Monday, 19 March 2018
SWEET, DARK, DESIRE
I feel your silky cover
and my body starts to shake.
You're better than my lover
for with you I keep awake.
Then when I caress you
as you lay serene and dark.
You fill me with desire
and ignite that hidden spark.
My lust is getting stronger
and I feel the searing heat.
I want you in my eager mouth,
my dark, delicious chocolate
treat
I wrote this about 12 years ago, way before my type 2 diabetes diagnosis.
Sunday, 18 March 2018
BLUEBELL WEEKS
A poem about lost love.
I have "tweaked" this poem many times, so there maybe different versions elsewhere. Not all poetry has to rhyme as you can see.
We lost track of time as we lay in bluebell woods.
Afterwards, we gathered many.
I held some to your face..
You smiled.
Those delicate blue trumpets
reflected in your grey eyes,
making them blue.
I remember you saying,
"I'll always love you"
Soon those smiling eyes
became sad.
Our weeks of passion quickly passed,
as did the bluebells.
It was over.
The parting wasn't sweet.
We were not free.
You made a choice;
it wasn't mine.
Now when I see a mass of bluebells,
I think of you.
Still feel a sadness,
for what might have been.
I have "tweaked" this poem many times, so there maybe different versions elsewhere. Not all poetry has to rhyme as you can see.
Bluebell Weeks.
Those few precious weeks
we shared that summer.
Remember?
I blame the weather,
hot and heady,
unusual for early May.
A profusion of bluebells had
burst forth,
as did our passion.
Their sweetness intoxicated
our senses, made us reckless, oblivious to reality.
we shared that summer.
Remember?
I blame the weather,
hot and heady,
unusual for early May.
A profusion of bluebells had
burst forth,
as did our passion.
Their sweetness intoxicated
our senses, made us reckless, oblivious to reality.
We lost track of time as we lay in bluebell woods.
Afterwards, we gathered many.
I held some to your face..
You smiled.
Those delicate blue trumpets
reflected in your grey eyes,
making them blue.
I remember you saying,
"I'll always love you"
Soon those smiling eyes
became sad.
Our weeks of passion quickly passed,
as did the bluebells.
It was over.
The parting wasn't sweet.
We were not free.
You made a choice;
it wasn't mine.
Now when I see a mass of bluebells,
I think of you.
Still feel a sadness,
for what might have been.
THAT WAS THE CAKE, THAT WAS!
This short story is basically true with a little poetic license. Written with kids in mind.
Note - sultanas and any grape products are poisonous to dogs, not sure about cats. Mine didn't eat as much of the cake as in the story and were fine.
That was the Cake, that was! (short story)
This incident happened many, many years ago. I think it was in the 1970's. In those days, I had more time on my hands than I do now!
I used to do a lot of baking then and loved making fairy cakes and chocolate crispies for my children, they used to love them and I made a rich fruit cake at least once a week.
At the time we had a feisty Jack Russell dog, called Peter and two cats called Moppet and Honda. Moppet was a pretty, fluffy little tortoiseshell cat and Honda - well, she was named after a motorbike, by my eldest daughter! The two cats were sisters and partners-in-crime as we shall discover.
On one particular day, I decided to make the biggest, richest fruit cake ever. It took a while to mix and well over an hour to bake. When it was cooked, I proudly turned it out on the cooling rack on the kitchen worktop and stood and admired it for a few seconds. Then I went off to finish some household chores.
This is what happened in my absence...
"There's a lovely smell in the kitchen" piped up Peter, the Jack Russell, who had just trotted in from the garden and was feeling decidedly peckish!
"Yes, yummy isn't it" agreed Moppet and Honda in unison.
"It smells like fruit cake" observed the little dog, "Do you two fancy some?"
"We'd love some" replied the pair, "but we shouldn't, should we?"
"A little bit won't hurt" said Peter, confidently, "but I can't get up there to get it, but you two can" he added, encouragingly.
With that, Moppet and Honda leaped up on the worktop and clawed at the cake. They had to be careful, as it was still quite hot, but the aroma was so delicious, they didn't care! They pushed an enormous lump on the floor for Peter and he gobbled it up, greedily.
"More, more!" he barked. The cats jumped, they were a bit scared of Peter, who was rather bossy and inclined to nip them sometimes. Obediently they pushed another huge chunk of fruit cake on the floor. Peter wolfed it down, almost choking in the process!
Soon all the cake was eaten and only a few crumbs remained.
"Oh, I do feel a bit sick now" wailed Peter, who had expanded enormously round his middle! The cats felt somewhat queasy too, and slunk off in their basket to sleep it off.
When I returned and saw the cake gone, I wondered who could have scoffed it all, knowing my daughters were still at school. Then I took one look at my rather rotund Jack Russell and the bloated bellies of my cats and knew who the culprits were. They were all groaning with terrible tummy-ache!
"Serves you right for being so greedy!" I shouted at them.
The moral of this little tale is; - never leave your delicious, rich fruit cake unattended, if you have pets. They are very partial to it!
The End.
At the time we had a feisty Jack Russell dog, called Peter and two cats called Moppet and Honda. Moppet was a pretty, fluffy little tortoiseshell cat and Honda - well, she was named after a motorbike, by my eldest daughter! The two cats were sisters and partners-in-crime as we shall discover.
On one particular day, I decided to make the biggest, richest fruit cake ever. It took a while to mix and well over an hour to bake. When it was cooked, I proudly turned it out on the cooling rack on the kitchen worktop and stood and admired it for a few seconds. Then I went off to finish some household chores.
This is what happened in my absence...
"There's a lovely smell in the kitchen" piped up Peter, the Jack Russell, who had just trotted in from the garden and was feeling decidedly peckish!
"Yes, yummy isn't it" agreed Moppet and Honda in unison.
"It smells like fruit cake" observed the little dog, "Do you two fancy some?"
"We'd love some" replied the pair, "but we shouldn't, should we?"
"A little bit won't hurt" said Peter, confidently, "but I can't get up there to get it, but you two can" he added, encouragingly.
With that, Moppet and Honda leaped up on the worktop and clawed at the cake. They had to be careful, as it was still quite hot, but the aroma was so delicious, they didn't care! They pushed an enormous lump on the floor for Peter and he gobbled it up, greedily.
"More, more!" he barked. The cats jumped, they were a bit scared of Peter, who was rather bossy and inclined to nip them sometimes. Obediently they pushed another huge chunk of fruit cake on the floor. Peter wolfed it down, almost choking in the process!
Soon all the cake was eaten and only a few crumbs remained.
"Oh, I do feel a bit sick now" wailed Peter, who had expanded enormously round his middle! The cats felt somewhat queasy too, and slunk off in their basket to sleep it off.
When I returned and saw the cake gone, I wondered who could have scoffed it all, knowing my daughters were still at school. Then I took one look at my rather rotund Jack Russell and the bloated bellies of my cats and knew who the culprits were. They were all groaning with terrible tummy-ache!
"Serves you right for being so greedy!" I shouted at them.
The moral of this little tale is; - never leave your delicious, rich fruit cake unattended, if you have pets. They are very partial to it!
The End.
THAT FEELING!
A little poem remembering a first love.
That delicious, tingling feeling
When first your eyes meet his.
You pretend to be aloof, so cool
But your heart is thumping so.
You're breathless, feeling faint now
And you think that he must know.
As you try to speak, words fail you
For your throat is dry and parched.
So you smile, eyes all a flutter
And hope he doesn't notice.
Then you hear his nervous mutter...
Er.. are you doing anything tonight?
That delicious, tingling feeling
When first your eyes meet his.
You pretend to be aloof, so cool
But your heart is thumping so.
You're breathless, feeling faint now
And you think that he must know.
As you try to speak, words fail you
For your throat is dry and parched.
So you smile, eyes all a flutter
And hope he doesn't notice.
Then you hear his nervous mutter...
Er.. are you doing anything tonight?
HEART IN A CAGE
Heart in a Cage.
There will always be a part of me,
that I keep locked away.
Where my desires lie dormant,
just waiting for the day...
When someone will awaken them
and set my heart aflame;
but until then I'm waiting
and life goes on the same.
Will I ever find that love,
to free this inner rage?
Or must I stay alone and sad,
my heart locked in a cage.
that I keep locked away.
Where my desires lie dormant,
just waiting for the day...
When someone will awaken them
and set my heart aflame;
but until then I'm waiting
and life goes on the same.
Will I ever find that love,
to free this inner rage?
Or must I stay alone and sad,
my heart locked in a cage.
DITTO THE DALMATIAN
Ditto the Dalmatian
Ditto, the Dalmatian
only had one spot.
He wasn't very happy
as his siblings had a lot.
His mum and dad had plenty,
his cousins did as well.
His aunt resembled chicken pox,
Though didn't itch like hell!
Ditto was so fed up,
he found a black felt pen.
He painted on enormous spots
and was well-splattered then.
Now Ditto's sporting many spots
and struts around, so vain.
Though he has to be quite careful,
when he goes out in the rain!
only had one spot.
He wasn't very happy
as his siblings had a lot.
His mum and dad had plenty,
his cousins did as well.
His aunt resembled chicken pox,
Though didn't itch like hell!
Ditto was so fed up,
he found a black felt pen.
He painted on enormous spots
and was well-splattered then.
Now Ditto's sporting many spots
and struts around, so vain.
Though he has to be quite careful,
when he goes out in the rain!
Friday, 16 March 2018
THE SUMMER HOUSE - A TRUE STORY
One day many years ago, a young boy was playing at the bottom of his grandparent’s garden. Geoffrey was ten years old, the year was 1924 and it was a glorious late summer day. He often wandered into the shady summer house to relax and get away from the glare of the sun. One day he noticed a beautiful, though quite frail young woman, lying on a hammock. She looked very relaxed and smiled across at him. Although he didn’t know her, he didn’t feel it was that strange to see her there.
When he went in he mentioned it to his grandparents, after describing the lady. They went very quiet, appeared upset, but offered no explanation as to who she was and Geoffrey did not question them, as it wasn’t the done thing in those days.
Many years later he discovered that his father’s sister, his aunt Stella had contracted tuberculosis and spent many hours, relaxing in the summer house. Fresh air was believed to be the best treatment then, before the days of penicillin. She had died in the summer house. Geoffrey had never met his aunt, or even know of her existence.
Geoffrey grew up to be a rational, intelligent man who became a journalist. He never saw another apparition or had any other occult experiences. The ghost he saw of his aunt that day was not transparent and appeared as a substantial human being. He was a shy, nervous child, but the apparition made no attempt to frighten him and he always thought of her, years later, as a “kindly ghost”
Geoffrey was my father and this little story is true and is based on a letter found in my dad's effects, written by a colleague who was investigating occult experiences.
© Ann Wilson
When he went in he mentioned it to his grandparents, after describing the lady. They went very quiet, appeared upset, but offered no explanation as to who she was and Geoffrey did not question them, as it wasn’t the done thing in those days.
Many years later he discovered that his father’s sister, his aunt Stella had contracted tuberculosis and spent many hours, relaxing in the summer house. Fresh air was believed to be the best treatment then, before the days of penicillin. She had died in the summer house. Geoffrey had never met his aunt, or even know of her existence.
Geoffrey grew up to be a rational, intelligent man who became a journalist. He never saw another apparition or had any other occult experiences. The ghost he saw of his aunt that day was not transparent and appeared as a substantial human being. He was a shy, nervous child, but the apparition made no attempt to frighten him and he always thought of her, years later, as a “kindly ghost”
Geoffrey was my father and this little story is true and is based on a letter found in my dad's effects, written by a colleague who was investigating occult experiences.
© Ann Wilson
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