Wednesday, October 29, 2014

For this week's Poetry Jam

Let me read it to you!
Click on green pointer


She was staring into space
focusing on nothing at all

I asked her why
She said because

Her eyes were filled with tears
which trickled down her cheeks

I asked her why
She said because

Her brow was heavy with sadness
Her face etched with sorrow

I asked her why
She said because

She knew I had to leave
I knew it broke her heart

She asked me why
I said because

Picture Sad Woman by Do Down D at deviantART

Tuesday, October 28, 2014


 Wordless Wednesday

Lumbini, Nepal was the birthplace of Buddha. Today it is a place of pilgrimage for devotees from all over the world. It was there, under a huge tree amid the prayer flags I witnessed monks and worshipers sitting in quiet meditation.

For  Magpie Tales

Sunday, October 26, 2014

When poppies turn blue

(For Shadow Shot Sunday scroll down)

I feel a Sunday Whirl coming on! Here are this week's words-

       A bustling crowd of expressionless shoppers trekked from stall to stall in the crowded market square.
      “When poppies turn blue it will be too late” roared the strange old man standing in front of a display of autumn flowers. “When the roots of white lilies burst through the soil and point heavenward you will remember me and wished you'd listened” he roared pointing a gnarled finger at each of the stunned onlookers in turn
     “I've told you before, clear off and stop pestering what customers Ive got left before I call the cops” shouted the angry stallholder.
      The old man mumbled something barely audible beneath his breath, and then wandered off. He stopped and stared at a group of giggling teenagers. “Empty your minds of frivolous thoughts”   he bellowed whilst giving them a menacing glare. “Soon the clocks will strike thirteen” The kids stopped chattering and for a few moments stared at him bemused. Then they resumed their babbling and strolled off in the direction of the coffee bar. “You can laugh, it’s all in here” he barked tapping the crumpled cover of the tattered booklet he held in his hand.
      Turning around he faced an elderly lady walking towards him shopping trolley in tow. He thrust the book towards her “A literary forewarning of the apocalyptic catastrophe about to befall us”
     “What’s that luv?” she asked.
     “The epilogue” he growled “The final chapter.
    “You and your long words. I don’t know what you are talking about!” she chuckled as she made a speedy escape.
       The strange old man ambled away from the market square.

      The market was closed for the night. John from the council was performing his evening task of clearing away abandoned bags, sweet wrappers and all the litter that the shoppers and traders leave behind. The flower seller was packing the last of his unsold bunches in his van. John was scooping up a heap of flower heads and leaves. One discarded bloom caught his eye. “Oy, mate” he shouted to the flower seller. “Since when have you sold blue poppies?”
      He got no reply, so he turned towards the stall. The van stood alongside with its doors wide open but the flower seller was nowhere to be seen.
    And he’s not been seen since. As for the kids and the elderly lady, I have no idea if they disappeared too. But I'm sure I would have heard something if they had. I just know that if I bump into the strange old man in the market I’ll hang onto every word he utters – I have inkling he might just talk sense!

Pots and pans at a Moroccan Market

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Rosey has a thorny problem

I wrote this specially for this week’s Sunday Scribblings 2 where our prompt word is thorn.

A few of us were in the local Chinese the other night. My friend Rosey was pulling a funny face and rubbing her arm. Nobody took much notice; she’s known for pulling funny faces. Then she started making a strange moaning sound. Jenny looked at her, pulled a quizzical expression then looked away again. Clearly not getting the reaction she wanted and craving sympathy, Rosey suddenly shouted “Ouch”.
        John was the first to give in. “What’s up Rosey, you in pain 'ole luv?”
      “Oh nothing” she said with a dramatic sweep of her head.”Don’t worry about me”.
     “Tell us Rosey” said Jenny with an exasperated look on her face.
    "Well" said Rosey “If you must know I tripped over down at my allotment. I was waving to Jim a few plots down and not looking where I was going. I felt a bit of a prick and.........”
      “Enough of the crude language Rosey, that’s not like you!” said a stunned John who then started laughing.
       “If you’ll just let me finish John” she continued “I felt a prick in my arm because I’d fallen into my prize winning Rockwall Sesquicentennial Pioneer Shrub Rose, and one of its thorns stabbed me right here... just like this John”  She suddenly poked him hard in the ribs with her finger instantly wiping the grin from his face.
      “Don’t be such a thorn in my side” he said. He turned to me. “‘A thorn in my side, get it, get it” I  slowly nodded. Back came the grin. “Anyway with a name like Rosey you should be used to thorns!”
      “What’s in a name? That which we call a Rosey by any other name would smell as sweet. That’s from Rosey-o and Juliet!” she chuckled.
      “The way of the sluggard is blocked with thorns, but the path of the upright is a highway” uttered Holy Jo. We call him that because he’s always got a quote from the Bible to hand. “Proverbs 15 verse 19, the New International Version” he continued. He then wandered back into his own thoughts.
      “Roses are red, violets are blue, most poems rhyme, but this one doesn't” piped up Simon who had been quietly observing up to that point.
      “He who wants the Rosey must respect the thorn. That’s a Persian proverb” said Rosey. “For I am a Rosey among thorns” she said pointing to us one at a time. She remembered her wounded arm started rubbing it again. “I need a glass of Chardonnay to ease the pain. Your round John”

To read 60 more of Rosey’s adventures in one place go to My Friend Rosey