Beach time with Nino

I'm going to try my best to write here at least once a week, so here goes. I took Nino to watch the Starlings last week and he was more interested in collecting shells. I parked the car on a side street and we got the tram to North pier. The conductress gave Nino his own ticket in a little folder which was so nice of her (he also got one on the way back  minus the folder) 

It was a lovely, mild evening but the sun had disappeared once we got there. We still enjoyed ourselves though. I love this time of year when there are almost no holidaymakers. I'm very grateful that people still like to visit Blackpool, but I do love the peace and quiet and having the beach almost to ourselves. Nino had fun collecting shells while I watched the starlings. They're really starting to build up now. More and more of them are coming in to roost. By the end of February there will be thousands of them, then by March they'll disappear again until about October. I took a few photos and a couple of videos of the evening.

I spent a lovely half an hour holding Alana just before taking Nino to the beach. She gave me the most beautiful smile. How did I get so lucky to have two such gorgeous Grandchildren when I thought I'd never have any? Love them both so much ♥

Today I crocheted Alana a little hat with some left over wool. I can't wait to see her in it. 

Whilst sorting through my boxes in the loft I came across a few poems that I wrote years ago. They're not brilliant, but I'm writing them all in a book to leave to my Grandchildren. I like to think they'll read them one day in the distant future and think of me :) I did have one published about 20 years ago in a book titled Out of This Word. It's called Son and it was about my brother's adoption. It was part fact/part fiction and I got top marks for it when I entered it for my English GCSE in later life..

'Till next time :) 

Poem to mum from my Aunt

This is a poem my mum's sister wrote to her recently, about their father Jack Hughes, who was a Gamekeeper to Sir Henry Tate (of Tate and Lyle sugar)

Jack Hughes loved his job, it was his life.
Out in all weathers. Snow, Rain, Wind, Frost.
He never tired of it. Not like Hannah his poor wife.
He knew every path, every ride, he never got lost.
His favourite time was Spring when his leafy Haven changed.
Magic carpets of Bluebells and Primroses pushed through the Earth, together.
Each clearing and dell colourfully rearranged.
Proving to all. Nature will carry on whatever.
Jack always said, of all the wild crops he protected from townies intent to steal.
Were his secret places of hidden Snowdrops. That to no man would he ever reveal.

No not even to us!

By Jacky Flavell nee Hughes

A New Day

I wrote this poem a long time ago as part of an English GCSE I did at college. I didn't actually enter it as I wrote another, so I don't really know whether it's good or not. Here it is in it's original form and translated into Italian...

A New Day

The moon looks on with sleepy eyes,
As the sun begins to rise.

Stars still visible to the naked eye,
The early promise of a cloudless sky.

Wings stretch high in the trees,
A breeze rustles through fallen leaves.

Street lamps flicker as they die,
A mother responds to her baby's cry.

The cat flap opens to receive its prey,
Home to rest after a hard night's play.

A car door slams, an engine starts,
A radio blares as night departs.


Un Nuovo Giorno

La Luna guarda con gli occhi sonnolenti
Quando il sole comincia a salire.

Stelle ancora visibili a occhio nudo,
La promessa iniziale di un cielo senza nuvole.

Le ali si estendono in alto negli alberi,
Una brezza fruscia attraverso foglie cadute.

Le lampade stradali lampeggiano come il dado,
Una madre risponde al grido del suo bambino.

Il flap di gatto si apre per ricevere la sua preda,
Casa per riposare dopo un gioco di sera.

Una porta dell'automobile sbatte, un motore inizia,
Una radio blares come la notte parte.

Annette Boccaccio

Mid-Term Break

I studied this poem when I was at college doing my English G.C.S.E. years ago. It's about the death of Heaney's 4 year old brother who was knocked down by a car. It's one of my favourite poems.

by Seamus Heaney

I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

To read more of Seamus Heaney's poems click HERE

The 6 O'clock News

by Tom Leonard

this is thi
six a clock
news thi
man said n
thi reason
a talk wia
BBC accent
iz coz yi
widny wahnt
mi ti talk
aboot thi
trooth wia
voice lik
wanna yoo
scruff. if
a toktaboot
thi trooth
lik wanna yoo
scruff yi
widny thingk
it wuz troo.
jist wanna yoo
scruff tokn.
thirza right
way ti spell
ana right way
to tok it. this
is me tokn yir
right way a
spellin. this
is ma trooth.
yooz doant no
thi trooth
yirsellz cawz
yi canny talk
right. this is
the six a clock
nyooz. belt up.

Before You Were Mine

Carol Ann Duffy

I'm ten years away from the corner you laugh on with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.The three of you bend from the waist, holding each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.

I'm not here yet. The thought of me doesn't occur in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows the right walk home could bring.I knew you would dance like that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close with a hiding for the late one. You reckon it's worth it.

The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh?I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics, and now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square 'till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree, with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?

Cha cha cha! You'd teach me the steps on the way home from Mass, stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even then I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere in Scotland, before I was born.That glamorous love lasts where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine. 

Our Grandmothers

by Maya Angelou

She lay, skin down in the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near
branches.
She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward
freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.


She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?


Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of
innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,


I shall not be moved.


In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,


I shall not be moved.


Her universe, often
summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed.


yet, I must not be moved.


She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this world,


and I shall not, I shall not be moved.


No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason
into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away,
underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.


When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,


I shall not be moved.


She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.


Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
along, and stand as ten thousand.


The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.


The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the camp of the
righteous and into the tents of the free.


These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid for years.
She is Sheba the Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora,
Mary Bethune and Angela,
Annie to Zenobia.


She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.


Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,


for I shall not be moved.

Weekend Glory

by Maya Angelou

Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.

Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.

My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing of my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Amazing Peace

By Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.

Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
implore you to stay awhile with us
so we may learn by your shimmering light
how to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.
On this platform of peace, we can create a language
to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.
At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ

Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope.
All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of
Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace.

We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace.

We look at each other, then into ourselves,
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul

Love this

This was written by a black gentleman in Texas and is so funny. What a great sense of humour And creativity!!!
When U Black, U Black

When I was born, I was BLACK,

When I grew up, I was BLACK,

When I went in the sun, I stayed BLACK,

When I got cold, I was BLACK,

When I was scared, I was BLACK,

When I was sick, I was BLACK,

And when I die, I'll still be BLACK. NOW, You 'white' folks....

When you're born, you're PINK,

When you grow-up, you're WHITE,

When you go in the sun, you get RED,

When you're cold, you turn BLUE,

When you're scared, you're YELLOW,

When you get sick, you're GREEN

When you bruise, you turn PURPLE,

And when you die, you look GRAY.

So who y'all be callin'

COLORED Folks

In my favourite place again!

We are in the Lakes again! Two week-ends in a row. Went to Crookland country Fest today and bought some card making goodies. I love it here it's so peaceful but some people would rather I stayed at home! Pretty sad really but I will do what makes me happy. I wrote a poem. It's not brilliant but I quite like it.
Here it is.

The wind howled like a dying wolf
As rain lashed agains't the window pane.
Thunder roared and lightening flashed
As round and round went the weather vane.

Hail struck the ground with a mighty thud
Turning the lane into a stream of mud.
Then as suddenly as the sun had gone
The clouds disappeared
And brightly it shone.

Another new layout and a poem

Oh dear! I think I'm becoming addicted to making these blog layouts lol. Here's another one and I don't really suppose anyone is using them ha!

Here's another poem I like.
It's called Pippa's Song by Robert Browning.


The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn
Morning's at seven
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his Heaven-
All's right with the world!


Lovely!

How strange!

I was reading the newspaper the other day and found out that the new Poet Laureate is a Scottish woman. I read her poem Last Post and just loved it. It got me thinking about the poems I read when I was doing my English G.C.S.E. at college over 10 years ago. I read a poem about a young girl wondering about her mother as a young girl, before she was born . I loved that poem but couldn't remember who the author was so I googled a few words from the poem and found it. It's called Before you were mine and guess what?.......It's by Carol Ann Duffy the Poet Laureate. How weird is that?  Anyway I thought I'd share the poem with you. It actually brings tears to my eyes when I read it.


BEFORE YOU WERE MINE


I'm ten years away from the corner you laugh on with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff. The three of you bend from the waist, holding each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement. Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.

I'm not here yet. The thought of me doesn't occur in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows the right walk home could bring. I knew you would dance like that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close with a hiding for the late one. You reckon it's worth it.

The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh? I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics, and now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree, with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?

Cha cha cha! You'd teach me the steps on the way home from Mass, stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even then I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere in Scotland, before I was born. That glamorous love lasts where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.


This is the other poem called Last Post. Kids! If you read this I want her poetry for Christmas. All of it!!! LOL


LAST POST


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud ...
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce - No - Decorum - No - Pro patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too -
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert -
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.


This poem brings a deluge of tears. If only this could be true!