I gave the gift of an Angel
prayed for it to
as I too was given mine
because love gives without
expectation of reward
like a rose, I opened myself up
to grow within its light.
Drink with me to days gone by
for they will never come again
nor should they
memories will remain in gold
But on days like these
it’s nice to cup that warmth
Hold it for a while
sipping at the splendor
Life’s richest palate upon the tongue
slip it down
blend it with our inner spectrum
breathe it quietly for a while
revel in its feel
with a sigh of blessed gratitude
give it back unto the world.
The oilskin pelt containing a map of tunnels had been read and re-read again. Senses keen to the slightest sound with lighted torch he moved furtively between the red brick and cement walls which seeped with water from the Thames. The air down there was dense and his long cloak and clothing were heavy, cumbersome. Rats scampered here, there and everywhere but one large stray paused, seemingly entranced by this gigantic interloper. Smoke from the torch was choking him, but reluctant to cough lest even a murmur give himself away, his answer was a short swift kick which sent the rat back on its way. The Houses of Parliament would exist no more before the end of this day.
Along with about a dozen other conspirators, in 1605 a man named Guy Fawkes had planned to blow up the Houses of Parliament, killing King James 1 after which, they were going to install a catholic monarch back onto the throne.
This conspiracy was thwarted and Guy Fawkes was caught red handed with a lighted slow burning match waiting for the right time with over 30 barrels of gunpowder which would have completely destroyed Westminster Palace (the seat of UK government) killing the king and everyone else who were to attend the opening of Parliament.
Under the dreadful tortures used in those days, Guy Fawkes eventually named names and most of his conspirators were either killed or captured. Sentenced to death for High Treason, Guy Fawkes was due to be hanged, drawn and quartered (a gruesome death) but as he was being led up the high scaffolding he jumped off and in the fall, broke his neck, killing him instantly but in doing so, he saved himself the agonies of being only half hung, and before dying completely, drawn and quartered.
This plot became known as the Gunpowder Plot It became traditional every year on the night of the 5th of November for most of the UK to hold Guy Fawkes Night or, bonfire night. A celebration which involved everyone having bonfires (which was also a way of burning all their old furniture, and any unwanted things and such, in their back gardens and setting off fireworks after dark to celebrate the fact that the Houses of Parliament were not blown up. (Not so sure they’d be so happy about that these days) In my youth we would make a ‘Guy’ which was a figure made up of old clothing, jacket, pants and such, stuffed with newpaper to fill it out and we’d put a mask on it for it’s face and then put into a wheelbarrow or, sit it against a wall and we’d sit and collect a ‘Penny for the guy’ which we’d spend on sweets or, it was supposed to be spent on fireworks (which were freely sold in all stores back then)… .and when bonfire night arrived the guy would be placed on top of the high bonfire and then we’d light it and watch it burn.
There were even some rhymes which became quite well known one being:
‘Remember remember the fifth of November Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder, treason Should ever be forgot…’
Mighty man of old
how could you be so bold
in siding with other Titans
against the Olympian Gods
whence you clashed, and lost.
you kneel to better bear the burden
of your brazen foolishness
whilst some were sent to Tartarus
you are tasked to hold the Heavens forever
leaving mortals such as I
to ponder the origins of your birth
when you, Zeus and the other ancient Gods
walked upon the earth.
This Farnese sculpture created in marble in the 2nd century is the oldest one known of Atlas and many (like myself) used to think he was holding up the world, hence the expression: ‘Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, when in fact, having lost the battle to take Olympus from Zeus he was tasked to Hold up the sky to ensure that the Heavens and Earth would never meet
There’s a moment when I look at you and no speech is left in me..
tho’ the surface is calm
‘neath its smooth sheen
refusing to sleep atop
a volcano, awakened
from the fire within.
There is nothing more lovely
than your face as light plays
upon the contours of your skin’s
A merchant voyager or, vagabond
would that I could rise above
the watermark left in your wake
as your beauty drowns all in
earthly pursuit of your charms.
If I could write this memory
then; let it be written in stone
and passed down through millennia
from this ancient heart into some
future point of oblivion
that this was a love to last
throughout the ages.
Sappho is famous (among other things) for her poetry, but not much of it has survived. Sappho’s poetry is written about by other ancient writers and, most of her writings are bits and pieces, not complete works.
I’ve always loved this piece which is pretty much very well know and was featured in an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess
“There’s a moment when I look at you, and no speech is left in me. My tongue breaks, then fire races under my skin. I tremble and grow pale, for I am dying of such love, or so it seems to me.”
We had to chose the first sentence of a poet’s words and use them, then add our own thoughts to complete a new poem. I hope Sappho would be pleased with my effort.
My twin nephews and I walked through the Royal Pavilion gardens in Brighton, looking at all the uprooted trees.
“Some of these trees are hundreds of years old. Do you know how old that is?”
“I do, I do!” One exclaimed.
“Okay, how old is that then?” I asked
“It was before God was born.”
In 1987 my identical twin nephews were about 6 at the time and in one fell swoop, England lost over 15 million (no exaggeration) trees to a hurricane that was never even forecast. The weather man became (in) famous for telling a woman who had phoned in to ask if there was a hurricane on its way, not to worry but he added, that there may be a little bit of wind overnight. Michael Fish (the BBC weather forecaster) never lived it down.
It was the worst storm England had seen in 300 years!
There was damage to housing, businesses, cars, and land that spread its devastation right across most of the whole of southern England. I had never seen anything like it before in my lifetime. Some of the trees were hundreds of years old and had been ripped out of the ground as if they were nothing, roots and all. Lamp posts were bent double and crashed onto parked cars. The damage was dreadful and, 22 people died.
Although I hated the damage, I was also fascinated about what buried treasures there may be under the trees, in earth which hadn’t seen the light of day in all those years. Little bits of history and such, such as old coins, or pottery etc. We looked but we never found anything.
My twins saying that it was so precious, I’ve never forgotten it.
Sometimes life has its own way
of spiraling out of our control
So caught up in the
stretched elastic strands
we fight to survive it
Instead of living it
we turn it into our own
prison where hard labour
perhaps we can then see
the big picture which softens
each blow and lightens our
resistance to change.
The loss of control enables
us to cancel out that hold on
the past and with subtle nuances
of introspection here and there
we can reach new depths
crossing other thresholds using
knowledge gleaned from that
humbling of ego.
Even now, as we move through
winters deathly chill we know
that spring awaits us all
with her promised gifts.
In light of the now very difficult to read new Blogger captcha thingie I had also removed my own, although it was a lot easier to use than the new Blogger one is but, I’ve since had quite a lot of spam left in comments that readers have left. One, was a long never-ending page scrolling list in Russian language about selling clothing, but another was to do with porn sites so because of this, I am putting my captcha thingie back on again. Sorry to those who hate them, I don’t mind them if they are easy to read, but Blogger has made a huge faux pas with that and, I think it won’t be very long before they realise what they’ve done by switching from one that is easily understood to one that is enough to try the patience of a saint.
It needs life to see beyond
the narrow strip of black and white
and time which ages snapshots and
pages to differing shades of sepia
it all fades into blues and greys
and on into the white of nothing
below the surface
lays the hidden passion.
The dreams of journeys on
paths just waiting to be written
and horizons longing to be
gazed upon then, stained with
indelible ink upon the yearning
in our soul.
If trees could talk
they would tell us of how much
pain and suffering it took to
grow each circle and each line.
Of how they learn to bend without
breaking and how they know
that to bring
about new growth something
has to die
yet, still they keep
reaching for the stars
Perhaps they know that everything
which exists is neither
black or white
but, is instead
a painter’s palette of
colours of creation.
Looking at the scorched-black, smeared and smudgy ruins of what was left of the house she heard the wind whistle in haunting whips, much as leather straps are cracked and used to scare, as if to remind the ghosts would always haunt, but there would be no more fear that seeps in through shadowy thoughts from Rebecca’s past deeds which nestled like open sores that would weep and bleed. It had all been so bizarre. In restless mood she knew she had to somehow find her inner balance once more. It was one thing to think Mrs. Danvers intended to do her harm and, another thing altogether to know it.
It was turned into a very famous movie in 1940 directed byAlfred Hitchcock Starring Sir Lawrence Olivier and Joan Crawford
It’s got everything a good story ought to have. Love, hatred, jealousy, suspense. One thing that always fascinated me was that the second wife (who is the heroine and narrator of the story, is never named. All the way through the story she is only ever called Mrs De Winter. His deceased first wife, is Rebecca and Mrs. Danvers is the housekeeper who hates the second wife and (secretly loved) Rebecca.
It’s a novel I have yet to read but a movie I could watch time and time again. I love that (now) very famous opening line:
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”
He was born in Mexico and died in 2004.
I have never heard anyone play a piano quite like he does. It is with such a gentle passion.
You can find his music on Youtube
Anyway, this is just one fav of his . There are so many as lovely but …..this suits the snow and winter right now.
( Tribute to Ernesto Cortazar)
I float upon the waves.
Adrift in his melodic seas
my soul feeds on
those oh-so-perfect notes.
is winters cowl
I shrink from her icy reach
need the clasp of
sparkling jewels she shares to
feast these weary eyes upon.
he plays for me…
Even though his time has passed
his music lives and lures me
like a siren call
to fall in tune with all of
natures blessed harmonies.
I can cross the great divide
turn again to love
look toward days to
come as yet