In The Groove

An excerpt variation on "Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther"

Round and round the records spin
to fill the room with sound
and vinyl voices take the air
as pop song verses pound.

The needle tiptoes in its groove,
a dancer all on point
a-balancing upon one leg
with an electronic joint

connected to the magic box;
a "Dansette" it was called
and in those early plastic days
it kept the youth enthralled.

Before the days of DVDs
or CD's silver faces,
black record-ridges were the norm,
no need for airs or graces!


Written for Tess at The Mag

Handfast

His right hand outstretched,
rigid, palm up, unbending,
offering its strength.

Her left hand, pliant,
curves to accommodate it;
vulnerable trust.

Partnership begins;
how long such a link will last
is never certain.


Written for The Mag, with thanks to Tess and the unknown photographer.

Knit Wit?

Feet are neat -
though maybe not sweet?
But a body sock leaves
toes exposed. Please,
enthusiastic knitter,
don't be a quitter.
Clack you needles again
and make some socks, plain
or patterned will do!
I ask you,
how else will I keep
the warmth in my feet?

Thanks to Tess at The Mag for the intriguing example of one knitter's wit! LOL :)

I noticed another couple of interesting excerpts too...so here they are.

Monkey god with supplicant?

Still life monotone

 

Caution!

Indrawn smoke
turns ashen lungs black,
like widow's weeds...








Even stale cigarette butts can be turned to good use - go here to see more attempts, thanks to Tess and R A D Stainforth.

Greetings!

To Blogpals far and near who happen upon this card -

I made it to share, so feel free to help  yourselves! 

Reflected Light

Remember how this winter day gave light
to country fields where frost and snowflakes lay?
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

When phantoms lurk and prowl our inner sight
and blackest thoughts intrude and bar our way,
remember how this winter day gave light.

Its hoarfrost beauty kept the landscape bright,
attempting evening darkness to delay...
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

To those who'd choose to flee to calm their fright
there's scant advice to give, except to say
"Remember how this winter day gave light."

Then their unease must give way to delight;
although the sun had seemed to hide away,              
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

And should your future self meet such a plight,
in each reflective moment, do, I pray,
remember how this winter day gave light;
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

Thanks to Tess and Andy Magee at The Mag #148 for their inspiration. I have also linked this to Poets United, and IGWRT too.

Heavy

Broad shoulders
may bear many weights.
Ask Atlas.

For other ways of looking at the world, take a trip to see more at The Mag 147, thanks to Tess and the photo source here.

Left On The Shelf

Two abandoned rings
underline your absence,
leave a vapour trail of emotion
across a sky where stars, this day,
are hidden.
Love has been eclipsed
by a black moon,
and the chill of outer space
invades my universe.



Written for the Mag 146, thanks to Tess and  Man Ray's Object to be Destroyed.

IGWRT Monday

End Of Autumn

The white-disc moon of daylight hours
hides briefly behind clouds whose showers
sprinkle drops of silver rain that glint
as sunshine slants again
across the land.

Through spiders' webs of crystal laces
peep holly’s bright red, berry faces.
Their glossy leaves sharp-pointed splinters
prod days of autumn into winter’s
frosty hand.

An old poem presented for Toads' Open Link Monday, as I thought it needed an airing!

Sisters

Sepia Saturday featured an old photo of two little girls, so I played with this modern one of my two sweetie pie granddaughters, and aged it accordingly.Guess they should have been wearing frilly white cotton frocks, don't you think? :) But I began thinking of 'the sister I never had,' and the following lines wrote themselves!

I never had a sister,
so I guess I missed a
lot of fun.
I may have done...
but who knows?
We may have come to blows!
Although I think not.
I had a brother and we swapped
mostly laughs and jokes
and learned to poke
fun at ourselves, too.
That was a good thing to do,
for a little mirth
is worth
a mountain of tears,
in later years!

Golly Gosh! Friday 55 Looms!

Last week, I noticed Doctor FTSE, in his explanation of a triangular number, had given us all the chance to follow his fool proof method for producing 55 words, almost at the drop of a hat. So I've had a week to do a bit of counting and fiddling with vocabulary to produce my offering for G-Man .

We
have seen
the power of
words, when they are
allowed to become the focus
of a writer’s attempt to explain
an idea on a page. Immediately, our
eyeballs as well as brains begin to display
a need for some sense of order, and suddenly
the poet departs, leaving in his place a mere writer!

Okay, so it's only Thursday, but I will be able to link this ready made post first thing on Friday!

Three Riddles

A bit of fun for Friday - I wonder who will be the first to email me with three correct answers? Please  email me direct, if you think you know what they are, then it won't stop later visitors from having to use their grey cells too!

Number 1

The metal blade is sharp and thin
its point is ready to plunge in-
but not to flesh, simply to paper
an ideal, paper sculpture maker.

Number 2

Our grate was covered with black lead,
but mine remains inside my head
and body, too; throughout it's length
my wooden bones will give it strength.

Number 3

I'm drowning from the inside out,
and steam clouds billow from my spout.
When my hot spots start to bubble,
stand well clear for T means Trouble!

Casualty of War

Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton

Her token
lavender and lace
disguised
a life lived
in quiet contemplation
of a secret admirer.

His bouquets
once used the language
of flowers
to declare,
by their bashful eloquence,
his love and admiration.

But the war
stole his life from him
and left her
with nothing
but memories, as fragile
and elusive as perfume...

Written for The Mag 143, with thanks to Tess.

Icon for 2012

Like a study for a stained glass window
she sits in passive stillness, watching him
take her photograph, this prying artist
who unthinkingly captures her spirit.

She lacks energy to protest. Instead,
she has withdrawn into a time and a place
where she can ignore his reality.

We are left to wonder what she might say
if her image could come to life and speak.

Once again, Thanks to Tess for her Mag 142, which sets our creative juices flowing.

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.