Breaking the Rules

photograph courtesy of Paul Miltiaru press HERE to see his beautiful photography.

feet

 

 He could walk a coastal hike

Take the road atop a bike.

Sail o’er the seas of old

On a ship that’s made of gold.

He could fight a hundred men

Chase a lion from his den.

He’d be a champion of men

The countries Olympian.

But let him walk along a street

Without shoes upon his feet

He’d  bring shame and despair

On the townsfolk living there.

You can win a Quadrathlon

but never flout a road sign.

Photo of British quadrathlon team courtesy of Wikipedia.

Which rule did you break?  (Other than a parking or speed signs )

sign

I flouted the rules of propriety with the above, as I thought one way, was my way…

March Marches On

Linda Hill challenges with the word March press here to read or join in the fun.

It was the sound and sight of spring,

That bouncing boxing lop eared thing.

He ruled his paddock won his mate

in his hole next the five bar gate.

The March hare mad as can be

Brings spring to life this morning for me.

Fox stalks his vixen flicks his brush

Jumps atop his choice in a rush.

Twice or thrice maybe more

grinds her into the floor

when her belly is round and full

another vixen he will pull.

March Marches to the beat

of Mother nature’s  drum

To procreate

We call her

Mum.

 

 

A bit of whimsy to warm your soul and tickle your fancy. I hope you liked it.

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. 

Auschwitz 1.

Arbeit macht frei” (work set’s you free)

 

Beneath a winters sun a biting wind blew,

Where nobody saw and nobody knew.

With tears in the eyes of our guide

Shock on our faces no-where to hide.

I couldn’t remove her words from my ear

The ones no decent human wants to  hear.

Watching through a fog knowing the reality

It slid beneath flesh and warped earth’s polarity.

Ramming evil home, planting it deep

like marrow into the bone.

Escape was not made for here,

corrections happened and slaughter… its clear.

They walked towards death one by one,

Without the fear of what was to come.

When water became gas, to help them cope,

they sang the  Hatikvah, their song of hope.

I see piles of  hair when I try to sleep,

the discarded shoes torn from innocents feet.

I see their faces before me as I softly weep,

Brush crematoria soot from a tear stained cheek.

This place bore witness to pure evil that time,

it can not be erased from the depths of my mind.

At the shooting wall I picture them standing that day,

Singing hopeful  prayers they refused to face away.

The Nazi machine, its power so strong,

kept the furnaces burning all night long.

Hundreds were cremated day after day,

Not fast enough to clear the piles of decay.

First their status then their pride

Ripped them apart nowhere to hide.

For all the souls that gather there,

Their fortitude, their pain and despair.

I beseech you all, to stand and see

the shooting wall… just like me.

The rose was placed on one of the beds that held six bodies in the barracks of Auschwitz one. Poignantly positioned, by someone paying respects on March the second 2017.

A  piece of me shifted that day, my eyes clouded and my heart cried. I thought long and hard before posting this and though I hope you leave me a comment I will umderstand if you don’t.

Who Can Hear You…

Writers quote challenge /5 at Haddons musings is ‘thinking’ this week, so press🔜 here🔙 to join in

‘Thinking  before you speak’

On a pavement Cafe at the end of the street

two smart men took themselves a seat.

Tristan he bragged  about his car, £48000 look at it gleam

Mercedes coup’e a Successful man’s dream.

Harry said I worked hard  taking overtime when I could

couldn’t take a holiday or even a siesta

His  £17000 well spent on a pepper red  fiesta.

They argued together the fors and against,
 compared fuel consumption  the weaknesses and strengths.

Now Mary she sat on the ground by the door

listened to them both open mouthed… in awe.

She sat head bowed a note that said ‘park’

to remind her to get in her box before dark.

Her mac was large came down to her feet

An excellent choice when you lived on the street,

 for underneath was all she did possess 

Plus two pairs of gloves and four hairy vests.

She didn’t speak nor look in their eyes,

when they lit cigars and binned crusts from their pies.

Silently she sat as they said their goodbyes

Missing the quiver of her lip and the tears in her eyes

They dropped  her a pound  and crossed to their cars

She could have been an alien living on Mars.

A lightbulb moment! 

Let me know what you think, would you have in your excitement looked at Mary? I’d like to think I would have taken my discussion inside and thought about how she would feel listening…

Shed Not A Tear.

Shed not a tear when I be gone,
Don’t wet your cheeks for me.
I’m in the ink you write with
That you can not seem to see.

I sit beside you daily,
as you go about your life.
Watching out for trouble
I try to ward off strife.

I whisper secret stories
In your ear for you to write.
I infiltrate your thoughts
When you put out the light.

So there is no need to feel lonely
Or to wander there in gloom
For I am in every corner
Of each and every room.

*finger to lips* Shhh!

Linda Hill Thank you for your prompt press here to join in. 

This I penned a while ago for a friend who said she didn’t think she could write now her mother had gone. She was her motivation and without her … In a stream of conciousness I wrote this and sent it seconds later, and I  am pleased to say she is writing once more. 

3 line tales#43 “Autumn”

Thank you Sonya for allowing me in week 43 three line tales.  presshere to join in or read the three liners. Many thanks to Sandis Helvigs for providing the prompt photo.

tltweek43.jpg

He was bold he was cold he lived a disguise.

He used a leaf to cover his eyes

With Autumn.

 
The above is my three lined rhyme, but if you’ve the inclination or time… just below  the second picture is a  story of mine which grew to 503 words so no longer is it a three line tale.

                             He Wore A Disguise like Autumn.

A fancy dress parade was to follow the carnival. The Carnival comprised of floats and majorettes, brass bands, boy scouts, tumble tots and brownies not forgetting the women’s institute and the natty knitters. The music blared from speakers followed by dancing dwarves; who were following snow white on her bed. The shop doorways lined with stalls, mulled wine, hot soup, cards, gifts and all manner of cakes and crafts for sale.

They paraded through the town twice, full of fun and revelry. The floats were to be judged and prizes given, collections for the hospice and the homeless had been going on several days before, and at the event. The parade culminated in the turning on of the Christmas lights; by some vacant reality television star that no one remembered.

As a watcher, I stood out, not dressed fancy or otherwise, in fact, all the clothes I owned were on my person. I hoped as one of the aforementioned recipients of the collections I would be given a few bits… to ease my bones in the late Autumnal weather, knowing it was only going to get colder and harder sleeping rough…

I thought of the cost of all the lights, music and costumes, I weighed up the fuel spent and calculated how much the prizes would be. In a previous time, I was a numbers man, a number cruncher and balancer of books. I wandered through the park where finally the tractors rested their wheels and the children   were reunited with parents and teachers. Backs were slapped, kisses freely given and received. Many prizes were happily accepted and  some tears were shed in tiredness. Pride shone from the faces of people in fluorescent tabards who were clutching stuffed buckets of dosh.

I bent down and picked up a leaf, I twirled it in between frozen fingers, a beautiful Sycamore leaf as big as a tea plate.  The leaf was golden and rust, as if kissed by the turn of autumn its last disguise , before withering away. From my spot, I watched as a photographer took snaps of all, he could see and a journalist took notes… then they spied me. I lifted the leaf to my face so to hide, as a voice asked “Excuse me can I take a shot…  what have you come as”? I stayed still my identity hidden from all but me. “Me,” I said,” I have come as autumn”.  A look of confusion crossed his brow, he took the shot and slowly walked away. The girl tapped her pad with a chewed pencil she slowly nodded my way. Disappearing into the crowd, glancing back once or twice as she went until finally, though I knew she was there somewhere, she was lost, like me, anonymous, unseen.

I wasn’t given the soup or mulled wine, I was scowled at when I asked for a sleeping bag or a scarf. In fact, I was not looked in the eye by anyone… I wondered what people thought their money would do, how much it would help a man like me, down on his luck, shabby and cold wearing a disguise like autumn.

 

Please readers,let me know your thoughts, leave them in comments and I will get back quick sharp. Happy Monday

#soCs Definitely Not Pretty.

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “Not Pretty” Use it to write a story or poem.  Thank you Linda Hill p.s. press the pretty to go and join in or read the others. 



Today’s look is not a Pretty sight

Bagged eyes from being up  all night.

Throat’s  parched head over the sink,

Cough and phlegm needing a drink?

Shivvers come can’t make it to bed,

ten little men with drums in my head.

A Slip and slide down to the floor

Rattling teeth I head for the door

Crawl my way back to bed

Another drink

Before I’m 

dead.

Have you felt like this? What remedy did you try? Tell me in the comments and I’ll get back quick. 😇

The Sycamore

To climb a sycamore of which I have three,

the trunk so long too high for me.

I would  get up if I were a bee

Or a squirrel, that, I can see.

But, oh… to sway up high

amongst the leaves

where I could  grieve

for lost innocence.

A place to shed

My silent tears

Allow them to fill

These ageing ears.

Without a  care,

I would climb

skinning  knees

One at a time.

High above

where no one

Knows

no one

sees

And

No one

Goes.

My thanks goes once more to Bernadette for her sharing at the senior salon

press salon to find more amazing blogs.

My poetry is light, short and hopefully gives a bite to read like a wrap or sandwich at lunch. QUESTION ALERT! What do you read in your break? Or don’t you? Answers please in the comments I’d love to read them in my lunch break ;)😇.

                      Hear The Song.

The Daily post prompt today is  🔜 song    🔚 press it to read loads of wonderful entries or to participate.
  

I heard the beat the boom of the base

I could visualise the look on her face

 the moody frown the smoldering pout 

 as she mouthed the words as if in shout.


The song she thought  had been new

was done long before my baby grew.

A new band covered the tune

The one I hear pump out her room.


I sit on the stairs transported back

to Marc Bolan singing the track

my hand reaches for the curl of my perm

The platforms that made mum squirm.


Bright shaddow, the blush on my face

the sulky look off into space

The frills on my sleeves

The stars in my eyes.

 hopes and dreams
the forgotten lies.


I jump up as she opens the door

silent now , clothes on the floor

she wears a badge of girls of her time

her in Dm’s… me in mine.


Our lives so close

A mirror of me
 back in the day

when we were free.


I hope you enjoyed the video clip nostalgia plays such a big part in everyones lives.

Do you have a song that whips you back? Leave a comment and once I climb off my shoes Ill get right back.