#World Book Day 2024

My take on BOOKS.

There are books that save you, that wet your cheeks, that make you feel lost when they are finished.

There are the ones that remind you of when you first heard them read, and ones you devoured under blankets, with a torch in your bed.

There are books that show you the best places to stay, the weather, the seas and the best way to pay.

I can be transported in time and space, by a glance of a well worn cover. The turn of an eye, a kiss from a lover.

There are books so precious that you could never lend, and books you re-cover again and again. You could replace them when covers tear, or pages come loose, but you don’t. You can not bear to part with that first copy that stole your heart.

There are books on your shelf because they once belonged to a person you loved, those ones will remind you of the life they had, and times you shared.

There are those that make you laugh out loud, and you speak of them often with a huge grin while gesticulating enthusiastically. … Or maybe that is just me.

Occasionally you find the book, that, … is as if it’s written about you, or the dress you wore, or the shade of your hair, she has your coat draped over a chair.

This life, the one I live, would be poor, and sad, and altogether less exciting, if it were not for the world of books that I am so lucky to have.

#worldbookday2024

Tuscany Breathing.

My own photo.

On the outskirts of Volterra

In the heart of the rolling Tuscan hills.

With the windows thrown wide,

we lay still and listen,

We listen to the wonder of Tuscany.

When the Bullfrog’s and Cicadas compete for air time,

Wild Boar and Deer bark and call to their mates.

The firefly’s hop and prance throwing sparkles in their wake,

Specks of luminous green light whizz here and there,

As if being chased by the sunrise.

Silent streaks of Tuscan sun warm the distant hills.

All is still, hot, and quiet.

Except for the sound

of Tuscany breathing.

O

My own photo.

We will remember Them All With The Poppies we lay.

Through the window she watches, on the seat she waits.

To show her respects as they pass the cottage gates.

Through the window once, not so long ago,

Dogs were waiting, but their masters didn’t show.

Countless widows and orphans, all waited in vain,

To hear a loved one, again, call out their name.

Never forget, the broken, or the sacrifices that are made

By our forces each day, as the poppies are laid.

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.