Pheasant. Poem

I saw a pheasant today.
and liked him very much
his beautiful colours majestic yet muted
his clothes rich yet modest.
I saw a pheasant today.

His stride triumphant
matched his manner
the manner of an actorly prince
I imagine though
that without his rainbow costume
he'd feel vulnerable
and that is no bad thing
because when we're vulnerable
we melt the bars that hold us
allowing others in
and when in they weave raiments
more befitting our state of mind

So my dear prince on the verge
I dare you to remove your much stuck feathers
and stalk the countryside with me
naked.

Sweetheart.. Poem

And then with a scarlet flourish
I left him
bloodied without heart
his timorous wailings despicable
like the cries of a shot predator

Smiling with slanted bit lips
I dismissed him
to the four bleached corners of his room
his weeping well-earned loneliness
kindling for my fire

Deepening my artificial resolve
I buried him
alone without God or ceremony
his corrosive well-executed witchcraft
burnt to cinders on my lonely altar.

My Darling Dragonfly. Poem.

As you in princely clothes
dart and cut through the summer air
I, the dowdy, am not footloose, am lame, so stand stock still in your fragrant food factory
looking on

but you gallant and energetic swoop, dip and flow
then,
lingering for a small eternity,
fill the space between the knotted weedy borders
with your sweet odour
the scent of the lion-hearted

Plucky, you sling your blue body to the top of the tree
and like a dark-haired sunny boy unleashes animal power
to stream back down the bark
like a shower of diamonds in search of a chain
only to soar again around the parsley bush

then, in a lovely act of solitude,
your spirit spurts
up up up fearing no-one
and, knowing nought,
you dance dance dance

you, my brave flying gem, make giants
like me
bow.

My One and Only Love. Poem

On the Horsehound menu tonight. Fish..FISH? Yep Fish. I'm feeling too tired to 'make' anything, so grilled Pollack is the fish dish of the day. But it is healthy so...For pud? A 3 minute microwaved syrup pudding. IT IS HOMEMADE. I haven't sunk so low as to nuke a SHOP BOUGHT one!

I love to cook but I couldn't and wouldn't live without beautiful words...
Been reading some of the poems on this here blog and the one below is a favourite of mine. It's sentiments pure, it's honesty clear, I love it with all my just beating heart.


On bright snow I childishly blow
frozen kisses to my friends
Then
On wooden benches I solemnly sit
slicing out your name
Then
On bent knees I show
my pretty insane love for you
Then
On Tuesday you said 'us'
and I couldn't feel the pavement.

To A Seagull.

Eye to eye I fell for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
live on rocks and on the sea?

Breast to breast I fell on you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, just you and me
swagger on cobalt waves all day?

Head to head I fell for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
strut our feathers along the parade?

You with your swank, your arrogance and prance
peck out my heart, my beater
and me, like a mad woman, dips in the chair
You show-off, you bragger, you bully.

And then after you'd feasted
you left me
sweeping up malty tear-sodden crumbs
But eye to eye I'd fallen for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
live on rocks and by the sea?


Angela Norris

Battered Down South

The storms last night were horrendous and many parts of Essex are flooded. As I look out of my office window I see the remnants of devilish winds and torrential rain, the bushes are still swaying and the dividing fence between me and my neighbour is rattling. But a hardy old soul has just passed by, his red and white anorak puffed up like a tent and I wonder where he's going. Probably down to Somerfields or the bakers.
And me, where am I going? Nowhere.

On the menu today Chicken casserole, mashed potatoes and green beans. For pud? Chocolate pudding and custard.

The chicken casserole is a queer old thing because it's made with store cupboard ingredients. Two chicken legs are browned with some onions and then a handful of lemon, thyme and parsley stuffing, some cooking wine and a tin of tomatoes are added. Plenty of black pepper and a kiss of salt are added too. Simple stuff but much welcomed on a winter's day.

Mashed potatoes are a subject worth talking about. I always pop in a good amount of butter and some warm milk and then beat it up with a big old fork.
The chocolate pudding I'll be making will have traditional pudding makers spitting feathers because I'll be making a microwaveable version. Shock horror! Don't get me wrong, it's still a fabulous little pudding, only it won't take three hours to cook; more like three minutes...
The recipe, funnily enough, comes from The Farmhouse Kitchen Microwave Cookbook. I wonder what Dorothy Sleightholme would think. Bless her.
Anyway that's enough of domestic stuff.

I'm in the mood for love so I expect a daft poem or two might be posted.

Lay With Me...Poem

Lay with me
till I beg you to stay
And then talk with me
till our library of words silence us
Can you love with me
till I can love me again

Build with me
a home on a hillside
Could you then watch with me
as towering weeds bloom in row upon row by the parsley
Then run in and play with me
in rooms sparkling with dust and toys

Come with me
to the seashore and farmyard
Could you then bend down to collect with me
small shells and new brown laid eggs
And then fly with me
to everywhere abroad and then back home

Pray with me
on the bench by our stove and in the church at the end of our road
Will you then cry with me
under frayed blankets and tumblers of gin
Could you live with me
just because I love you?

It's All About Boiling

I'll bet all my handbags that Gordon Brown's face is in his porridge this morning because, according to former Home Secretary Charles Clarke, "Labour is destined to disaster"
Thanks Chaz, I'm sure the beleaguered boiling-with-rage Prime Minister needs to hear that.
I'm going to stick my neck out and say that Gordon Brown will be booking a removal van in the next few months.
I can't write any more about Gordon because I'm getting in a lather, and I can't get in too much of a lather on account of me having a lot to do in the kitchen today. And sensitive delicate flowers like me, shouldn't have choppers and boiling saucepans in their hands when they're overwrought.
I need peace to cook.

So I'm going to take a deep breath now, put on gauntlets and try to get Monty out of the wardrobe, (can't have him in there in case he strokes my new woollies.....) then I'll enter the kitchen put on a plastic pinny and Radio 4 and make a huge bucket of carrot soup and a dozen spicy apple fingers.

Also chalked on the board is :
Make Strawberry cake for the old people
Write sensuous love poem
Do something about my beard.