Archive | May 2015

Fifth May Blog.

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Fifth May Blog. 23-5-15 ?

I would just like to point out ( bit late, I know) that in January 2015, one of my poems was published in a magazine by Rocking Horse Publishing, St. Louis, Missouri, USA.
During April, 2015, Kishboo Magazine (Online) also published one of my articles about Creative Writing.
If you get a chance, do pop in and have a read. They add to my publishing profile. I hope, later this year, to publish a romance novel, and hopefully more items.

It looks sunny outside now, though that wind is still around. When, oh when is the warm sunshine of summer in this latitude, ever going to make, not only an appearance, but stay a goodly while. I need the warmth. I need to get outside in it, bask in heat, of which I am sorely lacking. You see, I am a LEO. Leos need heat. I cannot function well in the chilly days, especially in wind that is cold. Two years ago, the early part of the year was not promising. But certainly, I remember August as being extremely hot ( my daughter was quite ill at the time, a trigger for my memory). I sat out front, trying to get some shade from the porch, it WAS THAT HOT. Last year was warm to hot, from April onwards. This year, 2015, nada!
Oh, the sun shines, sometimes. And, it even, occasionally, is bright enough. But nit the warmth of spring or early summer. The wind still blows, from a chill direction. I need that warmth to function properly. Sigh!!!

Redemption.

He lowered his head,
An audible sigh
Broke from his lips,
A heartfelt cry.
She took his face
In her supple hands,
Gently she squeezed
Like wave on the sand.
A shuddering heave,
His saddened lament,
Crushed by the sorrow,
His heart in two, rent.
Her arms then clasped him
To her womanly breast,
To salvage the sadness,
Of this once savage beast.
Sobs slowly lessened,
His own arms ensnared
Her rounded shoulders,
His torment now bared.
Would she be happy
To be by his side?
His secret now open,
A rolling stone ride.
Her kiss was as gentle
As a surge on the shore,
He ventured his, back,
He’d be lonely no more.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. May, 2015.

Short one this time, dear people. Take care out there today, and every day.

Evelyn

This entry was posted on May 28, 2015. 2 Comments

Thanks to Jenowenby.

he lowered his head
she hung her head
he ducked
she bowed her head
he covered his eyes with a hand
she pressed her hands to her cheeks

she raised her chin
he lifted his chin

her hands squeezed into fists
his hands tightened into fists
she clenched her fists
she balled her fists
he unclenched his fists
her arms remained at her sides

he shrugged
she gave a half shrug
he lifted his shoulder in a half shrug
she gave a dismissive wave of her hand

she raised a hand in greeting
he waved

she held up her hands
he lifted his hands
she held up her palms
he threw his hands in the air
she brushed her palms together
he rubbed his hands together
she made a steeple of her fingers
he spread his hands
she gesticulated
he waved his hands
she clapped her hands
he snapped his fingers
she held up a finger
he pointed
she gestured with a thumb
he jerked his thumb toward…
she extended her middle finger toward him
he gave her the finger
she gave him the thumbs up

she put her hands on her hips
she shoved her hands in her pockets
he jammed his hands in his front pockets
she rested a hand on her hip
she jutted out her hip

she folded her arms
he crossed his arms over his chest
she hugged herself
he wrapped his arms around himself
she rocked back and forth

she spread her arms wide
he held out his arms
she held out her hand
he extended a hand

he shook his head
she nodded
he bobbed his head
she tilted her head
he cocked his head
she inclined her head
he jerked her head in the direction of…
she turned her face away
he looked away

his breaths quickened
she panted
she was breathing hard
his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths
she took in a deep breath
he drew in a long breath
she took in a sharp breath
he gasped
she held her breath
he let out a harsh breath
she exhaled
he blew out his cheeks
she huffed
he sighed
she snorted

she laughed
he giggled
she guffawed
he chuckled
she gave a bitter laugh
he gave mirthless laugh
she tittered
he cackled

she rubbed her shoulder
he kneaded his shoulder
he rolled his shoulders
she tensed her shoulders
he massaged the back of his neck
she rubbed her temples
she rubbed her hands on her thighs

she ran her hand through her hair
he threaded a hand through his hair
he raked his fingers through his hair
he shoved his hair back away from his face
she toyed with a lock of hair
she played with her hair
she twirled her hair
she wrapped a curl around her finger
she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear
she undid her ponytail and shook out her hair
she tossed her hair
he buried his hands in his hair
he stroked his beard
he scratched his beard

she tugged at her earlobe
he bit a nail
she chewed on a cuticle
she picked at her nails
she inspected her fingernails
he plucked at the cuff of his shirt
she picked a piece of lint from her sleeve
he adjusted the lapels of his jacket
she fiddled with her earring / bracelet
he twisted the wedding ring on his finger
she played with her cell phone
he tugged at his shirt collar
he adjusted his tie
she smoothed down her skirt

she scratched her nose
he scratched his head
he rubbed his forehead
she rubbed her eyes
she pinched the bridge of her nose
he held his nose

she slapped her forehead
he smacked his forehead
he facepalmed
he slapped a hand over her mouth
she covered her mouth with her hand
she pressed her fingers to her lips
he held his finger up to his lips
he rubbed his chin

she pressed a hand to her throat
he clutched his chest
he leaned against the wall
she bounced on her toes
she jumped up and down
he tapped his foot
she stomped her foot

she folded her hands in her lap
she drummed her fingers on the table
he tapped his fingers on the table
he slammed his hand on the table
she pounded her fist on the table
she set her palms down flat on the table
he rested his hands on the table
she set her hands on the table, palms up
he leaned back in his chair
she hooked her feet around the chair legs
he gripped the arm of the chair
she put her hands behind her head
he put his feet on the desk
he fidgeted
she jiggled her foot
he swung his leg
she crossed her legs
he uncrossed his legs
she crossed her ankles in front of her
she stretched out her legs in front of her
he sprawled out
he put his feet on the desk

she cringed
he shuddered
she flinched
he shivered
she trembled
his body shook
she cowered
he shrank from…
she huddled in the corner

he pulled away
she jerked away
he turned away
she jolted upright
he stiffened
she straightened
he tensed
he jumped
she jumped to her feet
he stood up
she rose from her seat

she relaxed
he hunched
she slouched
her shoulders sagged
his shoulders slumped
she wilted
he went limp
he rolled his shoulders
she squared her shoulders

she clasped her hands behind her back
he puffed out his chest
she thrust out her chest

he propped his chin on his hand
she rested her chin on her palm
he yawned
she stretched

he turned around
she whirled around
he pivoted
she reeled

she stepped away
she drew nearer
he leaned closer
she inched forward
he loomed closer
he paced
she shifted from one foot to the other
he swayed on his feet
she dragged her feet

she pumped a fist
he thrust his fists in the air
she punched the air

This entry was posted on May 20, 2015. 2 Comments

Reblog!

Somewhere. – I A poem

The lane is a highway to somewhere.
The street is a place no one cares.
The avenue is out of the running,
Though I could run, ’til I’m scared.

The lane sounds cosy and greening.
The street is all dirty and grey.
Trees make the avenue leafy,
From morn’ to the end of the day.

A pathway can be so inviting,
With people to pass by your side.
The Dell is a sleepytime hollow,
Where Will O’ The (Sweet ) Wisps abide.

A fairy ring, that’s what I’m after,
With wishes to choose where you will.
If only my journey was easy,
Not a dream nap on my windowsill.

At least, then, I’d control the roadway,
The lane where I wanted to be,
I would not be stuck in tomorrowland,
As the dream of my heart fades from me.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. September, 2014

Fourth May Blog

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Fourth May Blog. 18-5-15

Starting this blog with another of my story snippets. It has no title, as yet, if at all.

“When is it going to stop?”
“When is what dear?”
“This wind. I hate the wind. Especially at this time of year”
Martha glanced out as she passed by the kitchen window. Yes, it was still blowing out there, but at least the sun was shining. That had to be a good thing, right? Warmer, at the very least.
“Does it always blow this hard and for this long? I mean, when will summer actually start in these parts? Chilly! I get frozen to my marrow, so high up.” Sandra pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Her mother poured a cup of coffee and set it down in front of her daughter.
‘My dear, have you forgotten so soon? Three years ago, you said you loved it here.” Martha brought her own cup over to the table, sitting down opposite Sandra. Staring at that face, so well known to her and yet, she hardly knew her at all these days. Lines had developed. A grey pallor showed on her once fresh pink face. These changes worried Martha. Her daughter had suffered at his hands, taken her away from a loving home to obscurity, poverty, a strange environment. Now finally, a messy divorce. Concern filled her.
“I wish you could have stayed at the old home,” Sandra sighed. “I loved that place. Loved the town. All the nice people. Oh mum, if only I had realised then. I would never have married him. Would never have left you and dad.” Teardrops welled from her eyes, ran down her greying cheeks. She was unable to mop such a flood.
Martha could barely refrain from crying herself, but knew that crying solved nothing, other than to absolve from guilt the pain of the crier. When blood flowed, did it not cleanse a cut, a tear, a poisonous intrusion: so too tears flow, cleansing the eyes, clearing the mind, rejunenating and regrowing the parts that have been damaged. A liquid bandage for the soul.
Reaching out, she took Sandra’s hand, it was ice-cold. Hers was warm, enfolding, heart-warming and she clasped hard, with such strength as to overpower the demon besetting her daughter. “it will pass.” She spoke softly, like a balm: a calm breeze to dry the tears, a sweet embrace that only a mother can give.
Sandra now fussed for a tissue. “Did you feel this bad when dad went?” She asked, as if asking gave meaning to his going.
“Not in the same way!” A stray tuck at the corners of her mouth, not quite a smile, for that, it did not rate. But a faint yearning, a wisp of something what would never again be. “I knew he was gone forever; knew that what we had was as much as I was ever going to get.”
“I thought you told me Jack Santini asked you to dinner?”
“He did, dear.”
“Did you go?”
“No! I thought I told you.”
“You may have done. Really mum, my head hasn’t been on the right way since Gill and I broke up. Why not?”
Martha sighed. “It was just too soon. Your dad and me, we had a great marriage. Losing him was like losing a part of myself. The best part.” She put her hand up to forestall her daughter’s next question. “I told Jack that it would be a very long time before I went out with another man. Jack did not wait very long after that before he met a woman on his trip East. My friend Emily rings me from time to time with local gossip. She is half his age, brassy blond, name of Marina Federland I am reliably informed. Though now she goes under the name of Marina Santini. Not sure if they actually got married, or not.”
“You lost out there then?” Sandra was now under contol again, a soggy tissue clasped in her other hand.
Martha saw it, let go of th hand she was holding, grasped the tissue and got up to bin it, taking both cups back with her to the coffee maker. “Want another?” she enquired.

———————-

Sometimes writing is a series of short sharp pieces. Best to set them down, see if they like being aired. There may be nothing to them, in the end. But they do fill vacant spaces and can be available at some future point in time where I might want to ‘take up the cudgels’ as it were. Utelize them in a piece more meaningful than just ‘ a piece of work’.

Have a great day, everyone.

Evelyn

This entry was posted on May 18, 2015. 4 Comments

Third May Blog

Swan and signets ( all 8 of them) under mum's feathers.

Swn and signets ( all 8 of them) under mum’s feathers.

Third May Blog. 16-5-15.

The photograph of swan and signets at dusk, was taken by The River Thames, at Maidenhead , Berkshire, England, by my nephew Russel Steward. Thank you for the permission to use.

Feather Down.

Oh, mother dear, you protect us
Within the oncoming night.
Your white wing feathers cover us,
Until we see the dawn light.

Save us from foxes or weasels,
Or rats that swim in the pond,
For they are harbingers of sorrow
For mother swans and their brood.

Yet she will protect and deliver
Our bodies, from harm, near and far.
She teaches us how to grow older,
So we can fly up to the stars.

Our father will seek out a nest site
For mother to safely rear
A gaggle of signets, this summer,
So that we will be full swans, next year.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. May, 2015.

All swans here belong to the Queen. An old tradition. Later this sumner, special men will go out on the waters of the River Thames, catch the halfgrown signets in a ceremony called Swan Upping. These men have uniforms, depending which group they belong to, and ‘ring’ the youngsters. I am not certain, but I think they use flat-bottomed punts to get the job done.

We in England do have some old-fashioned quirky ways. If you think about it, some of our ancient dances and dancers are a bit on the quirky side too. Like Morris Dancers, with bells tied around their legs and ankles, ribbons across chests, sticks they clack together. Often, a dancer is ‘the horse’ which has a circular ‘skirt’ and is somewhat threatening, all in fun, of course.
Then there is clog dancing, kept alive, even today in various parts of the country. Of course, we do not miss out Wassailing, near the end of the year or on New Years Eve, where people gather in old orchards, drink cider, dip bread into the cider and then hang the bread on the oldest tree. The remains of the cider is tipped over the roots to ensure a good harvest the following year. Who knows, it may do some good?

I am sure that in various parts of our country, traditions have been kept alive through the centuries, or revived, possibly some have come down from cultures that invaded us, bringing their traditions with them. Some of our own traditions may be much, much older. ‘Tis said that our islands were once joined to the European mainland, where the North Sea now resides. It is certain that fishing vessels often trawl up dinosaur bones in their nets. Most dinosaurs lived on land!!! Ergo, there was once a vast trek of land between England/Scotland and what is now France/Germany/ The Netherlands etc.

i did see a t.v. programme couple or so years ago which says that a tsunami was the problem up around Scandinavia, possibly originating from what we now know as the USA, causing tidal waves to sweep out into the Atlantic and around the lower regions of this piece of land, becoming what w know as The North Sea, cutting off the Europen mainland and ending in the English Channel, so making of us, islands. I am not pisitive is this is what really happened, millennia ago, only passing on information I took in about the programme. Dredging up dinosaur bones is not proof. The oceanic tides ebb and flow, move proverbial mountains. But the conclusions by the scientists seem to have a good base for deduction, wouldn’t you think?

To end this blog, and give the founder of the photograph some proper recognition, I shall try to write about the swan that swims in rivers and lakes in these islands, the Mute Swan.

White Heavyweight.

The Mute Swan swims in our rivers,
She and her mate, in the streams.
Lakeland will find them serenely, stately,
Paddling the canals, and in dreams.

The white swan of Europe is pristine,
In Australia, her feathers are black.
Is this Antipodean heritage,
A ‘sport’, or an English throwback?

Black feathered beaks are a red hue,
Whilst our Mutes are an orangey sheen,
With black knobs on top of their beaks,
The Cobb’s one is larger than the Penn’s.

A pair find each other when younger
And mating for life, seems their way.
Year after year they breed signets
All grey, ’till they moult, move away.

The old pair they build up the nesting,
Where winter has ravaged the fronds,
To mate and lay eggs in the springtime,
On rivers, canal edge and ponds.

A few little signets then follow,
So cute in their dullish grey garb,
Little webbed feet go a’paddling,
Midst minnows, and frogspawn and carp.

Soon in amongst the tall rushes,
Like Anderson’s childrens’ tale,
Their feathers grow out like their parents,
All gleaming white, far they sail.

For signets, as said in the trilling,
Are ugly, ’til one day comes by,
Their grey down moults, superceded
By glistening white feathers to fly.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. May, 2015.

Just a bit of whimsy, folks. Be careful out there today.

Evelyn.

This entry was posted on May 16, 2015. 4 Comments