It seems like, in a blink of an eye or a twitch of a nose,
Our shape alters and our skin unfolds.
All at once looks take on a different role,
Putting us on another journey, aiming us towards a new goal.
Only now, at this late stage of life do we find out,
if we have worked hard enough on the true us.
For now we rely on what we have on the inside.
Our kindness, personality, empathy and fun.
Can we attract others to us because we are,
Good to be near, have something worthwhile to say
Have we worked hard on ourselves over the years,
Accumulated knowledge that others can’t wait to hear.
Where has the time gone … in a blink of an eye.
Will I have done enough, before that last goodbye.
To be remembered for what I became.
Not a face with wrinkles,
some long forgotten name.
By Ellen Best 2021
This came from me finding the above photo, it seems like a few weeks since it was snapped but the mirror tells a different story. I held my face in both hands and wept.
Age is nothing but a number, and our looks are only skin deep, these are well-worn cliche’s but they are the truth. Who we are is what carries us through to the end. Men are beginning more and more to do the same, work on their outward appearance. Women especially, work and have for centuries, on how to present themselves. Learning about the best clothes for our shape, which makeup will cover our flaws. After all first impressions count, we have friends to make, Husbands to attract, jobs/positions to win.
Should that be taught? How to work just as hard on the inside, maybe from infancy? Self matters, the substance of you will one day be all you have left. I am not suggesting that things are not changing, there is a lot of work being done in schools and homes aimed at teaching self-worth, and bravo to that. But the way we look needs to be … something we do secondary to the way we feel, think and express ourselves. To become a good human being is to love who you are. So when life has taken that youthful glow, stretched once supple flesh and slowed us down … we can still hold our own, we will be worthwhile and have something of value to offer. Getting us to believe that is what needs to come next.
I would love to hear your opinions please leave a comment I will answer them all.
The twelve things of this years Christmas are in picture form above.
My favourite ornament, it has not changed I just stupidly adore my thoroughly modern Angel. An angel in a red coat with a swanky bag. She watches down from above my books, keeps an eye on me. When Christmas is about Angel takes up a different spot. Overlooking the whole affair, smart with tidy dark brown hair. Her coat a ruby shade of red, like santa’s, it has been said her wings and heart shaped bag glisten in the Christmas lights. She is my favorite ornament by far. If Christmas was still to be Christmas she simply must be there.
Charlie. Is a poem I wrote and love it so much.It encapsulates the spirit of kindness of which this weird year I have seen quite a lot. So for your delectation, get the tissues and be prepared to weep.
Charlie wasn’t keen on Christmas, because of the paper, the lights and all the waste, He didn’t think it good to eat so much, when others went hungry, It soured the taste.
Charlie loved wearing Granddad’s flight jacket, the best ever Christmas gift, Grandma said he wore it each day, walking back from his overnight shift.
The coat was cumbersome and heavy, if zipped it came way past his throat. His arms needed to be longer, the leather smelt of tobacco, the wool a dirty old Goat.
But, Charlie could fit mucky Ethel, underneath it when the rain soaked all her card. Or the snow made her fingers go blue … as she sat in that old butchers yard.
He could fit a curled up ham sandwich and an apple from Grandma’s dish, Deep inside the wool lined pocket. So Charlie, he made a new Christmas wish.
He wished that all people had bedrooms, a place to rest their head. That mucky Ethel could have a bath and a coat to hold over her own head.
But Santa, he did not come calling, to the people who lived on the street. Instead he hoped they would have their own Charlie, who would give the shoes from their feet.
My favourite Christmas coat, I feel like Christmas is here when I wear it. I secretly long to be the Angel in number 1.
Christmas Horror stories, These Books, ‘Horror Anthologies’ are the perfect introduction to short snappy stories to be told around the fire. The fact that they each carry one of my own tales inside, makes them even more special. I hope to scare family over zoom this year, but of course, you could buy them as gifts if you wish. A new book is on pre order coming soon Wings and Fire.
Snow! Writing Merry Christmas in snow, building a snow man and sharing it even if it is only on Zoom; would be magical. It will be in the lap of Mother nature but I have asked Santa and I have been good.
CRACKERS! Yes I know but I do not mean me, or the ones with Cheese. I mean who could have a Christmas weird or not without a cracker to pull, a joke to read and a tacky prize. No they are in my Christmas 2020 regardless of weird.
A TREE. no matter how big how bright or how simple, a decorated tree is simply a must. As is a glass of cream brandy liqueur, Michael Bubl’e on the speakers and plenty of giggles. It is just what I want to do and so should you.
The grandchildren, We can not have them all so we will have none. But Christmas without there faces would be the unhappiest place for me. The one above is Ivy. we have two expected in spring and the chronological list is this.
Merlot 15, Flynn 14, Ivy 5, Mabel 4, Matilda 4. Penelope 3, George 18months. How could we have Christmas without all of these. So we will eat breakfast together and I will tell stories and jokes and we will do this while they open our gifts under their own trees.
Santa and this one is special, another will never do. Santa has stuck by me and taken me through the bad times and delivered the goods. He will be with me at Covid-19s Christmas. We on a normal year have a tradition. We find a day where we can get as many family together and have our ‘Best’ Christmas celebration, 2018 we managed 19 guests. We have, food and drink, crackers and silly hats, music and laughter. Our tradition of the table game, secret santa. Each household brings, a male gift and a female gift, two children friendly ones each for under £7 each. each plainly wrapped with M,F,C on the package. After dinner the pile (to which I have added extras), is put in the middle; with my santa for luck (santa guides the dice). The die is rubbed and kissed the air thick with anticipation. Each of us take turns to throw, you need a double 6 to collect a gift. This continues until the pile has gone. At this point you can donate, or stick. Players usually donate (if a child has not won a parcel) then we begin again. This time, any double thrown, of any number can now steal. The packages have treats, silly things, and booby prizes inside. We laugh until we all have wet faces and gasp for breath. Not covid appropriate, or safe for 2020, so this year it will be sorely missed.
A phone, TO call up Mother, and people who do not have mobiles or wifi. yes they exist and I will not leave them out.
My bird feeding regime begins in earnest usually with a poem about feeding the birds, With no children to share in the feeding this year I will video myself singing Mary Poppins famous song (I can not sing) Feed the birds and send one to each family household so they can see the birds get fed and Grandma Duck is still bonkers enough said.
My rock/pebble painting, represents a song and the year where saying I love you has been there to replace hugs and kisses that we all are still missing.
Which is your favourite of my #12Christmas2020Things did you like best and what will your celebration miss. answers in the comments, I am dying to know.
standing tall making it possible to stay home instead.
For The packers and stackers
the fund raisers and the backers.
Clap for the Teachers for all they do
for the frontliners and vulnerable kids.
For those that are shattered
but still turned up to assist.
The cleaners and porters,
their sons and daughters.
The refuse collectors
the postie delivering parcels and letters.
The Care workers holding loved ones hands.
Together on Thursdays We’d clap.
The trades that are on standby for
emergency plumming and heating.
The door knockers with boxes and
a happy greeting, ready with smiles
For the people they are meeting.
The aged alone, some scared isolating.
The police the firemen the ambulance drivers,
To the paramedics, the nurses, doctors and cleaners, we give thanks.
To the politicians who try to sort it all out,
We clapped for the Vets who cared for our pets.
The chemist the grocer the butcher the baker. We are proud of the Mums and the dads,
Temporarily wearing teachers hats.
The home workers that keep the economy fed,
For the corner shops, serving, doing their best
Clap for the garage mechanics delivering goods,
With no engines to build or MOT’s to test.
To Morticians and undertakers, the funeral directors.
The Churches and councillors stepping up to the plate
The volunteer groups working till late,
Those building temporary mortuaries and hospitals,
To pick up the slack, without you we couldn’t see a way back.
We clapped for our Forces who stand up for us all,
always prepared to answer the call.
Simple steps helped us to survive,
I composed this poem in April 2020 when the first wave of the virus took so many lives. October arrived, people had become complacent, believing themselves to be invincible. Once again, the numbers began to rise. I have posted this poem to remind us how keeping your distance, washing your hands and wearing a mask was not hard, it flattened the curve. Businesses then re-opened and Schools trickled back. People flouted the guidelines by coming together, parties were had, masks discarded like old chip-paper in the streets. Many were defiant and selfish, they screamed abuse at the ones still complying with the guidelines. Masses of people said, their civil liberties were being eroded, they caused uproar and refused to comply.
And here we are now! In our Winter of discontent. Made by covid-19 and exacerbated by selfishness and greed. But we know when we come together and care like before, we kept the pandemic from entering our door. I ask you this, “What good are jobs? if we are dead in our beds.” So this Christmas, when governments have tried to relax some of the rules … just remember, if you go too far we will pay for it in lives, not just tax.
Be kind and leave comments, but remember this is my home, and my opinions. I wish for you all to be safe.
My goodness I am in awe. I can, get my brain around a poem, deliver an artistic > cough < free write, a passable rhyming piece, or a limerick. But the poetry I read over at Colleen Cheeseborough’s place, this is so far away from that.
I penned a rhyme to let the true poets know what I think of their work. And below is none of the following. Types of Poetry.
Tanka. … Haiku. … Cleve … limmerick. … lyrical poem. … narrative poem. … ode. … sonnet. … Ballad. … Acrostic. … A double Enneade. … these are just some forms that I can list, though there are many more I have yet to find.
I bow before you all, Composers of life, Love and lament. Winding words with Gold-leaf, painting Architectural prose, Like attempting To cement back on The Sphinxes nose.
How poor my attempt,
too ashamed am I to lay it here,
discarded like Vincent’s ear.
But yet I parry the expected blows
from fencer’s cries and a Sphynxes nose,
for who am I to try?
And so in this place I walk away,
I concede defeat
When you read sophisticated Poetry or verse, do you think … best concede defeat? Answers or comments down below please, I love to chat.
My muse loves to surprise me! She won’t be wrangled or shoved in a slot for my writing needs. It was three in the morning, I was poked from behind closed eyelids, her pencil sharpened to the stabbiest point.
Did she not hear me say, “I will write from 11/4 three days a week,” I had thought about it long and hard. Once I decided on the most beneficial time I began.
At this point I will admit that since stopping work, I never plan anything but medical appointments, and family visits. I no longer wear a watch, except for my fitbit, again I admit, I never look at that, except to see if I actually got up from my desk in the last eight hours. I eat when hungry, or when the husband feeds me. I get up when I need a pee, or the dog squeaks a toy at my feet and presses her nose into my knee. Oh, and I prefer ‘pantsing’ when I write, which I know, makes for a much more difficult editing process.
On days that I am unable to write, unwell, preoccupied, fatigued or just not in the space, I read. Scrabble, the word game is also my thing. But even, then my procrastination involves me writing on my blog. So what you have learnt, is that I write to rest, I read and blog and scrabble to procrastinate. There is a theme going here, I am just a wordy bird.
So, lets get back on point. I made the decision to be, … more organised. The Husband laughed raucously at that bit. I shaded sections of my spanking new planner, set reminders and post-it notes on the fridge, my phone and laptop. Dog walking poop picking (a fur mummies job) and feeding 6.30 /7.30 bin sorting, (eco freaking the husband calls it). Shower and clean myself and the bathroom and sort the washing and kitchen by 10.30. Thirty minute catch up with ‘The Husband’ shared kisses and moans, laughter and news, then settle to write.
Well that was the plan. I think that word, … plan is what done it, scuppered the whole thing. 3 am poke poke, my muse awoke. At first, I ignored her mutterings, but she was persistent. It started with faint whispers, ones I had to listen to with great care. The next thing I knew, was that there was absolutely no use in staying in bed.
So that was that, wrapped in pyjamas with my lucky pen, at my desk my day began. Before I knew it, it was dusk my mind was empty my muse asleep. So you see there is no use planning without the agreement of your muse. Mine refuses to comply or to enter into any discussion. I rise, when I am woke by the mutterings. I sleep when they sleep and then there is life.
Are you a planner? or a seat of your pants type of person? Do you have a muse? answer please in the comments. I love to chat.
The nail-biting journey through the pages of this book will be a vacation from the norm; a holiday (for U.k. readers). The stories of Spellbound are wrapped in mystery. Each tale penned within is steeped in intrigue, magic, and mayhem. Written by a group of writers who each bring a different take on the theme. You will be drawn in by witches and sorcerers, have your head poked and prodded with warped psychological twists and turns. You will read fairy tales no longer fit for fairies.
There is something for everyone to enjoy. None of the Authors have suffered any permanent damage in the writing of this book, … <eye twitches>. There are tales written by authors from across the globe, so expect some differences in Grammar and spelling. None of the language used within, Is deemed lewd, or unsuitable. As a precaution, I suggest that people with a delicate nature may wish to adopt the safety measures that follow. Seat yourself in the corner, the sofa or a comfy place, hold firmly to a cushion, to be used to muffle screams, or cover eyes, knees bent under the chin, feet pushed into the seat, to grip and prevent any involuntary leaping.A raised heartbeat is considered normal during the reading of this book.
Finally, I thank Dan Alatorre, for the opportunity to submit a story and have it accepted. My third story included in the series “The Box under the bed.” I thank Robbie Cheadle for making the advert shown, with an excerpt taken from my story. “The Comeuppance Of Rob Kearney.” it goes without saying I thank, the editors, beta readers, promoters and marketers. without whom, this would not have been published.
I would love you to leave a comment, cheer me on, share, or both,
Our local Theatre put out a call for writers of stories. They were to be set in locations where people live in the town or surrounding villages. Stories that could be fact, fiction, historic or contemporary. The one proviso was they must invite the listener to walk the tale, like a tour you get in the grounds of a stately home, or a museum. To encourage people to take a journey to a place that may be new to them, and immerse themselves in to the experience.
I researched the historic facts for authenticity. The costume from the period it was to be set. My idea was coming together, to help me think it through, I ran myself a bath. It is a foible of mine, to soak in warm bubbly froth; to think, and probably why I am somewhat vertically challenged ( maybe I shrink).
The pen twitched in my hand, the bath grew tepid, the skin crinkled on my feet. My pen scratched for hours as a tale began to form on the page.
There was a time limit, and it had to fit with health and safety in mind. “Turn to the left and beware of traffic.” Over the next weeks it was pinched and squeezed. It was lengthened and shortened and tweaked. Next, it had to be recorded as I walked, we needed to see if It would fit in the allotted ten minute slot. Eventually I entered my piece.
My flushed, excited face spent days grinning after I was told my tale had been chosen. Things were happening, auditions for readers, music scores written and sound tracks found to enhance the world as I saw it. An artist drew a map so people could print it off and follow it as a guide. And this was done for each of the seven stories that were chosen. Please click on the link below to download any story that catches your eye.
Welcome to my page! My name is Emily, I'm a Registered Nurse and Holistic Nutrition Student with a passion for the connection between nutrition and health! Check out this page for plant based recipes, nutrition and fitness tips and all things wellness!
Eric Sinclair - optimist, author, Stroke Association volunteer, occasional chorister - all views my own but fully endorsed by the whippet. "Being challenged in life is inevitable, being defeated is optional"