Friday, December 10

Christmas Food Court Flash Mob, Hallelujah Chorus - Must See!

I've  taken this from The weavers site as I want as many of my followers and friends to see this. Like Pat at the Weaver I've had tears from the beginning. So enjoy!


Friday the Tenth Day in Advent.

Grand children arriving!
Putting up the tree.

Thursday, December 9

A poem for Thursday.


The grasses waved for me. 

The sands duned for me.

The waves lapped for me.

The birds skimmed for me.

The skylark soared for me.

The fog horns boomed for me.

And three swans, in formation,
Flew past overhead.
As I received the gift
Of the present.


Thursday the Ninth Day of Advent.

The man on the path
and the winter sun.

Twelve more days and the sun will turn!

Wednesday, December 8


                           Wednesday the Eighth Day in Advent.

" Do you know son, I think we''ll stay up north. It's a lot colder than down south pole at the moment!"

Poem for Magpie Tales. Mag 44.

This is the photo prompt for Mag 44.
I think it's a slippy sliding sleigh...hope it is , 'cause that's my poem.
As Simon and Garfunkel  sang, "Slip Sliding Away".

Don't tell me fairy tales.
Stories for innocents.
Romantic nonsense
That you never meant.

Lullabies at bedtime.
Tales for old men
Crutches for my fears
Now and again.

And don't try to cover up,
What is reality,
When life doesn't mean
Very much more to me.

Though I fill my glass,
Yet the wine has turned sour.
And time slips away from me
Hour by hour.

Can I believe today
Those stories of yesteryear.
When songs were sung and friends
 Were always so near.

Is this the sum of it all
Here on the top of this hill?
Waiting my turn, praying
I don't take a spill.

Nothing to do anymore
Simply to let the past go.
Loosen the cords and gladly
Give thanks for the now.
I'm thankful for now.
For the gift of the present.

Tuesday, December 7

Pink sky and Hoar Frost in Penketh.

This has been such an unusual week weatherwise.
I've moaned a bit...well more than a bit...and of this I'm truly ashamed!
It's a photographer's dream out there. And this is only the suburbs. It'must be glorious in the countryside at the moment.
Now I know it's hard getting around.
Just today a friend fell for the second time as she was on the way to have the plaster taken off the first break!
And I walked to another friend's home for coffee this morning...walking like a very nervous old lady [which I almost am, may I say!]
The fog landed on the trees and vegetation and settled there like sparkling diamonds in clusters.
And this afternoon the sky turned a gorgeous colour of pink!
Camera out!

Nature's Installation.


Tuesday the Seventh Day in Advent.

How remiss of me to forget to post St. Nicholas yesterday.

Happy Sinterklaas Day to all Dutch friends and followers!
Did you get any money or goodies in your shoes?

I took a couple of courses with a young Romanian Icon writer recently and this was one of the results.
As my granddaughter pointed out,"he isn't finished"
[His hand still has to be painted...I'll get around to it one day].

Monday, December 6

Ceramic Letters.

A new word completed recently.
Really I suppose Alan should have written "SNOW"!

Not many people made it to the studio today. The fog froze on the trees as it touched them.
It made for a wonderful scene, but rather dangerous underfoot. 

A winter wonderland.


Monday sixth day of Advent.

A snow angel!

Sunday, December 5

The Local.

This one is for the favourite pub.
Well in the 50s and 60s ..this was a favourite drinking spot for some very well known people who came up for the amazing number of clubs here in the north west.
After performing I'm told they would gather in the off licence in the back room, behind the shop, and music and drinking would go on until the wee hours.

T'were Greenall Whitley's place, me lad,
An' had been moneys a year.
Where t'folk brought roun' their jugs, me lad,
Tay git their daily beer.

They'd send out kid with jug, me lad,
An' biggest jug at that.
Whilst they'd wait by the fire, me lad,
They feet upon t'mat.

But rack 'n' ruin soon took it lad,
An' twalls was fallin' down.
You cudna get thy beer, my lad
Thou needst go in t' town.

The place is very different lad,
The cellars locked 'n' barred.
They've put a brand new floor in it.
It looks like folk  have cared.

But t' ghost of Acker Bilk, me lad,
Still lingers in the shop.
When he sold us things for sixpence lad,
An' made our eyeballs pop.

An' little Geordie Harrison
When only seventeen,
Would come to help the manager
 T' keep the shelving clean.

The place is full of art, me lad,
Too posh for folks like us.
They're sellin' bits o' pot, me lad,
Gotten rid of all the dust.

Still, I like to think on't past, me lad.
On't histry o' the place.
When I were young an' free, me lad.
And I were in the race.

The human race....lad!

Yes they really did come here and really did stand behind the servery and sell everything for sixpence...much to the worry of the manager.
They had sing songs in the back room....and an inordinate amount of I'm told.
But of course this is only hearsay!

The Poetry Bus.

                                       Taa!  Daa!    

For your pleasure and delectation
The  one, the very only,
The poem
For the door
Of The Potters House."

[Is it cheating that I only have to pop across the yard to put it in a shop?.....  hope not.]

So this is a contribution to the great Poetry Bus theme this week.
But I'm inspired now and maybe there should be a "Guerrilla Poetry Group" just like "Guerrilla Gardeners"