🥂

Word-Bird and I are celebrating this evening, because the electrics went off earlier and I was helped by three wonderful neighbours. 'That is when good neighbours become good friends!' :>)

Now for another Metabear poem, part of the Hospital 2011 series and here a pred-dream (a dream while on prednisolone). The poem was one of Grandad Teague's favourites :-)


Sail Away

Drifting our way through a clear turquoise sea,
on board a pleasure boat drinking hot tea,
my dear friend Metabear singing to me,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Haling a flock of terns riding pink skies,
black-capped formation with dark twinkling eyes,
raising a descant with clear whistling cries,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Spotting seals daydream on tide-smoothed chaises longues,
grey, white and speckled in sleek furry throng,
sounding a bassline with gruff barking song,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Glimpsing fish fly by a blossoming moon,
rainbow trails dancing across the lagoon,
wings humming gently to Metabear's tune,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

🍹🍹🍹

☕️🍪

Fliss and W.-B. return and tuck into tea and a cookie together. 'Coo-kie,' W.-B. coos :>)

Well, it's a pleasant change from Complan, I suppose!

Earlier today, I found a number I thought I'd lost, for a friend I made while in hospital. Her name was Annette and she was Irish. 'Instant besties!' :>)

I tend to make quite a lot of friends when I go into hospital. It's an anxious time for a lot of patients and there's some solace in sticking together. Anyway, the next piece here, written in 2015, describes Angie, from February 2011. When she left, she gave me her phone number with lyrics from Nat King Cole's 'Nature Boy', in which she'd changed 'boy' to 'girl', 'for funny old FT' :>)


For an angel

It's true, I travelled very far and over land and sea –
or so it felt, first night in ACU, with throbbing knee,
negotiating island bed, then grey-blue lino floor,
my single crutch in two clenched fists, a feeble sort of oar.

I hoped to find a nurse, as underneath my cotton sock
my ulcer wept large yellow tears, left undressed by the doc,
but all I found were rows of islands, home to sleeping souls,
and nurses somewhere out of range, not out on night patrols.

And so I turned to shuffle back to try my bell, ninth go,
when cries of pain came through the heated air, cries full of woe,
I turned again, and there you were, like me, quite sad of eye,
and so I held the hand you gave to me with ragged sigh.

I asked you if the pain was bad, and you said, 'Now, it's not;
I just need someone to be kind, about the hurt I've got.'
You had an ulcer, 'belly full of fire, burns night and day';
I told you all about my ulcer, 'just won't go away.'

'I'm Angie,' you said, grinning then, 'I'm not an angel, mind!' –
I told you my name, 'Fliss'; you said, 'Thanks, Fliss, for being so kind';
and I responded, 'We're the Ulcer Babes!', then I felt daft,
but luckily you liked that, threw your head back, winced yet laughed.

A nurse appeared and sent me back to island bed, 'It's late.'
We said we'd see each other soon, I left with fragile gait;
I went to bed and slept but heard you crying in the night
and in the morning you'd been moved to Side Room, out of sight.

Three days I spent in ACU, while you remained in Side,
then on to Gastroenterology – first night, Jean died;
they zipped her in a stout black bag and pushed her off the ward,
attempting to console her friend, 'Don't cry; Jean's with the Lord.'

And I felt frightened and alone, but in mid-afternoon
the porters came to fill Jean's space, while whistling random tune,
and it was you, brought out from Side – 'Hi Ange!' 'Hey, is that Fliss?'
'The Ulcer Babes are reunited!', laughter, hug and kiss.

It's true as well, the next two weeks, we spoke of many things,
of men and metabears, of joy and pain, of fools and kings,
and we agreed, of all the joys in life, love is the best,
you in your blue pyjamas, me in shorts and thermal vest.

You left on 14th February, 'medically fit',
though you insisted, 'I can't go, I still feel really shit',
then sighed, 'Alright', and came to hug goodbye, gave me a note,
the lyrics, changed a little, of a song Nat King Cole wrote.

I had your mobile number, but I didn't call for weeks,
at home and feeling wretched, hot tears running down my cheeks;
I told myself, I'll wait till I feel better, then I'll phone,
you weren't there when I rang, I left a message at the tone.

I never heard from you, but found out why November time,
when almost all the leaves had blown from off the garden lime,
the paper said you'd been out shopping, came home, fell asleep,
and never wakened, 'death from heart disease', how I did weep.

Four years have passed, I've kept my note, I read it, sing the song,
feel glad we met, were such close friends, though not at all for long,
and when I feel alone and frightened, then I sense you here –
although you've wandered very far, love seems to keep you near.

💕

🥂

Word-Bird and I are celebrating this evening, as I've just been thanked for my efforts in improving local accessibility. 'Good, FT' :>)

Now, W.-B. would like to post a haiku; except, it's actually a high coo. And more specifically, a


high coot

first egg of the spring –
the coot adorns her new nest
with little white flowers

https://i.imgur.com/d4MKgdq.jpeg

Photo by Ron Cooper of Pittville Swan Watch :>)

A non-silly Scilly poem (maybe!) inspired, in this instance, by a honeymoon on Tresco (just for Amusement value):


Treasured Island

Awakening, they hear shore-calls from the dunes
0through mists of morning beaches, soft as silk,
the pipers, dunlins singing shanty-tunes
0duetting kettle whistle, splash of milk.
Outside, the first boats chugger through the waves
0and tourists surge along the weathered planks
00of Tresco Jetty, streaming into land,
some parties flowing north to glittered caves
0and others south to sunbathe on the banks
00of lakes or upturn shells from shining sand.

Beginning, late-years flowering of love
0in island gardens under swaying palms,
as circling terns soar joyfully above,
0their echoes as sublime as any psalms.
The Abbey rubble swelters, overcome,
0and King Protea has his red-gold reign
00with echium in rising sapphire spires,
as honeybees emit their happy hum,
0trescau rejoice across the springing plain
00and olive sunbirds sing in sweetest choirs.

https://i.imgur.com/0QaR6YG.jpeg

Gardens by Design, A panoramic view of the impressive Middle Terrace, Tresco

Mine colombine companion and I continue to practise our people poems. This is from a series of poems I composed after my Step-Gran died, in Summer 2012. It describes the afternoon I first met her, with my two brothers and Cousin Ruth. We'll call it syllabics, I think. 'Yeah' :>)


First sight

All afternoon, hide and seek, jumping from trees
and wading in fishponds to clean dirty knees,
a story from Koala, new takes on school songs,
then teatime, a food fight with Aunt's best cake tongs.

Once silenced, we slumped in the sycamore shade,
enjoying the dregs of our fresh lemonade,
while guinea pig Rusty searched round for a treat
and settled by two unfamiliar feet.

We glanced up; it seemed she had always been there,
the late August sunlight upon her grey hair;
we muttered among ourselves, shy for a while,
then each by turn lured by her beautiful smile.

We learned that this lady was Grandad's Good Friend,
a Ramblers Club member, to whom he had penned
the hope that she might care to join him for tea;
and since she liked scones, she'd said yes, certainly.

- - -
Note, Koala here is not Koalaman, but my younger brother's toy, a present from Grandad's first wife when A. was just 5. Here are Koala and Koalaman taking a bath together, in 2016 or so:

https://i.imgur.com/jFGT17S.jpeg

When Grandad died, on 22nd December 2012, I felt a very strong urge to write. In poetry, I visited all the places we'd visited together. This one is about a striking rock formation in Shropshire.

Performance notes: sinister tones, rising to a shriek where required.


Ode on the Devil's Chair

Bleak rocks, for sure no man seeks respite here
0nor loiters gladly at such seething heights,
where brimstone burns its paths through jagged air
0that howls its pain through piercing cries of kites.
Geologist may fix a neat account:
0pale quartzite ridging over glacial sheets,
00tors rising sharp in freeze and thaw extremes;
were he to venture darkling by this mount,
0fresh trails might turn his tracks from worn conceit
00and newfound fractures cleave his test regimes.

Proud throne, illumined by no earthly light,
0but collecting spirit flares and witching fire
that cluster yearly come the shortest night
0above the misty swirls upon the mire.
See! Lucifer surveys his summoned throng,
0presides election of their leading force,
00rejoices cruelly in their gruesome games;
the Stiperstones resound in ancient song
0and chants run streaming over bloodied gorse
00till dawn engulfs in shrouds of scarlet flames.

https://i.imgur.com/C4ZDqbL.jpeg

Blisco, The Devil's Chair on the Stiperstones, Shropshire, England

F-image: fire, blood, Lucifer. 'Yikesy' :>)

Another response to a poem by John Isbell (currently on Met):

Version II: The Ram God Khnum

The god’s two horns come from a ram
now long extinct. Each twist and twirl
is lost on Earth, but not on him:
we die, not him, that is the deal.
His starry hands will shape and curl
men and gods on a potter’s wheel.

In Egypt, where both ram and bull
persist, the smoke of sacrifice
climbs up to Heaven. Now, is all
Khnum fashioned lost beneath the Nile?
Like river birds, we lift our voice –
but we have nothing to reveal.

Is it some sort of miracle
that walks this god into our lives?
Has Khnum come as the osprey dives –
to bend our knee, to break our will?
His left hand holds crisp British air.
He takes a step into the hall

and says, "Where am I? What's this place?
Who are you, staring as I start
to walk around your chilly place,
with oh such yearnings in my heart
to find my wheel and spin again,
creating children to implant
in warming wombs; no need for men
with my designs. I spin, I chant,
and bodies rise from river clay,
but where's my Nile, my temple too?
Why do you shriek and run away;
what is a ram-head god to do?
'Show me the way to Egypt, please!'
comes my request, rambunctious tone;
and some gent says, 'Well, there's a frieze;
you'll find it in the Egypt zone.'"

- - -
F-image: In the British Museum, John Isbell and Khnum converse, while other visitors scatter around them, appearing terrified :>)

Dear Fliss and Word-Bird,

I have been remiss, for you have many splendid poems to respond to upthread. But I am come here sent by your remark in my ram god Khnum thread, and so, let me say that it is a great treat to hear the ram god speak. He has been with me lo these ten or twenty years, and I had not thought to have an answer from him. I do not remember his origins, they are lost in the mists of time, as any fule kno. But now I know what's on his mind, and that matters a good deal more at the end of the day. Basically, he wants to get back to Egypt. I sympathize. The Ashmolean in Oxford continues, I think, to exhibit shrunken heads that once belonged to human beings, and in the Paris Musee de l'Homme they exhibited an entire stuffed adult woman until the 1950s. It is what it is. Thankfully, times change. Oh - let me add that Athens has a lovely museum ready for the Elgin Marbles on the day of their return to Greece.

Tot ziens (which is indeed Dutch),
John

Dear John,

Yes, just a few poems, lol. Happy for people to pop in when they can. Tea and cake?

☕️🍰 ☕️🍰

We're pleased you enjoyed hearing the ram god speak. It was fun to find out more about him. Yes, he misses his home. That's interesting about the shrunken heads and stuffed woman; I wonder what they might say too. Times do indeed change, but some things remain intact. I visited Athens in 1999, as part of my study tour, before heading to Mykonos, Delos, Corinth, Delphi, Olympia. I think I signed a petition in Olympia to return the Elgin Marbles. This is interesting :-)

Best wishes,
Fliss & W.-B. :>)

PS: A special sphinx for you:

https://i.imgur.com/MSOGOfg.jpeg

A most mysterious and inscrutable sphinx indeed!

I signed a petition the other day to take down a Confederate monument we have in our town square. So yes, petitions. :)

Cheers to you both,
John

PS tea and cake sounds lovely! And it is just tea-time here.

Yes, quite something! And yes indeedy to petitions. Things from Change.org pop up every day in my inbox. It only takes a few seconds to sign :-)

It's coming up to midday here; I'm still on the liquid diet, but Coo points out I can eat anything I want online 🥪🍟🍩🍒🥂

As we're with Little Mo (sphinx-guinea), here's her villanelle:


Mo lopes and leaps in autumn air
beneath the cider apple tree,
the sun upon her golden hair,

then stops awhile to sit and stare
before another glad Whee-hee!
Mo lopes and leaps in autumn air

of windblown apple, plum, and pear
and music of the bumbling bee,
the sun upon her golden hair,

and sniffs towards the crop rows, where
there's ryegrass growing fresh for tea;
Mo lopes and leaps in autumn air,

as I throw in some snacks to share,
she eats her fodderbeets with glee,
the sun upon her golden hair;

I smile and watch her from my chair,
this little life, such joy to see:
Mo lopes and leaps in autumn air,
the sun upon her golden hair.

https://i.imgur.com/DYrhVax.jpeg

'Basil' grows fodderbeet especially for the guineas :-)

Five days of plant-sitting (rev.)

They're tiny now, in one small shade of green,
these weeks-old infants in their perfect rows.
Already, though, I see them start to lean
towards the east, tenacious on their toes.

Dad told me that there isn't much to do:
just keep their bedding damp, no need to flood.
I tend, recalling 1992:
the drownings, accidental, in the mud;

and all my errors through the teenage years
then adulthood – neglect while I was high
and shining smiles or low and raining tears.
He's confident, these days, that they won't die.

They'll leave me soon, returning to his home
to find the summer sunlight all around
amidst the pots and saucers, grinning gnome,
and finest compost for their planting ground.

https://i.imgur.com/Uwi4KOR.jpeg

Published on Insight Eye (Philosophy and Aesthetics) 8>)

Another from our silly Scilly series. The party, comprising the mossops, Coo, and FT, learned of the plight of the SS Thames while on St Mary's and resolved to take flowers to the rescued figurehead, at his home on Tresco.


SS sonnet

In yester years I rode the Scilly seas,
0the SS Thames my steed, from London town,
oh! how she raced across the swell – such ease! –
0until that night she hit the rocks, plunged down,
with only four survivors from her wreck,
0and I, wrenched from her body to reside
in Abbey Gardens, quite the dulling deck
0for one who thrills for salt and spray and tides;
still, I may dream upon my pretty plinth,
0receive this party with their gift of flowers –
stout agapanthus, joined with hyacinth,
0shall form fine fumes to help me through the hours;
so thank thee kindly, mossops, FT, Coo,
for lilies pink and purple, white and blue.

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikiped..._SS_Thames.jpg

Andrewrabbott, Figurehead of the SS Thames

https://i.imgur.com/siauI2k.jpeg

[Silence.]

Comforting tea for the Tea-Lady ☕️ and a coo-kie for Coo 🍪 'Yay!' :>)

Also, a high coo after this pic (by me, with help from 'Basil'):

https://i.imgur.com/QN0EnSi.jpeg

September solace:
Jack Frost could not slay
every flower

❄️❄️❄️

Fliss, That's a wonderful haiku. And I really like that picture.

I think I'll post an SF poem, one of my stranger ones.

A Head for Her Times

She’d lost her head, but has a new one now.
Precisely how it happened, no one knew.
This flaxen-festooned oval-shaped machine,
whose retroflective eyes at twilight shine
like galaxies, sits nicely on her neck
and fits her ways. What’s more, it has a knack
for making her feel smart. She knows she’s blessed
to have it. With her trendy trousers bloused
over her boots, she rambles round the mall,
window-shopping, stopping for a meal
of sampler soups but, lonesome as a mole,
soon heads back home to brood about the future.
Time’s blemishing her body. The one feature
still fair — in actual fact downright bewitching —
is ever on the lookout, scanning, watching
for signs of wear below and, then, at last,
will take its leave for others who have lost
their noggins on its never-ending list.
Now, as she samples soup at the mall again,
a bozo moseys in with a laser gun.
While heads are being lost, her own stays cool,
showing her how to cripple or to kill
with a flying kick to the rogue’s unguarded belly —
a thing she’d never practiced, like ballet.
She’s wonderstruck when pondering this tool
atop her trunk, which never fails to tell
her soma how to keep from harm. She leaves,
a woman of courage, and (for the moment) lives.

(Appeared in Goreyesque.)

Thanks, Martin. I have quite a lot of pictures of that flowering plant. I can't remember what it's called at the moment. Later in Autumn, it'll fruit! The fruit looks like a small elongated orange.

I like your SF poem. Anything that starts 'She'd lost her head' sits pretty well with me, lol. I'm afraid my head is rather overwhelmed with outer space policy at present, a deadline day, but W.-B. and I might be able to comment in a more sensible state idc. 'One can only hope,' W.-B. smiles :>)

Martin, those slant rhymes are delicious.

Fliss, I think that's Passiflora Caerulea.

Fliss and W.-B. rush to Google together. Thanks, Ann. A very pretty passionflower :-) :>)

I've just found another photo, from mid-September 2018. I've uploaded it to Flickr because Imgur informs me it's illegal; I'm not sure why. There wasn't a problem with Jack Frost that year, clearly. The plant occupies quite a lot of length of fence, then you round the corner and have views of a very colourful garden. I think I have photos of that too, somewhere.

Martin, I like the slant rhymes too; and I find the poem very interesting. Congrats on its publication; I'll have to take a look at Goreyesque at some stage. as I'm pretty keen on SF. I think I've mentioned I'm quite a fan of TXF :-)

Best wishes,
Fliss

Thanks, Annie — for liking the pararhymes (also called frame rhyme). That's actually a specific type of slant rhyme in which the initial and final consonant sounds in the final syllable are repeated, but the vowel sound between them is different. The first time I encountered that technique was in Wilfred Owen's poem, "Strange Meeting."

Fliss - Thanks for liking my SF poem, and I'm glad you found it interesting. I didn't know you are a sci-fi fan. What's TXF? By the way, Ed Shacklee is also in that Goreyesque issue. (I'll be back later with the link to the issue.)

Oh, yeah, that flower ... I looked it up. It's a passionflower.

OK, I'm back. Here is the issue:

http://www.goreyesque.com/fall-2014

Thanks, Martin. I hadn't appreciated the full subtlety of the rhymes; I just loved their gentleness.

I think TXF must be The X-factor, but I may be wrong.

Ann, here's TXF (The X-Files)

I've been a fan since it was first aired on the BBC, I think. I remember watching some of the early episodes with Graham, my older brother.

Best wishes,
Fliss

🍎🍎🍎 <-- because we're well into Autumn now...


Eternity

In memory of Leo, 28th May 1975 to 15th June 2020

He loved the park that Autumn. "All the gold!"
he marvelled, gesturing to beech and oak,
his hands well gloved. By then, he felt the cold,
though in remission. But he liked to joke

about the cancer, chemo, all the drugs
that made him nauseated, tired, or high.
I listened, tried to keep him warm with hugs
while all the waterbirds went sailing by.

His favourites were the grebes. Their fiery crests
aroused a need to stroke my auburn hair,
remembering their dance, their necks and chests
entwining, rising, in the April air

and, later, how we sought to emulate
the dance and tumbled, laughing, into bed
and we were fire and we were pretty great.
"I'll love you for eternity," he said.

https://i.imgur.com/Aymr4VA.jpeg

Ron Cooper, 'Courtship dance, great-crested grebes, Pittville'

It's
 

It’s

like plowshares spreading earth
and seeds sown in the furrows
promising new birth

like daylight priming passion
to sleep again with night
and wake a blushing sun

when we two make one

Ralph!

🍎🍎🍎

There's a fantastic pocket poem. Excellent imagery; I'm particularly taken with 'blushing sun' 😊

This one's tamer, but it was fun to write. It needs trimming and I shall attend to the task when the schedule permits! I wrote it for Bonfire Night.

The moonlit skies were very clear
that Bonfire Night. And he was near,
the new professor, in the crowd
of students, teachers. Long and loud
the rockets soared above the Vale,
a shriek, a bang, a wanton wail,
the palms and pearls and peonies.
I felt his eyes on me. My knees
went weak. The music ebbed, then rose
with red and green and golden glows,
the Handel suite. I'll handle you,
he'd told me. Rhapsodies in blue
until the final firework died,
the 'Oohs!' and 'Aahs!' had all been cried,
but as he passed in grey and black
he stroked my arching lower back.

💥

Keeping with Bonfire Night, the next one is a sort of part two to the previous poem. Together they are 'Ooh!' and 'Aah! or, My Guy'. I'm happy to mention that I won a contest today with the latter, submitted as 'My Guy'. Here it is:


My Guy

Until the 5th November '88,
my mother hadn't thought to make a guy;
we had our sparklers, bonfire on a grate,
a good display of rockets climbing high
enough to rouse a little "Aah!" and "Ooh!"
but not so much to vex the neighbour's dog.
That year, however, "Here's a treat for you!"
said Mother and we gathered, all agog.

A guy in striped pyjamas was revealed –
a pillowcase or three made up his skin.
His flesh was Mum's old tights, yet he appealed
because he had the softest, sweetest grin.
"So, do we burn him?" I enquired, dismayed.
"That's right!" confirmed my dad and stoked the fire.
I trembled as I drank my cherryade
to think my friend would soon be on the pyre.

Don't let them burn me, Miss! I heard him speak.
I shan't, I vowed, then yelled, "Look over there!"
They looked; I ran; I grabbed him with a shriek
and rushed upstairs. I heard my brothers swear
they'd get me, but too late! I locked the door
and fell with Mr. Fawkes upon my bed;
he slid and almost collapsed upon the floor.
I held him tighter, kissed his fraying head.

I heard a blur of voices from outside
but didn't care cos G. was looking cute
in blue and white. He took another slide;
I caught him, sat him up and smoothed his suit.
Then, side by side, we watched that year's display.
No movie star nor muscle man was he,
but there was nothing anyone could say
or do to take my guy away from me.

🥰

Here's a poem (published) based on a trip to see some alpacas back in mid-October:


Meet and greet

We smell them first. Ammonia – a rush,
assailing nostrils, clinging in the throat.
And then, the sounds of sweeping, brush brr-ush!
The east wind whips; I'm grateful for my coat.

We're ushered in. We're seven; they are eight
in white and beige and chestnut, grey and black.
They loiter, humming gently, by the gate,
or traipse towards us, turn, and sidle back.

I'm introduced to Otis, gelded male.
Just stroke his neck, says Jo, our barn hostess.
His hair's so soft, it's like a fairy tale,
and very dense. He blinks as I caress.

The humming's reassurance, Jo explains;
a constant checking everyone's alright –
no signs of fear, no nasty aches and pains.
Alpacas shriek, she adds, when they're in fright.

Geronimo, I think, and grit my teeth.
The black alpaca here, though, seems to smile:
her bottom-row incisors long beneath
her upper lip. Aunt Biddy. She has style.

I wonder if they think about Peru;
dismiss this, as, once more, they venture near,
their humming not unlike a wood kazoo
in chirpy tone and mood. They check and cheer.


https://i.imgur.com/SwRlPd4.jpeg

Photo (also published): A.R. Teague, Cotswold Alpacas (Aunt Biddy shown near the back)

🥰

Geronimo the alpaca: Tests unable to confirm TB

[Silence.]

Why does that not surprise me?

Geronimo the Alpaca

I felt healthy and hardy.
TB? None, for sure!
Why the gun to my head?
Does that make you secure?

Sniffing hay-scented air,
I was glad when I saw
my owner each day;
but condemned by your law,

a scapegoat alpaca,
I paid a big price.
As for your cold heart,
try melting its ice.

(Appeared in The New Verse News.)


Geronimo

Defra has killed its way out of trouble
and now its trouble is more than double.
George, are you living in a bubble?

Do you know how to communicate?
Is it easier to terminate
a blissful life? (You couldn’t wait!)

“Retest! Retest!” we asked, or more
humane, let him be studied, the door
to a cure more open. Instead, you tore

Geronimo away from his mum.
Yet, unlike you, we are not numb.
Perhaps you’re the type who won’t succumb

to kindness. But when has Big Farming
ever shrunk from killing or harming?


I composed the following poems before poor Geronimo was murdered.

Geronimo

I am sheltered behind this tall fence.
What kind of irrational sense
**does it make to go kill
**a beast who’s not ill?
My caretaker’s dread is immense.

I am eight years of age, inky black,
an alpaca who lives with no lack
**of love and sweet hay,
**and I’d much rather stay
in this state. Do you catch my drift, Mac?

I think you’re as thick-skulled as cattle.
I think you shall not win this battle.
**So come. Try to end me.
**The world will defend me.
Your bovine beliefs will skedaddle!


To Geronimo the Alpaca

Will Defra choose to handle
the TB testing scandal
in a manner that is laudable?
We, your staunch supporters,
are visible and audible,
proving that all Earth’s borders
are linked. Geronimo,
well-loved by all the world,
you’re now on shirts and totes.
When the High Court judge hurled
that unjust judgment of murder
(what sentence could be absurder?)
it put a lump in our throats.
The government loves to flirt
with Death. And yet this shirt
displaying your sweet face
only serves to show
that Defra have no case.


Geronimo

“Believed” to be infected is not the same
as “proven” to be infected. Evidence
was insufficient. Even so, you came
to kill me. Others came to my defense—
petitions, protests, signs—which testifies
this thing’s far bigger than saving one furry pet.
Had I infected my mistress? No. Surprise?
I hummed as she fed me—I knew she was upset.

Innocent till proven guilty, yes?
So why not for our fellows, large and little.
Healthy until shown not to be—unless
our moral principles are eggshell-brittle.
Yes, this is bigger than killing an innocent critter
whose death would leave my kindly fan club bitter.

(I had bought a tote bag with the alpaca's picture on it, but I have it hidden away in a cabinet.)

By the way, Fliss, I love your poem about the alpaca farm!

Thanks, Martin; here's another photo, after the meet 'n' greet. Jo opened the barn's main gate and the alpacas trotted off to their field...

https://i.imgur.com/frnq6WY.jpeg

Gov isn't doing too well at the moment. You might have caught some of the media furore re. various members rulebreaking last Christmas; summary by the Beeb's Reality Check here.

All rather painful for those of us who abided by the rules. I didn't see my older brother, but we waved at each other through a window; later I wrote a poem about it. I wasn't well at the time, so the poem isn't particularly good, but it was the first I'd written for a long time due to illness.


Wave-time

Bro. G. texts progress – 'Setting off' at 4,
midway or so announces 'Park cafe',
then 'Garden', lastly Bzzz! and that's the door,
my intercom, which has a waspish way;

outside the door the gift exchange takes place –
he's brought a dozen bottles, box of chocs,
receives a hardback book on outer space,
a woolly jumper, vouchers, shortbread, socks;

there's conversation through the cotton masks,
with Mum and Dad and younger brother too,
of weather, walks and work, and festive tasks,
I wait inside, with 'Garden' as my cue;

it comes, I 'Window', wave-time for a while,
I hope, behind his mask, he wears a smile.

- - -
Graham is strangely strong, so walking from Central Cheltenham to uppermost Pittville with six bottles of wine per arm and other items wasn't a strain for him, fortunately!

🍷🍷🍷

I like that Christmas poem, Fliss. It's charming. I wish I knew all the shorthand words you know. I'm envious of your vocabulary. That was quite a hike your brother took up the hill to Pittville and having to carry all those things. I'm glad he didn't get a hernia.

I read a bit of the BBC news article. It's flabbergasting!

I like the picture of the alpacas running to their field. They're on a mission and they look cute.

Thanks, Martin; I'm pleased you like the poem. I don't really know a lot of shorthand, though; I just make things up and hope for the best, lol. It was indeed quite a hike; and Graham was wearing a lot of layers too.

I don't think anything in politics surprises me any more. Today it emerged that BoJo attended a Christmas quiz; story here.

The alpacas were delightful throughout the visit. Jo invited us to come back and see the babies next year, which would be brilliant. Highly recommend alpaca experiences, if there are any farms near you :)

Guinea the First

His breakfast banquet lies in wait
while Majesty, it seems, sleeps late
beneath his regal gold duvet,
a farm-fresh brush of meadow hay.

We subjects loiter, watch his door,
pile star-cut treats on sawn-pine floor,
return to place with careful tread
within his splendid palace-shed.

One minute more, a shy face peeps;
George crawls towards his salad heaps,
in Dutch-marked gown, jet black and white,
which shimmers in the winter light.

His eyes shine gladly for his meal,
teeth clasp a carrot slice with zeal;
all Christmas, church choirs urge, 'Rejoice!',
but we prefer our guinea's voice.


https://i.imgur.com/axJx0hh.jpeg

Contest winner :)

Congrats, Fliss! I enjoyed the poem. It's cute, has nice imagery and narrative along with nice touches of humor, especially in the last line. Did you know that Guinea Pigs (plus fruit bats, capybaras, some reptiles, and many primates, including humans) cannot manufacture their own vitamin C? So they need to get it from their diet.

Thanks, Martin; Ghost of George and I are glad you enjoyed it and we wish you well with contest no. 373 (I forgot to enter, lol). I'm afraid George had a rather sad end; I might write about that some time, perhaps as a prose piece. I've been encouraged by various persons in Winchcombe to continue with the guinea pig stories I started during my convalescence about a year ago. Dear guineas.

Yes, I did know that about guineas, having been involved in their care for well over three decades. Did you know that there's a section of the orchestra known as the percussion section? 😂

Bw,
Fliss

Fliss, I'm sorry to hear about the demise of George. I hope a cat didn't nab him or something. I'm not sure I want to hear about the gruesome details, but if you happen to write a prose piece, I'd be interested in reading it.

Very funny! ;) But even experts don't necessarily know all there is about their topic, right? I, for one, am sure there are rare or exotic percussion instruments in the world that I've never even heard of (or heard) much less seen or played. And there are undoubtedly aspects of percussion history I'm not familiar with. Anyway, I had a feeling you knew about the vitamin C story. I just found that nutritional factoid interesting, so I thought I'd share it, as other folks may also find it interesting. I've been listening lately to audiobooks about evolution, and the inability to produce one's own vitamin C is definitely a byproduct of natural selection.

By the way, thanks for wishing me well with the contest. That's encouraging (especially since I haven't had much luck their the last several weeks)! :eek:

Thanks, Martin; no, not a cat, a fox. Work's a bit crazy at the moment, but I might be able to take time for writing this weekend.

Gheorge (Ghost of George) says he knows all there is to know about carrots; I'm not inclined to challenge him. My dad has a collection of exotic instruments, as it happens, although most of them are falling apart a bit. I think he bought them in Morocco.

I've been surprised by some of the poems chosen as winners since joining in for the contests. And one of the members has become rather intense, let's say, so I'll probably leave it until Sunday night to rush in, post a poem, rush out again, lol.

Fliss - Yes, I'm sure the ghost of George knows all there is to know about carrots. And probably every other vegetable on Earth.

So your dad collected exotic instruments? That's great. Speaking of exotic instruments, when I was 13 years old, my mother, brother, and I visited Israel during the summer. One day we stopped at an Arab town where children were selling little drums made of wood and camel hide (including the hair). We were interested in the drums. My brother, who was 11 years old, didn't like the price. So the kid said, OK, instead of $10 I'll give it to you for $5. D (my brother) still said "No." So the kid said, "OK, $3." (I don't remember the exact figures.) D shook his head "No" again. After some more negotiating, the kid finally said "OK, you can have it for free!"

I think I know what you mean about the winning poems. By the way, I just got an email that the poem I entered last week won. So my luck has changed again.