Rhymes or Reason

Fynns Frixday Funplace

 

So, Frixday today! Whatever that means?

Anyway, I was watching the pigeons and the squirrel out of my back window earlier and thought I'd put together some random thoughts. They're below in the form of two poems, one about a pigeon and one about the squirrel

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Mrs Pigeon

Swooping wings that beat the wind
black grey white in sequence shows
the pigeon lands on pointed toes
and pecks at morsels in the grass
she lifts her head to watch the skies
her eyes see us move in slow motion
three hundred frames a second
they reckon
with such a fast eyeball refresh rate
very little can surprise her
as she casts her gaze around
to seek out seeds lain on the ground

but when she spots a threat she flies
back up to where she feels quite safe
away from food and danger where
she could be caught by others who
would make of her their dinner too
she once again escapes to live
another winter's day to give
her squabs back waiting in the nest
both food and warmth, and blessed rest

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Mr Squirrel

Scramble down the fir tree bole
skip across the leaden ground
his tail marks out his movements as
he bounds toward the feeding table
birds already there will tremble
seeing him approach they quickly
rise to leave him earthen bound

but he cares not he's here to rummage
in among the bird seed roughage
seeking out the peanut halves
that form a part of wild bird food
bought that morning from the shop
that sells both sustenance for birds
and cats alike as though they could
live cheek by jowl without a hitch

it's on the shelf next to the bitch's
feeding vitamins for breeding
strong and healthy hounds to hunt
both birds and squirrels in the wild
yet when at home they are so mild
and docile at their owner's knees
they live to serve and thus to please
the one who feeds them
gives them shelter

meanwhile Mr Squirrel's after
cracking nuts with some to bury
digging holes in such a hurry
storing food for later days
when weather stops his constant forays
so inside his nest he sleeps
his thick grey fur so warm it keeps
him through the heartless Winter nights
that drain away both heat and life
from hibernating wild creatures
not that squirrels hibernate
but would if timely chance arose
the nesting entry holes to close
and then in comfort for good reason
sleep away the coldest season

Winter's cold we see so cruel
to nature's children in the wild
like squirrels and pigeons
doves and rats
magpies fighting on the grass
as they all congregate out there
in my garden as they share
the bounty of the food I've scattered
on the concrete tiles all splattered
with the grains and peanuts all
to help them stay alive until
the Spring once more can warm their bones
and they again can procreate
to keep the population stable
customers for my bird table
as I watch them from the window
put on the daily morning show

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So there you go! Weekend tomorrow. What will the winds of inspiration blow out of my nose and onto the page I wonder?

 

I discovered today something called a Villanelle, which is a particular form of poem. I never knew that poems had structure as well as meter and rhyme, although I guess I should as I've known about Limericks since I was a kid, and that's a particular poetic form. Anyway, I thought I'd have a go at writing one. I didn't manage to keep within the strict structure, but I got fairly close.

See what you think.

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Not quite a Villanelle

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Dark clouds sweep across the blue
distant shadow marks the line
horizon splits the world in two

rippling surface marks rendezvous
stark shape rises to break the sky
grey sides climb above the blue

no well known outline does it rise to
sharp edged hump back reaching high
that takes on almost a misty hue

but closer in the sea breaks into
sand bars along the beach nearby
marine life now must discontinue

the watcher waits his heart is true
scans the ocean spray that flies
looking for the surfer's flue

the pipe that's formed by white horse skews
that break around the quick who try
to scuttle through the glass walled tube
and slide once more into the blue

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So that was Saturday, what will Sunday bring us I wonder? Hmmmm!

 

LOVE IT. XXX

 

Candy Gal,

I've just changed the last but one line as I think it reads and sounds better. So take another look.

 

Yes that is better. xxx

 

Early one today. It's a bit of a rant against the unwritten 'rules' that have been handed down by those who are 'in the know' regarding what people read or not. So for instance, moving POV from one character to another within the same scene is frowned upon, and seized upon by 'peers' in forums who critique other's works.

I've recently read some pretty scathing stuff written by someone who went to town in criticising the idea that during a particularly dramatic scene in a story, the writer had the audacity to shift the focus from one participant to another, in order to show the impact the words/actions of the first character protrayed, upon the other. According to the reviewer/critic, this causes the reader to disengage with the characters and thus prevents them from being able to engage on an empathetic level. In other words, the characters are then seen from the outside instead of the inside, and this destroys the illusion of participation by the reader.

Personally I find this kind of hair-splitting all a load of pretentious bollocks.

I have no problem with the idea that within any particular interaction between individuals, we (the reader) can suspend our belief in the illusion of our participation as one characters, and see from within what the other characters are thinking/feeling, before switching back to the original protagonist. As such I think that people who shout such a method down are those who are themselves unable to read anything without trying to immerse themselves within one particular character, and they make no allowance whatsoever for others who have the ability to jump from one character's head ot another without spoiling the illusion.

I think that it may have something to do with the way television and film now portrays people within the action of a story. We see one person speaking dramatic words, such as, "I'll kill you if you ever speak to her again!" and then switch from another camera angle to see the impact this has on the person who was spoken to, as well as other camera shots showing the reactions of other witnesses to the threat. So we infer from the different camera shots the emotions and motivations of the various participants, but without the internal dialogue that the written idiom can give us. However, jumping from one person's view to another's doesn't spoil the scene, or alienate us from the characters, instead it mirrors our own life experiences of aggression, anger, dread, hate, fear, and love, as we understand them in any form of social interaction. We can never see inside the minds of the people around us, except as the expressions on their faces and the clues displayed in their body language, so we have to infer a great deal from the external, and this is where the written word can cut deeply into all the people involved, exposing their innermost thoughts and feelings.

So I think that being able to head-hop is not something that is alien or jarring. I think it comes naturally to most people, and particularly the younger generation who have been brought up on visual media, and therefore understand the language of camera shot sequencing. They get the drama implicitly without having to have every thing spelt out for them in words of one syllable, but are able to make the mental leap from one character to another by the subtle use of the two second camera shot. Thus they don't need to be spoon fed the subtlety of a raised eyebrow, a slight nod of the head, a turning away, an arm crossed or a body twisted, to understand the depth of feeling behind those reactions.

Anyway, rant over. Here's the poem.

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The rules of writing

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The rules of writing I've been told
are sacrosanct, or holy orders
like point of view that must be seen
from just two eyes and nothing more
so voicing different views is frowned on
if done in just one scene or chapter
characters must all exist
in perfect vacuum never mixed
or so we're told the phantom reader
won't connect with any either
they'll just walk on by the shelf
and you'll be writing for yourself

but no-one's ever born an expert
we all learn what works for us
degrees were first granted by students
who never held degrees themselves
but they were self-taught daring chancers
seeking out the perfect forms
to pass along to other searchers
ardent in their need to learn
and study forms of written prose
in order to advance their cause
to reach the wider public mindset
hoping for to be the chosen
wanting fame and fortune for
the kudos of the best sold novel
flying from the shelves in store

so rules have grown to help the novice
writing stories sat at home
who pour their lives into the text
that they hope will provide an income
as they curb their very freedom
given up to gain more sales
I worry that their greatest efforts
all amount to naught but fails

for all they do is stoke the embers
keeping book sale lists alive
and money into private members
pockets while they sweat and strive
to foresee trends and fashion twists
that leave their writings in the cold
to slush around in piles that fill the
agents bins and never sold

until a story comes along that's
told by someone with the gift
of writing prose that bends the rules
yet gives the reader's heart a lift
the story of the perfect hero
battling the perfect foes
and they pull in the reading public
takes and leads them by the nose
the story that becomes an epic
tale of good that defeats evil
told in glowing terms and prose
till in the end the hero wins
and we at last the book can close

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Monday tomorrow. New week for workers, just another day for me. Ho Hum!

 

Oh, I see.

Lovely poem.
Tomorrow is Moonday. xxx

 

Not my best work this evening, and late as well, but there were lots of interesting things on the box, and they were a strong distraction.

Anyway, here it is.

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The weary traveller rests his head
upon the feather pillow
that lays upon the oaken bed
with base slats made of willow
the palliasse stuffed with fine straw
upon which lays a blanket
that warms his aching bones that fall
and soon refresh his spirit

he sleeps so deeply in his dreams
he brooks no interference
but slumbers on in worlds unseen
to wake he is reluctant
but wake he must when dawn arrives
and raise his sluggish body
to join the world though half alive
and swallow down strong coffee

then pack and leave, continue on
his voyage of discovery
his journey leads him hither and yon
to aid his soul's recovery
his search for cures for all his ills
will take his life's duration
as over each new scheme he pores
that promises redemption

but he is pessimistic as
he reads through guru's brochures
it's hard to give in to such claims
as those that promise closure
and so he journeys on each day
to find his absolution
and all his primal fears allay
while he seeks a solution

for time is of the essence now
as days and years pass on
into the past they slowly ease
yet leave no great impression
on this poor searcher's troubled ego
as he casts about
he needs to find
what hides behind
every whispered shout
that worms its way into his head
a shrewd form of persuasion
to bring deliverance about
and end his speculation

his search has taken many years
yet still he casts about
to find the fountain that provides
the truth that he has sought
and when his journey terminates
he'll know he's found the source
a panacea for all time
an infinite resource

to keep him healthy till he dies
an old contented man
but till then he'll relax and try
to live as happily as he can

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Let's hope I can concentrate a little better tomorrow.

 

I think it is brilliant. X

 

Now for today's little ditty. I wrote it earlier, but we lost our broadband for a while due to problems at Virgin. However, it's back now, so here's the poem.

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Sharp eyes watch the desperate flight
the hare's claws snatch at speeding grass
the hound is close she hears his breath
but waits

the hound now ready's long thin jaws
white teeth shine in daylight's glare
the hare begins her flying turn
she tumbles over just as teeth would
bite and shoots through hunters legs
and quickly bounds the other way

the hound now finds he cannot stop
he dips his head between his legs
somersaults among the corn stalks
rises to resume the chase
but she's gone

she's left him nothing
no scent to trace
for as she galloped back along
the path she and the hound had trodden
there was no trail for him to follow
nothing to betray her now
no track for him to fasten on

the watcher waits on rising currents
tracks the hare back to her nest
and as she settles down to rest
he looks for leverets to pounce on
tender food
for his own brood
that wait in straw built tree borne eyrie

nourishment for growing chicks
that need the protein for their future
baby prey they can digest
and build their bones, their wings to lengthen
strengthening their flying feathers
as they each strive hard to fledge
until they can just fly the nest
independent birds at last

so nature keeps a finite balance
pitting speed and subtle skill
against the bigger beasts that kill
to keep their own offspring alive
yet let the preyed on species thrive
among the crops that grow each summer
filling baby tummies full

and parents breeding litters that
will grow to adults
then to spread out
o'er the fields and meadows all
and heed the siren nature's call
to breed more children
some will fall
but most will live and keep alive
their species' desire to survive

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Wednesday tomorrow. Full of woe, for some according to the old rhyme.

 

Well, here it is, Wednesday once again, and it's been one of woe for us as our cable box died. Never mind, we've got a spare so we can still watch the things we want to see.

Anyway, here's today's pome.

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Tall living towers reach for the sky
broad trunks sway in the mighty wind
the leaves shrill loudly in the ear
as branches creak to frequent gusts
the cold wind blows and leaves are torn
they fly away from mother tree
to ride the wind to who knows where
and land where no-one close can see

the storm brings rain to lash the bark
the sound of hollow drumming follows
branches bend to ease the strain
as living leaves wave their lost brothers
farewell as they shrink away
to distant fields where youngsters play

leaves rise and fall as tossed about
they move along in storm fuelled air
where none reside but travel far
for nothing sleeps when on the wing
and none but wing'ed beasts move there

and they can't stay but only glide and
with given grace traverse the heavens
searching ever from above
to find a restful place to roost

for this is nature's chosen way
to spread both fruits and compost using
wind and rain and birdlife too
as garden husbands of her choosing

they spread and cover many acres
scatt'ring food to all they've found
so earth bound plants may grow and prosper
as the leaves sink to the ground
to rot into a crumbling compost
feeding roots when rain seeps in
to nourish crops that feed the species
who rely on earth's own bounty
field to field from town and county
mother nature feeds us all
and only asks the leaves to fall

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Thrustday tomorrow!! Whatever next?

 

I read everyone you post.
You almost have enough for that book. X

 

Today's poem is a little different from most. It has a title, it's called 'Arguments, Arguments!'

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Arguments, Arguments

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There are two of us inside of here

(said the voice unto the other)

Yes but that's always how it's been
for everyone you've ever seen
inside them all there are two voices
arguing over every bean
and every slice of bread we eat

Well I don't know, I think it's neat

Exactly what I knew you'd say

Of course it is, but then, I'm hungry

Don't tell me about your hunger
it's coz of you that we're hungover

No it's not you prudish thing
just because we like to sing
and drink to help us while we do it

There you go again, you blew it

Well perhaps a bit we could've ...

Could've? Just because you could
don't mean you should've

Now don't get shirty with me old mucca

I'll berate as I want you bugger
it's coz of you we can't see proper
and our head's like hollow copper
ringing like a big church bell
to every sound however small

Well p'raps you're right you know
the echoes here inside this skull
the pounding of the blood in ears
just make me wish I couldn't hear

Well serves you right you should've learned
that things we enjoy must be earned
if we don't want to suffer like this

What, you mean the consequences?

Course I do now shut up will you?
I need some rest b'fore I continue
coz I've got lots of work to do
and I need to concentrate

My lips are sealed there me old cell mate

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Frixday tomorrow, but Friday's child is loving and giving, so perhaps I'll do something with a little more honey than lemon. See you then!

 

I am a Friday's child. lol

 

Roses are red violets are black. Why is your chest as flat as your back?

 

Frixday, and a cold one, but clear, with a bright full moon. A Hunter's Moon, or so they say, and that's the title of today's ode.

Hunter's Moon

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The whisps of mist clear slowly
the pale moon rises in the clear night sky
above the sharp bright stars eclipsed
below the land shines silver grey

and all around the movements
tiny movements of the night
as creatures wake to feel the cold
and sniff the passing breeze

as they emerge to search for food
to keep them warm and fill
their empty stomach's constant need
their angry tums that growl

as up above the watching owl
peers down into the shadows black
in hopes of finding easy prey
it's how he lives his life at night
so he can roost throughout the day

but winter comes and now the creatures
line their nests, prepare to hide
their young have weaned and now they've left
there's much more room to stretch inside

but up above the owl sits waiting
eyes like searchlights seeking out
small movements, just a quiet rustling
where tiny bodies gadabout

will the dark and cunning owl
swoop this moment or will he wait
silently he takes to wing
and circles ever lower
as he stalks his unsuspecting prey

finally he strikes
his claws clamp down on small and helpless
creature as it screams in fright
then quickly kills with beak and talons
before he eats then takes his flight

another nest lies empty now
no small but busy resident
to keep it warm and fully filled
with life and promise as life's meant

for even small and silent creatures
still feel love for their own young
though we can never know how much
they feed and nourish each new litter
still they live
and strive to give
their offspring everything they can

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Sorry it's a bit morbid, but the Hunter's Moon inspired the tale. Till tomorrow then.

 

It is brilliant as always xxxx

 

Another bright and clear night outside, with an almost full moon dominating the night sky. We had a busy one today up at the airfield, with a couple of microlights dropping in on their way to deliver one of them from Basingstoke to a field called Rayne on the other side of Stansted. The aircraft being delivered was open cockpit and the pilot got mighty cold, so they stopped for a rest and to warm up a bit before carrying on. I was hoping they'd drop in again on their way back in the one remaining plane, but I guess they took advantage of the fairly strong following wind to do the return trip in one go. In homage to their epic flight I've written today's poem, it's called "Magnificent Men ..."

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Magnificent Men ...

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Aching legs and aching back
it's been a busy day again
things to do and those to see
visitors from out the sky

a pair of Thrusters (microlights)
dropped in to see us on their way
from Basingstoke to Stansted
to deliver one to Joan and Ginge
sitting at their field near Rayne

so they flew there and back again
first to drop off one neat Thruster
then to fly back to the South West
home to their own airfield base

let's hope they made it without problems
with a tail wind going home
they surely made it speeding knots
slide by as they head to their aerodrome

through Simpsons sky as I'd describe it
clear blue sky with fluffy clouds
in streets of candy floss across
the heavens is what they resemble

looks as though when they're assembled
they'll turn into one great cloud
of white that sits in vaulted heavens
filling the pale blue void above

the sort of sky I'd really love
to fly around when we're allowed
with hawk and lark and snow white dove
up there the open skies to plough

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What will the day bring tomorrow? Let's hope it's as interesting as today was.

 

"Searching in a hopeless cause - amidst the melee of such noise,
Longing for, - to find way - to make quiet, peaceful day,
But there seems no end to this, - and I will will not find inner bliss,
Still, I'll continue, and play my part - to overcome, with strength and heart"