Monthly Archives: June 2015

The Plight of the Humble Bumble-Bee Keeper!

A selection of British Bee-Keepers.

A selection of British Bee-Keepers.

Keeper of the Bees

It is now time, once again, to spare a thought for the plight of the humble, bumble-bee-
-keeper.

It was only a decade ago that we thought that British bee-keepers were a dying breed. Numbering fewer than 8,000 in number (and not all of those with a mating capacity) and declining slowly and surely into the endangered species category, there seemed no hope for them.

However, numbers have increased (perhaps due to an enforced mating programme) and at last count there were 25,000+ with the promise of a healthy increase in numbers for the future.

The British Bee-Keeper (descended from Apiarists) is a sturdy, hardy sort and their stubbornness has, at least in part, seen them safely ensconced in British gardens for years to come.

The Start of Something?

image

1.

A bead of sweat forms upon my brow
And is quickly akin to a torrent.
A heated breeze brings little respite
To my fatigued demeanour
And I close my eyes in such weariness…

2.

When I awoke
There had been a distinct change in the weather
And my condition was such that I
Thought a fourth Ice-Age had descended.
This was not right.
How did I shiver here where once I had melted in the abnormal heat?
I seemed to be in the same place…
But, was this a different time?
There were no people
Just a vaguely familiar frozen landscape.
In fact, there seemed to be little chance of my living more than a few minutes in this bitterness.
I was shaking with the cold; surely my blood was freezing inside my veins.

3.

Start moving, that was the thing; pump that blood and live a little longer – perhaps long enough for the survival instinct to kick in fully.
I hauled first one leg, then the other into a slow lumbering sequence of jerky movements. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a start.

The Birthday Sprite

In a parallel universe Tatty Teddy is really rather smart! A cake for Jane to celebrate her 34th Birthday. G:) x

moonworld

Spirited birthday
Candle bigger than the cake
Birthday sprite cometh

With big, big thanks to Graeme Sandford for my Tatty Teddy cake (amongst other lovely gifts) and for not burning the house down. Love you x

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M.O.N.D.A.Y. (acrostically speaking)

Cornwallcurling.com

Cornwallcurling.com

Monday
Overcomes
National
Dislike
As it becomes
Yesterday.

Happiness is a Birthday!

Eyes of Jane

Eyes of Jane

Today is a special day

for a special lady

and the cake

I bake for Jane

(in a parallel universe)

is amazing.

It has velvet-smooth Vanilla icing

and if you press any of the

Blue-Smartie buttons

it sings ‘Happy Birgday to Jane!’

In Norwegian

(due to a few typos and some poor programming)

However, that is better than the cake

I made in a further alternative universe…

that just tasted strange.

whatever, this is just one way of wishing

my special lady a special day!

Happy Birthday, Jane!

lyx

#happybirthday #happybirthdaytojane

This is an awfully bad poem (and I said it first)

It stinks!

It stinks!

This is an awful poem
And that’s not saying
That it’s full of awe either!
Rather, it is just the wrong side
Of ‘really bad!’
And that really ‘is’ saying something.
Really.
Its redeeming feature at the moment is its length
Though it is now in the process of having ‘no’ redeeming features whatsoever.
Which is a sad and sorrowful shame –
Not really.
It is in English, I suppose;
So that could be a plus point pour tu.
But, the odd foreign phrase doesn’t help matters when it comes to clarity of meaning – n’est pa?

It has a first stanza that is too long.

And a second stanza.

And a third… And fourth.

Those are too short
And fraught with…
Nothingness in a bun dance.

This is what can happen
When poetry is attempted
Upon a Monday morning at silly o’Clock.

Totton (on the Mud)

Totton-precinct
“Wot! No poems!”
Okay, as you asked so nicely you can have a poem…
…about where I live….

Totton

The thing about Totton,
Which has never been forgotten,
Is that the place was not on
The map as where they invented cotton;
It’s more of a blot on
A landscape so rotten
And isn’t a spot on
The fine city of Taunton
Or Totnes, or Tottenham, and not on
Your life is it unusual to hear: “What on
Earth is that!”  Hot on
That thought’s heels, with kettle and pot on,
We find it difficult to plot on
A map its position, location,
And it’s not the place for a relaxing vacation
Of your own volition; trust intuition
And leave it well alone, put on
Your dancing shoes and spot on
Time waltz away until you are a dot on
The horizon.