Where Has Time Gone

Where has the time gone?

Me in 2008

 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.

A Covid-19 Poem To Remind Us How We Made It Thus Far.

For all the people facing the dread,

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.

A little More Than Poetry Is Required To Make It Good

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

touché.

When you read sophisticated Poetry or verse, do you think … best concede defeat? Answers or comments down below please, I love to chat.

Tell it to the muse, because she is not listening to me.

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

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.

from Pixabay

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.

from Pixabay

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.

Myself, Gardening, … along with my muse.

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.

A look At Life Along The Footpath.

On the day in question, she took the black tarmac path that snakes behind the row of terraced houses. Houses with their postage stamp gardens that are secreted away behind red brick walls. They sit prettily on the edge of the small English market town. Across the width of the path are the allotments. Every forty or so feet of its length are gates, if you stand still enough, you can sometimes hear the squeak and crunch, as rust drags itself across the warped hinges. The home owners can slip out of the doors of their walled gardens, and walk to their patch. Sectioned plots of land just big enough for fruit, vegetables and herbs to grow. Each one has a wooden shed, some are used for hiding Dads from noisy homes, while others are potting and tool sheds. Some, are the holders of secrets, places where illicit pairings take place.

Old Jack, wanders the allotment with a paint kettle, and a blackened gnarled brush. “A ten pound note will get your shed protected” he calls waving the brush. Jack sleeps wrapped in bubble wrap and cardboard; close to the Brazier. Often he rests inside unkempt sheds that he tidys in return. He blows and snorts as he splashes his face at the ice cold pump. You can see where his stained hands are dried on the threadbare seat of brown corduroy trousers. The scent of Creosote wafts around him like midges beside a Scottish loch. Often people smell Jack long before they see him. A harmles but important character of the allotment.

As she walked, she looked at the bustle going on both in and around the allotments. Old men nod in acknowledgement to each other; men with no need to waste words on pleasantries. Years of shared knowledge and friendship, camaraderie and memories have passed between them. Women with their hair covered, and gloves protecting their hands, lean on wheelbarrows and forks. Girls laugh at secret stories. A young woman colours as she looks about; checking she wasn’t overheard. An elderly couple stop what they are doing to smile at each other, and touch fingertips … A shared silent moment. Father’s dig and tend the early veg. Cutting curly spring cabbage for dinner, digging in Manure, sold to them all by old Jack. She scans the scene spotting a damp steamy pile at each shed as she passes, pressing a fine linen handkerchief to her nose.

Life goes on around her as she continues on the path. The sun shone on the crisp morning, birds sang and dogs wagged their tails. A boy on a micro scooter passed her; head down, furiously concentrating on the pounding of his white trainer against the path. A cough pushed spit from his mouth as he passed her. It slapped against her stockinged leg making her gasp. The woman wiped it with her handkerchief, curled her lip in distaste as she lifted her head and screwed her eyes.  He poked up a middle finger and snarled back. A moment or two  passed before she straightened her collar and went on her way.

The path comes to a halt. Cobbles trail a curve around the periphery of the luscious green patch of neatly manicured lawn. Several keep off the grass signs are the only things to mar its perfection. A dozen impressive buildings stand around the edge like sentinels. Her eyes scan the area and her brisk steps echoed as she looked for the large black door of number 5; the doctor’s surgery.

Old Jack squinted, and blinked. His green eyes followed the woman. Drawn to her composure, he followed at a distance along the track. Something bothered him, like an over-wound clockwork mouse with no control of her speed. He watched until she pushed on the heavy black door.

Inside they were very efficient. Fifteen minutes later it was over, Her chewed raw fingers struggled to push the three oversized buttons through the fastening’s of her best coat. Fingertips twitched, she pressed her palms into the worsted fabric to still them. Silently she tugged on the cuffs of her pristine leather gloves. A sound, a crisp snap made her flinch as the door closed behind her. Standing for a moment, she took a shuddering intake of breath, placed her smart shoes one in front of the other. She walked the cobbles in the same manner she came. Controlled, back along the tarmac path. But old Jack saw the difference, he saw her legs tremble, the tightening of her lips. Oblivious, she concentrated on the rapping sound her shoes made against the tarmac surface … Click-clack, click-clack. Holding her head high she blinked furiously a fixed determined expression on her face gave nothing away to the onlooker; the passer-by. So she thought.
All was changed for her. Her world had tilted in a sentence. But life on and around the path continued. Birds sang the sun began to shine as the wind dried her lashes. He watched, until she closed the gate that shut herself behind those red brick walls. He listened for the clink of keys opening her door. His view obstructed not by the walls or the door its self … but the clouds in his eyes. Jack shakes his head slowly as he logs another look at life along the footpath.

What do you think happened? Leave me a comment I answer quick smart.

My Word Of The Year. #WOTY

#WOTY Laughter / laugh.

I didn’t help my funny bone, I neglected my happy,
By failing to remember, how to not be unhappy.
I forgot to tend to the need of mine to smile,
to exercise my face at least for a little while.

So in twenty twenty, the plan is to be,
The smiliest person, of any you see.
I want to laugh until eyes spring a leak.
To inject humour each time I speak.

I want back that cheeky I once had,
It got lost in the busy, replaced by sad.
People enjoyed my infectious grin,
The one that shone from deep within.

I can still recall the feel of a laugh,
The giggle made; as I trip up the path.
The burbling feeling of one almost there.
The ache in my belly, a huge gasp for air,

So join me as I inject this with a smile,
And share one of my favourite poems
By Spike, who made the world laugh
for the longest while.




If you smiled just,  while reading, leave a comment, share the fun.
Let me know if you have a poem or saying that always makes you grin.

Meet Our Own Angels.

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.

Our other Angel is Lilly, Pictured below. We were lucky to have got her on 2nd January 2018. Our beautiful pup rescued from Romania has become our angel. A year on and our lives, as well as hers  have total changed. She is the reason to wake early, the reason to walk daily,  and she brings us new and exciting  adventures, including some we would have rather not had (a live mouse).  Sometimes I wonder who rescued whom. We will celebrate her gotcha day, and she may get a little treat or two this January 2nd. Ten minutes after this photo carnage had taken place …. poor Christmas lady bug did not stand a chance. *gulp*

Charlie A Poem At Christmas.

“Charlie.”

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.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWZVJhRWxLVDhxMUVQbjhJOF9obUU2clJxd3Jz/view?usp=drivesdk

I added a sound bite for anyone wanting to hear me read this. “Do you think a child has opinions on subjects such as this?” I would love a comment please 😁

This year my Christmas cards were bought to support Shelter, we sent them only, to close family and even closer friends. But I purchased one item a week and two when I could, th as extras to my weekly shopping all year. I googled a list of what I should get, to be sure I was providing what was most needed. I trawled charity shops for sturdy rucksacks once cleaned I stuffed them tight. A female sack was complete by August and delivered to the drop in center in our charming market town; you would not think there would be a homless problem here. Just before the cold of December a male back pack was ready to give, being near Christmas, I included a card, a tiny bear and a notebook and pen as extras. My gifts make me tear up as I write this, because who is to judge and it was so little for some but would mean everything to them. May this season and coming year bring roofs for the homless.