It Was An Express Delivery.

One, two, three Argggh! > Pant pant pant whhphoooo <. The Midwife passed a glass of ice and a cloth to cool her fevered brow. Furrows crease his handsome face. His eyes bright with disbelief, from glass to cloth he looks and snaps shut his gaping maw.

Nonchalantly he raises his body from the chair, hands his wife the cloth stoops to kiss 💋 the air. The pain swung in she pushes hard and fierce, Scowling Mama puffs and blows; a roar disturbs his peace. Midwife now between her legs sits on her swivel stool, tells her it is far to late to use the birthing pool.

Lunch consumed, ear buds removed, he finishes a last slurp of wine. Strolls across to hold her hand and whisper in her ear. “I forgot desert … have I time? She glares and said “shall I make it clear!” A push, a scream, the cord is cut, an express delivery is done. Together they smile, and greet a bouncing baby son.

July 17th / 31st. use the prompt above to make, craft, write, paint or cook something inspired by the picture. Thank you for prompt #1 Esme Slabs of #SIPB Facebook group.

Presshere to read and join in.

A tongue in cheek delivery, do you know of one to tell? Answers in the comments please … I can’t wait to read.

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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.

loaned from https://pixabay.com

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.

A little More Than Poetry Is Required To Make It Good

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‘Think 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. No room for a holiday or even a siesta.’ His £17000 spent on a pepper red fiesta.

They argued together, the for 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 by 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 possesses, two pairs of gloves and four threadbare dresses.

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, in your excitement of the moment have stopped and looked at Mary? I’d like to think I would have taken my discussion inside, thought about how she would feel; overhearing.

Who Can Hear You

The End of Summer.

When illness stole the Summer.

I was distracted when it came in, what with moving house.

When Easter’s sun puddled chocolate; it seeped through the foil.

Life exhausted my bones, each sinew ached for rest, but on I’d toil.

Pleased to be in this lovely space where history would join with our taste, we’d make a home.

He’d gazed a face like this before. His eyes focused, periwinkle blue. That doctor, one Summers day … he knew.

When sun and storms made gardens green,The well was clear and ducks shared our stream. I missed those days and slept it seems; through Summer,

The missed paddles and golden dreams.

That summer will be remembered … or not, as the one, I slept away.

The summer of misty minds and forgotten days that was, the end Of Summer for me.

Now Autumn calls, I hope not to miss the golden leaves or the morning mists.

A bike to peddle the flab away on crisp voluptuous days like today.

I hope you enjoyed my freeform write, leave a word, I hope you might.

Absent.

Wait for me when I’m gone,

Don’t forget I was here.

Come and read a while

There’s nothing to fear.

Life has other idea’s

That keep me away.

But please don’t

stop coming,

I still have a lot

To say.

I am having to take a break for a while. I can’t say for how long, but I hope to pop back and read any comments and reply when I can. I look forward to continuing to read your posts and banter on your blogs where possible. I will be back once I am fit and able.

But when life gives you lemons … you need to stand back and take in the scent, look at the whole tree; not just the fruit.

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.

 

 

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.

I Can’t Begin To Tell You.

I Can’t Begin To Tell You,
I can’t begin to know.
What lay betwixt the pages
Of every book on show.

We have to read the story,
Let it seep beneath the skin
Of each person looking
And make them delve within.

I became a booknight giver
A sharer of the written word
A gifter of the present
And to a stranger, how absurd.

I gave away on street corners,
In shelters and in shops
I took one in the station
Left one for the Cop’s.

I acossted in the doctors
I took one to the school.
I was chased from a book shop
Looking like a fool.

Diligently, I gave them
They promised all to read.
One wanted three!
To sell and buy some weed.

I am feeling quite exhausted
But virtuous and bright.
One day it will be my book
Someone gives out on book night.

Please follow @worldbooknight on twitter.

I will review the book on my blog when I return from a short holiday in a couple of weeks.
Please let me know if you joined in were a giver a receiver or just liked my ditty.