Song Of The Courtesan

                      (looks like the monocle man has just spotted the flag in my above post!)

What helps wash down a banquet but a host of pretty notes.
Little quavers, there to savour, on a cloud of wine she floats.

Merry as the day is long, darker than the mood
Men that mock, silly talk, drink that loosens, makes them lewd.

A far cry from their daylight stance, letting down their hair.
Coins enough, to see her buff, and grab a room, perhaps, upstairs?


Despite these shameful actions, the lute still sings along
Her lovely strings, with heavenly wings, knows neither right from wrong.


Again they'll grace the table, gather in their chosen seats
Our courtesan, the friend of man, a lullaby elite.

               *                                 *                              *
I know little of Sir Tournier, but to me this piece depicts
The said above, I state thereof, it had me most transfixed.

To view more masterpieces, though I'll find some 'tres' abstruse
I'll take the chance, and visit France. What will I have? Toulouse!

Tick Off!

                             * input from bookworms themselves

Oi! You pesky little mite, how dare you contemplate...!
Chomping through my case and books, as tasty as it maybe looks.
Prepare ye for insecticidey fate!
                                                       * ('you've no chance, mate!')

You see, my vast collection, is treasured by my mob.
Alphabetically tended, leather jackets stitched and mended.
Ready there to do their leafy job.
                                                       * ('our taste buds throb!')
 
Books older than my grampa, smell a little of him, too.
Tobacco prints on certain pages, lingers on war pics for ages.
Knows the glory, story through and through.
                                                       * ('we still must slew..')

Hardbacks full of nonsense, for my mum - the bored housewife.
Jackie Collins, effing , blinding, toyboys, tans and bareback riding.
So Mrs.Mop can lead a double life.
                                                        * ('how ghastly rife..')

My worshiped read - Vlad Nabokov, so intricate, offending.
Turns the subjects of taboo, so you accept, not misconstrue.
And come to yearn his sad, unhappy endings.
                                                         * (' ah, Russian rending..?')
                    
Huge knowledge books on bottom shelves -  for weight, than read at will.
They've never heard of 'world wide web', or know that Princess Di is dead.
But act as a support to keep things still.
                                                         * ('oh, what a thrill..')

Grandma loves her cook books, and reads hymns that turn to song.
Revelations in the Bible, Old Nick 'v' his biggest rival
Though she'll curse him when the dish she made goes wrong!
                                                          *('we'll sing along..')

There's even ones with pictures, bordering on pornographic.
Hoofs and wings on manic creatures, bodies wrangled, viscious features.
Told in words, so rich and calligraphic.
                                                          * ('man - that's tragic!')

One sits so high and mighty, bearer of the golden hue.
There is no match, no competition, for this rare, unique edition.
Welcomes each of us to Xanadu.
                                                         * ('we'll chew and chew..')

Every home should have one, bookcase filled with word cuisine.
Fiction, facts in combination, liter-a-lise the whole damn nation.
While inner monologue's setting the scene.
                                                         * ('we'll wipe it clean..!)
 
So, hop it, death watch beetle, never, ever lose the plot.
Grandeur is a cheap illusion, your own death a forgone conclusion.
The taste of printed paper's for MY lot!!
                                                          * (gulp!...that's what you got.......!)

Get To 'F'

This weeks' F-ing find....Feigning Flowers:

 

Dove Above Assisi

I never prayed, well, not unless
it was a selfish, vain request.
Strayed from God, strayed from hope,
a welcomed ride down that slippery slope.

A shunned self-harmer I've become,
though took no blade to anyone.
Confused and guilty, unrepentant,
no convincing though incessant.

Dreams were never this revealing,
cuts so deep yet with no feeling.
The sweetest smell adorns the room
as I dress my deep, symmetric wounds.

Why me, this messenger of doubt?
Borne from parents so devout.
We parted ways, this party-bride,
no longer needs a parental guide.

I'll still be around, they'll find dove feathers
crying out for our 'togethers'.
So lift a stone, I shall be there,
I'm the breeze you feel in the evening air.

Who'll sit with me on the ragged rock,
as I bathe the blood that values shock?
Sweet St.Francis promise me,
that no more holes will ever be...

Driven hard into my wrists,
by this I know that God exists.
Crucified, stigmatic hands
is not what body weight commands

No prayer, no sunshine, fountain wishes,
makes them accept 'whatever this is'.
St.Francis, hold my hand at night,
once the night nurse switches off the light.

Oh, Yes I Will - Oh, No You'll Not....!!

Tomorrow:

I WILL, make a start to adding my labels.
I WILL look into arranging 'the link within' thingy.
I WILL split my visited webs fairly and respond to 3 blogs/emails from each at a time.
I WILL complete the new header I have designed and put it up!
I WILL leave a link for my Facebook mob to visit here if they fancy.
I WILL award the best Saturday Sidebar from my blogroll with the coveted badge.
I WILL try and find out how to put music (with an optional easy-to-find mute button) to my blog.
I WILL upload new sidebar pictures, other favourite song videos and funny short (some homemade) videos.
I WILL upload the remaining 'new' family pictures to my side bars.
I WILL learn how to make a blog button.
I WILL organise my photo albums.
I WILL damn myself in the morning for having the instiest of a conscience.

Mite To Mound

(I've veered from the sad truth to an unrelated positive of this prompt)

Gathered steps from grand to mite
becomes your future overnight.
Borne to have, to cultivate,
sweet plantations there await.

We wave to father's trail that weaves,
among the pungent, drying leaves
Skin relations, tying links,
respect for what a woman thinks.

A whole with no hypocrisy,
a blip, a blood democracy
As evident as blazing star,
we track our loved ones from afar.

The smokey trails, the hissing streams,
the catcher feathering our dreams
Grandma's trembling hands may stealth,
to sell our goods and keep our health

Wonder Star, Returning Moon,
your day is over, none too soon.
Babes back in arms of their creator,
stars will call a little later.

Gathered round until again,
they venture on their many plains.
Alas we'll waive and watch the skies,
fill from which our lives derive.

To say goodbye in sacred mounds
Sweet Plantations, sacred grounds.

Kal-Eye-Doth-Scope

Many times they told me
you were just a cheap illusion
I, absorbed in full blown colour
Interprismatic seclusion

Just mirrors giving precedence to
sequins, beads and shines 
Amass, a mixture calling,
silent crystalized designs

Such a simple little cannister
bejewelled and constrained.
In just one twist, you'll never see 
such symmetry again

Continually changing
in this world where all  reflects.
Kaleidescope take me away
from all at which I'm vexed

My simple little charmer,
hoarder of hypnotic lure.
Master of the elongated wink,
optic guider of the tour

I've Not 'Pied For Maggie For Migi......

I haven't had much time this past week or so, to deposit an entry in to Magpie Tales. My twin sister, Margaret, (Migi) is visiting with her daughter, Layla, tying up loose ends and securing plans for their permanent move back to Scotland in around 6 weeks. The time in between has been spent on yapping, drinking, tea, takeaway, yapping, drinking tea, and yapping, drinking and a catchup via facebook ect, to see how old work, school and neighbouring friends are faring.

For 26 years she has lived in London but recently divorced. Her older son, Ashley, 18, is touring with his classical music post. Layla wants to finish her schooling in Scotland, as the education system up here caters for her future plans better than her current London ones do. And me....? I'll get my twin (and a whole new wardrobe to borrow from) back. Fair do's........

Get To 'F'

Every Friday I search for a picture subject focusing on the letter 'F'. This week's F-ing find.....Food (literalisms).  Anyone wanting the recipes just give me a shout!











 ........a bit on the nippy side..!

                                       Turban optional...............!    

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So You Bloody Said

What was the point? Going over old rope, over the same critique's from him and expectations from her? Over a nice bottle of red, he said. When they both knew they were done.

She never liked red, anyhow.  Gave her heartburn and not the crisp, flutter of intoxicating white. Her likeable friend who got her giddy without side effects. Thank goodness she had a friend waiting for her with it's chilled coat on. So there they sat across the table - white versus red. His next move now scuppered. 

A nippy little line cracked the edge of her glass, making her lip bleed. A droplet of blood tainted the white and with narrowed eyes he smirked at her.  Perhaps she'd not made herself clear. His glass of red went over him, in a beauty of a splat as well, and the white followed seconds after. Well, they do say that white wine helps to rid a red wine stain, don't they...?  It did the trick. Nicely. And the troublesome blot cleared off his Mercedes Benz.

Next day,  she ordered a whole rack of the white, amiable stuff and sipped a glass as she surfed.  Dating agencies were so vast these days. But she was picky. Profile's had to meet her distinct approval.  She stopped on Doug. Seemed a nice fellow and he had the perfect likings. A red wine lover most of all. Click!

The Mona & Groaner

He had to go and done it - mix our home and 'new' antiques
He's what you call a bit 'très graves', while I'm more tongue-in-cheek

Disorganisation is my throttle to his cool
Hearty, smarty, artifacts V everybody's fool

Then through the door he battled with a print of ten by ten
I feared I'd never see that sticky fingered wall again!

Ms. Mona ruddy Lisa, with her beady little stare
All that secrecy and numbers...who gives a hoot if they are there?

She stalls our guests for ages, champagne warming in the glass
(Just pop a straw into that flute for an extra bit of class!).

Gee, she isn't pretty (if she's a she at all)
Who'd give her a second glance - umbrella of the ball.

Yet, still they flock to see her - these madmen of the Louvre
And all she does is sit there (La un-sequential oeuvre)

I hear her sigh most twilights, keeping me from slumber
Biddy eyes that steal your gaze - a masterpiece encumber

She's hung out in the guest room, the basement and the hall
Getting goggled at by everyone with 'oohs' and 'aaahs'  and alls.

She's clashed with all my glitters, this pinnacle of pain
I've prayed to God I'd never see that 'maybe' smile again!

What hold does one so haughty,  have over Banksy's best?
Davinci felt like he's da-man, in silent-strokes behest?

I've often thought about it - her demise - quite unrefined
(A dart board and some arrows were the first to come to mind.)

Seems I'm stuck with her for ever - oily, spoily lady muck
Had her mouth been grinning ear-to-ear, who'd give a flying .................

Battle Of The Exes

"Come..." enticed the meager, with a sarky little smile.
'Trust me not' she said inside, with accurate beguile.
Spider's web in corners, heart laden with a stomp
A face that would have fitted better, rising from a swamp


Cackling without the need to part her cracking lips
Fighting heart-to-mother's-soul, this pretty girl eclipse
Visualising bloodshed, never lest forget
Preparations now in lieu against this bannerette!


Her pride, her joy , her soldier, fairer than the day itself
Begot and could preserve him, stored upon forever's shelf
A battle for supremacy, a message not on cloth
While her cornered lips contentiously build up a daring froth

Outside the battle rages on, in fiery resolution
While a battle's reign begins inside, culled rapid dissolution
She shall not rest until his shield, swings her hair as its tassel
No nymph will ever lure her prince, his duty from this castle

Begone young love, no happy ending leads to battles blown
Swords that lance, more bubbles burst than bloodshed for the throne
Delivering full frontal moves, a man for lesser hung
For what good would a shiltron be, when mother has a tongue? 

Get To 'F'

Fridgey Friday.....This week's F-ing find!

                            Now, that is one very cool little guy!

Hoots! To The Irish In Me!

(When I saw the shamrock it took me straight back to my old dad and his tales! Always the joker. He always said that I had Irish blood somewhere in there due to my thick, golden-red hair and pale, pale skin. This one's for you, dad!)

 My father sat combing my long golden hair
Fresh from the bathroom was I
"I've a secret to tell you", he said with a frown
I let out a worrying sigh

'What is it, dad?" I asked at his side
I gulped and my heart raced in horror.
"I'm not who you think I am, dear, sweet, Ellie."
"I'm greener than tartan,... begorrah."

"I was born in the woodlands in Ireland, my dear
"Though I sound very Scottish indeed..."
"I'm a leprechaun - magical - turned into man
...but I'm from the same enchanted breed!"

"Why do you think that I do disappear?"
"For a week, from the 17th March?
I have to go home and meet all me mates!"
"Have a drink, for all Ireland's then parched!"

I tutted and picked up the comb from the floor
And handed it to him again
"Just get out the tangles and stop all this stuff!"
He went in to his giggling feign.

"I'll tell you why, you manic old man....
We all have some Irish love in us..!!
"But you're back from the pub with Paddy O'Nair
"And you're both tanked up well on the Guiness!"

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
And to further blend the Celtic in us....an Irish tribute from my favourite Scottish duo: Sean by The Proclaimers  (listening optional)

Get To 'F'

Furry Friday.....This week's F-ing find!  How a banana left on my son's window's sill would eventually look....

(Don't) Roll Me Over, In The (Garlic) Clover

(This entry is dedicated to my hubby. A garlic fiend but he now only goes nuts with it a few times a year - or else!)

You know that I love you - well - most of the time
Though our interests differ from the weak to sublime
You put up with my shit, I put up with yours
Defended each other, slammed many a door

Both tried and both tested, a team set on high
Till the nightmare begins with one sniff and a sigh
You sneaked in the garlic - fume of a phantom
Twelve cloves up the arse of a poor little bantam!

The pull of the garlic, satisfyingly strong
Teasing you men with a passion forlorn
But who gives a hoot to the women immersed
Subjected to breathing in all that she cursed!

Over-dozed dinners that brought me to tears
Offensively falling out over the years
If I asked you to sleep in a room gunged with vomit
You'd be out of there, gone - shoot off like a comet!

The garlic, enticer, a cheap little whore
Her perfume soon raging from every pore
No cologne, scented candle, eau de from above
Takes away the full might of one single clove

It plummets my heart, puts my nostrils through sorrow
You swallowing roast cloves like there's no tomorrow
Hark! To the 'lic with it's Biblical mention
Can't believe this small culprit gets all that attention

Oh and, yes, I do know what 'medicinal' plus is
Quite frankly, I'm lost as to what all the fuss is!
I'll never consider it over it's station
I'll continue to manage (sniff) in moderation.

Look - it can fend off fierce vampires, banish bad luck
Be the best of the bestest, I don't give a puck
You're not sharing my bed, nor breathe in my room
For 48hrs - not a moment too soon......!!

Get To 'F'

 Each week I go on a cyber hunt to find a picture starting with/or under the category of the letter  'F'  so today is Fishbowl Friday and this rather old pic popped up again. Still makes me smile, though!

Shrove Blooded Tuesday

 This week's prompt conjured up pancakes via the fork and lemon and as Pancake Day is not long away either I felt it apt. The 'blood' inspired me to take this historic little trip................

Say nae to manners, a kingdom inquiet
Where the crux of the day seeks the thrill of the riot
Custom be tying a cock to the stake
Where they'd throw coksteles, hear their little bones break

Gave up on decent, to give up for Lent
Masses outwith Him, scathed and Hell-bent 
Shriller than birdsong, a whisper aloud
Whose piety slinks through the gaps in the crowd.

Loose tongues a lollop their sins from the pit
11a.m. sparked the start of the flit
A passionate penance, of shame and of brawn
24 hours later, vestige has all gone

Shroving on Tuesday till Ash taketh over
And sees home morality from the marauder
Keeping them fuelled on this moronic day 
Was the golden supply to this hungry soiree

Tossing them, flipping, the sizzle of butter
A mangle of taut tongues, so anxious to utter
No mercy given, no truth untold
What a tasty transgression for one to uphold