That Morning Sluggishness

There’s a slug in my shower

– sorry you’ll have to go

but however you  got there

I’ll just never know!

There’s a slug in my shower

-yes, you might well make haste

And, if that’s how you got there,

go on, back down that waste!

There’s a slug in my shower

-Yes, I know you’re quite small

But I just can’t be sharing…

That wouldn’t do at all!

There’s a slug in my shower

-yes… it’s raining outside

But you’d get just as wet here,

No use trying to hide!

There’s a slug in my shower

-what a card! Enjoy the ride.

I’ll drop you off real gently…

There now, you’re back outside.

There’s no slug in MY shower

-for a moment  I felt sad

But then again…Hey buddy!

Can you find your OWN pad?

Photo credit: http://elizabethruffing.com/2015/06/finally-more-stuffed-toy-slugs.html

Losing You (Englyn)

 

Fragile is the egg that comes too soon, for

Sure the life-stemming bloom

Will flood that fruitless moon –

Silent now the lullaby’s tune…

So, today I tried to write in a Welsh poetry form called an Englyn, this is very complicated and I cannot stick to all the rules as I think I would have to learn the Welsh language to have a proper go at the cynghanydd elements (basically where repeated patterns of consonants form another pattern and rhythm with each line…) instead mine is very basic but I did enjoy having a go.

Thanks to Libby Leaper for introducing me to this form on her blog: By The Wobbly Dum Dum Tree,  https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/191782

 

How Time Flies

28^th January 2018

In the stillness of the night

I follow

your path,

the red trail telling me

where you go,

what you might see.

Into the future

you fly,

to rise

with the sun.

 

Picture source: http://www.fujisan.ne.jp/event/info_e.php?if_id=672&ca_id.3&page.&sum_count=&kensuu=

Reflecting

Stirring Stuff

My spoon is rather…

Gorgeous.

How can I

Convey

The pleasure it brings

To the touch –

Supremely

Smooth,

I cannot resist

Running

That silken curve

Down my jawline –

Itself, admittedly,

Not as smooth

Nor as firm

As once it was

But still able

To luxuriate

In the

Feel

Of this miraculous piece

Of Spoon-Smith’s

Craftsmanship;

Hard to resist

Once the initial

Contact

Has been made.

Then back to

My thumb

Caressing

The barely

Hollowed wood…

Hallowed wood

A feast for

All the senses;

My eyes follow

The richly diverse

Tones of the grain

Which seems to

Emulate

The silken tresses

Of an expensively

High-lighted head;

I close my eyes

And inhale

The distinctively

Subtle scent

Of the

Tung Oil-moisturised

Skin –

Ah… stirred by a

Wooden spoon!

A Bed of Flowers

An image

Of the season’s

First daffodils

Brings a lump to

My throat.

A rebirth

That springs from the soil,

A smile to brighten

The winter gloom –

A reminder

That life

Is not

Diminished

By being within

The earth.

A yellow glow

Suffuses the

stone cross

And the lantern

Promises

Illumination

When the way

Is dark.

Sleep well,

On this

Mothering  Sunday

Your Mother

Brings you flowers…

Little Painty Spider

Little Painty Spider.
Your Mum and sibling
Escaped
To the white expanse
Above,
With its artexed craters
And valleys, to hide.
You though
Didn’t realise the
Yellow
Roller was coming your
Way…nor did I. Then.
Too late.
Nevermind. You are now
Truly part of the
Décor
As your kind have long
Hoped for.
Gone but not forgotten.

Little Painty Spider

Image: http://naturemoms.com/blog/2006/05/30/natural-ways-to-get-rid-of-spiders/

Well Matured

My mum was 18 (again!) yesterday

Knowing how she didn’t want anyone to know she was 80 last year (her friends all thought she was much younger and she didn’t want to disillusion them) we reversed the candles on the cake and there you have it – childish glee … but the camera angle kind of gives the secret away doesn’t it?

Party Spirit

Glimpsed from a car, a group of revellers
party there on the green.
An abundance of teenagers turn to
look as I approach from
the camouflage of the hedged tennis courts.
And I do come armed
with an apology… and sweets… and drinks
for the party-goers.
I am greeted with a hug and I leave
with a tear-draped eye and
an awareness of how fragile life is.
Birthday celebration.
For one who is no longer around to
celebrate it herself.

Image:http://www.crocus.co.uk/plants/_/myosotis-sylvatica/classid.2000018820/

Buzzled

Little furry buzzy bee
I saw you immobilized
There by the French doors and I
Thought I may be able to
Revive you with a little
Sugar water – I do hope
I didn’t drown you instead…