Blogs Reunited

To make up for the fact that I might be a bit of a plank, I’m issuing an invitation.

You see, I quite frequently do my blog reading in bed with my Kindle. It’s less cumbersome than my laptop and I can pretend that I’m going to sleep when really I’m catching up and promising myself five more minutes. And, if it falls on the floor when I drift over, I haven’t ruined a laptop – done that one before. Drambuie. Hell of a mess.

Now, if any of you use a Kindle Fire for bloggy business you may be aware that the buttons for follow and pressing send on a comment are gie close together. This may have resulted in me unfollowing some people almost immediately after making a comment. Yeah, I always make a habit of commenting then unfollowing. Good practice. Not.

It may, however, be down to the WP gods, as some people I refollowed commented that the same thing had happened to them. And, right enough, I’ve been surprised, a few times lately when folk followed me – what, again? I thought. I don’t want to make false accusations and my Kindle is a bugger, at times, what with predicting my text wrongly and making me look like a moron. Of course, I know how to spell luvverly poest. I just don’t know how to turn off the suggestions that keep coming up. Also, it has this nasty habit of making whole other words up which would be fine if I lived in Gobbledygook but I don’t. Just talk it sometimes.

Anyway, I was on Donna’s Always On My Mind Blog Party. Don’t you just love a good party? And I kept seeing people’s names and going, I haven’t seen you around in ages in my reader or emails. Then I clicked on their blog and the little follow button, down there at the right hand side – why did they move it, I liked it where it was, up there, ^^^ – showed up and I had the red neck of refollowing people I didn’t know I’d unfollowed.

I could go into that dohickey page where all the blogs you follow are listed and check each one but that doesn’t help me know who’s not there. Only who is. And those ones show up in my reader and emails.

Do you see what I mean?

Well, the long and the short of it is that I thought I’d open this here page up to all who read my scribblings and any who do not, (if you happen upon here, welcome!)

Please feel free to link a post below and take the opportunity to make new bloggy friends. I will also do my utmost to read each and every one. And, if I come across another blog that I have inadvertently unfollowed, I’ll just quietly click follow without any further explanation. Deal?

Now, I was going to turn off comments on this so’s people would go to comment on other people’s sites and not here (watch out for that follow button, though, if you’re on a Kindle) but then realised that you wouldn’t be able to post a link to your blog post.

Tech, eh?

I hope you meet new people through this and that I get to catch up with those I’ve lost track of.

Bring your own booze. I don’t drink on school nights – well, not often. So, I can’t call it a party. More a reunion, I guess.

Oh, apparently, you’re better to just post one at a time so, if you want to link more than one, best do each separately. I don’t know why either. Maybe a favourite of yours or your most recent? Whatever you like. I follow lots of different types of blogs because I love lots of different types of things – photography, art, poetry, politics, cooking, crafts, travel, science, you name it, – so don’t be shy. You’re more than welcome.

Happy 1st February (when it comes, 42 minutes and counting). That has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that Spring is getting closer and January is a bitch. I’ll be glad to see the back of her. But very happy to see you here.x

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The Revolution

( 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

 

Three Is Not A Wish

now and again

you’ll hear a noise

not the croon

of lover’s voice

dulcet tones

in harmony

chirping bird

gurgling brook

soughing leaves

rushing waves

these sweetest

pleasantries

the noise will be

a thump, a bump,

a grating one,

an unexpected

misalignment

to your ears

you’ll sigh

and swear

and book one

or other piece

of useless

usefulness

in for repair

waiting

waiting

wondering

what

when

how much

what next

crossing fingers

that three

this time

is not a wish

bloody, bloody, buggery car

(source)

Daubs Deployed

Whispers echo still, enlighten’d darkness,

Linger, longing, found in cyberspace,

Heard beyond all planetary, winsome,

I hear them then I picture words and face.

Whispers rise up, somehow are converted,

Awesomely configured, rendered, changed,

I can’t conceive of how a brain invented

Ways to alter speech, so rearranged.

I guess it started with some daubs on cave walls,

Grunts to graphics, pics for history,

Some cuneiform and hieroglyphs translating

Thoughts to page awaiting you and me,

Some ink pens then, calligraphy, that beauty,

Painstaking effort, patient and adorned,

Greek, Semitic, Arabic and Chinese

Marks upon some parchment to inform.

I’m thinking then of smoke and drums and phone calls

And telegraphs that sped the process on,

Who knew that one day someone could encrypt so

And fire words to ether coded, formed.

Thinking typewriters, TV and now Skyping,

Measures that foreclose the distance, space,

So techy I can barely understand it

But glad still that the progress had its place.

I’m putting down my pen now, words on paper,

Typing from the symbols, thoughts to all,

Sending code still daubed, deployed as little pictures,

Some abstracted, etched forever on my cavern’s wall.

Formatting

You can be right here,

where I am,

with words that barely censor

who we are,

Pictures wrought and writ

ensure a presence,

as eloquent as spoken,

though afar.

I can be there,

right where you are,

in a crazy coded heartbeat,

transmission of the vowels

caught in consonants, combined,

Transference of all thought

in letter’d format,

Bringing close together

hearts and minds.

 

Birds On A Wire, Fish On A Spire

There’s a spire growing out of a chimney

on a roof

across my street,

there’s a fish and an aerial

atop them

where birds of a feather all meet.

The fish follows the pathway of currents,

head into the wind when it blows,

I see the wind’s movement in clouds there

and in twirling of fish for it knows

And the birds know too when it’s blowing

for then the aerial is bare,

home they must go to seek shelter,

I look then and no birds are there.

Sometimes the clouds are so gathered

that sky is a uniform grey,

no movement observed in clouds passing

but I look and I check anyway.

And there, on the spire where it’s lonely,

lives a fish that never goes home,

It guides and resides, forever turning,

in the face of all winds ever blown.

It strikes me then, spires and aerials

and fish and birds at their height

serve purpose beyond their creation,

I’ll keep looking and learn what I might.

 

Imagine A Hug

Imagine, if you will, for a moment,

Soft feathers alight on your heart,

Like a balm to skin when it’s broken,

Soothing, by touch, to impart.

 

Imagine their strokes, almost fleeting,

Whispers of breeze blown within,

Tendering comfort and easing

Scalded and blistered of skin.

 

Imagine a cloak made of feathers,

Down of the fluffiest fleece,

Enfolding and holding together,

Protecting and giving you peace.

 

Imagine a hug made from heaven,

Lined by all angel wings,

Inviting, with arms always open,

Embracing relief that it brings.

I’ll be on the ferry by now, off to Ireland for a week or so for a family holiday. I’ve been rushing around like a maddy getting bits and pieces organised so my reading has been scant at best. This is the only post I have scheduled and I’m going to have a break away from all things techy – well apart from my kindle and maybe my phone! Hugs to all you lovely people and see you on my return, God willing.x

May Music, Day 19 – What’s Yours Is Mine – And Vice Versa

It’s taken me some time, though it’s still not an established fact in entirety, that some things in our home do, in fact, belong only to me.

I’m now fairly certain of finding most of my stuff where I left it. Mostly. Some things, however, still get lifted and meddled with. My phone was a case in point. Up until I put a lock on it, I was never quite sure which new background pic would greet me on any given day. Ditto with my laptop. Having a lock on both now means that I no longer have pictures of someone’s big toe staring at me or a wean’s selfie with appended message, ‘Do you love me? Admit it, I’m your favourite child!’

There’s a lot to be said for communal living. Folk tampering with my toys is not one of them.

Except I have no one to blame but myself for this next part. On first taking possession of my I-pod a few years ago – a ‘free’ gift with a new phone – I had no clue how to work it. One of my daughters took me, and it, in hand and downloaded all of her songs from her media library onto the contraption and showed me how to press a few strategic buttons. She helped me add a bunch  of my own. She doesn’t live here any more. So I’m stuck with her tunes and mine living together in some disharmony.

This one’s ok as the first, alphabetically, on my playlist. But it’s not one I would have downloaded myself. But, as Twindaddy’s asking, for question 19 of the 25 days of music challenge, what comes first, this is what you get. What’s mine, or not, is yours.

Anyone know how to delete without erasing the entire thing? No? Me neither.

A19 – Maximo Park

Planned Obsolescence

It started with a ball point,

A little plastic pen.

Forget replacement cartridge.

Buy new, begin again.

 

Before too long, repairing

Became something of a myth.

Discard the old, spend afresh.

Commerce’s great self gift.

 

Advancements in technology

Had ideas about forever

But panic is a fearsome foe.

Reduce their spending? Never!

 

‘We’ll have to get a grip on this

Before the market fails.

Put a halt on progress, chaps, or

We’ll be going off the rails.’

 

‘How about some plotting then?

Some bugs to keep them keen?

Repairs cost more than buying new?

Nudge, wink. Know what I mean?’

 

‘You’re joking, man, they’re not that daft.

Unless of course we’re wary.

This could save our arses, guys.

Penury is scary.’

 

‘How about we use components

That fail in maybe five years?

That would keep them buying.’

‘Sure, we’ve found the answer. Cheers!’

 

‘Now profit margin’s down a bit.

Some work is needing done

On putting up the ante, folks.

This could be such fun!’

 

‘Keep in reserve the best of stuff

And filter through the trash,

Give them a taste of what’s to come.

Same stuff, we’ll just rehash.’

 

‘We’re owed some homage for our work,

Humility, some obeisance.

We’ll get our kicks, lads, never fear

By planning obsolescence.’

 

It never ends. Manipulation.

Market forces, it seems,

Determine days from when a pen was filled

For inscribing future dreams.

 

 

Not They

Who are these goons?

These lepers?

Apart and yet controlling.

Ignorant of the common man,

But determined to know

Every secret thought

And action.

Who are these jerks?

Watching my movements,

Listening to my words,

Reading my mail.

Are they representative?

Did we vote for this?

Are all the policies

Pronounced

Prior to election

A blind?

The motives deeper

And more devious?

Who are these bastards?

My mind is my own.

My soul belongs to god.

My words to whom I speak them.

Who are these morons?

Thinking we will accept

Anything

And everything,

Like the

Roman populace,

Grateful

For handouts

And an arena

Where self-proclaimed

gods, decide thumbs up

Or down.

No Caesars here.

Who are these clowns ?

Thinking they are above

And beyond

The acceptable,

The righteous,

The moral.

Who are they?

Is this what we asked for?

Controlled

And controlling.

We are the people.

Not they.