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Monthly Archives: July 2019



I’m off to the grum,

I’d shout through the door.

The horseshoe embankment,

with red ash park floor.

Witches hat towering,

over basic park ride.

Tunnel embankment,

for children to hide.

Swings made of old tyres

on thick heavy chains.

Twisted to spin round,

n’ scramble one’s brain.

Fort made of thick log,

to clamber about.

Or maybe to fumble,

hit floor with a clout.

But then there’s our favourite.

The forty foot slide.

With a bump in the middle,

gain air on the glide.

Waxed to perfection,

with candles we’d bring.

Riotous laughter,

in horseshoe would ring.

Butterflies and grasshoppers,

on banks we would catch.

With Grazes and grass stains,

our colours would match.

But grass banks we’d scramble,

or steep concrete stairs.

Slide time go slo-mo,

no worries – no cares.




Reflections 2019 w29

This is going to be really quick as my meds and emergency anxiety/depresion meds are kicking in and things are a swirling. so forgive me if things go ari. or even make no sense, b ut i have to do th9is     as i have done nothing all ay.

It’s been a hiding day today, my bones have been grated and movement has been unwanted. I feel for the people that have worse, especially if they are also toolkit will just go away. It’s so b frustrating.

I am going now, i cannot sit straight.

The Life and Death of a Puppet…#Poem

The life and death of a puppet 

For some a creation,

A whisper, a glance.

Subconscious of builder,

With puppet will dance.


From stacks of materials

All gathered around.

Working together,

Its form to be found.


But some from a plan,

A pattern that’s bought.

Clone of another,

Its character – no thought.


For it is for another,

Its life them to give.

When built for the sale

With other, to live.


Patiently waiting

Whilst stored on a stand.

Vacant and lifeless,

Till given a hand.


Bought by another

And taken to home.

So starts the magic,

In fabric and foam.


Some lovingly cared for

And attention is paid.

But none last forever,

If repairs are not made.


Some though are just placed,

In a box with a lid.

Glass eyes in darkness,

Its character hid.


Waiting and hoping

To once more see light.

And view new horizons

Through eyes with no sight.


But a puppet left lonely

From memory, will fade.

Cause it’s only through contact,

A connection be made. 




Reflections 2019 w28

There are four of us at the art group that have started to learn how to the ukulele, I know its not the kind of thing one would expect to hear connected with the words art group, but we roll different than most.

This week was the second half hour we have had and we can now all pretty much strum together, at the same beat. Instead of strum, strum, strum…..Change finger placement for G, strum, strum strum….Change finger placement to C, strum…….

So by the time we changed on a four beat, we only strummed three times, if we were lucky, and not at the same time as everyone else.

It has helped that we are all complete and utter beginners with a brain that completes one task at a time. Hence the pause. This meant that we could laugh at the mistakes, not get embarrassed by them. A huge difference to the learning curve.

Thankfully I do not have to sing on top of the playing as well.

Unknown Destination …Prose

Unknown Destination


The sun 

it shines

through a break in the clouds.




far off into the distance.


Sand glows

sea glistens

my mind perceives the warmth.


I want

heart longs

to be in that place.





as dark clouds swirl around.


Soft mud

knee deep

still river sits between.


Grass tufts

firm ground

a hopscotch of hope.


Some false

sink down

when on them I stand.


Mistakes made


in mud river slide.





this marsh that I’m in.


Mud coats

each time

I pull myself out.




of times that I’ve failed.


I carry 

the weight

it drags to the ground.


Hard work

to move

to get myself out.




come to dry land.


A fire can be built.




mud flakes as it dries.



in spirit,

watch flames in a  dance.




shake off the mud.



the load

before moving on.




Unknown the path.


Look forward,

see lights,

of campfires dotted around.


I’m not here alone.


A § M 


Reflections 2019 w27

Well my skin is taking a strange turn this year. Instead of the usual red head burn and peel, if I misjudge being outside by 5 minutes, my skin is burning and going white. Not that the Scottish DNA that runs in the family does not provide a white sun intolerant skin as it is.

Usually if I can do it right, the sun exposure goes pink, tans ever so lightly and leaves behind more freckles, but one patch of my hands looks like I have poured bleach on it to get rid of the freckles and any sign of colour.

I have googled it, and I will bring it up with the doc when I see him, but I can only find one cause. Nothing can be done and it is more a skin type than condition.

But I remembered that I had a hypothetical conversation on vampires before. That Hollywood has not got enough red head vamps. We are a natural for this type of being.

  • We avoid the sun.
  • We do not have to be told, or trained,  to avoid it at vampire elementary.
  • We burn if it catches us unprepared.
  • We tend to lurk in the darker or more shaded recesses  of locations whilst everyone else walks in the light, perfect for a passing snack during the day.
  • Pale pasty skin is our look any way.
  • Nobody would bat an eyelid at a pale pasty red head walking down the street.

When you wear factor 50 suncream and still get burnt, you know your kind originated in some miserable weathered place.

Which makes our thick curly/wavy hair even more annoying. As this weather will make it frizz like mad.

No wonder we are classed as being moody, we have not found the weather that suits us yet.


Time to Feel…Poem

Time to Feel






I hide, become avoidant.


You say,

I feel.

Words cut,

I reel.

It tarnishes the moment.


To be seen,




My achievements you belittle.



I climb.

Down hill,

I’m pushed.

Why do I even bother?


Get angry,

Keep hold.

Keep quiet,


Immediately guilty, thats fine.


Play down,

Your part.

You hold,

Your heart.

Why is your hurt worth more than mine?


Your hurtful,

And spiteful.

With Speech,


Tis a nasty catchphrase.


When pattens,


I try to,


But I’m trapped in your maze.


With a wall,

Of thorns tall.

And a path,

Of glass shattered.

I have to have my freedom.


Can’t ask for,


Punch drunk,

Til Conceded.

My mind is in a maelstrom.


My ego’s,




That’s what your control has left me.


An answer,

It’s found.

An end

Can be seen.

My life it has to leave me.


I quit playing,

your game.

But I can’t see

all the pain.

That I would leave behind me.



In mist.

Fate took,

A slight twist.

A second chance it gave me.


A chance

To get well.

And break from,

Your spell.

Deflect; nay end, negativity.


A § M 


Reflections 2019 w26

It’s been an mixed week, I have been on holiday, came back to my sons birthday and my uncle going to the hospital after a fall.

That is where my first, and I hope last, encounter with love Island occurred.

My uncle is suffering from the early stages of dementia and is constantly looking for ‘you know’ on the telly. Whilst he does this he leaves programs on. Tonight it was Love Island, 20 minutes of it.

I do not understand the appeal, or what entertainment it offers that differs from the end of a night of booze down the local nightclub. Except these people are sober, I think.

Petty squabbles, jumping into differing beds like they were teenagers and that was pretty much all I saw them do.

I thought entertainment was to transport you away from reality for just little while, to give you a break. Not bring strife into your home – except via news channels.

I do not miss having my TV connected to a multitude of telly stations. It’s been 4 years since it has shown a tv station on it. And from what glimpses I catch, it is the same program formats from before I switched off.

I do not think I will be switching back on for a long while. Box sets offer programs I want to watch – minus all the adverts. Binge watch anyone?




Why is saving, the pennies

to put away,

I find, much harder

than what people say?


My wallet – is sturdy

of material stout.

The holes, I can find none

where the money falls out.


Why is – the more that I save,

the bigger the bills?

Left with only the coppers

to pay at the tills.


Always I scrape by,

the sofa will tip.

Hoping for coinage,

with the stray, apple pip.


But that’s where I found some,

in a week that’s gone bye.

If I was faithful,

I’d turn to the sky.


And ask why it’s raining,

day after day.

To swallow the money,

and flush it away.


A § M