Humbug

In Memorium Of My Pal Ginger.

So farewell then, old Ginger tomcat,

No more warm hours, on the lawn sat,

No more lady cats to woo, or to strut for,

Purring for human's pleasure, no more.

On top of the kitchen fire I'll think of you,

Sleeping away your days, just as cats do.

Patiently waiting for food, down there in the corner,

I remember you, and feel like a mourner.

There was no malice in your heart,

As you simply played a part,

As resident "Lord of the Manor".

Would you want us to stake out a banner

In your name, to remember your grace,

I think not Ginger, with your ginger face.

How Old Were You Ginger ?

How old were you mate ?

We never knew as you didn't say,

I saw you once by the old field gate,

Slipping timidly out of the hay.

You appeared one winter some years ago,

Eating bread put out for the birds,

Starving and thin, out cold in the snow,

Not responding to our human words.

You gave us your trust that year,

In exchange for a home to live in,

With your ragged and flea bitten ear,

And a past, p'raps steeped in sin.

When you purred, you meant it,

You were quiet and warm,

In our home you simply fit,

Safe and free from harm.

Fare thee well, old Ginger mate,

I think of you, by the old field gate,

In the sun, not in the snow,

But you said, you had to go.

Well, another hiatus, and yet here we are again....2019 to boot.

Happy New Year, onwards and up.

Another few catch-ups to do yet, well, I say that, still 229 "old ones" excluding these....I so thought I was closer, and wish I'd made more effort now, but this last couple of years have been "interesting" as far as my recent life goes, and the muse has been, gone, come back for a party, then left, then texted a few times...you know how it can be. I know she'll revisit, with a fire of creativity to spur me on, while I still, after all the last attempts crashed, want to try to make my photos accessible, and sellable....but I am chaos incarnate most of the time, so don't hold your breath.

Currently I have 33,700 photos in 731 folders on my back-up drive alone......it's not bragging, as I lost over 10,000 when one of my old pcs died a few years ago. I try my best to manage and organise them, but sometimes think that it might be a good idea to start a whole new structural method off to make them more accessible. I mean, for example, it took me nearly 20 minutes to find the cat in the top picture, even though I knew it was this year.....couldn't find it in "Home" or "Cats" or any of the last two years "Holme Valley" or "Arty for the sake of it" etc...... and yet, after refreshing the last folder, 936 pictures, there it suddenly was.....

Frustrating!

I will just toddle on and try to get some good pictures in the future, and hope I know how to find them if ever I need to....

 

 

Gone

Nothing, void, chasm of soundless, stillness,

The space between the top of the glass, and the wine,

Or beer,

Or scotch.

The sound that's left when the echo dies,

The light that remains when the switch is off,

When the candles out.

When the thinker dies,

The hole in my head,

My heart,

My life.

The usefulness of the womb, newly delivered,

The empty matchbox when the fires to light,

The fag packet,

Used sellotape,

Old batteries,

Lightbulbs.

Less use than the really vacant space in a thermos lining,

Dry stream bed,

Dead trees next to a dead river,

Ash,

A broken walking stick,

Flat tyre.

Sometime unrequited, like a mindless slave,

To a freedom that has no meaning,

To a meaning that has no freedom.

A melted ice-cream sentiment.

Where we used to sit and laugh,

And love, and laugh, and love.

A chasm that no one can illuminate.

Green Man.

Turning to the hollow mood,

The shaded home of old green men,

Finding solace in a mound of food,

Or in the dancing foxes' den.

Breathing through the hollow reed,

The shaded call of the old green man,

Emotions truly from the air bleed,

Part of the Architect's plan.

But the old green man sleeps,

Cool, shady pools of sad foundation,

Deep in roots below where the willow weeps,

The Lady's nymphs attend his station.

How To Think.

Refresher course in "How to Think"

Not sublime, or restrict by drink,

Or draughts of drugs, and thoughts unstable.

Simply grab it all while you are able,

Before your number is called up,

And the vision of the golden cup,

Or black holes in flying dreams,

Streams of doubt and willing queens.

Never to feel what your position is,

Is not to drown in streams of piss.

Or slap my back 'cause I'm doing fine,

When unstable on old corked red wine,

With dregs of vodka and snorts of speed,

Never just agree that's what I need.

Still, parts of my brain remain inactive,

Not like once before, the church of "Saint Tiff"

(Where are you now ? You tired plaintiff.)

No longer will we carry on,

Simply stop, and jump,

Or

Whatever.

 

No crock of gold

No saints or angels

Just a small doorway

From the rainbows end

To the playground

Of the peripheral man.

 

Sunday Morning

Rebelling, you rend me

And wind me

Like a top.

Admiration turns to admonition

No remedial revolution.

Just a warm space in bed

From your recline

And fall.

While I know there's always been "graffiti", I was once young enough to be able to actually read and understand what it said and meant.....

Sheesh, the kids today.....

Harroumph.

One more maybe:

 

The Idea Man.

Open your doors

Throw open your minds

Hark to the call,

Roll up the blinds.

For the idea man is here in town

Children gaily dance around

Old men walk straight and hum an air

Young girls only stand and stare.

He's not a daemon, nor a charm

Ideas he spawns may do you harm

Dreams he gives you may make you king

Or maybe they won't change a thing.

Sombre dressed with hazel eyes

Has he told you truth or lies ?

Did he accept the offered drink ?

Has he made you stop and think ?

Share a moment with this man

He'll wind your brain up if he can

Until the coil spring nearly breaks

Or at least until your head it aches.

All a bit random? Hmm, what did you expect? Sense??

Soon kids, soon.