Soon Mellow

Soon rest mid cups of yellow

gloss reflected on pale skin

emergent freckles smile return

while bees drone by with grin

a hazy sort of lazy,

side-ordered with content,

soon rest with me in meadows

where all summer days are spent.

Soon tickle chins with charming

belles, these buttercups,

simple yet disarming

lemon drops that raise me up

soon, so soon, the green grass,

with wild flowers blooming there,

will tremble friendly mellow cups

sun-dappled in breezed air.

For Science – ll

Earth date:- 6th March 2015

Last night was not one of Spain’s finest moments although I venture to suggest it will not be recorded in the annals of history by any of its contemporaries and only noted here. Their loss. In attesting to these findings I have duly taken note that the bouquet of the Spanish wine consumed was most pleasant, the taste on the palate equally so and that the requisite two glasses were consumed with ease.

This initial experiment proved to have positive beginnings when I succeeded in being asleep shortly after ten o’clock. Men In Black (version something) failed to hold my interest although I was impressed at Emma Thompson’s vocal impersonation of a Venusian in heat – at least, I think that’s what it was.

Unfortunately, for the purposes of the previously outlined experiment, it also has to be noted that I was awake again just after twelve, paid heed to the time, fucked a little under my breath and promptly fell asleep again. This was of short duration when I was awakened yet again just after one a.m. by my son ringing the house phone to request admission to the lab as he had forgotten his keys.  An unusual occurrence. Not the keys. The fact that the door was locked. It has become the habit over the years for last one in to lock up. This has resulted in the front door sometimes being left open all night. But not last night. I will not deduct marks from Spain for that particular awakening as it was not the fault of the country that my son is a plank.

As I write it is now coming up on two a.m. My go to drink at the moment is water and I will now attempt to catch the sandman’s coat tails before he pisses off entirely for the night….. to be continued.

Bloody hell! * 5.30a.m.

Geezabrek! * just after 6

Giving in – time up, anyway.

Spain will now unite with Italy in the lasagne stakes, a necessary addition to the dish, although one that always breaks my heart a little when adding to the sauce.

Apparently, cherry and damson are not conducive to uninterrupted sleep.

Earth date:- 26th March 2015

My findings are proving inconclusive and elusive. (Bugger! Rhymes!)

It should be apparent to anyone with an eye for detail that monitoring the experiment now entitled ‘Fucksakesletmesleep!’ has not been high on my agenda. I have failed to keep notes and have even failed to drink the requisite number of glasses per evening to substantiate any claims that might possibly have been made were I a more diligent scientist, advocate of homework or indeed drinker. Stephen-my-man-Hawkings must be birling at the lack of adherence to task and would, I’m sure, give me a rollicking for such neglect. (I’ve heard he likes a good swally. But that might just be a rumour. Started by me.)

Being someone who never gives up without a fight I have decided, this evening, to try again. I’m only doing this in the interests of my marriage and the now too often vacant space that lies to my left. (Well, when I’ve not sprawled there in my apparently neverending quest for more space, a better bit of bed and someone to fling a leg over.) The shadows evidenced on my husband’s face and the haggard look on mine as I cover the smudges of a morning are testament to the fact that sleep is ever elusive and fucksakeswhatsgoingongoodgriefgodalmightycharliebrownI’mdyinghere is now my favourite catch phrase – shortened, of course, to the aforementioned experiment title.

I am now of the opinion that my vitamin D levels are back in the toilet pan again and only a massive dose of unadulterated sunshine will see me right.

In exactly one week’s time I will be on holiday for two weeks and there had better be a sun shining high in my back garden. I have painting plans of the garden furniture variety and a couple of sun loungers calling my name. Pick me, pick me, I hear them cry from the garden shed. (Need to paint that fecker too.)

At precisely 2.30 p.m. – Earth time – I shall don my painter’s apron atop my scientist’s coat, open a bottle of red, splash some paint hither and to and test for road worthiness one of the two petulant loungers. And there had better be some fucking sunshine around, sunshine. Or there sure as hell will be plenty of wine.

I will bloody sleep again. ‘As god is my witness.’ ‘But I’ll think about that tomorrow.’

Right now, I’ve opened a Spanish number again. Got to give science and countries another chance, I think. So does Stephen. I’ve heard. Slainte, mark ll!

 

 

 

Freedom’s Place

A few weeks ago, in light of the Paris terrorist attacks, I wanted to get off the world. Make it stop, I was thinking inside myself and out loud. I was crying. I know some of you think of me as a little ray of sunshine most of the time, ever optimistic. And I am. Most of the time. Because I work at it. And, deep down, I am a positive person, with a side order of depressive empathy.

So, a few weeks ago, when I wanted to get off the world I almost shut down this blog. I tried to export all my work to a new site but I couldn’t figure out how to do it. I contacted support who got back to me in jig time. But, while I was waiting for them, I opened up a new blog site. There I was going to transfer everything. Start again. Just like I wanted the world to do. Support got back to me, I imported all my writing to save on file to my computer for later export. Who knew it was so easy? But I decided to sleep on it.

And I changed my mind. Woman’s prerogative aside, I had had a rest, a new day had dawned and, with it, fresh hope. It took me a few weeks to get my mojo back. I needed a holiday. But I would have missed writing.

I left the site as it was, name still there, nothing else on it. A fresh place, a free place, a place needing built anew. Just like the world in many ways.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

One of my guests here has enjoyed guesting because her own blog has a definite personna but one that doesn’t reflect the many facets of her. She’s restricted by her online blogging face. And I know she’s not alone. Why else did I want to create a place where I could weep and wail and gnash my teeth without folk thinking I was having a meltdown, going under? I wasn’t. But I did want to go somewhere where no one knew my name or anything about me. A sort of haven, a refuge if you like.

I’m going to let the place go live and anyone who wants to have a place to explore other aspects of their blogging that might not fit on their current creation is more than welcome. There will be no necessity to follow others – everyone has enough to do – there will be no responsibility on the part of facilitators to monitor or schedule, there will be no concern as to who sees, how many followers, what the stats are, any of the bloggy concerns. You can link to your own page. Or not. Up to you.

It will simply be a place where people can be free to be whatever they want to be – in prose, in poetry, in music, in photos, whatever. An experiment in collective creative process.

It will be Freedom’s Place, which is what I called it a few weeks ago when I wanted to get off the world. Please feel free to be an author of any type, creativity, building a new place from scratch.

No racists, homophobes, haters need apply. I’ll delete you. Just like that. But then, I don’t get them here. Just lovely people who may want another place to holiday from time to time.

Think of it as somwhere to have a break. Doing things you may not always do. Writing styles you may never explore otherwise. Maybe you’re a photographer who wants to try poetry. A humorist who wants to get serious. Or a poet who wants to try vlogging (oh that’s me, done that!) You be the judge of what you do on holiday. No one else is judging. Just having a break and letting the tide take where it will. No names, no pack drill.

It’ll be like a kibbutz. Freedom’s Place – A Collective.

Take your old gear with you, hang out, hang about, hang it all.

If you’d like a timeshare, your holiday place for the future, email me at scottishmomus@outlook.com  I’ll fire off an invite to author. And Bob’s your auntie. Booked for when the need arises. Happy holidays.

Be anonymous, go commando, whatever. It’s your holiday home.

 

 

«««««ZOOM»»»»»

I’m doomed, alas!

It cannot be.

6 1/2 weeks felt like 3.

And as I sit

At 12.15

I ponder all these days have seen,

The plans I had

That went astray

As I relaxed, relearned to play.

I did not paint the garden fence,

Nor tidied wardrobes as I should,

I really wasn’t very good

At doing all I said I might

Or sticking to a plan at all

But what a blast! I had a ball.

And so, although

This night right here

Ends liberty of carefree cheer,

Off to school,

To class I stride

Knowing well, deep down inside,

That, even though I love to teach,

«««««Tempus fugit, really fast»»»»»

More holidays will soon be cast.

I love my job!

On Hallow’s Eve

ghost01 (1)ghost01ghost01 (1)

On Hallow’s Eve,
      Some believed,
             Souls went marching home
                     While ghosts and ghouls
                               Haunted evening skies,
                                         Howling, evil moans.

ghost03graveyard03bat02

Time has passed
          So now, at last,
                  Other forms it takes.
                             Some become Incredible,
                                       Others adapt
                                                   And costumes make.

ghost01 (1)Imageghost01 (1)

Little Bo Peep
          Has become a deid creep,
                  Ghoulish in all nature
                            Impaling lamb
                                    On crook with glee,
                                            Evil now in stature.

zombie01   ghost01 (1) bo peep 3  ghost01 (1)

Humour and a devilish joy
Man and woman, girl and boy,
Embracing darkness
For a night,
Invoking fear,
And delightful fright!

death01ghost02 (1)

Celebrations

If there’s one thing that is really fine about having a larger than average family (and, seriously, there is more than one fine thing), it is the number of celebrations we get to enjoy.

We have the usual: Christmas, Easter, Hallowe’en, Guy Fawkes (have reservations on this one),Hogmanay, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s day, Father’s Day, Wedding Anniversary, May Day, Landemer Day, the Fair Fortnight (which rarely is) and, of course, birthdays.

With nine birthdays a year plus associated boyfriends/girlfriends/fiancés/extended family we, as a family, eat a lot of cake.

We pretty much cover every month of the year, at least once.

So, we’ve got lots to celebrate.  Lots of indoor parties.

Which is just as well, ‘cos the weather is shite!

Celebrate. Good Times. Come on.

Well, it is officially past the witching hour here in Bonnie Scotland so it is now July 4th.

So to all who are celebrating this day, may I wish you –

Happy Independence Day!

Have a great one.   Image

Cheers!x Connie, this is especially for you and yours. And to all the McVey/McCloy Clan out there!x

Things I Hate About Teachers

Asking a young child to make something they evidently cannot.

We’ve made treasure chests from perfume boxes and houses from shoe boxes. We have even made the inside of the Tardis together. A slightly bigger shoe box for that one, from husband-sized feet. Lots of foil containers for that space-age effect. I was quite proud of that one.

When I say we made these things together, I mean I was there and said child was there. Child wants to make it but doesn’t know how so basically watches while I do most of it, occasionally helping out with bits of sellotape and essentially useless advice.

Our last effort was a lighthouse for a book study on ‘The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lunch.’

As guilty as I feel about doing these tasks I figure I’m helping, working with my child, showing them the ropes. Togetherness and all that. Then I see the other ‘children’s’ masterpieces and I realise that my pathetic little attempts are sadly wanting in the face of such gargantuan effort. Nobody said anything about developing a pulley system to showcase the lighthouse and ensure lunch was provided.

I’ve been had.

And does the teacher know that these wonderful efforts are not all the children’s own work? Darn tooting she does. What’s the point? The only person who gets real satisfaction from it is the parent who is keen to show off their expertise in construction and engineering.

My worst and positively worst attempt at making anything was a homemade Easter bonnet.

Due in for the following day.  So no pressure then.

With no imagination and even less equipment I attempted to create something Eastery from nothing for my son’s nursery Easter parade.

After some truly awful attempts, some glasses of red to keep myself and my visiting sister-in –law company, I settled on one of the least of my truly awful attempts.

Armed with only a pair of scissors and a stapler and some more red wine, I emptied the plastic corn flake filled insert from a box of Mr Kelloggs’s own making and set to work.

The enormous red chicken on the front of the packet was cut out and stapled to a cardboard headband, modelled for size by said sister-in-law as the one useful thing she could offer to the totally useless mess I was creating.

And voila.

One Easter bonnet.

Son was delighted. I was less so when I had to attend the parade. Usually I miss all these events because I’m busy holding the self-same event in my school.

When I saw the children appear in their finery I could have cried. Who thinks up these magnificent creations and who the hell has got the time to make them? And were all those fluffy chickens and cute little Easter eggs all just lying about in their houses? Or, thinking about it, did those parents raid their child’s schoolbag early enough in the week to have some notice of the event, thereby enabling them to buy the bloody stuff?

Every child strutted their yellow fluffy stuff around the hall and my boy was equally proud.

At least, I think it was pride that was causing the red flush on his face.

I slid as far down my plastic bucket seat as was humanly possible and cringed. Helpful sister-in-law was nowhere in sight.