The Start Of Love

Pray tell me, where does love begin its life?
Does it creep into the conscious mind
from ancient memories of long lost dreams?
Is a sight, a sound, a scent, a touch
enough to wake it, give it form and feeling
to send five senses reeling with its joy,
as two bodies find that five plus five
make ten... and then... and then, and then...

Often we may search and yearn for love,
spend hours, months or years without success,
before, one moment, unannounced it comes
to overwhelm us with its tidal flood
of all that we desired. Then we are drowned
as its currents sweep us from the shores
of loneliness. We can but bless the fates
who made us wait for this, made us see
the waiting as a gift which added golden
overtones to prayers which had been answered.

Thanks to Kerry's Wednesday Challenge over at IGWRT, I was spurred to wax lyrical this afternoon, though probably not in a way in which she intended - But then, what can you expect from a Cad?!

Guilty Pleasure

Isadora Gruye,  at IGWRT , asks us to reveal our secrets. This one is perhaps a fantasy on my part,  as I don't believe I've indulged in such a caper since I was a lad - and even then, not at midnight! I had too much respect for my teeth. However, a man can dream, can't he?! That in itself can be a guilty pleasure!


How I ask you, may one measure
the guilt attached to guilty pleasure?

Does it mean the size of the Mars Bar
or the depth of the sweetie jar
will add it's own dimension?

Must I mention
how this delight
on midnight
exploits to the kitchen
can get your fingers itching
to tear the paper
fast, then make a
start, as teeth
nibble away to reach beneath
the chocolate topping,
find the caramel. No stopping
until the nougat is licked clean.
Know what I mean?

"A Mars a day "
so adverts say
"will help you work, or play, or rest"
but one at midnight tastes the best!

Last Minute Friday 55

Doctor FTSE spoke of a Triangular Number in his blogpost today, so I thought I would do a triangular 55 for G-Man, with thanks to the  Doc for putting the idea in my head, also for explaining what the h*** he meant!

Each
little word
adds to another,
and pretty soon you
find that this one extra,
added line by line, will keep
you at it even while asking  how
much longer you will be forced to write
this rot, making little sense if truth be told,
until lines one to ten equal fifty five words. Magic!

Mercy!

Dust clouds turn the skies blood-red and the moon
spills acid from its lofty perch above
wastelands where darkness blankets the hillsides.
Only the gleam from the sea's surface lights
the landscape with hope. Fragile, filigree
treetops shudder in the onslaught of winds
which howl from all four points of the compass
at once, defying the laws of Nature.
When the Furies of the Cosmos unleash
their hatred man can only beg "Mercy!"

Inspired by Tess and Felix Vallotton at Mag 143

Soldiers

Amongst dust and dirt

flying bullets end their lives,

destroy relatives

who wait with dread to hear news

which splinters the family.

Generations mourn

orphaned children, widowed wives.

Parents and siblings

acknowledge their loss, with tears,

with rage, with numb disbelief.

British boys and girls

fight wars in other countries,

die for an ideal.

The whole world should be asking -

is their sacrifice too much?

Offered for  Toad's Open Link Monday today.

Fridge Magnet

Midnight Snack, 1984, by Curtis Wilson Cost

When a grumbling tum in the dead of night
plagues your dreams - switch on the light,
raid the fridge - and then sleep tight!


Written for Mag139, even while the hunger pangs gnawed....Haha!

Doctor, Doctor! What Have I Got?

Sick Woman, 1665, by Jan Steen

The bearded Doctor in his ruff was often known for being tough
but when the lady Arabella needed help from a medical fellow*
he was the one who came to mind, for she knew he could be kind.
He felt her pulse, prescribed a potion, and gave her a flagon of rub in lotion.

With herbs and simples, carefully mixed, the patient's ailment was easily fixed.
But Doc was nothing if not astute, and, noticing her handsome lute,
he said" Dear madam, if you please, while I relax and take my ease
within your curtained, poster bed, could you sooth my head instead?"

So he promoted her to Nurse! He'd cleverly made their roles reverse.
His plea "I've a headache. Help me, quick! Now I'm the one who's feeling sick!"
brought out her caring, gentle side and his wish was not denied,
for Arabella spent the night playing her lute for his delight...

* pronounce as 'fella', please!

See more medical matters at the Mag 138 this week.

 

Three by Four ?

Photo by Joy Ann Jones

And the scudding clouds streak across the sky;
thin, vaporous beings, insubstantial,
yet softening the effect of a day

when sunshine may otherwise prove too strong
for tender petals blushing pink with shyness.
Close-cupped buds hide in spherical silence,

while trumpet pistils herald golden light
from central tones of ruby at their base,
deep notes resonating in harmony.

A summer symphony is created
for our enjoyment. The natural world
is generous with its gifts to mortals.


For IGWRT's Sunday mini challenge.

Cheeky!

There was a young model who posed
while still wearing half of her clothes -
the jumper was cotton...
but why the bare bottom?
I guess there is no one who knows! 




Of course, there is a slight possibility she was wearing cream coloured jodhpurs, but where would be the fun in that? Thanks to Tess and David Salle for this chance to have a giggle with The Mag 136.

Dancing Partners

Image by Salvador Dali

Don't be put off by extra bulk,
if your partner is a hulk,
for often those with larger frames
dance lightly on their feet. I came
to understand this well,
and there are stories I could tell
of dance hall days
which might amaze
those who read my words today.
I well remember Gladys May,
a rotund lass. But like a feather
she would float, and I could never
once deny 
our dancing feet managed to fly
around the floor better than most.
And that's no boast,
but honest truth.
Ah, long lost youth!
Where did you go? And when?
I know I wish you'd come again!

A tongue in cheek offering for the Mag 135, with thanks to Tess
Also shared with  Open Link Monday at IGWRT.

No Peeping Toms Please!

 Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

The curtains and blinds have been sent to be cleaned,
 and without lacy nets left to drape
in front of the transparent windows, you see,
we'll be saddened if folks start to gape

and peer through the glass here to watch us all day,
or worse, to survey us by night,
when maybe an unguarded action or two
could really give someone a fright.

Bright sun through the windows will ruin the floors,
the carpets, the parquet, the rugs
and with no roaring fire alight in the grate,
we'll have to keep warm using hugs!

Written for Mag 132

Light Versus Dark

Black anger,
slashed across the page-
no finesse
or planning
but emotion’s overspill
of dark energy-
bites my soul,
makes me turn away
to cower,
shield myself
with light to defeat the wrath
of primal forces.
Powerful
radiance grows bright,
spreading out,
increasing,
defeating the darkness with
illumination.

Studying the image by Franz Kline which Tess used in this week's Mag 127,  made me feel uneasy. I found it painful, even! No accounting for how imagination works...
Also linking to Poetry Pantry. #107..

Well, whatever next?

At this time of year, people start snapping their holiday snaps, capturing special moments with which to entertain their friends when thy return to their hum-drum, everyday existence. This one of mine was too good not to share... along with a warning haiku.

Water skis -
Ada in full flow.
Stand well clear.

A Yokel's Lament

The folks up at the big house
have rooms enough to spare.
They hold enormous parties,
the gentlefolk in there.

Their guests arrive from far and near,
and rooms get full to bursting...
while every common lass and lad
dreams of such revels, thirsting

for a taste of carefree life.
For seldom may we sing or dance,
intent upon enjoyment,
and as for feasting...well, fat chance!

What is a farm boy meant to do,
but doff his cap... and dream anew?

Written for Mag 119, and inspired by Tess and Edward Hopper.

Morning, M'am!

I once took on a summer job
(you could never call me snob)
driving round an ASDA van
as weekly shop delivery man,
carrying groceries to the door
of ladies, both the rich and poor.

Old Mrs Jones from forty three
never asked me in for tea,
but Mrs Jones' bonny maid
always gave me  lemonade!


This 55 was written in anticipation of the day when G-Man resumes normal service. Best wishes for a speedy recover, Sir!

And today, by popular request, the bonny maid is on view HERE , together with another 55.

A combination of two prompts...

...from  IGWRT and Mag #116, set me thinking, and here's the result - a poem in Florette form.

Photo by R A.D Stainforth

I lie dreaming by the river,
hearing random ripples shiver…
I feel her spirit in my mind,
whose tempting words, loving and kind
                                                 call me hither.

“Brother, follow me” she’s saying
“and together we’ll go straying
far beyond the realms of sorrow
to a make believe tomorrow
                                       where joy’s playing.

“ Sister”, I reply with sadness
“to leave our chosen path is madness.
I know that many moons must turn
before, together, we may learn
                                               true gladness.”

Not The Wavy Navy

Once I had a fish tank, a very special kind.
It wasn't square and boring, like others you might find.
No, it wiggled up and down in graceful undulations,
all fitted with a fine control for heating variations.
In winter you could turn it up, in summer turn it down,
but while  it stood there empty, I felt like a clown.
So I filled it up with water, though fishes I had none.
It was sad to see it vacant. What was to be done?
Well, I stripped down to my shorts and slithered round the bends.
And this, I hate to tell you, is where my story ends!

Written for Mag #114 with thanks to Alex Stoddard for the original graphic.

Horses for Courses . . .

 . . . not for changing light bulbs as some folk seem to think.   What Doctor FTSE needs is a house pet like this . . .

Who's A Lounge Lizard?

Debatable question, I'd have said but Susie Clevenger's camera has certainly captured one here for Real Toads to admire...

...And I felt an immediate kinship with him. 

This lizard's neck looks a bit wobbly
and his digits somewhat knobbly.
His skin's the colour of the soil
in my garden, where I toil
and try to keep my muscles trim...

Help! Am I turning into him?

I have lost the youthful tension
in body parts which I'll not mention,
and years of working in the sun
have tanned my skin. My hair's begun
to resemble his thinning spikes...
a balding process no one likes.

But I'm no lounge lizard, for sure,
for I prefer the great outdoor
delights of trees 'n' plants 'n' flowers -
I can study them for hours,
perched upon some handy seat...
A gardener's life can be real sweet!

Thirteen Lines For The Thirteenth

The action of natural forces, I find
can sometimes be of an unwelcome kind.
My unruly tum
is not under my thumb
and for volcanic activity
it has a proclivity.
I'm sad to say
it goes its own way
with rumbles
and grumbles...
I think that it mumbles
"Please change your diet,
if you long for quiet!"

Laurie at IGWRT set a challenge. "Write a thirteen line poem about effervescence", and gave this list of definitions:-
effervescence - the process of bubbling as gas escapes

natural action, natural process, action, activity - a process existing in or produced by nature (rather than by the intent of human beings); "the action of natural forces"; "volcanic activity"

the property of giving off bubbles

bubbliness, frothiness

gaseousness - having the consistency of a gas

How could I resist?
Sorry!

Star Gazing?

Or simply looking at other people's blogs can lead you a merry dance! I've trailed around this morning until I ended up in an Imaginary Garden where, it seems, many toads have found a new game to play, and though I will be joining in at the tail end (after the horse has bolted?) here goes...

Pegasus gallops

to the music of the spheres,

while star clusters spin.