Monthly Archives: October 2017

Coffee-Break Poetry – the little sea-horse and the blue-and-white fish.

Little sea-horse
And blue-and-white fish,

Swimming in the ocean

With just one wish:

To be best friends for always;

And travel waters blue;

And visit coasts and pretty bays – 

And the best of them all is Looe.

NaNoWriMo 2017 – #DialogueForAPlay as a novel (what a novel idea!)

I am going to be involved in this for the month of November. 
That means I may write fewer ‘other’ things.
I may.
However, to keep me focused upon the NaNoWriMo, if anybody would like to check out my #dialogueforaplay posts (A Performance Version of #DialogueForAPlay)  (written originally as Tweets on Twitter) and make any salient suggestions, critiquecal comments or pertinent points, I would be happier than a happy hoppy hippy type.
Anyway, I’m sure that November will be Magic (Kate Bush reckons December is) 

December Will Be Magic Again
Thank you in advance – Graeme:)

Leak Sausage Vs Beefy the Beef Sausage #UKSausageWeek

The strong sausage was bullying the weak one again.
‘Leaks! You’ve got a body made of leaks! What are you? A vegetable? You don’t deserve the name of sausage!”
The weak leek sausage wilted like a week-old lettuce under this fierce onslaught – 

He thought about the time before Beefy arrived in the fridge.
But, that was days ago – when would Beefy get eaten, or go out of date and be thrown.
Best Before… ha!
Leak Sausage knew that he was a long-life creation; Beefy’s days were numbered.
And Leak Sausage knew that it was very unlikely that he would be eaten anytime soon – Beefy was right on one level.

Poêt a Manger!

Poêt a Manger
“Eat me!” said the label.

“Drink me!” said another.

“Hear me! Read me! Love me!” exclaimed the poet, desperately.
We looked him. This supposed poet; his hair unruly, his déshabillé all dishévélléd;

His non de plume set at a slightly less than rakish angle;

To be honest, he was not much to look at – and that was still his best attribute.
We had listened with anticipation for most of twenty seconds; then we had switched our allegiance as we watched a late-comer being usheretted to the empty seats at the front (she had a look of despair upon her face that resembled the desperate stare of a hunted (or haunted) escapee that has been cornered into a very inescapable position indeed.
After that we decided en masse to abandon the fellow to endure his own dribbly musings; felonious rhymes; and insidiously clichéd droppings.
The air outside was clear and bright;

And, so, we decided as one to party the night.
The Poet? 
Who knows?
He could be there still.

Painted Lady

I saw a painted lady

In a garden once, some other day;

If it was a butterfly I would have carried on my way;

But, it was a lady, painted;

Body paints, you know;

Underneath, quite naked,

So, I fainted!

I do that

From time to time,

And to the floor

I had to go.

The painted lady helped me up

And made sure I was fine;

Then she popped me on a 17 Bus,

And I was home by half-past nine.
I never got my prescription from the chemists

That fine day,

I had to go back the day after;

And the day after that;

And; well, to cut a long story short…

the painted lady 

had gone away.

Deadmen Point – a Story (in one sitting) for Halloween.

Celtic? Who knows?

Deadmen Point from the South West

Deadmen Point – a story in one sitting for Halloween.
I was lost. I’d been lost before, but this time I was ‘not’ going to find my way out, or be found… alive.
How I got here was no riddle – I was directed down this road by ‘seemingly-cloned’ chaps who I thought were drop-outs from a Penzance Pirate Party. Slightly lacking in the small-talk department, they all unnervingly pointed me southwards when I asked for directions to the A38.
Then the car stopped – one of those ‘I’m not going any further, today!’ sort of stoppages. I swore a bit. Then, I swore a lot.
I tried turning it off and on again – nothing, nada, zipperoni. More words to the gods.
So, I left it. And walked.
I walked in what I thought was the direction back to the main road; but, I seemed to be drawn inevitably towards the coast.
The darkened night was staying out late, and I was the unwilling traveller set upon a course to an unknown destination.
I hadn’t dressed for the chill; and my footwear was too ‘Berluti’ to cope with the rigours of these Cornish highways. This wasn’t a Sunday walk across the estate to survey one’s inheritance – this was a nightmare.
I stumbled, fell, tore the knee on my Canalis, and swore a bit more – I was certainly filling up the swear-jar tonight!
Picking myself up, and dusting myself off, I continued. On. To ‘who-knows-where?’
After an endless succession of steps, I reached the headland. Cross? There certainly was. A huge ‘Celtic?’one.

No, it didn’t seem to be Celtic in origin – it was squarer, and what did I know? Were there ‘squarer’ Celtic crosses?
Anyway, by the cross was a small brazier and a gathering of souls. They huddled in that area like proverbial moths. 
I was drawn. With little say in the matter my scuffed footwear headed toward the enticement of the flames.
The group of barely detailed bodies (bodies?!) moved aside to let me through. As I passed amongst them their cold breath left their lungs and wrapped around me.
I was lost. I’d been lost before; but, this time, I was really lost.

Thy found the car the next morning – its engine still running – in a layby on the A38.
They never found me.

Red Sails

Red sails in the sunset

Upon a placid sea

Bringing a boat back to shore – 

My fisherman home to me.
NB  Beach Crafts use found materials from the beach to create fantastic pictures – We have one on our bookcase – this tray of ‘finds’ may be transformed into dogs on a beach, red sails at sea, happy couples, and a number of other shore-related creations. G:)

6,000 Steps.

6,000 Steps
Niamh: In 50 yards

You will be

12,000 steps away from where you were heading for.
Me: What? I’m 12,000 steps away? I was only 6,000 steps away when I started!
Niamh: Well, now that you’ve unmuted me, You can hear me telling you that you are going the wrong way.
Me: So, I’d better turn around and head back that a ways?
Niamh: Which a ways?
Me (pointing): That a ways.
Niamh: Well, If you head toward ‘that’ church spire upon ‘that’ church, then you will be no more than a thousand steps away from your destination when you reach it.
Me: Thanks, Niamh. I shall set out with a spring in my step and a-
Niamh: -stone in your shoe?
Me: Thank you, Niamh. You don’t happen to know Siri, do you?
Niamh: Why, yes – she and I went to the same convent school.
Me: Well, that would explain a lot of things.
Niamh: At the next roundabout take the fourth turning on the right.
Me: Thanks, Niamh, I don’t know where I’d be without you.
Niamh (to self): Even more of a loser.
Me: Sorry?
Niamh: I said ‘pleased to help you, sir’.
Me: Great. Let’s get on to that roundabout.
Niamh (to self): And never ever get off again.

Walking in Kernow (Cornwall)

[Verse 1]

Put on my wellie boots

 And I walked up the lane

Walked round in the land of the tractor queues

I’m at home in the pouring rain


St. Pirran of Kernow, 

Won’t you look down over me,

Yeah, I got a first class pasty

And I’m as ansum as a man can be


So I’m walking in Cornwall

Walking with my pasty and my pasties are real

Walking in Kernow

I’m really lucky to feel the way I feel? 

Witch the Dickens!

#SoCS Oct. 28/17 – Which/Witch/Wich
Linda’s back with another great #SoCS prompt!

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “which/witch/wich.” Start your post with the word “which” and try to fit the word “witch” in somewhere if you can. Bonus points if you use a word that ends in “wich.” As an added rule this week, you will lose all the points you’ve ever earned if you type “which witch is which” anywhere in your post. Have fun!
Thanks to Linda for the prompt and to Ritu for the prod.

Witch the Dickens!

G: I am writing about a witch; but, I’m not sure what sort of a witch to write about…
J: How do you think your witch should be?
G: Like the witch in that Charles Dickens novel.
J: Which witch was was that?
G: You know! The one in Great Expectorations.
J: Expectations! 
G: Whichever. I was almost right. Like that one.
J: There are no witches in Great Expectations. I don’t think there is a single witch in the whole of the Dickens canon.
G: You shouldn’t put witches in cannons – they may blow up on you!
J: Not that sort of cannon, ditherwit! His writing canon – all the words that he ever wrote.
G:) What? And he never wrote ‘witch’ in any of them?
J: No.
G: Apart from the witch in Grape Exceptions!
J: There is no witch in Grape- sorry, but there is no witch in Great Expectations!
G: Yes there is – Magwitch!
J: Oh, very droll – off to the hulks with you!
G: Witch one?