Heading downwards my pale washed Queen cracked her head, a valley gash
But being risen
whispered NO to needed stitches in the head

Belly up with split head skin weeping blood
my soldier Queen obeyed, a bit
laying still, unimpressed, almost robotic, till sterilized water made safe the cut

Swift as birds, my hands like wings, cleansed and covered creating makeshift stitches from shredded plasters and tape.
Did the job.
Was hot too.
And tempers burnt.

Now, laying without fuss, hands cuddling hot tea cup my indomitable old Queen
asks 'where you going?'
'To bed' I said squeezing her purple toes

'to sleep' I thought 'my chance to dream'

For M.

........Once upon a time there lived a boy who was, by nature and name, Beautiful.

In his hands he holds fortunes made of plastic and rope but in his head and coming forth from his uninformed mouth, these are a prince's jewels...

Likes kisses from a lover
The rain hits on the window
and the pane loves it




I'm re-arranging the front room this morning also braising beef then we're going out.

:)

Automatic Writings.. old late night friends

.....A long shallow cool wall with funky dips and football grazes
is home to infestations
scabbed and gnarled the beaten wall sucks them in
nameless ignorant grey black creatures
them all

***********************
FYI
As a matter of fact
whether mountains dissolve
or
rain ignites
there'll never be another you

*****************************

Edith Nose
late of this dreadful parish
consumed by wrathed love
bit off the head of the man she loved
it was, she told me, after we'd sunk lemon tea
the only way to
keep him

safe

***********************************

Bee
maniac
well you act like one
headbutting cold blooms
as they hold their ground in someone's chilly garden
Bee
behave
you're the King of Flying Insects
don't nut petals
be nice

****************************

Your eyes
your
eyes
breaking the sentence
makes it whole

**********************

Stood a loyal man
in a cage of his own construction
would he could he stoop low enough
to instigate his own escape
if the bird on the outside
is pretty enough
sure
Yes she's enough
so loyal man digs
and digs
till a day comes when all he hears is
the sigh of healing bones and bird song
"a robin redbreast in a cage puts all of heaven in a rage"
our man sings!

*******************************

Alright enough of the writings by others hands, I'm going to bed now, hopefully to dream in colour.......... about rainbows.

No Where

There's no space, no place
inside my head
but a ballroom, a universe
inside my heart

Affection

I love the warmth of genuine affection
affection which needs no prompting
that unfurls
uncurls
in the soft hues of this late Christmas night

This night, ribboned with tales of childhood love
we're tied together,
my mother and I
ignited by excited needy tongues
I scatter blue veined talk into the ear of my dear one

and into mine, dropped fragment by fragment,
fractured sentences
love of all sorts being the subject

Words are many though, shot out like bullets
their aim, the heart

And riddled like spent lovers we fall on bloodless Christmas cushions
dreaming of the men we love...


Angela x

No Beef For Mother, Not With Her Foot

Just returned from GP's.

Mother has a bad foot caused by a scald. It isn't healing very quickly so the doc and nurse jumped into action.
We will be back on Friday to change the dressing.
We will also be back next Wednesday to see the doc about a few other things, then, it's off to the hospital for a scan. Not of her limbs but of her chest and abdomen, the whole bit in the middle.



The poor lamb is now resting in her fawn coat surrounded by a bulging bag of drugs, my night out has been cancelled. It would have been great to chat over coffee or wine but I can't leave her to her own devices. Not yet:)

I like night time, especially when I gaze up at stars like a child being told about moonmen. I too am agog. I like night time too because I'm a poet.
But I'm not little but I am a poet.
So maybe, after some corned beef, I'll write about the magnificence of living.

Late Night Musings

~I was pleased to see Amelia back on the X Factor, I liked this girl from the start. And because of the rubbish surrounding Frankie ,the cute pink haired singer was centre stage once again. Might give bully girl Misha something to think about.

~I've been listening to classical music and unlike pop music, it relaxed me. Soul music though makes love to me like nothing else. I suppose I like the pain.

~War Heroes. Every year I wear a paper poppy. And this year one particular soldier is on my mind. He was killed in Afghanistan early in the year, and in one of his letters home he said he liked doing his bit for 'Aunt Betty'. I wondered what Her Majesty thought on hearing that...

~I've always thought I have a steel rod for a spine instead of a common or garden boney length, but sometimes I think God had a laugh when putting me together, He, being the consummate magician stuck inside me a cord of knotted silk. Very beautiful but very tender. Apt to tears and fraying especially when knocked about a bit.

~To be or not to be that is the question, whether tis nobler in the head to be consumed by the cushion of depression or, to take a stand against brutality and, by sticking two fingers up, remain sane. Upright.

~I have a giant chicken defrosting and will roast the poor unfortunate tomorrow. My schedule for tomorrow has changed so therefore I won't be hanging around here all day.

~There's a pink frozen rose in the garden, it's hanging its head, its once rounded pretty face shrivelled and scorched by frost...and being a sensitive person I can't bear to think of it suffering, in pain or distress. Do flowers feel? If so I wish it would die.
Overnight.

~Goodnight all:)

Loner

A late red rose
suddenly frosted, wintry
looms defiantly
its small fair face
a peach amongst spiteful tawny weeds
its late for its date
and it knows it

Perhaps the fuel of a mild autumnal morn
will save it


I haven't written much lately and it worries me, so these few words, this verse, have sent me pleasantly to bed.

Friday My Day

A wonderful day shopping wise....

No problems with traffic, my second home, Sainsburys, had everything I needed for tonight's tea and thirdly I made someone's day!
Not bad for an ordinary day...

So after waffling on here I'll be in my rightful place, the kitchen, where I'll try to make a sumptuous yet simple dinner, quality and colour, texture and taste, and oodles of it.
A starter, main course and pudding which I hope will please my guest. I'll write in detail about it tomorrow.

You know I sometimes dream about kitchens, and in these tiled and wild dreams I'm dressed in a starched white apron creating dishes for both lords and beggars. In this utopia I don't discriminate.
My wooden table is scratched and worn and bleached pale by years of scrubbing and on it lies nothing. What?
The table stands in the middle of the room like an altar on high waiting for the high priestess, who would be me of course, to anoint it with bowls of blue and white china, cutlery sparkling in rays of late afternoon sunlight which not only warms the air but the mood too. Plates some chipped and worn and glasses, some stout some fine stand empty, waiting to be filled, with juice, beer, water or champagne or whatever my lords and stragglers want.

I have to go now....I enjoyed that little piece of prose/poetry, I'd like to expand on it sometime.

:) Google have a new gizmo whereby when you click on a pic the page goes through to a slide show where, if you wish, you can click again for a close up view.

Hold Me

My pillow holds me
like your arms will never again
supping in my wetness

My drapes swag devilishly
as midnight tarries
their folds set in stone

My.......... self alone
within my blitzed and sorry shell
remembers your face

Room. Poem

In your room without colour
my blood tints the walls
its rich virginal paste
perfectly spread

and in your room without life
my presence necessitates
action
and so with your neck tethered to beams
I dance
swirling down like a shot paradise bird
I land upon your face

Now your room is rainbow

Big Fish

Silver threads of the genius weave chaotic patterns through your mind
they screw and spew fantastical motifs
catapulting ideas so beyond the understanding of mortals and cripples
that their brightness simply blinds
leaving us your lovers to tentatively touch the kerb
You are an artist of all schools

But my cracked lights are dim
almost fraudulent compared to yours
my brushstrokes graffiti
aberrations of art
I love you

Your ideas intricate akin to palm patterns on a master's hands
but my hands are useless
good for writing books of I love yous
I am a sweet-smelling freak in a gelid polar puddle
a queer silent fish hoping to swim into your sea
but voiceless halting
all I can do is wander to you
craning up through your glossy waters
gaping like a dying fish
I bubble my last smile
I love you.

Hester Wardle:Poem

I love receiving gifts, especially from ghosts.
The poem below was, I believe, a gift.

It wrote like a tap.

I love it.
Thanks Hester...





Hester Wardle
mistress of the house
a house alive with sunflowers
and nothing else


walks softly with scissors


Over there by the clock
by the clock without a beat
lies a mound of blue bound manuals
bought when Wardle's coins flowed

Manuals with elaborate pictures
drawn by men in London and Bath
one signed 'with love and appreciation'
name indecipherable
'1871'


And on this mound of manuals
sits propped a lonely lady doll
her auburn hair ratted entwisted* and quarrelling with bugs
runs alive
swarming her broken back
and
ribbons, once lilac and smooth, now
ripple through the little nest

The doll's porcelain face was, many years ago, awash with Hester's fingermarks
but now
now at the houses* end
rests like one of Father's unwanted monuments
cracked, shot and beggarly
yet as a stick of sunlight shoots through another split in the whey-faced wall
it shows up a hint
a living hint
of a milky tear set like stone in dolly's squashed eyes
Tilly Tilly was once adored...

Hester with snapping scissors in hands
and webs on her skirts
sits.



There are deliberate grammatical errors in this...
*'houses'. I don't know why, but it felt right.

Entwisted is an archaic word.

Rape. Poem

Been a smashing day! Made some bread and a great big Apple cake. Watched Dave's first Cabinet meeting. Watched Crimson Tide eating Raspberry Ruffles. Stroked my Monty. Wrote a poem...

A friend has told me that he loved my poem "Everything About You". He said it was "genius". It's moments like these that help me by lifting me out from the terrible pit I sometimes put myself into...


I'm wondering where creative sorts get their creativity from. Like I don't know. Is it borne out of a need to communicate, or is it that they need to flash their feathers. Maybe a little of both. I once said I can't write poetry when I'm happy and I was quite right. I can't. Try try as I might I can't do the jolly-holiday-by-the-sea poem.
Pain, loneliness, anger and sadness rise, like vomit, leaving splashes of 'genius' all over the screen. Let me tell you how "Everything About You" came about.

I'd had a grey day.
And so things like frustration, incompatiblity, lust and fear swung around in my head like almighty bells till they eventually knocked me unconscious.
And that's when the poem was born. In the dark with only a dim table lamp for light. My hair was a mess likewise my head but the discomfort of being suffocated by parasitic invaders was about to bring rewards.

A floodgate had opened, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop the flow, and if truth be told I didn't want to. It felt, what did it feel like, it felt as if all I had to do was lay down and cleave open my mind and legs and let the baby come out. If I hadn't liked what I was giving birth to I couldn't have done anything about it. The seeds were sown a long time ago, probably early last year and then comes the birthday when sprogs of a dubious kind make their way out from the warmth of my worn out mind to the pages of this here blog.

And there they lay looking quite ugly, beautiful, festering, living, unadorned and magnificent like leftovers on the kitchen table, like all the jewels in the world Like hot semen between your legs. Like a hug just before he leaves. Like cold water on a hot day. Like the wailing of the insane, like the crying of a babe. Like words from a nice man. And all you want to do is flash and scream showing the world just how bad and wonderful it is housing all this ghastly glorious stuff so the poem is born.
And how name you this poem?
"Everything About You".

Love, loneliness and fear all inspire the poet but even good lengthy emails provoke responses. And as I read the words of my fellow blogger's email a new baby was gelling itself together taking immaculate form, and I knew as soon as his words hit my eyes that I'd have to blog about it
because that's what we creative sorts have to do.
Every day.

God it's cold and God it's dark and God I'm tired tonight. But tomorrow it's work so I'll put the dictionary away.
Till I feel again...

Everything About You. Poem.

Talking, when you knew that silence was best,
told me you wanted to speak some truths
And listening, when you knew that I had to talk,
told me everything about you

Caught, as I was, in the wire of a killing marriage
you swiftly set out
to shear me away
from
his long-life talons of contemptible familiarity

Tender you were, and with each quick cut
barbs fell,
felled like solitary dead trees,
falling like tears, slowly, without form
I floated
on a boiling lake of aloneness
an impossible survivor
clinging to your outstretched arms

Awash with awkward silences
we got there
and drifted from pain to relief like people in recovery
each realization
a smile
each selfless act
a kiss
a knowledge got without diplomas
a price we had to pay

Rock Sense: POEM

I swam through waves of dishonour to sleep with you
the slime getting caught in my hair
and then it scaled my face and I lost my sight
and yet still I swam to you

Over the end and at the edge of the pier
splinters ran through my feet
and when waving people ran for the guard
still I sat for you

White birds blasted,
their freedom cocky and sure,
and they screeched and laughed at the flightless sea lover
and as I chewed I spewed
my fingers bleeding
turning the blue sea mauve

Sucking over the wounds I trawled the shore
beating some pebbles to death

I was watched by British fools out for the day
stolid homely husbands complete in cheap clothes
putting up with dear wifey for the day

I swam through waves of dishonour because I liked your body and temper
but then waves travelled
taking me down
till I hit my head on some rock sense
and my eyes were bleached open
but smarted in agony
at a love deaded by drowning



Angela Norris

Shock: Poem

You shocked me with your vigour
unleashing in me passions only the unloved feel
yes you shocked me

And on the afternoon when every weather came
you tinkered with me
lifting up my stone white body with your manic mechanical hands
you tinkered with me
pulling away and peeling off layers of unused flesh
you kept bits, mementos for yourself
leaving me formless battered
without shape
I'd become unstructured

And all through an evening once
your excesses thrilled me open
and breaching me apart
I cried with lust like in a movie
drip drop drip drop drip drop
yes your excesses unwrapped me
allowing out and laying bare
all what was hidden

And then on an ordinary day I was abandoned
And so I wrote my own obituary
...She lived
and died of shock





Angela Norris

Alexander: Poem

ALEXANDER

As big gentle hands touch small quivering feet
the world and its people still rush by
his head empty, unaware
of the love that fills the room.

A skin as soft as nothing on earth
lies perfect on blankets made by man
but here looking up is love made flesh
waiting for adventures to begin.

And in the night when life takes a rest
the new boy certainly will not
for that is the time for operas and shanties
and he'll sing like trumpets and drums
he'll baa like the lamb and screech like the owl
his lungs yelling for joy.

And all his joy will resound around his kingdom
while big gentle hands kiss his feet...



Angela Norris