Shadow Sun

SCENIC SUNDAY

http://scenicsunday.blogspot.com/2010/07/scenic-sunday-103.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+blogspot%2FVKGn+%28Scenic+Sunday%29

SHADOW SUN

Shadow is not shadow, if sunshine isn't sun.
One only recognises both because of the other one.
Shadow without sunshine is just a murky day.
And sunshine without shadow is the sun's unending ray.
A little bit of this and that completes a pleasant scene!
See how the shadow and the sun create different shades of green!
If our lives were just endless torment how ghastly it would be!
If our lives were just endless pleasure, oh, what monotony!
Sunshine and shade together create a rounded life.
I wish you lots of happiness....... balanced by a little strife!
*

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

WELL I NEVER!

Albert Einstein's dying words have been lost to all humanity!
He may have uttered words of wisdom or a flat inanity!
A foreign nurse was standing-by at the time to pronounce him dead,
And she didn't understand a thing that the famous genius said!
*
In the seventh century, Toltecs, from Mexico,
Obeyed a certain ruling which has always impressed me so.....
They wanted enemies to live (yes, they were very good)
And so they used to attack them with swords made out of wood!
*
Sliced bread was patented, they say, in nineteen twenty eight,
So consider that when a tasty slice is placed upon your plate.
Not a baker, but a jeweller, thought up the great idea;
He'd been working on it, night and day, for many a long year!
*
Friday the thirteenth was thought such a very unlucky day
Among the Anglo-Saxons that they always used to slay
Every child born on that date, at the moment of its birth!
A birthday celebration not renowned for joy and mirth!
*

Red Letter Day

RED LETTER DAY!!!!!!

Today I reached a milestone! Well, several in fact!

So here's a special poem of self-praise.
It's two years since I started blogging and what a joy it's been,
Adding a certain zing to all my days.
I've 160 Followers and that always was my aim;
Not marvellous, but really satisfying.
And I've written 2,000 poems, far more than one a day,
And they've just appeared without my really trying!
Blogging has proved addictive, but what a delightful drug!
I'm feeling that I never want to stop!
I intend to write and write and write and write and write and write
Until, as is bound to happen, I just drop!
*

Night Starvation

NIGHT STARVATION!

I don't sleep well on an empty stomach! I know how Maxine feels!

Not that I wake at four a.m. to devour exotic meals!

But I DO like 'a little bit of something' before I go to bed,

Before on my downy pillow I lay my sleepy head!

Bedtime..... water for the pills, a 'wrinkly' routine.

(Every person over sixty knows exactly what I mean.)

Vitamins and blood-thinners, calcium for the bones,

And all the other tablets that every retiree owns!

So I swill them down with water! It's not exactly bliss!

A lady's night-time experience should be more exciting than this!

And it's then I hie me to the fridge to see what's hidden there!

Cold potatoes, half a pie, I really don't much care!

What's in that plastic container? A pork sausage! Bless my soul!

Oh what a wicked luxury! I almost swallow it whole!

By daylight I'm not greedy; I'm a lady to the core!

I'm not a bit like Oliver; I never ask for more.

I can push one pea around my plate for at least almost a minute

And I hesitate over my repast, always, before I begin it!

But comes the dark, comes secrecy, with my husband already snoring,

I gaze at my glass of water, which is suddenly so boring,

And dreams of bedtime feasting invade my addled brain,

And off I go, padding through the house, to raid the fridge again!

So I sympathise with Maxine, though our times are not in sync.

Our exploits at the dead of night are more exciting than you think!

*

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

ALL THINGS COME......


I was walking past the bus-stop on the way to work one day
When a lady touched my arm in an apologetic way.
'I'm new round here' she said to me ' I don't want to make a fuss,
But I need to know the number of the Sprintly Gardens bus.'
'That's easy, dear' I answered 'It's number 85.
Just hang around a little while. I'm sure it will arrive.'
Imagine my surprise when, walking home, I found her there,
Looking rather frazzled and a bit the worse for wear!
I'd been at the office all day long, the sun was almost setting!
To see her waiting patiently was terribly upsetting!
How could she stand there all day long? And how could she survive?
'Have you been waiting here all day for number 85!'
'Yes' she answered 'And I'm glad there's not too long to wait!
I've counted all the buses and I'm up to 78!'
*

Tangerine Tootsies

                 Samantha Nicol

TANGERINE TOOTSIES

Simplicity itself; some paper and some drops.

But now imagination starts and the purely factual stops!

By accident or by design? By some neat manipulation?

Or just a clever artist summing-up a situation?

Did an eye-dropper do the deed, particle by particle?

How have we come by perfection in this, the finished article?

Maybe there was never moisture and we are being fooled

By an artist who in 'trompe l'oeil' is very surely schooled!

'Trompe l'oeil' just means 'trick the eye'; are these 'tootsies' an example?

Pere Borell del Caso gave this very clever sample....

The boy appears to leave the frame and yet the paint is flat

And, for a moment, we're not sure what we are looking at.

Many see some paper money lying on the ground

Yet, when they stoop to pick it up paint is all they've found.

By whatever means it's come to us, this tangerine delight

Is very pleasing to the eye!

Someone got things right!

*

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

OLGA.


When I knew her,
In South Africa,
Over thirty years ago,
She was a non-person,
A 'coloured'.
*
Her name was Olga.
And she was my 'char'.
But, first and foremost,
She was a Mother.
*
Still in her twenties,
She had several children,
And she lived in a shack
In 'the Coloured Area.'
*
I was guilty of thinking
That this was normal!
*
When she came to 'do' for me,
She brought Wendy with her.
Wendy was her latest child,
But not, I'm sure,
Her last.
*
My two young children loved Wendy.
She was so pretty, so placid,
So pleasant to cuddle.
*
In the end
The 'wrongness' of South Africa
Impressed itself upon us.
We prepared to leave.
*
On the last day Olga came to me.
'Please take Wendy with you, Madam.'
*
I couldn't believe my ears!
I knew she adored her baby.
I remonstrated with her.
'You couldn't give Wendy away, Olga!'
I explained to her.
'It wouldn't be allowed, Olga!'
*
She cried then.
*
'But her life in Australia
Would be so much better.'
*
Her unselfishness impressed me mightily.
I have thought of it, often.
*
Wendy!
Are you a smart young thirty-something
Working in Capetown
At a high-powered job?
Have you a computer?
Is there the slightest chance
That you may ever read this?
*
If you do,
You will read of a wonderful Mother.
*
And she is yours.
*

Just Blocks

SHADOW SHOT

http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/


JUST BLOCKS

I wonder where we draw the line

Between the humdrum and divine.

These blocks are in an open space,

Not organised for style and grace,

But just  for children to step and climb

Having a childish carefree time.

'King of the Castle' hear them cry

As they stand up top and feel so high.

But when the shadows play their part

These blocks become a work of art.

There's symmetry, there's balance too;

There's even character; they're not new.

Yet some workman, I'll be bound,

Merely placed them on the ground.

They should be in a gallery,

Entitled 'Crass Epitome'

Or something else that has an air

Of creativity rich and rare.

I now nothing of art it's true

So this is a brash untutored view.

I only know they gave me pleasure

Whether they were trash or treasure!

*

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Please don't read this poem if sad things about animals upset you!


SQUEAL!

I'm certainly no do-gooder,
For I'm not the thoughtful kind,
And Animal Liberation
Seldom enters my mind.
But today I heard a statement
That rocked me on my heels
And filled my brain and, yes, my heart
With agonising squeals.
The Speaker on the radio
Said 'Scientists agree
That a pig has the intelligence
Of a child when it is three'.
That fact alone was shattering!
I continued with the talk,
Admitting, in my heart of hearts
That my favourite meat is pork.
'In fact' the Speaker added now,
'When their time comes to be slaughtered,
And hung on hooks in abbatoirs,
Yes, 'hung and drawn and quartered',
They realise the fate in store!
They actually show their feelings,
And the air is rent with cries and groans
And almost-human squealings.'
I'd like to say I wont eat pork
Again my whole life long!
I'd like to say I'll protest their cause
In the streets, to right the wrong.
But I'm as frail as anyone;
Time will dim the way I feel,
But at least today all I can hear
Is a scared pig and its squeal.
*

Ghost!

 GHOST! 

For many a year I've haunted this old haberdashers store;

A hundred, maybe two or three; it could be even more.

I  have drifted round the counters and swirled around the shelves

And toyed with old-time order-books lying sadly by themselves.

I have moaned a little, softly, and wept a tear or two;

I have done the requisite ghostly things a ghost like me should do.

Of course, 'they' never saw me; I've always been quite shy;

Though, sometimes someone caught a glimpse out of the corner of an eye.

I had grown accustomed to solitude; life lived alone at night;

I had almost forgotten the old times and love and its delight.

'My' shop was in a museum and it made my heart rejoice

To hear it's praises sung each day by a visiting human voice.

*

But now even the half-life's over; 'they're' pulling the old place down.

'They' want to build a supermarket in this part of town!

And 'they've' cleared out the bales of cotton, all faded and tied with cord!

Those cottons that so reminded me of the man I so adored!

*

' I think the pink one, dearest'.... thus spoke my determined Mother.

'No, no! Mama!' I answered.'I much prefer the other!'

For hadn't Ernest told me that green was his favourite hue?

And hadn't I decided, then, that only the green would do?

In the end my Mother capitulated, sighing a maternal sigh;

She knew that I was determined, though she didn't understand why.

We took nearly all the green roll, leaving the pink aside.

And I knew, before the month was out, he'd ask me to be his bride.

Mother made me the prettiest ball-gown, with a neckline trimmed with lace

And I saw myself in the mirror, a picture of charm and grace.

*

But Ernest married another and I had no heart to give

To any other suitor. I lost the will to live.

They said I died of consumption, but I died of a broken heart;

What was the point of living since we had to live apart?

So I came to haunt the haberdashers, where I'd once been glad,

I was a delicate little ghost, in sprigged green cotton clad.

*

Now 'they've' thrown out the bales of cotton; 'rubbish' they said it was,

And my poor heart broke for the second time when they did that because

They were my link to a happier time. Now I'll be departing soon

To continue my ghostly existence somewhere beyond the moon.

*

------------------------------------------------------------------- 

PADDINGTON LACE

How I love the style and grace
Of this house feature......Paddington Lace!
It's an old Victorian decoration
Still revered throughout the nation.
San Francisco has the same
Though there it must have a different name.
'Paddington's' part of Sydney City.
But wherever it's found, it's very pretty.
*

On the Rocks

MONOCHROME

ON THE ROCKS!

The sand between my toes.
The roar of the sea in my ears.
The pain of your departure  in my heart.
*
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

BALLET SHOES


It was over sixty years ago that I sat by the fire,
Listening to the radio and hearing my heart's desire;
A serial on Childrens' Hour; it's name was 'Ballet Shoes';
It came on at a special time, just before the news.
I could hardly wait for Sundays; I hated the days between!
For after all, how old was I? An immature sixteen!
*
Last night I saw the TV show; I found it very trite,
But good enough to pass an undemanding time at night.
The plot was so predictable, the characters unreal,
And, all in all, it had a very adolescent feel.
Which is fair enough because the tale was aimed at the pre-teens,
At least it seemed that way to me, with the rather maudlin scenes.
*
And they didn't play Wolf Ferrari! That was an awful sin.
How I adored his music! It made the show begin!
'Jewels of the Madonna!' Was ever there such a theme;
It could spirit a dumpy girl like me into the perfect dream!
A girl could start out without much and end up with it all!
Cinderella! Sweetheart! You're going to the ball!
*
I'd sit there listening , engrossed, there, in the fire-light.
Knowing that, though things weren't too good, it would all turn-out alright.
I believed the story absolutely; it all felt so true!
With the music of Wolf Ferrari there was nothing I couldn't do!
I never made my mark, of course, or entered the promised land.
And isn't it a pity that the tale now seems so bland.
*