A Poem For Friday

When Will It End?

Branches stab at me,

Fingers uncoiling, reaching out,

I push past them, panting,

When will it end?

---

Voices fill the air,

Guttural, gathering momentum,

Someone sees me, I shiver,

When will it end?

---

Lights fill the forest,

Footsteps thunder, coming closer,

Shouts shoot through me, I scream,

When will it end?

---

Chanting commences,

Wild eyes are everywhere,

“We have the wicked witch!”

When will it end?

---

Many hands claim me,

Pushing, forcing me forwards to my fate,

Sobs catch in my throat, I am no witch,

But at least it will end.

***

Can You Tell A Story In…

It’s Thursday and your new five-word challenge is here. This week, your prompt is SECRET – as suggested by Lance Greenfield. Thank you, Lance! So can you tell a story in five words, using the word SECRET in it somewhere?

Here are your EYEBROWS stories from last week:

Sarian Lady:

Eyebrows show surprises or disappointments

Keith Channing:

Eyebrows and lashes precipitate crashes!

Trent’s World:

Her eyebrows raised at that!

Ransom note used eyebrow pencil….

Ritu:

My eyebrows need threading, urgently!

Wild eyebrows, looking like caterpillars!

Lockdown – not good for eyebrows.

Eyebrow raised, she smiled, knowingly.

Expressive eyebrows tell stories, well.

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

Don’t raise your eyebrows here!

His eyebrows furled in anger.

My eyebrow pencil is blunt.

Poker tell…Raised right eyebrow!

That cats fur has eyebrows!!!

My eyebrows are very grey.

Kim Smyth:

No tweezers for these eyebrows!

Flawless Touch shapes eyebrows precisely!

Flirting with one’s eyebrows; scandalous!

Joy Smith:

Raised my eyebrows at this!

Nigel budgeted for his eyebrows.

Skirt length raised mothers’ eyebrows.

Sweat band victoriously usurps eyebrows.

Eyebrows meet secretly at bridge.

Above the mask, eyebrows dance.

Caterpillar eyebrows cocooned his face.

Plucky beautician seeks hirsute eyebrows.

EDC Writing:

Eyebrows? Misplaced to catch tears.

Paul Mastaglio:

It’s all in the eyebrows.

Eyebrows moving up and down.

A twitch of the eyebrows.

Sharon Tingle:

Eyebrows looking like blackened blocks.

New look: rainbow coloured eyebrows.

No eyebrows; alien look alike.

Lance Greenfield:

Caterpillar eyebrows become beautiful butterflies.

Stencil with an eyebrow pencil.

Bond arch-eyebrowed his arch enemy.

Bushy eyebrows imply bushy bush.

Eyebrows: hair of bare? Hair!

Barbie and Ken are eyebrowless.

Fingernails and eyebrows comprise keratin.

Helena Bonham Carter: highbrow eyebrows.

Her eyebrows are Cupid’s arrows.

Saucy, smooth, sensual, suggestive eyebrows.

Dirty Bertie had flirty eyebrows.

I’ve a thing about eyebrows.

Baron Denis Winston Eyebrows Healey.

Racy eyebrows light my fire.

Linking People 2003:

Raising eyebrows of native rivals!

Eyebrows threading done for beauty.

Dying eyebrows can harm eyes.

Thin, hairy, even fallen eyebrows.

Chemotherapy can cause eyebrows loss.

***

Coming Home – Part One

“I’m not going in there. Not if there are great, big, ferocious tigers,” Gemma cried.

Eight-year-old Abigail tutted at her younger sister and shook her head.

“Tigers, indeed. Of course there aren’t any tigers. It’s a garden, not a jungle,” she said, folding her arms.

Sarah tried not to laugh. Despite her bravado, Abigail didn’t exactly look keen to set forth into the garden and lead the way.

She sighed. But then, neither did she. She looked from the overgrown garden to the house. Each time she looked at the building, she noticed something else wrong. First she had spotted the chipped paintwork. Then she noticed a tile had fallen from the roof and been left smashed to smithereens on the path. And now she could see that the number two on the door was hanging listlessly, as if it were making up its mind whether to stay put or to leap into the tangled mass of moss, earth, weeds and grass beyond.

Sarah pushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. The tears weren’t going to come. She wouldn’t let them. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“I want to go home to Spain. It’s cold here and there isn’t a swimming pool. I want to go home,” Gemma said, stamping her feet.

“This is home,” Sarah said, feeling the anguish building inside, “this is our house. We lived here before we went to Spain. Our house has been looked after while we were away and now we’re back home.”

“Well, whoever looked after it hasn’t done a very good job,” Abigail moaned.

Sarah shook her head. She couldn’t argue with that. She closed her eyes and eighteen months fell away.

The four of them were standing there: Sarah, Abigail, Gemma and Duncan. Oh, how she needed Duncan now, right now. They were looking up at the house – the house they had cared for and loved for the past ten years. It was perfect. They had worked so hard to get it just as they wanted. And there they were leaving it behind.

“Are you sure about this?” Duncan had said, wrapping his arms around Sarah.

She had looked into her husband’s eyes. She hadn’t been. No, she hadn’t been sure at all when he’d first come home from work and told her he was being transferred to the Spanish office.

But she had seen the fire in his eyes, the passion and the love for his work. She didn’t want to stand in his way. And she loved him. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than by his side. She had smiled that day, standing there, staring up at the house.

“It’s only for two years. Then we’ll be back home. Our home. It’ll be just as we left it, you’ll see,” Duncan assured her.

But it wasn’t. Not at all. And she hadn’t even been inside yet. Goodness knows what state that would be in.

She knew they shouldn’t have agreed to let it. She should have stayed here. Everything would be all right if they hadn’t gone to Spain.

Part two next week

***

Funny Of The Week

I think I’ll go for the full-fat version…

Laughing Along With A Limerick

Here’s your Monday smile – it’s limerick time. Send in your own or here’s a prompt for you –

CASH

Here are a few limericks to make you smile this Monday. The prompt last week was FIFTY.

Keith Channing:

For a while, I believed my friend Trevor;

I thought I could go on for ever.

For years it felt nifty

To stop work at fifty

You did it? I wasn’t that clever.

Kim Smyth:

They threw me a party at age fifty

Now the old girl’s nearing sixty

No party this year

Cause ‘Rona is here

I’ll just have to do something thrifty.

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

Fifty is the new thirty they say?

I don’t believe in that today!

My hair is getting greyer

And heavier on the weigher

And I don’t have the energy to play!

Paul Mastaglio:

To shower someone with praise

Is a wonderful craze

Make them feel great

And they could be your mate

Perhaps until the end of days.

Trent’s World:

I just bought fifty new books

I couldn’t resist the blurbs’ hooks!

But shelves are dear

And space is rare

So now they fill the crannies and nooks

The Hidden Edge:

Everyone knows a suave gent, called Dwight,

Who sees all things in black or in white,

He might well want to play

With fifty shades of grey,

Relax; and be not (quite so) uptight!

Ritu:

Young Gina was nearing fifty

And her age had made her more thrifty

Upcycling junk

Giving old things some funk

Her friends thought her quite nifty!

Linking People 2003:

SECOND puberty happens at fifty,

Youthfulness makes shifty.

Fifty fifty probability of toss,

No more remains for boss,

To take decisions with maturity!

Valerie Fish:

Whilst reading Fifty Shades of Grey

On your morning commute, you may

Turn fifty shades of red

At their antics in bed

It was never like that in my day!

Lance Greenfield:

I set sail for fifty degrees East

In search of the wise purple priest

I found him in Baku

Where he cooked me a stew

Sharing his knowledge: a huge feast.

Geoff Le Pard:

You have to be rather nifty

When you reach the age of fifty

To play at being cool

While looking neither a fool

Nor more than a touch shifty.

Sharon Tingle:

Fifty ants marched along our gate

Carrying carcass bits fifty times their weight.

Rushed I indoor to end their work-day

But returned the can without a spray.

Such determination, I could not fumigate.

***

A Poem For Friday

Ghostly Woes

I am a ghost and my aim is to scare,

Sending shivers, chilling all those who dare

Enter my deepest and deadliest lair,

Alas, I’m not very good.

---

As a lad, I couldn’t wait to be dead,

To walk through walls, but I always hit my head,

The world’s worst ghost is what the guidebooks said,

Alas, I’m not very good.

---

My breath is so pungent it’s stale,

And I have perfected my blood-curdling wail,

But all folk do is laugh so I have failed,

Alas, I’m not very good.

---

My face isn’t that fearsome, it’s true,

Not even when I shout the loudest boo,

Perhaps a ferocious mask will do,

Alas, I’m not very good.

---

The story of my death is not the best,

I was pulling on my faithful string vest,

It stuck round my neck, well, you know the rest,

Alas, I’m not very good.

---

If you’re lonely, come and see me one night,

I promise I won’t give you a fright.

***

Can You Tell A Story In…

It’s Thursday and your new five-word challenge is here. This week, your prompt is EYEBROWS. So can you tell a story in five words, using the word EYEBROWS in it somewhere?

Here are your DUST stories from last week:

Keith Channing:

Dust? I need an alethiometer!

Trent’s World:

I’ll stay home and dust…

Ritu:

Dusting and me: Not friends.

Cake dusted with icing sugar.

From dust to dust. Amen.

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

Dust down your dancing shoes!

That’s really very dusty dear…

His shoes left dust marks.

Dust it for fingerprints, constable!

dark dust lanes in galaxies.

My house has dust bunnies!

Desert full of dusty sand.

Kim Smyth:

Dusting is a dirty chore.

I don’t dust nearly enough.

Too many knickknacks to dust!

Joy Smith:

Dust! The backward looking stud.

San Francisco rush, gold dust.

Dandruff’s indentity crisis? Fairy dust.

Didn’t see him for dust.

Eroding cosmic rockery. Space dust.

Dust! A sign of intelligence

Footprints in the dust. Guilty

Dustman revisits holiday, bin there.

EDC Writing:

Dust settled, albeit momentary relief.

Avia Morrow:

Vengeful nemesis, dust ever prevails.

Paul Mastaglio:

Can’t move for the dust.

Vacuum the dust, I must.

New broom in. Dust away.

Lance Greenfield:

Three, two, one: Dusty Bin.

Dust is a dark material.

Dust blows away in time.

We are all space dust.

Better dust than corrosive rust.

Chase me! Eat my dust!

Share my aphrodisiac love dust?

It’s a long, dusty road.

Hard to find: gold dust.

Feather duster: tickled I am!

Ken Dodd: hair, teeth, duster.

Move! Or dust will settle.

Linking People 2003:

Chalk is moulded limestone dust!

Blackboard cleaning releases chalk dust!

Dust fell into teacher’s eyes!

Electronic board is sans dust!

Valerie Fish:

Dusty Springfield was a legend.

My dreams turned to dust.

Feather dusters are very tickly!

Sharon Harvey:

Atichoo, dust makes me sneeze.

What a very dusty room.

Dusty Springfield a brilliant singer.

***

A Valentine’s Tale

With Valentine’s Day almost upon us, it’s time for a special love story. My thanks goes to Murray Clarke for sending this in:

Roses are Red

By

Murray Clarke

Violet, ninety-six, stared thoughtfully out of the window, a tear in her eye. The other senior citizens in the room were either asleep, reading or watching television. It may have been Valentine’s Day, but there wasn’t a card in sight. It had been a long time since the residents of the care home had received a romantic card from anyone.

Memories came flooding back of the happy times enjoyed when she was young. She smiled to herself. Those were the days. World War Two. Food rationing was the order of the day, but everyone rallied around and supported each other. Violet was just twenty years old – her whole life spread out in front of her like uncharted territory. She was so pretty, long blonde hair flowing down to her waist. Sapphire blue eyes. Full of fun and vitality. Always laughing.

Oh yes! Violet smiled again – she’d had her fair share of admirers . . . and Valentine’s cards; many of them handmade. Tall handsome men declared their undying love for her. Bunches of flowers, chocolates, jewellery – even silk stockings from the American G.I.s. Some of the Valentine cards were signed only with a kiss; smitten young men too bashful to reveal their names!

Boyfriends came and went. But no serious relationships . . . until the day she met Jacko in late 1944 — Squadron Leader Jack Gibson. She remembered how dashing the young pilot had looked in his smartly pressed dark blue RAF uniform. Every bit an officer and a gentleman. She fell madly in love with him from the moment she saw him.

Violet remembered their first proper date, just before Christmas 1944. Jacko had arranged to meet at a dance in the local village hall. He walked in, a beaming smile on his kindly face. In his hand he grasped a huge bunch of the finest red roses Violet had ever seen. ‘For a lovely lady,’ Jacko said, gallantly. No man had ever given her red roses before!

And, later, when he bent down to kiss her, his neatly trimmed moustache tickled her face and made her squeal with girlish delight. Violet recalled the fun she’d had dancing the night away in his arms. Happy, happy memories!

‘Jacko, you were my only true love,’ Violet said out loud.

‘Did you say something, Violet, my dear?’ A carer was walking past and shook her head: talking to herself again!

Violet and Jacko enjoyed a blissful few weeks in each other’s company, and then one morning, the following February, he took off in his single-engine aeroplane on a flight to France . . . And disappeared. Violet was heartbroken and prayed that Jacko, one day, would return to her loving arms. But he never did, and she remained a spinster for the rest of her life.

Violet let out a long loud sigh, remembering what might have been. It was at that moment that she happened to glance down. She gasped. Lying on the small wooden coffee table beside her, she saw a beautiful bouquet of red roses. A handwritten card was pinned to them. Violet bent down and read the message: “To Violet. Love you always, my darling. Jacko xx”

A tear came into her eye. ‘Oh, Jacko, you’ve not forgotten me,’ she whispered.

‘Everything okay, Violet?’ The carer had returned.

 ‘It’s Jack – he’s remembered me on Valentine’s Day,’ she replied with glee, and pointed towards the coffee table.

The carer, Linda, looked, a blank expression on her face.

‘Don’t you see – the red roses?’ insisted Violet.

Linda rested her hand lightly on Violet’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing there, my dear. Now, why don’t you come and sit over there with the others? There’s a romantic World War Two film about to start. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

***

POSTSCRIPT: AN INTERNAL MEMO, CIRCULATED LATER, STATED: SQUADRON LEADER JACK (JACKO) GIBSON HAD TAKEN OFF FROM AN AIRFIELD IN DORSET ON A SECRET RECONNAISANCE MISSION TO FRANCE. HIS SPITFIRE WAS SHOT DOWN BY ENEMY FIRE SOMEWHERE OVER THE ENGLISH CHANNEL. HIS BODY WAS NEVER RECOVERED.

DATE: 14th. FEBRUARY 1945. VALENTINE’S DAY.

***

Funny Of The Week

It always helps when you use the correct spelling…

Laughing Along With A Limerick

Here’s your Monday smile – it’s limerick time. Send in your own or here’s a prompt for you –

FIFTY

Here are a few limericks to make you smile this Monday. The prompt last week was SHOWER.

Keith Channing:

When it has been dry for a time,

A shower of rain is sublime.

I really like summer,

Though winter’s a bummer,

But spring is the easiest to rhyme!

Lance Greenfield:

It’s terribly wet down on the Gower,

Where the forecast is always so dour.

It may appear to be fine

When the sun, it doth shine,

But we’re sure to be in for a shower.

Kim Smyth:

I once took a duck in the shower

Played with it for over an hour

The water got cool

And I felt such a fool

Cause my duck, he did run out of power!

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

I gave my plants a good shower

Some food for my beautiful flowers

A whole lot of love

Just got them in bud

Only leaves on my sweet flower bower.

Paul Mastaglio:

To shower someone with praise

Is a wonderful craze

Make them feel great

And they could be your mate

Perhaps until the end of days.

Trent’s World:

A man once lived in a tower

That didn’t have a working shower

As you might think

There was an awful stink

And all were overwhelmed by its power.

---

They say a shower in spring

Flowers later will bring

But before the bud

All is mud

And I’ve sunk to my thing.

The Hidden Edge:

President Dwight D. Eisenhower,

Had great ideas in the shower

Some time on the bog,

Would oft lift his fog,

And restore his mighty brain power.

Ritu:

Janice wanted a new shower

With some oomph, just a little more power

But it used too much water

Much more than it oughtta

So now hubby, John won’t allow her!

Linking People 2003:

SHOWER is an artificial rain,

Having in bathroom to attain,

Over all cleanliness,

With soap for freshness,

Radiance comes again!

***