Don’t Cry, Don’t Cry

I feel compelled to reblog these words of comfort. Having read them over two hours ago, the final stanza is still ringing in my ears and speaking to my heart. To explain.
Tomorrow I begin participation in a music challenge for 25 days, hosted by Twindaddy. Twenty-five days of songs with accompanying questions prompting the choices.
The first question is to choose a song from your childhood. The song was easy. The reflection was not. So many memories from so long ago overwhelmed me. Grief at the loss of my parents returned. That was a couple of days ago. Tonight I read these words and found comfort from beyond the veil. Parents never leave our hearts.

Experimental Fiction

I should explain this one. One of my best friends lost his dad very recently. That, combined with memories of losing my own father, inspired this piece. I hope you like it.
And here I lay,
In quiet repose,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And so I’m gone,
Like summers rose,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And darkness now,
Is all I’ll see,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And in your heart,
I’ll forever be,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And in your loss,
A strength you’ll find,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And moon and stars,
Will oft’ remind,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And life I lived,
With love so loud,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

And be your all,
And make me proud,
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

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Sensory Treasure

I whisper in your heart

to hear your hurting,

I kiss your tears

to taste away your fears,

touch your hands,

absorbing all your feelings,

snuggle close, scenting

pain-filled, broken years.

You gaze into my eyes

to know I’m seeing

all within your soul

you can’t convey.

In sharing all our senses,

flowered open,

love and understanding

feel a way.

I know your soul

by breathing in your essence,

believing all

my senses may reveal,

caring for you whole,

nothing concealed,

and treasure all the scars

I help to heal.

The Hughman for the Day

Now I had to wait until my A-Z of mythology was complete before doing this. In order to give due attention to the magnificence of a fine kilt. Note the way the pattern has been developed and the pleats stitched in just so. There is a fine history of kilt manufacturing in Scotland. And, as something of a patriot, I feel duty bound to display prime examples when they arise. This particular specimen of woven grace really catches the eye and attention to detail will reveal the intricacy of the crafter’s work……….The kilt! Get your eyes on the kilt! The rest is just scenery. Oceanic wonder, sparkling blue sea with just that sprinkle of light-reflected spray. Truly a wonder to behold. I can feel a poem coming on. At least, I think it’s a poem. Hard to tell some days. Orders for kilts can be made via various internet routes. I’ve got mine. Wonder if I could model it with someone. Mythological gods are so over rated. 🙂 x

Mind Chatter

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Zeus

Statue_of_Zeus Wikipedia

Unconsumed deity, sky and thunder,

Lightning bolted eagle trailing justice,

Law and order, punisher of plunder,

Titanic created, lived among us.

Trinitied with sea and hell, your brothers,

Abstracted myth in far-off temple ruins,

Fathering demi-gods, feared by lovers,

Apprehensive, we danced to all your tunes.

With credo of contempt for nymphs and men,

Eroticist, spiritually spent,

From seat of philosophy and reason,

Temporary immortality lent.

Create personified divinity,

Assorted theocentric legacy.

Right

When the upsurge

Rises,

Spurts!

And truth explodes

With meaning,

No argument

Or reasoned clause

Subverts

That inner

Feeling.

Acknowledged worth

Of human brain

With heart

And soul

And might

Embraces freedom,

Humanity;

Instinctively

Knows what’s

Right.

Bastard Child!

What to do, what to do.

Totally out of – what is it family across the pond call it- left field?

Taking it, from my movie going experience, that means somewhat unexpected. A long shot as it were.

Busy wee day here. Shopping. Groceries. Crap. Crap. And then a side order of shit for good measure. You know, typical weekend. Catch up on what work prevents you from doing sort of crap.

So I figured a wee while round at my sister’s – seven doors away- lucky me, was the order of the day. Some r&r. Bit of a chat. A few giggles. Well, lots usually. Guffawing is more like it and quite a few snorts at life and love and lewdity. You know. Sisters.

I left my trusted 18 year old with the pans and knew that after a day of not eating – I do that a lot – I could come home to one of my favourite meals. Spaghetti bolognaise. I know. It seems boring. But I’ve trained my crew well. Some of them. David now has it off pat. Although, watch out for the garlic and his consumption of my red wine. I’ve nearly been pissed a few times after eating David’s offerings.

So, I thought, a bit of a chin wag, share a couple of glasses of red, home for dinner.

I thought.

Twenty-four year old son not to be reckoned with.

He ate my fucking dinner. He never eats what we are eating! He’s one of these high protein-no carbs-shall-pass-my-lips sort of freaks. Ask him if he’s eating with us and the answer over the last couple of years has been, ‘No way. I’m hitting the gym and my body is a temple’, kind of garbage. Because I know he lets loose and orders in chicken chasni pizza when he has company. What a gross combination I always think. Whose bright idea was it to merge pizza with Indian cuisine?

He ate my dinner. I can still smell it. What I missed. Bastard child.

I’d been salivating at my sister’s. Red wine cultivating an appetite too often absent. Juices flowing thinking of the prospect of just the right amount of red wine added, pasta cooked to a T, parmesan grated lovingly, garlic wafting deliciously from seven doors away.

And Joe ate it!

And I can’t even give him a row! He’s off out with the current girlfriend.

And I settled for a few bacon sarnies with brown sauce. Very nice, it was. But not when you were expecting spag bol. I’m feeling quite gutted. And a little pissed. Might get a bit more pissed now.

Sometimes I hate weans.

Temptation

My little slice of Friday heaven just got so much better with this piece of deliciousness. What weekends are for. 🙂

Experimental Fiction

To close my eyes
And see the stars
With night so laid
Before me;
I could not ask
For more than this
While laying here
In glory.

The thickness of
A passing dream
The space between
A heartbeat;
The length of time
From now to then
That makes the night
So complete.

To taste the moon
On lips of blood
And touch the skin
Of beauty;
To gaze in awe
At heavens form
Displayed in you
Before me.

Who knew a night
Could offer so
The chance of sweet
Redemption;
I give my all
And so succumb
To your revealed
Temptation.

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A Little Slice Of Friday Heaven

It rolls on round like…well, like Friday following Thursday. And thank god for it. My little slice of heaven is chilling on a Friday while everyone else does their own thing. TV’s on elsewhere but my I-Pod’s on shuffle to take part in Steve’s Music Mix. Here are the rules if you should want to play along.

Here’s a reminder how it works:

Each week I will post 3 new questions so…

(1) Go to the music player of your choice and put it on shuffle
(2) Say the questions aloud and press play
(3) Use the song title as your answers
(4) NO CHEATING

I am so bad at…..?

Fleetwood Mac, Go Your Own Way

This rings bells. I do get pissed at myself for not doing what I want to do at times. It gets to be a pain in the posterior when deference is made to responsibility so much of the time. C’est la vie. Think I might join the French Foreign Legion.

And I’ve just remembered this. Can’t resist. I love Frank Sinatra.

I am so good at ….?

Tom Jones, She’s A Lady

I’m making no comparisons here. But definitions are relative. I prefer to think of myself as a woman.

I want to be good at…..?

Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush, Don’t Give Up

Although I have in the past, ( not for some long time now, Hallelujah!) suffered from depression, I am very optimistic by nature. I work at it too, right enough. I wish I were better at convincing others to be more hopeful too.

And a wee extra because I’m speaking hope and depression. I bought a book of Leonard Cohen’s poems when I was just an angsty wean in high school and, by the gods, he could depress the hell out of you. But I loved his poems. And his music. So here’s a Hallelujah!

Have a fabulous weekend. And keep your chin up. 🙂 x