the sun stops...

 

Thoughts at the Turn of the Year… when the Sun Sits Still.

"Then Joshua said..."Sun, stand still".....Josh.10:22" 

15.58pm

 last walk down the old field path

My thoughts begin with water in the rill

Full-ferned and moss-muddlied. There sits

A crow on the topmost level of

A bowing birch. Above it still the gibbous moon

Silver-sailing in a pale mourning sky.

 

the ever watchful crows

The magi of mushrooms and

Pale greenness of lichen and I am

Mind-spinning at the turn of the tired old year.

There a gathering of shining starlings

Sitting slanted on an earthen roof and

 

...so this is how the nasturtiums finish...

Wood pigeons murmuring a pied-melody

Where trees scarlet and leaves tumble.

..tumbling leaves and scarlet berries...

The turning prowls through my memories.

Sometimes there are assembling hours

And heaven beckons. Sometimes a glimpse

 

Of seedful poppies sinning in strawberry beds

Scattering feral banks on fecund land.

...the quiet strawberry beds...

So here's to the "Long Moon"to the "Cold Night Moon" to the coming again of "The Light"

Here's to the yuletide log...and the family feasting...here's to love and kindness.

To all.

Looking for the Penketh Kingfisher....

 We go regularly to try and see a kingfisher on the brook nearby.

Never have.

But  often meet up with those who have...and feel a bit miffed that it's so elusive for us!

The brook is first seen at the bottom of the lane by The Potters House Penketh on Heath Road.

We stand at the bridge and gaze over...but though the view is lovely...no kingfisher.

We walk through the housing estate to the brook as it travels ever down to the Mersey...

No kingfisher...though this morning a post on social media rejoiced at the sight of it flying across the the water!

So the best I can do is post this poem written after another unsuccessful lockdown search.....

               

 Kingfisher

I went looking each day    for the kingfisher

where it had been    when it was seen

no sign   no joy   when I went looking

 

I saw the skinny long-legged fisherman

his steely presence   stately gaze

coiling his neck in a waiting game

but never the fisher-king

 

by park   canal   by river and brook

no splash of water   no flash of blue

nor was it seen on the brim of my ken

when I went looking

 

I saw swans glide and paddle   their full-wings

poised   posing for artists   cygnets behind

in a frothy wake   by some willow herb

but nowhere the Penketh bird

 

I am abandoned   covet the sight

long for his beauty   cut to the quick.

Geraldine Snape Jan 2021

 

November Sunshine...

 

It's not an easy thing coping with change in these days... 

Lines are drawn on winter grass

I stop and stand for a moment

whisper...don't go...don't go.

It's my soul song  my heart cry

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Black oak stark against blueness

Drawing  restoring  slow breathing

sigh...don't leave...don't leave.

My soul song   my heart cry

Shell and bone   feather and stone.

For these we give thanks again

For copper rustling  mossed cushions

cry...stay awhile...stay awhile.

Sing my soul song   slow my heartbeat

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Lines are drawn on winter grass

A low sun moves and shadows pass

now going...soon fading.

My heart cry   my soul song

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Lockdown walks...

Here's a pic of some summer flowers in the herb garden.

"Fox and cubs"

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 novel....to 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.

Algorithms

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.

Lost.....and found.

I have a green cardboard folder full of my writing from the Thursday morning group at The Gateway in Warrington.

Until Friday evening when I suddenly realised I had no idea where it was...it was just my Thursday folder...albeit packed full of years of flash fiction, short stories and quick poetry.

Then yesterday it dawned on me that I must have left it on the bus I took to get home from town.

The potter's mobile wasn't picking up so no lift.......then get on a bus.

But my pensioner's card is out of date..I know I should get it renewed and I only had a £10 note...embarrassing.

I felt ashamed...but thought that the driver could probably see that I was no spring chicken...definitely over 60!

After Cafe at The Oaks Community today we went to the bus station fearing for the worst.....but lo and behold..as the angels said...there was the precious folder still in it's linen shopping bag.

I just hadn't realised how precious those written words were to me.

It was my prompt on Thursday and I took a handful of old snaps to inspire everyone to write a five minute "flash fiction" with each one.

Fun all the way.

Here is my very..Flash...fiction of a poem....

She loved them all

But which to choose?

They lingered near

She made no fuss.

He threw his arm 

around her shoulder

She liked him

As he was a wee bit older.

But Stan on the end

Had money and house

And Bert was strong

Tho' feart as a mouse.

She turned them down

And lived alone

With ten feral cats

And a dog with a bone.

The best I could do in five minutes.

Ruskin's Library ... Brantwood..

Brantwood

This  for me is the most interesting room in Ruskin's home at Brantwood on the banks of the Coniston Water.

We were given the prompt by Geraldine Green to write about several of the curiousities in the cabinets.

I like a cabinet or shelf of curiousities...I have quite a few...the family would say.

Ruskin's Library

The moths are dead and lie under a protective glass dome
no danger to the carpets now         a wasps nest is empty
and the buzzing occupants have fled       to a foreign field
though the hover fly hovers no more              in my mind
I still hear his song of summer       by the specimen chest
it's closed drawers                         and locked cupboards
invite  illicit exploration                or maybe the bookcase
dusted and locked securely                  against the moths
will  reveal the truth              truth about the Turner copy
did the grand man know the artist            was he thrilled
to be chosen to reside in Ruskin's library               where
the Madonna still comforts her holy crying child
now fixed in stone         colour glazed       Liverpool style
over the fireplace            at a window seat there is space
enough     to hide       behind a long green velvet curtain
instructions tell me                I must not touch or horror
of horrors play                with the Armillary sphere     or
woe betide me     if            I  use the ornate writing tray
with its inks to pen my  inktober poems           better far
to find my own curled leaf   out      in the gardens where
freedom  reigns                        and rain brings freedom.

A Shelf of Curiousities with the potter's ceramic clown at the front.

A Box of Vanitas....Broken Bird's Eggs found in the field

Venus of the Bay...vanitas

Have fun this week everyone. x

a Poem for Thursday....Preston Patrick in March

Preston Patrick in March

Preston Patrick in March.

 If you don’t hurt crows

They won’t hurt you

My father said

And I believed him.

Chorus :-

While water drips

In a blue plastic drum

Water runs from

A pipe in the yard

Water brown bubbling

And smelling strong.

In the ring of trees

Black branched

Against a pearly sky

Crows weave nests.

Chorus:-

Ghost trees hover high

On early green hills

And mist and low cloud

Merge in distant perspectives.

Chorus:-

There sits a flatbed trailer

Unmoved by their caws

And rusty supports form

As iron oxidises.

Chorus:-

The inspiration for the first stanza came out of a poem by Vicki Feaver in her  book,

 “The Handless Maiden”…Cape Poetry

Wasps…

“If you don’t hurt wasps

They won’t hurt you

My father told me.

But I didn’t believe him,”

A Poem for Thursday....Armagh Tellings

It was such a great pleasure to be part of International Women's Day this year as I spent it in Northern Ireland...and joined some other writers at Bangor Library to read our writings.

The day was organised by Jane Talbot @http://janetalbotwriter.com  and the readings at Bangor were lead by Liz Weir.....@.http://www.lizweir.org

Then being encouraged by several friends to "get my work out there"...I offered a couple of poems for Josephine Corcoran's blogpost...."And other Poems"

What joy to get a lovely message from her that she had chosen this one about the old family farm in Armagh. 

Thankyou to all who allowed me to share some words.

‘Armagh Tellings’ by Geraldine Snape

Posted on March 17, 2017 by Josephine Corcoran

Armagh Tellings
I remember hearing about
Newtownhamilton and granny.
I was told about how the
hens scuttled around where
Summer’s swifts filled the farmyard.
Told about the road to market taken
By the broad carthorse that
turned the wheel that
churned the butter..
That was the pride of Armagh….and
Dad wearing a top hat and
Him perched proudly on the cart.
And I remember
Drumlins everywhere you looked.
And the roads flying by..Killyfaddy,
Tassagh, and Dundrum.
And there’s the wee post office…neat and sparse
With Will Moore and his little mum.
And
William James from..the Braeside..
That’s running along the border..
By Annvale road…and the lake.
And the famous Darkley Mill.
And I remember the stories of the
Farm and how they said that
Sarah Makem who worked at the mill
Sometimes sang in the yard
And there’s the C of I at
Armaghbreague
Where I once met a Mr. Lowry
whose mum knew dad apparently …..
There on Annvale road and
found that dad had been there before!!..
Albert Nesbit…Megagherty…..Watsons.
There’s two piers guarding a lane to a farm
To 26 Corkley….and there’s a possibility
That it was Joe’s farm.
Out comes the present owner
As rough as a badger…
He owns a tractor from ’61
Bought it when he moved there…Said it worked still.
Said he never needed a wake up call.
Said he rose in the morning with the first horn…
From..Darkley Mill.

This poem was read aloud in Bangor Library for International Women’s Day on March 8th 2017.




Geraldine Snape was born in Belfast and now lives in Warrington. She has been in Belfast recently as part of the Women Aloud NI readings in libraries, book shops and town centres. She is a member of Geraldine Green’s group that meets in Kirby Lonsdale every month and is a member of Bold Street Writers group in Warrington. Instagram geraldinesnape

A Poem for Thursday

The Midsummer Knight's Dream

This morning at the Thursday morning writers group the prompt was  from Margaret K.

" Brush up your Shakespeare"

.

But some of us were grieving for another writer of both comedy and tragedy ....

Victoria Woods. 

Then on top of it being Shakespeare's birthday this week...a double whammy with The Queen's 90th. today. What a week! Now whether you are for or against the Monarchy...to celebrate a 90th birthday and be the longest reigning Queen ever, deserves at the very least a mention.

 But my thoughts were about Victoria...the Queen of Comedy since the 70s......and this one is for her...and for her beloved Morecambe...and in particular Lubin's...a place of inspiration. We were lucky enough to eat there  many times before it closed its doors for good. 

I have read that..." Is it on the trolley?"... maybe a quote from Lubin's !!!!!

Some artistic licence in this mad sonnet.

The Midsummer Knights Dream

We sat on the crimson red sofa,

The potter, the daughter and me.

We ordered a platter with cheeses

Some bread and a big pot of tea.

When who should come in through the doorway

With her children and husband in tow

Victoria and the Magician

In his best Sunday suit and his bow.

The sun caught the top of his bald pate,

She heaved up her boobs from below.

Her kids ordered meat pie at Lubin's

And icecream to have on the go.

But the dream was just Midsummer Madness

For she's gone, and we're left with our sadness.

A Poem for Thursday.

A Poem for Thursday

Today at the writers' workshop the prompt was from Shauna. She gave each of us some pages with interesting lists, to make us think about our lives and the people associated with us at various stages of it.

Time Line..............I choose 10 - 15. ...it was the 50s, it was Co Down, and all was well in my world.

Before the Fall

Time was endless, friends were many.

Vicky and Sandy, and I was Gerry.

We laughed a lot, linked arms and talked

About boys we fancied and those we stalked.

A caravan was where we gathered 

Under the stars at Ballyferris

Our bare feet kicking the silver sand.

Where time was endless, nothing planned.

"There's  Cassiopeia and there's the Plough".

"Oh your luck's in, there's a shooting star!"

We raced down maran covered dunes

And harmonised on Western tunes.

And miles away on the far horizon

Were ships bound for ports in the land of England.

We seldom thought of our futures then,

But time and tide don't wait for man.

They pass unseen and never waver

Then gather up all in their net without favour.

And I daren't go back to that holy place

Where time stood still. A time when space

And mercy was real, before the fall

That enveloped and overwhelmed us all.

A Poem for Thursday..."Just Desserts"

The prompt on Thursday morning was...."Desserts"...but with out fail everyone of us thought of "Just desserts". So the stories were rich with comeuppances!!
I decided to go for lists. We had been encouraged at the last workshop at Aldeburgh to think along this line...so this is what arrived.

...it applies to whatever you do....

A Poem for Thursday....."Antibiotics"

My mother lived alone after dad died even though she was the one who had been ill.
Looking back to when I was still living in the family home in Belfast and rebelling if not outwardly ...definitely inside...I'm thankful for this woman who was a rock formed in the fire of extremely difficult circumstances.


                  Antibiotics

She never cried, she was as solid as a rock
Except on the days she remembered her sister
And the fun they had shared in the big house.
But apart from that she was a stoic and
I knew that the winds of life would not bend her.
Except on the days we made the beds together
And she sighed as quiet tears wet her marshmallow cheeks.
A memory of her mother tucking white crisp hospital corners
Around striped ticking mattresses.
But that was all there was to it then.
I could never hope to come up to that steely reserve
And be the unmoved.
Though there were occasions when the armchair in the corner
By the fireplace seemed too big for her.
Too big, and she filled  the edges of the cushions
With lace edged hankies damp and tucked away and hidden.
Then her brother's name was whispered quietly
As if such a thing could never have happened.
Though it did, for those were the days before the miracles.
We call them antibiotics and warn our families against taking them.

The Aftermath.

The Aftermath 

Passively they wait

On chairs of tubular steel

With worn brown seats of moquette.

…whatever is true…

Minutes slink by in the space

Left silently peopled

By worry.

…whatever is noble…

There, black-uniformed security

Usher restless souls

To relative safety.

…whatever is right…

With frozen smiles

And blank eyes

They size up

The future vacuum.

…whatever is pure…

Hearts beat wildly

The pulse races madly

They breathe…slowly and deliberately.

…whatever is lovely…

There is sky,

And urban normality

Somewhere out there.

But ,

In another past ,

In a different life.

…whatever is admirable…

They think on these things.

Linking this poem to The Mag 148  today.

and also for dVerse 75... this week organised by Joseph Hesch..






...such a scene...the dark day and the lonely road...could belong to a Seamus Heaney anthology!....thankyou Tess!