Sooking Silence

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(source)

quarter worth of drops

tuppence hal’penny worth of treat

small denominations

for weighted-measure worth of sweets

lemon sherberts, strawberries,

liquorice in strings

butter dainties, caramels

a paper poke of things

tempting to the tastebuds

lips purse, tongues salivate

little lads and lassies

in the corner shop all wait

taking turns to order

eyes purchase every kind

going over flavours

in the testrooms of their mind

counting out the coppers

with due care, not one to spare

fair exchange and movies

sooking silence in armchair

contentment on a Saturday

sherbert moments, MB bars

rainy days of chewing gum

watching old film stars

stocking soles and cushions

hammer horror, if allowed

choking on gobstoppers

while Fred swings Ginger round

penny trays and hal’penny trays

sugared bits of bliss

candy-coated treasury

whose sticky lips I sometimes kiss

Mick McManus, wrestling

dad and smoking pipe

everybody sucking

afternoons of sheer delight

bottled up for keeping

labelled so not lost

treasured, measured memories

all poured at human cost

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The Revolution

Record Spinning on Turn Table

Record Spinning On Turntable )

pincered digits

pivot arm

thread needle

gingerly, my

sleeveless apology

cringing

at crackles

careless handling

i was the revolution

i intone

among the glory notes

i was the revolution

now disdained

to silver’d discs

apoplectic pods

that overflow

overburdened

streaming

quantity

content you forget

you dust me down

appreciate the memories

and return me to my shelf

where we, the others,

whisper technology

and await

new revolution

it always comes around

 

On The Bright Side

Take my hand and lead me to Aegean,

To ferry boat (or cruiser would be best),

I’ve packed some smalls, a sarong and my flips flops,

Some sun tan cream, my shorts and one cute dress.

We’ll sail to islands, (none of them specific),

And gaze on sparkled droplets caught by light

As dolphins, graceful, leap along beside us,

Pictured it? OK, you’ve got it right.

Let’s sip ouzo mixed with drops of sunshine,

Ecstatic with the gods as we lie prone,

We’ll rub each other up the right way,

Don’t be filthy! We have to, (for healthy skin that’s how it’s done).

Now get right back to images of mellow,

Chirrups in the air, among the grass,

Bottled beer with condensation running

Like perspiration between breasts and (something cheeky that rhymes with grass).

I’m spoiling all romantic with some laughter

For in memory that’s just the way it was,

Heaven tinkled on us, gods all giggled,

Forsook creating myths, took earthly pause,

Danced with us syratki, played bouzouki,

Zeus was in his element, that sod,

Scuba’d with his brother, what a show-off,

How in Hades’ name compete with gods.

Thunderbolt to side, he set the pace there,

I gave him run for money, snorkel on,

Flippered like that king of sea from telly,

He cheated! (Apparently, deities can do no wrong).

Ah, those were the days, as I recall them

Poetry in life I never wrote,

Well maybe in my heart, where I won’t lose them,

Eyes closed in sunshine, poems I know by rote.

So let’s join hands, we’ll drift on pleasant waters,

In pleasured memories and maybe soon

We’ll set upon another more fantastic,

I’ve heard of cheap flights going to the moon.

Don’t book the dark side.

signed, A Sun Worshipper

Coin In The Cork

Did you really imagine that the champagne cork would hold the bubbles, tickled against your nose, inhaled, expecting taste with closed eyes, breath of a memory, stored with the photos, still whole, coin inserted just so, to have and to hold, all worldly goods…

Did you really think that, paused in time, time would pause, hold the sparkled scent, corked, as it were, effervescent smiles in frozen pose, dancing into the unknown, wondering, wondering, hopeful…

Did you really understand then that hope is gaseous, elusive, needs catching constantly, requires work and give and take and would you have recorked, back then with that knowledge, for fear of coin slipping from inverted hub…

Did we really, in our wildest imaginings, if ever wild they were, and they were wild, believe that all the corks and celebrations would link, create the raft, float us homeward, always homeward, adrift at times, paddling, questioning views but always homeward…

Did we know and would we have cared or believed that for every celebratory cork we would also drink of pain and swallow loudly, gulping back that first dance, want to shuffle off the floor, till we knew the music changed again…

And did we dance. Oh, how we’ve danced! And drunk from champagne bottles by the neck, exploding corks to atmosphere and airy, practiced expectations, rejoiced and wept and found the means to keep the bubbles scented in the cork, the coin still holds.

Retained

There are people I remember who have gone,

Memory retains,

They’re alive inside my heartbeat,

They remain.

There are voices I still hear, though they’re silent,

Ears still hear,

Words, once spoken, unforgotten,

Keep their presence near.

There was lostness and confusion in their parting

When they left,

More than sadness, sorrow,

Never seen again, bereft,

But hope remains, reunion,

Though the parting of the ways,

In loving words and thoughts they live,

Retained, connection stays.

Year In The Fire

The fire glimmers softly at this time of year,

Dulled with amber glow and vague reflection,

Crusted embers fused in furnaced carbon tears,

Mingled joyous sadness and dejection.

Beginnings of the ending of another passaged year,

Vault of mem’ries scanned in observation,

Stockings hung, as adults, anticipating all good cheer,

Pros and cons on mantelpiece selection.

Twas once upon the last day of the dying of each year

That I gazed into the flames of self-perception,

Feather to the balance of the heart, reviewed with fear,

Weighted gaze, self-analyzed confession.

Distanced through the haze in the glow of burnt-out year,

A summary of days passed in completion,

Banked one upon the other, at life calendar I peer,

In moments quiet peaceful introspection.

Some coals that I have gathered in the bunker of this year

I’ll store in baskets woven for retention,

Others I will burn to warm and I’ll hold dear

The treasures earthed from pits and recollection.

In Every Sense

Philip’s reel to reel

King Cole and Reeves bound us

Yesterday’s high tech magnetic tape

Rotating digits counted

 Noted in red-spined book

Labour’s hands finely copperplating

Words for future soirees

My ear to the speaker repeated and sang

Irish melodies and ballads

Baritone and childish soprano

Harmonising life then in music

In country walks

Woodsmoked potatoes

Memorised now in every bonfire

Leaves in a pierced drum

In freshest air and briskest walk

My too small hand in yours

Protected, directed

Loved

Simple

Loving memories

Gruff twinkled hazel eyes squinting against

Clayed tobacco. Condor moments.

Remembered in my senses

And soul

 

Never Quite Forgotten

Never quite forgotten,

loving mem’ries,

Drift and sift in shadow’d

halls of mind,

Replaying as the tunes

of ancient hist’ry,

Recaptured round

the campfires left behind,

Smok’d in peat,

and perfum’d with the past tense,

Indelible on senses,

ink’d in blood,

Never quite forgotten,

treasur’d always,

Give and take, remembered consolation,

Never quite forgotten gifts of love.

Sunday Up The Braes

It’s a year since I’ve been here. And Father’s Day has rolled around once more, taking me back to early memories and to one of my first posts.
My husband is like my dad in his love of nature and the memories he helps to create for our children, giving of himself and his time and love.
To all dads today I wish you a wonderful Father’s Day. What you do makes the difference in how we remember a father’s love.
I remember mine so clearly.

scottishmomus

Sunday comes.

We fetch our summer buckets; gaily coloured, red, blue, yellow and green. In a while, the plastic pails will hold Autumn’s fruits. Dad holds hands with one or other of us, alternating as each child takes a turn to race ahead. We skip along, stopping to check the hedgerows, trying to spot the nests that are hidden there. And, when we do, a proud cry goes up.

‘I’ve found one!’

We count the eggs but do not touch. We have been warned. None of us wants to be responsible for the mother bird’s non-return. Dad’s previous instructions are always bidden; his wisdom heeded, if not always completely understood.

We examine the markings on the eggs and note their colour. Dad identifies them. Sometimes we are proud to remember their names from earlier lessons. We scan the skies for the parents and wait quietly some way off to see…

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