Brolly Folly?

Who cares if it rains?
The warmth of a goodnight kiss
can feel like sunshine!



A Mag 141 prompt which might have been made for us Brits. Thanks, Tess for the inspiration.

Keep It Short

140 characters are all Grandma's Goulash asks for to encapsulate the picture she has chosen today, a good test of the grey cells. Of course, if you are feeling verbose, she will allow you to use 140 words instead.

Something fishy is going on around here! Guy's aren't conforming to the school uniform. They'll end up in hot water, if they aren't careful.

Remembering

He had done the painting of their new home soon after they married. It was to be her birthday gift; a gift that would acquire more importance as their time together stretched into the future, strengthening bonds.
She adored it, hung it in pride of place over the mantel. A day never passed without her smiling as she glanced towards the familiar image and remembered...

Now, she remembers when he was alive, and as shadows dim sunlight, so her face loses all brightness as the first tear falls.

For Mag 139, thanks to Tess and Curtis Wilson Cost who painted the original image.

I jest, I jest!

I start to think of  fifty five

and  know I’m glad to be alive

this Friday evening, for it’s time

to pen G-Man a little rhyme.

He writes ‘em quirky, fun or rude –

so  I guess he must be some cool dude

who never lets his knickers twist –

Could that be ‘cause he’s somewhat p****d?

In view of your illustration this week, G-Man, I hope you'll forgive my flight of fancy, and not take it to heart? LOL.  If you've written a Flash Fiction, do let Mr Knowitall know.

Sans Everthing

For this week's Mag 137, Tess gave us a picture by Francesca Woodman. For some strange reason the shadowed face brought to mind a quote from William Shakespeare's As You Like It - to wit "sans hair, sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything"- and by the time I'd 'played' with the image, these words became even more relevant.

With apologies to Tess, Francesca and William, here is my take on the theme.

Mere shadows of our former selves, we cry,
pleading for more attention. Will we die
unshriven, shrivelled up and forgotten?
As weary flesh and bones crumble, rotten,
past repair, will they remember times when
we would feast on love, feast on it again,
until replete? Who could be berated
for wishing time would halt? We are fated
to be at its mercy, no turning back
to seek love's sustenance which we now lack.

Sauce For The Goose

What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander...
The twirl in Salle's picture made me start to wonder.
I twirled it yet more, then cropped to reveal
a negative whirlpool which had more appeal,
at least, to my eyes...And now it is changed
I find it more pleasing with things rearranged.
I prefer these cool blues, with their watery theme,
to his brick red assemblage on which I'm less keen.
But one lesson I've learned, as I've slowly grown older,
that beauty resides in the eye of Beholder!

Another offering for Mag 136, inspired by Tess and David Salle.

The Buccaneer

He'd sailed all seven seas, but never found
one who could run his wave-locked keel aground
on the shores of passion.  Until they'd met
and touched lips. Their breath and heart beats mingled,
and she was singled out to be his love, 
to dance throughout eternal swathes of Time.

Undercurrents of blue ocean swells
formed the bed on which fair Venus lay
to entertain her valiant pirate lover...

With thanks to Tess, whose Salvador Dali illustration on the Mag 135 inspired this blogpost..

Dance Through Time

And spheres within spheres
circle time
whose grains seep through history,
with the wisdom of fools
building volumes of posterity's future.
The blank pages
and spaces between words
allow alternative realities to creep in;
a dreamworld
hovers beyond awareness,
waiting for a turn of the glass,
waiting for a new beginning
which is only an action replay of the past.


Written for IGWRT's Sunday Challenge, with thanks to Margaret for her picture.

Sound Waves

Melodies
fill my heart with joy.
Their rhythms
resonate
to plucked strings of memories
I hold in my mind,
and I feel
sound waves wrap me round
as I drift
with the tide
which carries me on currents
of swirling music.


Inspired by Tess and Fernand Leger
on the Mag 134.

Rhythm, not blues...

Thoughts took wing,
soared with the primal
music's beat.
In their minds
the dancers travelled
through the night;
wonderland
lay before their eyes
in bright dreams.



Inspired by Tess and her Mag 133

Comparison

The artist featured by Tess on her Mag 131 had a name unusual enough to make me want to know more, and what I found HERE set me thinking - a fatal occupation for any Sunday afternoon!
But eventually, the thoughts condensed into this set of shadormas, a form which, for me, allows thoughts to crystallize before my very eyes.

From two paintings by Adolphe Valette

A figure
stands in the foreground -
but without
any means
of identifying him,
he's an enigma.

Self portrait
by the same artist,
unfinished
and muted,
shows intense concentration,
but hides the real man.

Together,
two paintings capture
a story
still untold,
which our eyes will come to read
in their own fashion.

Superimposed Story

   Part the First

Fluted shell
contains the true spark
of all life.

Safe haven
of encircling arm
guards its fate.


   Part the Second

In shadow,
the fledgling awaits
time to fly

Beat of wings
will echo heartbeats
of success.

A surreal image by Francesca Woodman, which Tess chose for he Mag 130 this week, set me on a similar path. My thanks go to both of them for the inspiration I found in this detail.
But I was also tempted by the following version of the original image...I may write something for it later in the week, who knows?

And now I have - here are a scant 55 words, worthy of G-man...

 Heavy matter drawn into the whirl of lavender light, we have to move into the vortex. Strapped to a Spaceboard designed to sustain life, there is no time to wonder ‘What Next?’ This mission to explore the outer limits of our universe is leading us further than we dared hope, but where will it end?

Dinner At Eight ?

Detail from a painting by John Singer Sargent

A goblet
graces the table;
fresh flowers
add perfume
sweeter than the fragrant wine
which will fill its curves.

Waiting guests'
nostrils, each piqued by
aromas
from the food
soon to be set before them,
quiver and widen.

The key is
anticipation.
It will turn
this evening's
whole dining experience
into something grand.

It may be
stored in memory.
For lean times,
should they come,
will make this night of plenty
something to savour.

Written for Mag #129  and posted on Monday at IGWRT, too...

Confused? What, Me?

 After a frustrating morning when email problems caused hassles I would rather forget, I happened to see that Theme Thursday had the word 'Confusion' for this week, to set everybody thinking - me, included. But that was fatal, for as you will see, my thoughts were what became confused, and this was the result. Be thankful if yours never treat you in the same fashion... 

Bats in the belfry, perhaps... 

If down was up and up was down,
how would we all get around?
Would we tiptoe on our ears,
use our feet to change the gears
of daily living?

Hands would be like stabilizers,
soles would be the supervisors
over paths that lay ahead
of our upside-downside heads.
Luscious locks would sweep the floor,
but baldies crowns might cry "No more!
I cannot stand this rough terrain!
Put me right side up again!"

You see, my thoughts are in confusion
when lunacy makes an intrusion
to my any-which-way head.
I think I should have stayed in bed -
for horizontal gives the lie
to up or down.

Now, I must fly...

Goodbye!

And to cause more of the same, Mrsupole's  linky list will not appear until later this week - but here I am now. How far will the confusion spread in the interim?
And  today, Friday, I've just re-discovered a poem I wrote two years ago on this same subject, so thought I'd add it here as a late edition extra.


Confused? Let me help you!

It doesn't take much to make confusion reign,
for my brain has a habit of leaping
much faster to an end result
than the brain of the one who is speaking.

Now, sometimes that's me- more often another-
as an answer does tend to evolve
in less than a twinkling, as often as not,
to any old question we're trying to solve.

Then I see by the mystified look on their face
that my pal's in the dark, not the dawn,
whilst I have already completed the race
and am standing about with a yawn

till they reach a conclusion that's similar to mine,
though I've already got there in half of the time!

Time To Count 140

Here are one hundred and forty telling characters for Grandma's Goulash:-

Today, this picture made me ponder, people. I know the road to hell is paved with good intentions; I'd say the stairway to heaven is longer.

A Grand Entrance

Mr Bond beside the Queen
in a copter?  What a scene!
British humour at its best
is always better than the rest,
never mind ‘who gets what’ gold,
when a story need be told
our G.B. is right in line
to tell a cracker, every time-
cinema, literature, theatre too-
We’re a very arty crew.

A 55 for G-Man - late, but worth it!

In Philosophical Mood...

Energy,
seeking direction,
falls to earth
from heaven.
Will mankind harness power
for the good of all?

Thanks to Tess and her Mag 127 image by Franz Kline. I've also shared this with The Poetry Pantry.

Noonday

Summer heat
swirls round field and hill;
contours burn.

Siesta
holds an arid land
in stasis.

Words and picture inspired by Tess and Thomas Hart Benton at Mag 125

The Diva

The heart of the Diva with the ruby earring

would sing

long after she had left

the stage. Her audience, feeling bereft,

demanded  an encore,

but "Less is more"

was her motto; though I must mention

how much their attention

had pleased her,

filled her

secret self with  joy.

A table at the Savoy

had been booked by the young man who'd sent

the present,

with a note inviting her to dine

after the show. "Divine!"

was the word which escaped her lips.

Nothing could eclipse

her delight  as she entered his carriage,

one thought in her mind - marriage!

This may be where you all begin to sing"Do not trust him, gently maiden!" But we will assume all is well, and simply say 'Thank you' to Tess and Odilion Redon at Mag 124, where you can see how others interpreted the prompt. 
Also posted to Poetry Pantry 105

Ice Man?

An avalanche shroud;
protruding from frozen ground,
frost blackened fingers.

Mag 123 gave us a black and white image full of menace...Thanks, Tess!
This is my interpretation...