December 29, 2012 at 4:28 pm (Recognition) ()

Blog of the Year Award 2 star jpeg

Thank you so much to Iamforchange http://iamforchange.wordpress.com/
and
Nicholas Gagnier
http://retconpoet.wordpress.com/
for nominating my cave for ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award.

Blog of the Year for me? Two poets whose work I love for its grit and beauty, two writers who connect with people and made the corners of my mouth turn up, one poet/artist who takes me on a delicious journey through surreality, and one woman who I think can make a real social difference with her writing:

http://nobodysreadingme.wordpress.com/

http://retconpoet.wordpress.com/

http://unfetteredbs.com/

http://lifeintheblueridges.wordpress.com/

http://thebirdking.com/

http://flashlightcityblues.com/

Thanks to all the above, and thanks to everyone who has followed or visited my cave this year. you have brought the poems to life.

The ‘rules’ for this award are simple:

1 Select the blog(s) you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award

2 Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award.

3 Please include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award – http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-awards/blog-of-the-year-2012-award/ and include these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!)

4 Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them

5 You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience

6 As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…

Permalink 5 Comments

Old Year

December 28, 2012 at 6:51 pm (history, humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

Old Year rolls towards the edge:

all but cliff-tipped and crown-cropped,

he grizzles over sticky mince pies

and thrice cooked turkey,

downs a last guzzle of mulled liquor

and stuffs his pockets with fruit cake.

.

He will have none of party preparation –

“like celebrating my own execution”.

Instead, he catches up on old TV

plays Cluedo with the kids, who call him Mr Black,

and packs for emergencies:

no-one knows how it will happen this time.

.

Still,  warm gloves, tin of family biscuits,

and swimming goggles,

he’s ready to put his legs in one elastic

and catapult himself  into the next place.

If it turns out less than nice,

chances are, he won’t be there for long:

Years generally quit before outstaying their welcome.

Permalink 15 Comments

Boxing Day Exchange

December 26, 2012 at 8:51 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

We are in the queue,

me and you, we know it too:

our front line fallen.

Best not push too hard

or we’ll be displaced

and lives could tumble.

.

If we two could pick

any darn box we desired,

ours would be blood red,

filled with comrades lost

when choices were made

by God, them or us.

.

But we can only

push on with compromised hope,

chipped swords and hearts drawn

in desperation.

Come, let us exchange

pretty distractions.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Christmas at Our House

December 23, 2012 at 10:19 pm (humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

How can we have Christmas at our house?

The rooms look like there was a riot

the table’s strewn over with gas bills

and the reindeer are all on a diet.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

The tree is hung over and wonky

our turkey ran off with the tinsel

and we never did order the donkey.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

It’s too cold to put out the fire

so Santa will struggle to reach us

and so will the heavenly choir.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

but wait, well then maybe we can

there’s a bucket of love up our chimney

and hugs in the fridge and the pan.

.

There’s sweet figgy pudding and music

our voices are merry and bright

we’ll hide nuts in a massive red stocking

and drink ginger wine late at night.

.

So let’s all have Christmas at our house

we’ll cook up a magical banquet

and after the games and the laughter

we’ll cuddle up under our blanket.

.

We all know the New Year is waiting

and we have to work hard and dig deep

but beautiful friendships will give us

the gift of this Christmas to keep.

Permalink 12 Comments

Computer Generation

December 21, 2012 at 6:58 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

He was once a real boy;

distinctly she remembered him

holding her hand and looking her in the eye.

.

These days, to gain his attention

she wore prescription 3D glasses

and sat in a life-simulating gaming chair;

unsure whether the blurred edges he exhibited

were the result of his stereoscopic obsession,

a definite change in generational perspective,

or the tears in her empty nest eyes.

Permalink 2 Comments

Moon Man

December 11, 2012 at 6:24 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

with jocular face and monocle.

Hunter-warriors beware,

he will rock away this precious slice of light

should you prey on easy meat from a high-handed horse.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

tickling xylophones with whiskery fingers.

As ice drops flicker

give time over haste to winter tunes,

to taste his gruffle-sung stories of stars and wonderment.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

making immortal space for us.

He cradles kindness

in extraordinarily long arms,

and gifts weary travellers with chuckling beneficence.

Permalink 8 Comments

Transition

December 8, 2012 at 11:17 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , )

The train is leaving, but there is the head of a child

Resolutely wedged in my door of change

A sense of submerging as the old breath runs out

Nasty phobias manifest at times like this

Surrendering, the final click  elicits a sick shiver.

.

I begin again with an awkward moment.

.

This is how life pans out on my emergence

I walk strangely into a squeaky new room

Only when I am firmly ensconced, do I open my eyes.

.

Now though,  once again, my Mind is in the Gap, MIND THE GAP, MIND THE GAP!

Permalink 11 Comments

The Curator

December 4, 2012 at 11:07 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Economically, it was a difficult  time

women itched in woollen scarves

men stamped their frosted minds

a cruel wind blew till their steaming chips were down.

..

Socially, it was a treacherous climb

He clung to the frozen earth with hooked toes

vertically

.

.

impossible

pebbles snapping like dragons’ teeth

stressed grass grazing his aching knees.

.

Astrologically, he read the perfect sign

and chose this day to set his sight

at the hill above vast unmolested sea.

.

At the summit

he would put down his heavy pack

lean his broad back against a small patch of undamaged sky

and watch history unfold.

Permalink 3 Comments

Rumours at Years End

December 2, 2012 at 5:26 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Winter-thin windows:

wafers for Snow Queen banquets.

Draughts whisper treason.

Permalink 4 Comments

Sunday

December 1, 2012 at 7:15 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Cards, did you ever stand? Or was my brilliant house of hearts,

young fumbling fingers darting in to rebuild broken parts,

a childish and imagined thing dreamed up by chilly rooms?

Do you recall the way we played on Sunday afternoons?

.

In our separate world were marbles, and a box of dominoes,

each indent to be thumbed, the numbers nought to six in rows,

each globe a tiny planet trapped, in subtle colour rolled,

all added up when I was very young and they were old.

.

And when they called me in at last, I boxed and bagged my friends,

to leave disgruntled kings and queens and keepsies in the end.

One hand still cupped around a shell in which I hear the sea,

I peer through dust of lemon cake washed down with grown-up tea.

Permalink 3 Comments