A Seat In The Bleak.

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Thank you Sue Vincent for the photo this week and the opportunity.  Press here To join in this weeks prompt. #WritePhoto

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Bleak, some say this view is bleak, the empty to me isn’t empty. The sky speaks of things to come and hints at things just past. I gaze thoughtfully while digging deeper into my pockets dipping my chin so the zipper scratches my nose. My quiet contemplating place; perched on crag like a bird with its feathers ruffled. Hair whips my cheeks and stiffens in the biting wind. My eyes struggle to see as far as I want them to. But here, the whoosh of the sea, the lapping of water against rock and the voices on the wind … comfort me.

Hours pass with me inside my head, the imagery sharp as Italic ink on paper.  The sky darkens, reflections flicker, horses lick, their white manes they flash and curl atop the surf and I am reminded of where I am. Cleansed and at peace I raise myself, soles firmly grip into roughness of rock, gouging in to keep me from slipping as I head back.

At first barely a glimmer of light shines from the tiny house creeping between badly pulled curtains. The rusted swing squeaks in the wind; the taste of salt lingers. I open the oak door, stamp my shoes on the coconut matting and strip off the sodden outer layer. His head lifts and kind eyes take me in, his book thumps closed as he makes way for me to join him. Tom pats the cushion next the fire on the double club chair. “Come, let’s get you warm,” his eyes crinkle as they do when he looks into mine. “You look rested now, how anyone comes back from such a bleak unforgiving spot looking as you do … I will never know.” Tom rubbed my feet between his hands twisted a strand of salt encrusted hair behind my ear and said … ” I love you Eve.”

With all my worries blown into perspective, I inhale the stew I have cooking on the stove, the bread Tom has put to warm. “Shall we eat, then I will tell you a new fireside story, one brought to me on a gust of wind.” I say. We clatter to the table amidst the spitting of logs laughing at the days turn of events. Knowing tomorrow my bleak will refresh me once more.

Do you have a place? I would love to know, leave me yours in the comments.

 

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Look what’s Coming on July the Twenty Fourth !

This is me being both excited and invincible.

I guest post on The recipe hunter press    Here  if you would like to peruse her fabulous foody blog in advance. Or if like me you would like to contribte I am sure she would love to hear from you all. 

 I want to thank Esme for inviting me, it will be my first guest post ever…  EVER! sorry just felt the need there to be excited in advance. 

I just love this world of blogs and blogishiousness. 

And it is my birthday what a better present could I have?

Happy happy birthday to me on July the twenty Fourth. 

Love After Love

 

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

By Derek Walcot. R.I.P. 17th March 2017 #WorldPoetryDay  couldn’t pass by without a bow or a curtsie to the painter, playwright, poet, English professor and nobel prize winner amongst his many accolades. He missed this day by four days so I would like to honour him in some small way. 

Being Thankful 24

Bernadette at Haddon musings is challenging us with a writers quote asking how we are thankful press 🔜here🔙 to join in or read others thankful stories and quotes.

If everyone could not sweat the small stuff they would be happier and their families would benefit from the peace and would learn from the example.

Yesterday my husband worked on the motorhome. He changed the back brake pads put on new callipers adjusted the torque and all manner of things that took up most of the day. By ten at night, he came in looking shattered and wore oil and earth in the most alluring way “Not”. He hadn’t eaten and only stopped for drinks when I coerced him into it.  While I gathered him some food he fell into the bath to recover.

It was when I went up to get ready for bed… I noticed the mud where he had trod up the stairs, on following the trail like the one Hansel and Gretel once left; I came upon a pile of clothes outside the bathroom. Gingerly I entered where I found that we had been broken into by a muddy Walrus who had left a ring around the bath, splashes up the white paintwork and millions of tiny hairs, soap and froth stuck to the mirror and windowsill, towels were now sodden on the floor. Oh, I forgot to say this was our new bathroom the one finished less than a week ago.  We now have a beautifully designed bathroom with everything fresh and new.  A white suite, towels and designer blind and mat, a bespoke cabinet and vanity, all put in and decorated by my husband.
For a moment I stood looking around me,  (it is fair to say stunned)  I took a deep breath and counted to ten, then slumped to the toilet seat shaking my head. That was when I stopped sweating the small stuff. I wouldn’t have a beautiful bathroom if he hadn’t ripped out the old; plumbed fitted and tiled the new one. He mends, builds, designs and has refurbished the house, my husband does all the mechanical and electrical repairs on our cars and motorhome, he services cleans and maintains them too… oh and cooks the most amazing food. If the worst thing he ever does is leave a mess I don’t think that would be the worst thing.
So today I am giving Thanks for my lovely, clever, messy husband that I wouldn’t change for the world. He is pleased that I don’t sweat the small stuff.

#1LinerWednesday.

Here is where you press to ping over to Linda Hills read and connect or have a go yourself.

Remembering that the person rushing who spilt your drink, cut you up at the roundabout, banged your ankles with the trolley in the shop, may be newley bereaved,lost his job, or became a parent, we can’t know so think before you loose your temper.

My Answer to a post.

My answer to a beautiful poem left on a passing blog JAMILA MURTAZA she asks what i would tell my six year old self.  read it here

After reading her poem I leave this for her. I hope you like it.

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I wipe the wet from my face

 and wish it wasn’t so.
But as a teen there are still
horrors you don’t know.

Things that make myself gasp
That slip through my aging grasp
hate and fear don’t belong
To a girl so very young.

I have known so very long
that love resides inside a song
And despite the pain and dying air
this world is full of loving care.

😇 Have a wonderful week.

Do me a favour stop by her place tell her I sent you, follow and comment, fill up the space. Her talent is to be encouraged by all of us here, give her a clap give her a cheer.

leave me a comment *whispers* it feels like I’m collecting a wage. 😆 

#Poetry To Fall In Love With

W.H.Auden an inspiring Author poet playwright

My second choice is #leanardCohen  An extraordinary  man with talent that will live on long after he is gone. He will fill the heaven’s with passion and song.        A thousand kisses deep.

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

Edward Lear.

 

 

W.H. Auden The most eloquent of poets my first one learned was this,The plan was to step up to the challenge to take 3 poets  you love and use their essence to create my own on a canvas fresh, I began thinking it too huge a task and it was for me. How do you step into the arena with these? GIANT’S  of men and words. I baulked at the idea of choosing my favourites; how the hell do you choose? This is how I did.
E.Lear my earliest remembered poem.

you see The challenge didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t choose my three favorite poets or even three poems, so there was a hope in hell of me publicly pitting my self beside them. And Cohen the voice that soothed a broken teenage heart. So while the going is good i lay some of the best before you… no competiton.

To see the exercise  in poetry and to be  inspired press 🔜   creative and good luck to those that can.😇

Has a challenge you meant to take been a step too far? or have you excelled?

And did you enjoy… slip answers gracefully into the comments i will feel as if i have somehow been forgiven for failing.thank you.

All thanks to #youtube and #google for providing the copies above.

Other Folks Dreams.

He worked in the butchers did Dan, came home smelling like meat; blood on his clothes. But he had big ideas ones he’d tell me late at night under cover of darkness. Tucked in our bunk beds we’d recount our day, reinforce our dreams, just brothers stuff.
Me, I didn’t have ambition or drive, in and out of jobs every few months. Mum was good, she always saw me right. Me, the runt, the smallest twin. Two and a half minutes younger than Dan, meant I could play her like a harmonica in a blues band, it came off every time.

Always on the bottom I was, being the eldest he got the top. When we was kids he’d wait till sleep had just come; then call my name softly, he wouldn’t want to wake Mum. “Eth, Eth … Ethen,”he’d call. Drowsily, I’d slide my head out and look up. Dan would spit, filling my ever open gob. He called me gormless, said I was always catching flies. Unbeknown to him, I wondered why I didn’t have the drive, what could I be. It hurt me head wonderin. Everyone else had known what they wanted, had plans and dreams; cept me.

Here I am, a man at nineteen, sleeping in the same bunk as I did at three. In Mums house, in the same street still not knowing what will I be. Life’s about getting my leg over on a Friday night, watching footie with me pals on a Saturday; what more could I want?

When Dan gets mad cos I lost another job and Mum bailed me out again, he calls me lazy, says I’m like him, our Dad. He left when we was nine, went for some fag’s and never came back. That’s the only time we’d fall out, me brother and me, when he’d call me ‘Dad. Lucky I was, privy to Dan’s dreams, honoured to know them, but sometimes I wish they included me.

Dan got a girl and he stopped confiding in me … I missed that. Got himself a second job down the Legion behind the bar; saved up bought his self a car and her a ring. When he left the Butchers ole Jack cried … he said he felt like he was losing a son. No choices left I needed a plan, so Dan taught me all he knew got me up to speed and Jack took me on, he, took a risk for Dan.

Now a butcher that’s me, in and out the fridge all day. I got a way with the ole girls, a bit o’ banter makes them laugh, they lap up my twinkle while weighing their mince, it does nicely for me. Jack knows I’m a chancer a bit of a lad, he pays me partly in produce the rest in cash. We eat well Mum and me. She’s in an out the doc’s, can’t work no more … now it’s down to me.

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Dan married his girl, a good un too, they live in a big house on the hill outside the city. He got his dream I knew he would. Dan the man, sharp suit big car his dream paid off. A footballer for the Arsenal, who’d ave thought.

I bask in his glory, take my brown pay pack and treat the boys. We watch the match on a wide screen down the pub, they slap my back and I am proud. Ole Bill has pulled me a few times, kindly let me sleep it off, pissed as a fart after a game; they always let me go … because of Dan’s name.

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But I am a butcher by trade looks after me mam, one day soon I’ll get the house. Maybe then I will chuck out the bunks and be able to stop, stop being in and out of other folks dreams.

A Little Recognition.

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On my blog I lay a cornucopia of words. This site is a constantly replenished offering, a buffet of stories, poetry and pieces of me. This is a place I choose; to show the shape of me.

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As I edit my first full manuscript and one day soon novel, I try to grow and make connections. Coming here to breathe on my blog when the edit bites my bum and frustrates me, this gives me the distraction I need. I read and reply to comments left here, many urge me on and inspire confidence; I learn from you all. I seek out more followers, visit blogs and join conversations, in hope that they/ you appreciate something I write, or maybe begin to hear my voice.

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I follow places and like minded people, honest writers and bloggers with passion and soul. “I thank you from me” for accommodating me and allowing my presence in your space.

To all who share and promote and care, those that take time to comment, I drop a curtsie, bend a knee, and thank you, I recognise your talent and appreciate your time.

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If I could see you all gathered in one place I would share my picnic with you all.
Now if I did, what would you bring to my blanket? Let me know in the comments. Bye for now and keep coming and sharing as I do. 😘

My Morning Adventures That last All Day

Adventures for me are every day, I open my eyes to see the tops of trees from my window. Imagining the excitement of what today will bring, how it will progress, what adventure can be had. He who loves and shares his world with me *sighs*. I slip from beneath the duvet and pad my way to wash sleep from my eyes and rinse the film of rest from my skin, and brush my teeth. All the time I smile, as my mind plots ideas , new beginings and endings.

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Again I was seduced by Charli at the carrot ranch whos prompt was adventure, press Here to swoop across and join in or just have a read.

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Here are my 99 words.

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My office come dressing room is the first stop and unless something urgent pulls me… I forget to dress, instead I open my laptop and begin. Time, I guess my clock is thirst, or hunger or the stirring of he my other piece of me; who next door can be heard stretching, noisily yawning.
Two, possibly three hours would have past in a clatter of keys in my room. Tears would have dropped between screens and sentences slashed unmercilessly replaced with what at the time seems like perfection. You see my adventures only rest between bouts of Ellen adventuring.