As Ebony Strong

Morning falls upon the land,
    the smell of flowers on her hand
And carries on her hip a casket,
    a small and handled woven basket

So the road sweeps her along,
    forward into roller song
A city built with sun's cruel streak,
    determined mind, refined physique

Not once betraying hunger's pang,
    collectively her songs she sang
A gatherer of life's full blessing,
    challenged with such things distressing

Chanting by a pebble-dash grave,
    the babies' life refused to save
Married when she was just ten,
    became a widower's wife again

And with a symbol on her breast,
    her soul was now his to ingest
A girl who smiled with cemetery eyes,
    slavery  - but in disguise

A storm could never hold her back,
     remove this innate need to hack
Curling clouds with fearsome colour,
    managed not to scare this mother

Not once a cough of discontent,
    no leading sadness to ferment
She couldn't think, nor understood,
     why hunger can't persuade the good

Morning falls upon the land,
    the smell of fresh hay on her hand
Lays a dried flower on the mound,
    and thanks God for her stamping ground

*********************************

Turning Saturday's

Just thought I'd pop up a  snap or two of my ever-growing strawberry patch  (no not THOSE snaps, I've well burnt the evidence since)  who's not doing too badly considering the young shoots having  strayed into the old rockery,  heavily laden with stones!

We find that every 3rd year plants don't produce as well (this is year 3 of our calendar cycle) but try to train them nonetheless. Anyhow, I'm pretty excited to see the first tinge of red spread over the fruit.  Eton Mess and Strawberry Vodka Jelly - bring it on....!

*********************************

Belly Button It!!

 
He's not answering his phone much on his aqua sport and  cottage resort break, but you know  your son's having not too bad a time when he's uploading pics like this one on Facebook!  And not even one of the water-skiing or loch bungee jump, yet!! That's the soggy-brained priority youth of today for you......!!


****************************************************************** 

In From The Side (June)

A new month is almost upon us,  so it's time to change my sidebar entertainment slots.   Before saying farewell to it,  chosen from my sidebar is this wonderful 'voice over' by comedian Hugh Dennis, mocking some old news.  This man is a spontaneity genius!  Enjoy!



***********************************
pssst.....? I hang around having fun at this joint too!

A Walk On The Beguiled Side

Today, the Cheaper Half and I got our navigator pants on and decided to take a long stroll past the back of the new Inches Estate but to the right this time where the town seems to be growing.  It was like another ruddy dimension.  So much had changed.  The old Mental Hospital and grounds was now a play park like no other I've seen.  In comparison to the paltry provisions in the park right next to our house, it was like Neverland.  And I wasn't happy.  My kids may be too old for swings and things now, but I certainly ain't!  The accompanying grass in this spanking new area was shorn to perfection, our park gets cut once a month if we're lucky - and the cuttings are left for the winds to deal with.  They have doggy-doo bins scattered every 50 feet around the park, whereas the burn round our park tends to get doggy-doo bags scattered in it, as we have only one.

Yes, there is a new school and new flats built in that 'spanking' new area now (with balconies - the bastards!!) and plans for a 'spanking' new community centre but my gripe is with the council.  Our council tax gets calculated by our income and therefore some pay a bit more than others by their means. Now,  I'm no great political campaigner (boooring!) but that shouldn't mean that council better built recreations are there for the convenience of the upper class.  Sure, you want your kids playing locally,  but with the same consideration regardless of status.  I live in a prewar ex-council house, and despite a 'newish' housing scheme next to us, the surrounding streets are inhabited by every day folk.  The kind who rally round.  Who help each other out in crisis. Who take each other's washing in in rainy weather.  Who run into off-licences and see how much they can drink before the police arrive. Who don't give a shit about the Joneses.

It kind of bugs me that people who share the same libraries, transport, supermarkets, pavements and breathing air don't get the same regard.  Twenty years ago our area councillor (God rest your soul, old Jim) fought to upgrade the park for our kiddies to no avail and lo and behold, the second the last brick of the newer houses went up so did the upgrade to the park.

 On my next walk, it wouldn't surprise me if there was golden plated trimmings round the dog shit bins, and a spray of air freshener released with every bag popped in.  Meanwhile, we locals round here will still take turns to pick up the chip papers and odd bottles kindly donated by the Inches Estate piss-heads on their weekend walks back to their 'stately' homes.

***********************************

Pertaining To The Party

Got the message? Understand?
Meetings by the underhand.

Perfect groups in perfect style
If you don't fit - they will revile

Clinks of glass, to please the clique
The same tobacco brands they seek

Slunk away in woodlands heart
No harder heartbeats to dispart

But pity them, for all is lost
Once icy minds start to defrost

Just take a step back, leave them to it
It's their choice and so can screw it 

All to pieces, sweet hereafter
Vanishing with wanton laughter

Poor fine examples of the screen
Those courtesans of magazines

 I don't usually lean so heavily on the picture or information about it, but I'm a rather lazy bitch lady today.
***********************************************
 ps....I also hang around These Fun Parts

No Need For Handel?

PeaPod and his band  No Need For Idols have taken a step in a new direction musically.  One of his friends' parents have approached them and booked them for their daughter's wedding reception in a few months' time.

Apparently the wedding is consisting of classical music during the ceremony, NNFI, for the earlier evening slot, where the guys will be playing mainly covers requested by the bride and groom, and at night a good old get-up-and-dance-with-the-uncle-you-hate disco.

The boys have been asked something rather unusual but nonetheless touching. To write a song dedicated to the pair of idiots  couple for their first dance. Somewhat unique. They'll be given background on the intended and some guidance and approval from the money-drained, 'happy' parents and see what inspires from there. There will also be a professional recording of the song as a keepsake, too!

Now, I don't know if this sort of thing has been done before. Personally - I'd have far more fun with my quivers and clefts and all things, composing songs for the newly divorced. Get me my guitar and get me down to that patent office NOW!

*************************************************

§ Hussy On High §

Watch her fly, see her soar, the moment she steps out the door
Wind assisted, ever lifted, from the pier or from the shore
Can't you catch her, ground her stature, keep her at an even keel?
Soothe abrasions, try persuasion, let the heart and body heal

Try a lecture, soul conjecture, make a pact to bring her down
Mind on matters, truth in tatters, wind the heartstrings, cull the clown
Stop the yielding, pitied shielding, take a stand and stamp that boot
Lest she take off, roughly shake off, shoes kicked from another's foot

Not so gentle, temperamental, raider of the central parts
Whose thoughts go gusting, leering, lusting, takes no shame while breaking hearts
Be beside her, groom her, guide her, shoot those feelings from the hip
If she's still floating, bedtime quoting, lose her with a scissor snip

**********************************************

♠ Significantly Saying ♠

Right now, I have an aching elbow.  While helping to clean out the hall cupboard under the stairs, I gave it a right good bashing off the shelves. But instead of giving it a rub or soothe it with something cool, I just stood there like a grimacing statuette, trying to resist blowing on it. And why?  Because it's supposedly a sign of good luck to not rub or soothe and a sign of bad luck if I do!

My mother was a very superstitious woman indeed, and she held her views in high regard.  Jees - the crap me and my sisters had to listen to over the years!  From funny to scary. And the worst thing was that I was a sensitive child, so tended to believe her in my younger years, as she could get herself worked up over many a thing besides superstition. But it was the more negative, slightly sinister side she seemed to be on guard about. 

 Crows in different groups and numbers had particular meanings. If a bird flew into a window, it was a sign that bad luck was to reside in the house.  Then there was the mating call ( loud clicking like a clock ) of the Death Watch beetle.  Hardly heard of these days, back then if one was heard ticking away in the wood of skirting board or walls, it was regarded a prior warning that you would hear of a death of a friend or of family in the near future, lest you be the unfortunate one!  

Now, in all seriousness, there became an event a few weeks later that spooked me out considerably. On the day of my first marriage, my fiance's great auntie had died during the night, and my nephew Craig was born in the early hours of the following morning. So hearing of a birth, death and marriage, all connecting in close proximity here was pretty good going and boy -  just how perfectly does it fuel those old wive's adages and predictions!

We'd all like to think our luck's in, but I'm confused as to whether or not walking under a ladder in town brought me good or back luck those 27 years ago.  You see, I met my husband later that night and  I'm pretty sure he'll be puzzling over the same thought. ♥ ? 

Of course, over the duration of my life, I've pretty much accepted that superstition is a right load of bollocks. There's little evidence to say otherwise.  Then, why oh why, do I still partake in the traits of the belief that superstition may bring. A few examples are: the left hand side of the bed is where I strictly enter and leave, I'll salute to a Magpie if it's on his own, bless myself if I drop cutlery, cross my fingers, knock on wood, pick up pennies, lift my cat's tail and rub my lottery ticket on his fluffy arse, throw slightly cracked mirrors out, etc, and the list goes on.   I reckon that it's a fight between coincidence and superstition to try and determine what's really what for us. A tough one, I know.  I just - even now - don't know exactly which one I'd put my money on!

*************************************************

Through Keywholy Hell

Why'd ya lock me in my room?
You'd think I was some kind of loon!
I didn't mean to spoil your shoe
with that small tube of superglue
Or smash the car your mother bought
that left her skint and quite distraught
And that small mishap in the garden
when the koi-carp pond did harden?
Was nothing compared to the day
I gave your other car away!
Was such a teensy, weensy fault
mistaking sugar for rock salt
Then squashing chillies through the sieve
just doubled as a laxative!
I'd only had 4 pints of cider,
to make me pick legs off that spider
Gollygosh was quite a laugh, 
swapping squash with bubble bath
Foam and snot ran from the nose,
to cleanse the mind of what it knows!
The prat next door who always beams
(just like the cat who got the cream)
Got flashed my boobs, the little creep! 
(That put his gas down to a peep!)
I thought it silly that you wept  
I'd cut your hair short as you slept
Spur of the moment, sudden plan -
weedkiller in the watering can!
Some stop when stepping near the line
but I just give the old V-sign
The list goes on, I can't behave,
must have this naughtiness I crave
So WHY'd you lock me in this room?
I so enjoy being a loon!

*************************************************
 Just a quick entry this week.  Normal Lenaness will resume THIS Sunday!

And Baby Grows Up

Huge hugs for my gorgeous niece, Layla, who turns 17 tomorrow.  Here, aged 2, she bounces happily on my knee as I sing a barrage of Scottish kiddies' songs to her, on one of my London visits. For hours she'd sit reading books with me, not one bit of bother. She was a truly delicate little flower, who barely troubled anyone and stayed mainly contented.

Fifteen years later, she enters the vast world of glamour and glitter like most girls her age and strikes a killer pose. Some may be offended at such a vision, at such an age, and I'd never had dreamt those 15 years back that I would be proud of such a snap.  But I am.  She is a natural beauty who quite openly flaunts it.

And this stunning little blonde has brains as well. Currently attending music college, she is sitting degrees both instrumental and vocally and she has the most hauntingly soothing voice while performing A Capella. Two years ago saw her learning the euphonium - a big instrument for a little gal!

For now I think it's important that she considers certain boundaries of modelling, while at the same time keeping in check how important education is. It can be all too easy and eagre to strip and click, but many a singer and/or performer, on theatre stages and arena's use that added ingredient of sex appeal. Huge amounts are needed as the entertainment industry sells this.  As for Layla, those Scottish kiddies' songs would still shine through that soulful, southern accent, no matter what her future brings.  Happy Birthday, sweetie! 

*********************************
 

Near

I part the curtains to the morn
hitting me with new forlorn
Another day to struggle through
pursued by you, in sweet construe

You chirp a song both new and old
a lullaby of grief untold
Entice me out to greet the light,
and to despite this widow's plight

Haughty, throaty little bird,
protesting at my every word
Your graceful wings let out a sigh,
when I defy and don't comply

Can't you let me be one day
without suspecting foul play
Just hide beneath the silken sheets,
a safe retreat, my own secrete

Must I wait for my own time,
to hear familiar church bell chime
When I could live and I could soar,
with you once more, open our door.......

******************************

  Please join in our weekly challenge here:   Magpie Tales              

Heavenly Notes

My father died nine years ago yesterday.  The day before, I read a beautiful poem whom the author dedicated to his dad, and this inspired me to do similar.  Music was my father's life so I'm dedicating this remembrance poem to him.  He could play ANY instrument by ear and was often asked by schools and local organisations to play piano for them.  When I was little, I thought he had magic.  He also had the voice of an angel - despite his 40 Woodbine a day and beef dripping lifestyle.  Miss you dad...!

A symphony-of-ages
Was my father to this earth
A music maestro natural
From the moment of his birth

He'd feel a certain melody
Pitch perfect, lingered notes
Voice carried on by  placid waves
Some words in double quotes

Music was his passion,
His biggest will to live
If nothing else was there to take
It was always there to give

I remember all the instruments
Even tiny ones he blew
If music be the food of love
I was nourished through and through

I still can hear him playing
Although he isn't  there
Passed on through genes, to tots and teens
Till grey streaks wisp our hair

Any type of music
Most, he very much approved
He was open to all genres
Left us happy, special, moved.

Now you're with 'The Big Man'.                                           On guitar, during the war
I bet you've sussed those harps
Coz you never understood those books
Of majors, minors, sharps.

You see, he never had a teacher
Nor read a music sheet
Just listened so intently
Captured every single beat.

All it took was seconds
For him to fathom out
What instruments were made to do             
No need to write about.

 ********************************