Unexpected

Sneak away to cotton wool of quiet

Where verbiage is visual, thickened slurp

Upon a screen, (or paper’s always preferable),

It’s stealing time between each gulp and blurt,

Like weaning from the waifs that all are gathered,

No kidding, it’s like twisting with the crew that Ollie kept

(before he joined the rogues and Fagin’s chorus)

And held his plate for seconds (though unmet). 

I figure at this rate that I’ll be plastered,

(with drink or effort or the two combined),

It’s early days for falling on the flooring

(but as long as fridge is full, they’ll step over, they won’t mind).

I wonder where they put it all, these grubbers,

(like orphaned foragers who’ve starved till I stepped in)

I really should be charging for this workhouse

(or at least for all the hangers-on they bring).

But, bugger it, they’re young and I’m an old fart,

(Moaning for the fun of moaning’s sake),

We do that you know, (while pushing zimmers),

It’s called prerogative (or some such take). 

I really can’t complain, (they made the dinner,

But buggered up the menus I had planned),

See it, want it, eat it, (no questions),

It was delicious with the French bread (full of garlic, heavy hand).

It’s gone quiet now, (they’re off to their own rooms)

(At least, I think that’s where they’ve sneakily disappeared),

I’ve been excused for good behaviour (by hubby,

who’s now got his feet up in a chair)

Though very soon it’s pick-up for another,

He’s on that (cause I had Cabernet, a lovely wine)

Daughter back with cat, (no longer tiny kitten),

Poor dug will have a seizure (or maybe fine).

It’s the unexpected nature of the season

(Well, it feckin’ is, if you live here!)

Beds unrolled, (some couches unfold)

And counting heads, (maintaining all good cheer, sic).


Did you know that some wines are labelled 14%! (I didn’t.)

Swear to god and all his wee buddhas and helpers

(no offence to all wee buddhas and helpers)

I am such a light weight at times.

Two glasses is what I call a cheap date.

I blame all the work.

And then suddenly stopping.

Confuses the body.

And the mind. (Spirit still intact).

It’s not really Christmas Eve tomorrow,

is it?

I’ll probably do my damndest to escape to wordville over the season ( I call it maintaining sanity) but if I don’t (or even if I do) I hope you all have a lovely Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasonal Fest.

Thank you all for reading over the year and all the lovely comments. It’s still such a pleasure to glimpse all your worlds. May the New Year be good to you. And all your dreams be blessed.

Anne-Marie x

On The Menu

Roses breathed to bosom, dusky evening,

Linen tablecoth, choice silverware,

Damask dress, trimmed velvet, black as midnight,

Mackintosh to Mackintosh high chairs.

Crystal leaded, claret perfumed, goblets,

Damson, berried, succulence so full,

Lips to edges, tongues explore, exploding,

Morsels delectating, savoured pull.

Salmon, oaken-smoked, slivers sweating,

Recline invitingly on cress with dressing bare,

Venison richly waiting for the sizzle,

Sides to touch, mere moments, serving rare.

Scattered cushioned silk upon the hearthrug,

Embers banked, maintaining just degree,

Freesia perfumed water by the fireside,

Elevating moisture tremulously.

Sparkling eyes aglow, pearlies nibbling

Cream on chill in earthenware to pour,

Forested kirsch and cherry brandy, 

Coffee bubbling, ambient the air.

Lazy ease, recumbent postures, idling,

Somnabulent with sleep, determined smiles,

Comforted, sense comforted, piled hearthrug,

Rarest sensories for miles and wiles.

First Meal of the Day

Up since five a.m. today exploring

others’ words.

Your dreams and hopes, fears and tears,

stirred into my coffee.

I take it black,

unsweetened,

not bitter.

I drink it down in earnest

appreciation of the full flavour,

picked and gathered

from plants

nurtured

around the globe.

Each bean picked

to give a mix

flavoursome

to my palate.

I inhale from leaves too.

First meal of the day.

Two drugs

with the words

makes three.

Nicotine and caffeine

coursing through

bloodstream

with words fed onto pages.

Sad words,

hopeful words,

words that speak of deepest feelings and thoughts.

They touch me.

Nourishment

swallowed and inhaled

with coffee

and cigarettes.

And appreciated.

Addictive manna,

nectar to my needs.

Nicotine,

coffee

and soul connections.

I rinse my mug, stub out my cigarette, close my kindle and begin my day.

It’s almost seven now.

Two hours of addiction satisfied.

But they will invite me back

for lunch.

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.

Long Live Caesar! Not!

All hail the fellow most fortunate!

May he lord over us with a smile,

Counting his millions and patting our heads,

Eyes glinting with greed all the while

 

We man the machines and fire the furnaces

Keeping the cogs oiled and turning.

He plots and connives with those of his ilk,

Such avarice sets my soul churning,

 

Sick to the stomach and bled from the heart,

Observing the world as it passes

Into confusion and just revolution

Freedom from all of these asses

 

Who think with their pockets, count up the dockets,

Tally the amount they are due

While ordinary folk are broke and feel choked

Doing all they can do.

 

Working for life we endeavour and strive

Doing our best to go on.

Corporate greed, mismanaged politics

Whistle a more carefree song

 

Where notes that are played are all out of tune,

Discordant and the world knows.

Observe the illusion, no more confusion,

Sing change, no more hail, overthrow.

 

They’ll tax you to hell and then back again

But not for the good of the masses.

They operate on a different plain.

Don’t tell me there’re no more classes.

 

New royalty sits on the throne of theft,

Theft from the world’s rich resources,

Benefits some while others are struggling

For life and one meal from all courses.

 

Indictment is due, long overdue

Who kills spirit’s desire?

Who robs from the poor and lines their own mattress?

Who dares this? This gun’s for hire.

 

No bullets here. No violence as such,

Although I might like the chance

To kick all their arses right into touch.

God, I’d do it and dance!

 

To force them to see that others, that’s we,

Who live in this world and belong,

Care for each other, all our world’s brothers.

Why can’t they sing a new song?

 

Where health and well-being and happiness child

Fear not each new day dawning

And wonder at how they might go on

As each night rolls on into morning.

 

Anonymous voices the whole world over

Are rising to make themselves heard.

There are those who must listen, carefully now,

Listen and heed the word.

 

All religious systems I know of

Speak and preach about love,

Love for all men, so show it.

We all have to answer above.

 

If not to your god, your creator

Then to karma or maybe a banker.

Get accounts ready to justify self.

Don’t be caught as a wanker

 

Pleasuring self, ecstatic illusion

But selfish through to the core.

Give love to others, release their orgasm,

I’ve always found that was more

 

Fulfilling for all. Such divine death,

To know that life has begun

In unity, fruition, climactic contrition,

That’s the song I want to hear sung.

Shenanigans With Food

There’s one likes bread and butter,

One likes jam the most,

Another abhors buttered anything,

Preferring driest toast.

One discovered Oreos,

Now, all crave this little treat,

Making breakfast, lunch and dinner,

Is, for me, a feat

Of remembering little quirks they have

Then ignoring most of them.

I don’t have time for faddy eaters,

It makes me count to ten.

Shenanigans with food’s a pain,

I remind my little people,

There’s your breakfast, pack your lunch,

No Oreos, an apple.

‘There’s children starving in this world,’

I sometimes say, to blame,

Their answers vary. One has said,

‘Can you send my sprouts to them?’

Bliss

I’ve kindled and googled.

I’ve blogged till I’m oodled.

My brain is a sea of sun.

I’ve washed and I’ve hung.

My day’s work all done,

So now the real fun has begun.

I’m paddling without wellies.

Making ice-cream and jellies.

And tickling my kids so they laugh.

With all this here sunshine

And paddling pool

There’s really no need for their bath.

When play is exhausted

And children all posted

And tucked up in bed for the night.

Dear hubby and I will

Savour the calm

And enjoy such blissful delight.