their writing at the moment were they? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Oh well. As I am struggling, and to keep things simple, I have dusted off a couple of old poems (written many moons ago). Please forgive this cop out, but I am not going to beat myself up because I simply cannot think of something fresh on theme. 

I have therefore picked two poems which cover "elemental" from differing points. This one as an adjective:

The Force

Thick dark grey clouds blanket the sky,

Creeping, crawling, clinging cold that bites,

Freezing rain and hammering hail,

Winds whistling and howling, gusting to Gales!

No shelter from the elements along our coastline,

Facing the Irish Sea, bringing mountains of brine,

Battering the Sea wall relentlessly,

A force to be reckoned with?  Not likely!

Respect to the power that accompanies our weather,

Such a brute and so fierce and will be forever?

Chimneys, slates and trees may fall,

But this pounding we take is only our Winter after all!

Or this one as a noun:

Destination Unknown

A crisp, clear night marking Winter’s cusp

Fields and tree’s twinkle with frost

Moon so full with hazy halo to bear

Stars sparkle above guiding the lost.

A long straight path skirts a Village

Picturesque yet ghostly in the cool blue light

Nocturnal peace so unearthly shattered

Shrill sounding whistle instilling fright.

The ground rumbles gently beneath your feet

Growing stronger, then you hear the distant hum

Of metal wheels on metal tracks, getting closer

Fear claws at senses in the oncoming thrum.

More noises, now distinct as it approaches

Clickety clack and the chuff of the steam

Then screeching and squealing of the brakes

Thunderous tremors and piercing screams

Replaying the tragedy where so many lost their lives

You see the carriages derailing and plunging down

Rolling over and over again

The victims destined never to reach Town.

The sound of groaning steel, so twisted

Cries for help, die on the air, simply fade away

Restoring an eerie silence and stillness all around

Elemental echoes of a grim and fateful day.

Long ago, it’s true that Trains ran along here

On this pathway come cycle track

The sleepers removed so many years ago

But a Spectral Train needs no tracks to come back!

Again, many apologies for this under par blog this week. I will hopefully have more luck with next weeks theme.  Many thanks for reading.  ;-)  x

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Seashore memories

As a child, I grew up inland. A day trip to the seaside was a rare treat for the school holidays. I have the usual memories of building sandcastles on the beach, paddling in the shallow waves lapping on the seashore, watching them froth a little as they broke on the beach, and the feel of the sand, squidgy between my toes. Then the real nuisance of getting the sand off your feet at home time, never fully able to remove ALL the sand until you had a bath at home. I was never a collector though. I didn't feel the urge to pick up seashells or stones, or go looking for creatures in rock-pools with a little net and bucket.

My son however, will have fond memories of visiting the seashore with his Nanny when Mummy was at work. Walking along the beach and collecting the odd shell or pebble that took his fancy. Finding fascination in the patterns of the sand, or making new friends with dog walkers and their funny and faithful pets. He even became adopted by a Canadian Goose whilst visiting Fairhaven Lake (next to the seashore at Lytham) who would shoo away other geese, ducks, seagulls and pigeons who came too close to him. It even tried to scare my Mum away when she tried to pick him up to put him back in his car seat at home time! When that didn't work, the goose lay her beak on the ledge of the car window, looking wistfully at my little lad before they set off home. The seashore is a special place indeed for making memories.

 Not only for making memories though. My Mum's next door neighbour frequently goes down to the beach and scours the shoreline for flotsam. Any driftwood etc., is collected up and brought home to be made into artwork. You can see some of his work here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Set-a-drift-art-work/926340624073525?fref=pb&hc_location=profile_browser . Contact him through this Facebook page if you should wish to commision a piece or purchase any of his work.


Seashore:

The meeting place
'twixt land and sea.
One holds steady,
staunch,
solid,
while the other
massages,
caresses, 
gives and takes away.
Occasional gifts
washed ashore
sunbleached and worn.
Who knows how long 
these drifters have been
riding on the backs
of foaming white horses?
Ancient wood and rope
from ships wrecked
by angry
tempestuous
storms.
The flotsam
an offering
to the Magpie
with a creative mind.


Thanks for reading.  ;-)  x

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Short sighted or what!?

There are times on the blog, where I want to take the theme and put a new twist on it. Sound intelligent and witty. Sadly this is not one of those weeks. I've had to go with a more literal take on it, sorry folks. The old brain seems to be backfiring and won't think of those wonderful skews that I would love to pursue. It would appear that I am unable to "see the bigger picture", meaning not only am I short-sighted, but I am also myopic in my brain function ( ;-) see what I did there?).

Seriously though, I myself have myopia, coupled with good old astigmatism. Aren't I the lucky one? So, not only am I only able to see a short distance but my good old eye balls decided that they wanted to be rugby ball shaped instead of round! Hence the reason you'll never see me without my specs. Every three years, I dutifully turn up for my eye examinations, only to be told that my peepers have worsened. It would appear to be a degenerative case of myopia. Joy, oh joy! Still, I can't change any of that, so I'll just try and make the most of things. Record to memory every little detail of my sons face, every achievement he makes. Well if the myopia doesn't get my eyes, a cataract might when I am old and grey.

Degenerative Thief:

Dimmed eyes no longer see
the definitions of your face.
Age obscures the edges,
blurring and smoothing,
removing the finer detail.
The creeping myopia,
stealthily stealing sight
in minute degrees
each year.
Lenses become thicker
to combat faltering
optical function.
Refractive errors
playing cruel games, 
focus just out of reach,
short of the retina.
Degenerative thief!
It will only worsen.
The best treatments
unattainable to the poor.
Constant cruel companion,
until cataracts take hold
slowly clouding
whatever sight is left.
-
Those misty eyes
long to see you again!


Thanks for reading! ;-) x

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The theme is missing .....

This week the theme is missing. Not "the theme is missing", i.e. absent, but "missing". However, with that play on words, it brought this to mind about how we can wrongly interpret our wonderful language from time to time.


Twisted Language

This week my son proudly announced
that he'd eaten his Nanny's liver.
She'd been babysitting in my absence 
and for a split second it made me quiver,
the thought that my 7 year old
had morphed into Hannibal Lecter,
and instead of a Chianti
he'd have had a Fruit Shoot as his choice of nectar! (Other drinks brands are available)
What diabolical event
could have possibly occurred?
To turn my little angel
into devils' spawn, undeterred
by social niceties, 
he was proud of what he'd achieved!
But of course, it hadn't actually happened.
Poor use of language meant
my brain had been deceived.
For bubbling away in the kitchen
in a lovely gravy rich and thick,
my Mum had prepared ox liver,
slow cooked - never quick!
The aroma had proved too tempting
for my son to resist
and as he's a picky eater,
it was an opportunity not to be missed!
My wonderful Mum had seized upon
this moment to let him try some,
actually thinking he would hate it,
but contrary to the end, he loved it! That's my son!


Thanks for reading! ;-) x

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