Saturday, April 20

A Poem for Thursday

I take my pen   make marks   form lines   curves   strokes together   words appear      as if by magic      word to word      mark by mark   line and line
a line lengthens    words    make sense    make sense of my thoughts
reason      mark the moment      the moment recorded       lines   underlines   thoughts made real     recordings     hopes     in words  on lines       by marks
recorded time      the pen moves      the marks build       build up   time and again       a history      a story       adding flesh to words   descriptions  
bringing colour     with marks     with lines     strokes   curves   light   shade
themes evolve   evolution   time   marked by words   connections   hand strokes       stroked lines       appearances       matter is fluid   .   
my pen moves on   reason restored   problems revealed   solved   maybe
how mighty is the pen.

Saturday, January 20

Algorithms?....A Poem for Thursday

I googled the word.....algorithms...I was fed up with being told by the younger set, that my life is now set because of all my choices on the internet going into some vast drum.....stirred around and then emerging on the iPad screen as something that I have always wanted.

Well guess what ...old Euclid knew about algorithms... and I don't think he had bought his iPad by the time he wrote it down.

Anyway...Algorithms...was my prompt today for The Bold Street Writers in Warrington. And the results were as usual amazing. From a carefully worded account of the inner doings of Amazon ...if you want to sell your detective a run down of the latest news and gardening programmes. Don't ask...just believe they were great.

Mine?....well all about why I now have two kittens living with me and the potter. It's a bit long but then it takes a while often for an algorithm to work out.

The sun shining
August in the garden
Dirty dishes in the sink
Soapy water on my hands
[ jobs to do, places to go]
Just August in the garden.

Dirty dishes in soapy water
Gazing mindlessly  window watching
Garden birds
Greedy squirrels
[ jobs to do. places to be]
Dirty dishes now piled up.

Gazing mindlessly at garden birds
A sudden movement
By the hedge   prickly hedge
[ jobs to do  places to be]
My eyes deceive me I'm 
Just gazing mindlessly at kittens.

A sudden movement 
Makes it real
In the garden by the hedge
An ice grey mother cat
With two small kittens
[I've jobs to do and places to be]
She dashes from our sudden movement.

So it's true and we're astonished 
One small tabby kitten lingers
Snapped a shot on
A mobile phone
Posted up on face books news
[what about my jobs and places?]
Makes it real.

One small tabby eyes wide open
Frozen in a garden snap
Put up on face book  local news
[forget the jobs forget the places]
Then a clamour
From the punters
Out on face book
"We can catch the one small tabby".

Frozen on the mobile phone
A tabby's image   tiny image
Next a plethora of messages
Demanding that they be consulted
"We will come and take the cats"
[thinking of my jobs and places]
Close down local face book page
Delete it from the mobile phone.

Tabby's image small and frightened
Enter Kat from  animal  rescue
Brings her cages
Traps the kittens two, now three
And the pretty mother cat
Takes them off to safer havens
[I'll get on with jobs and places]
Tabby's  image lingers on.

Message sent to animal rescue
Kept the contact
How's the family?
But I really want a greyhound
Want a whippet, or just a mongrel
[do the daily jobs as needed] still
Can't ignore the tabby's image
Message Kat from local rescue.

Glad now that I kept the contact
Can I have the kittens back?
[did some jobs of sorting rooms
Did some buying for the two]
September comes October goes
November's bleak, and Christmas shines.
Cats are coming early January
Glad I kept the rescue contact.

Now we have the kittens back
I forget about the whippet
Pretty female, dancing tomcat
And the potter is besotted
Who'd have thought it
He's the daddy, playmate, teaser
[I get on with jobs, go places]
Happy that the cats are back.

Sunday, January 14

Sunday's Short Story...Writer's group prompt.

Vicky said we should see how many times we could sing, "Rock around the clock". It was the end of the 1950s and we were in the domestic science rooms at school in Belfast.
There's a thought. Domestic.....were they planning that we should only end up as housewives?
Was learning to wash lettuce and make porridge really a science that our mothers hadn't already invited us to participate in?
My mother had regularly invited me into the kitchen for one science or another.  Washing up was well on it's way to a degree, if not an MSc by the time Vicky suggested this latest idea.
Elvis was hot news in 1956. Not that he or his music were played in my home nor I suspected...Vicky's.
Ungodly I think would have been the comment from my brother... older than me.
Anyway, I don't think I could have wound up my parent's gramaphone fast enough to keep a record playing long enough to be able to dance....that is the end of the song.
Can you remember the words? o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock...oh you remember.
I was nervous. It was always difficult to say no to Vicky.
She wasn't exactly a bully, but let's just say extremely persuasive.  And I wanted to stay in with her as she also led the little gang of teenagers who gathered on the beach near where we both had family caravans.
Oh my...there's another tale to be told. The caravan.
Anyway I seccumbed to her hissing persuasion and chanted "Rock around the clock" quietly under my breath. My hesitancy was not only fear of being heard in the class...but also because I had already been in trouble with the headmistress.
Looking back now it seems ridiculous, but the wrong v-necked sweater from the wrong shop, the tilt of a beret on the back of the head rather than pulled well over the ears, or the length of hair touching the collar of the blazer, could get you hauled into her office for another lecture on "Unacceptable uniform".
I 've forgotten how many times we sang though Elvis's rock anthem. I would think Vicky with her uncanny ability to miss out on the lash of "miss's" whip like tongue, kept going the whole hour of the lesson. Then the bell would have brought me blessed relief.
The hour is imprinted deep in my memory bank. A bank that seems to have deposited some memories deep in a vault slammed the door and gone and lost the key.
Elvis's music and his Lemur-like hip gyrations were a turning point for a whole generation that was moving rapidly away from all the deprivations that period of our history brought with it.
And as the alternative in Ireland was either "Diddley da" music or Irish style country and western with those singing... slurring over both the words and melodies...Elvis and all that followed were a breath of fresh air.

Saturday, December 16

misty day in penketh

I met the oldest grandgirl for lunch at The Harefield cafe up the road.
The day was misty and mysterious.
We had a table by the window and watched the alpacas in the field....lovely time....good food.

Keep warm... 

Friday, December 15

gingerbread houses and neviepie

Every year for quite a few now my daughter makes gingerbread houses as part of her business.
Natasha Collins..Neviepiecakes...designer.
I can't bear to eat these amazing pieces of art and so they sit atop my glass cupboard for me to see and love.
Yes they are gingerbread...but the amount of work and art involved makes them so much more than something to eat.
You might be able to see this year's model in Fortnum and Mason in London.....if you are quick!

This Dutch inspired one is my favourite at the moment.

Monday, December 11

A Poem for Thursday...Driving to Donegal

Driving to Donegal

River Bann in flood  cattle on the bank
cloud and blue patches in an Ulster sky
red barn roofs curved and corrugated
Enniskillen          Omagh              Derry
on the green road sign.   Driving west.
Telegraph wires strung out on drumlins
measuring the miles and the messages
ancient gaelic town lands   anglish form
politics noted in the colour of a flag
politics  black    green     blue     red
and white  with a bloody hand
woven together like fine Sunday linen.
Fecundity found in every hedge and tree
mother Ireland at her most fertile her
green hills swelling as ample breasts
each rowan     ash     willow and oak
hazelnuts beechnuts and acorns with
meadowsweet  knapweed  fireweed and
net fences twined about with red rosebuds
over   under   around the edges of gardens.

Geraldine Snape

Tuesday, December 5

A Poem for Thursday...The Fall

The Fall

Watched rusty leaves turn brown
bend over in the autumn winds
hang on a little longer then fall
and lie in all their glorious
shades now safe from any
sudden squall that might
blow unexpectedly and hit
the birch trees. Old trees 
in the grove. Too tall for
this small garden.

Watched chestnut and oak trees
 against the end wall where 
conkers fall and squirrels
scurry to hide them all in
shallow holes for springtime feasts.
And acorns where striped wasps 
once flirted, laid eggs and changed
the cupped balls to magic creatures
we foolishly name galls. 

All this
from a saggy chair, through blue
painted doors, an autumn shawl flung
lightly round old shoulders. Recalling
the shout of children in the field
once young, now tall with lives
uninterrupted by the thwack of ball 
on bat or cry of yield.

Ahead of the's only Tuesday.