Parking Posteriors, Pimping Posts, Pummelling Penmanship

I’ve been prevaricating and procrastinating like a politician on Question Time for these first few days of January. Promises to myself made at the end of Nanowrimo being pushed back till proper work week resumes. I know. Excuses.

But I’ve got loads of them.

The house has been full one way and another, cooking up a storm, visiting, blah, blah, Christmas, Ne’erday. Ask, I’ll give you a list.

But school starts back tomorrow and I hate breaking a promise, even one made to myself. Apart from which, I’d just give myself a hard time. And I don’t like doing that either.

So, postponements, procrastinations and other perambulations on the putting off front are now being pushed to the back of the cupboard along with the rest of my chocolate stash and tomorrow begins the edit. Shitting myself somewhat that I might look at the fifty-two thousand words I wrote during November and think, ‘What a load of auld bollocks that is!’

But I won’t know till I look again and I haven’t even peeped at it since finishing the count.

All this to say, I’m gonna be a good girl, park my posterior on the seat, pour a cuppa and peruse the pages (fond of P today!)

I’d like to extend an invitation, to any and all interested parties, to be my guest on this here blog that will otherwise, undoubtedly, suffer neglect in my self-enforced peregrinations (feckin’ P, let me be!) into pimping, pummeling and promoting the publishable word. (I give in. It’s a P day, obviously).

I have, on file, several guest posts pending

You might want to blog one of your previous posts (you know the ones that nobody goes back to, from the early days. In my case, I wouldn’t really want to, but you might).

Anyhow, this evening is the last of the totally chilled ones (did finally get there over Christmas and New Year. Lock the doors and pretend you’re not in works so well. Kidding! nearly…)

So, if you have half a mind to guest – in fact, particularly if you have half a mind – you’ll fit very well here. Kidding then too. Really!

I’ve kept access to all my previous guests – you know who you are. But, for those who don’t, see the side bar. Down there, over a bit, to the right. Aye, there. A grand job they did of keeping this little portion of WordPress going. My eternal gratitude to them.

Go on, have a look in your files, past posts, classics that no bugger, or very few, got to view and have at it. If you don’t, I will feel compelled to come in here daily and torment the life out of you with prehistoric posts of mine that deserve to be relegated to the cupboard with my chocolate. Shutit! I was learning. I still am. This doesn’t sound like any invitation I’ve read before.

Now, in the interests of honesty, highly valued by me, though – in the interests of honesty – not always managed, I’ll probably be in and out, ready to press publish at any given time. It’s a problem. I blame my addictive personality. With this in mind, I thought I’d keep the weekends free for me. I like free weekends. They’re sort of full of promise but can be used to do sod all if the humph comes upon one. Comes upon one here fairly regularly but not as often as one’d like. (Gawd, how does she manage to talk like that? Ma’am. Curtsey, grovel, tugging me forelock, not being in the least facetious. Much.)

Soooo, the first and only hauf of the evening has just been poured for me by my nearest and dearest – I like a well-trained man! No kidding! Well, maybe a bit because, well, never mind because…

Should you care to pimp past posts (or new ones. I’m easy. Watchit!) while I park my posterior and pummel past penmanship, you are cordially invited to do so.

Amen. 🙂

Pew. Phew! Forgot where I was there. 😉



In the pen,

reservoirs of blood and reason,

sheathed the sword,

woven, covert shroud and hate-paled mask,

Fight the fight

with the ink that flows, risks treason,

drips and drops of love

from reservoirs to task.

Turn the tides

as moonbeams in the ether

on golden pond a liquid glow

from crimson ink,

Reverse the falls,

fill channels, churn the waters,

from reservoirs of pens 

filled to the brink.



in the shadow of the moonlight,

calls you near me,

child bereft of toy and worldly joy,

hearkening to music in the starlight,

cherubic voices promising, as a chorus,

a sweeter love,

all moments to enjoy

an earthbound pleasure,

in the joy of angels,

a muted fear,

trumpet blast to ease,


in the bosom of all music,

oblivion, in harmony,


Pillowcase Presence

Memory in the touch that calls to reason,

Abstraction just a place where stars collide,

Disjointed dreams, some fraught with lesions,

Others merely shelter deep inside.

Some there are as pivot, giving warning,

Advancing cause, regulating mood,

Semblance of the real restored in morning,

Sonorous with wonder at all good.

Sleep adrift, in darkness, searching moonlight,

Inner eye to sky bestowed, in reach,

Rested in the present, gifted new sight,

How dreams in darkness touch, to lovers teach.

Elegance purveyed amid the chaos,

Confusion unconfessed so sweet absolved,

Bartered dreams, reality with no loss,

Unravelled theories, string unwound, life solved

On pillowcase near perfumed by your presence,

A touch to mind, to heart, to memories,

Kaleidoscope of visions void by essence

Of you beside, inside all drowned out tears.

Tally Marks

Tally marks on life’s wall,

One, two, three, four,

Strike through.

Depressing mostly,

Days and year

In review.

Who likes to see

The wall gouged so,

Not I.

But inevitability,

Like the strikes,

Circles the calendar,

We go on.

The one day,

The only one,

(apart from birthdays!)

When a settled desolation

Holds heart in its hands

And questions all.

Strike this one through,


Bearing in mind,

That the very young,

Hope constant in their hearts,

Needing no reminder,

Celebrate new years

And birthdays

As growth marks

On the way forward.

Perhaps we have just forgotten,

Every day,

Even this one,

Is a gift.

So I’ll dance

With the very young,

Partake of their libation,

Joie de vivre,

Happy in all days

And years.

Tally marks unknown.