Hello 🙂

From Textfixer

I got two poems out of the random selection today.  That doesn’t happen often!

The first started to take shape as I read ‘flutter’ and ‘hero’ together, followed by ‘tin’.  I immediately thought of a man in his thirties who liked to place small bets, and usually won something, resulting in him becoming admired in the pub for it; and his pals coming up with a nickname.

But then the story took a dark twist:

Wet  Council  Flutter  Hero  Tin  Crunch  Airship  Molten  Haunting

She shook her drenched umbrella,

On that shockingly wet morn

At the bus stop down on Main Street;

‘Cross from council flats.  Forlorn

Sat a man she knew from legend

Told in public house and street,

A ‘flutter hero’ forced to gutters;

Near-empty tin placed at his feet.

Jungle drums tell that financial crunch

Had his airship fair shot down;

His gambling mixed with drinking –

Then his wife and kids left town.

So our lady with umbrella

Leaves the bus stop, and her ride,

To tell him of the molten sadness

His haunting story stirs inside.

She buys him warming sustenance,

Dries off his clothes and shoes;

Gives him back some of his dignity

(As it humanity behooves)

The rather grand turns of phrase in the above, I think, are to coincide with the ‘legend’ idea.  It also serves to point out that this lady is choosing to do something extraordinary in a normal day.

I like that she is holding an umbrella, as when I read it back I realised that it is a symbol of shelter, inclusion and protection. I thought, too, of famous statues; where they are often fashioned holding items that show what service the depicted person (or god/angel) was purported to provide to the world.

I love how I managed to get this into my 15 minutes (just!!), it rhymes, and the interplay between shoes and ‘hooves in the last line 😉

The second poem came out of my watching BBC News 24’s coverage of the court hearing for the families affected by the Tunisian terror attack, on a beach in Sousse, almost two years ago.  I was touched  by Allen Pembroke’s story of how he saved the life of Cheryl Mellor, whose husband had already been killed. (A fact he subsequently had to break to her)

On a beach wet with blood,

As from Divine Council sent,

He appeared.

He saw her eyelids flutter

(Hero stirring with him.

Heart more than tin)

In this crunch

[No fantastical airship in sight]

He soothed her molten pain.

Images emblazoned:

Already haunting.

Crowded notebook page

I wish I hadn’t had to fit in ‘airship’, but again it shows that this is an ordinary person doing something legendary.

To go back to help others, when your life is clearly in danger, is such a stupendous act of compassion and bravery.

I listened to the recounting of that day by one of the survivors of the attack, Olivia Leithly, and she made the point that no one knows how they will react until they are put in that situation.

I am sure I would have been no help to anyone, I find it so amazing to hear of people overcoming their fear and helping others. 

I only hope my loved ones meet with such shining selflessness from strangers, should (heaven forbid) they ever be in need of it.

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

How do?!

I start this, my 70th post (!), in the full knowledge that I am not going to get it finished in one sitting.  It may even take three or four.  I’ve left it late, and the kids are at their restless bathtime-with-daddy best.

I caught up with the BBC News channel today instead of writing my poem, mainly because the weekend took the oomph  out of me (as did getting our eldest to school on time on slippy pavements) but also due to our youngest having coughed pretty much constantly since about 4.30am, and me having to figure out whether he was awake/going to puke/ok to be left.  So I had youngest off nursery today, and sat on my bottom as much as possible between school drop off and pick-up.

I played a lovely couple of rounds of a dinosaur game that reinforces colours and shapes (youngest won both times) and we also discussed important topics; such as why plasters are so sticky (he cut his foot on a toy train the other day) and the appropriate age for one to start drinking fizzy juice or tea (he’s decided it should be at least mid-teens. Smart boy).

From Jimpix

Youngest bullied me for an early lunch, and was finished it by midday (he’d napped for most of the school run). He said he’d help me put on the white washing load, but then decided that watching the tablet would be a better use of his time.  He likes regaling me with tales of Peter Rabbit’s exploits, and kept wandering through to tell me about “a weely good bit, mummy!”.

So I got to toggle my phone a bit, and watch TV, and just ignore the fact that, y’know, I’m supposed to be creative every day…

I still walked six miles pushing Mr. Youngest in our ‘old faithful’ Skate buggy, let’s not forget.  One has to conserve energy now and then.

I did write the poem in the end though, and here it is:

User  Beast  Coins  Ripe  Gear  Link  Remember  Gullible  Bobcat

“…and it’s only had one – careful – user”

It was an ugly beast.

But, with so few coins in my coffers,

I was ripe for the sales pitch.

I bought it,

Crunched a gear or two getting out of the place,

Almost taking with

Their cheap ‘link fence.

Next time I’ll try and remember

Not to be so gullible –

And certainly ditch my mother

Sat, squawking, to my bobcat left.

Notebook scribbles

I looked up the Urban Dictionary when I read ‘Bobcat’.  I picked the 6^th definition for my purposes 😉

The more I read this poem, the more I hear the voiceover bits from Burn Notice.  The mention of the speaker’s mother fits in perfectly, too! *chortles*

In the scene in my head, I saw a guy in his 20s with long hair and tattoos, grimacing because he needed a car that day. Something undisclosed had happened to his. He got shown a mean ‘faced’ one.  The kind I always think look like angry sharks at the front.  (I don’t do makes of car, only ‘faces’ and colours…)

I hadn’t seen his mother until she popped up in the second last line, but I suppose she might have given him the money as he was skint? She wasn’t happy, anyway!

What do you think the backstory is, here?

Drop me a comment and let me know 🙂

P.S. It took three sittings to write this and add the pics!

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hello, friends!

It has been a weekend of tangled emotions and a particularly untidy house.

Today I have been reflecting a little on life and death, as I’ve helped our eldest compile the last of his Pharaoh Factfile.  It is infinitely bizarre to me that people from thousands of years ago have managed to preserve the bodies of their kings. I spent a morbid amount of time looking at the photographed shrivelled remains of the 90 year old Ramses II. 

I don’t remember doing this topic until Primary 7, is it right that I am letting a gruesome picture be stuck onto my six year old’s homework?!  I’ve not even seen a close relative’s body after death.  I feel like some sort of voyeur. 

Oddly, I was reminded of Larkin’s lines in Arundel Tomb:

And up the paths

The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.

From Random Word Generator

Which alludes to a monument from a different period entirely!  I do find something disrespectful in ogling these displaced humans, plucked from their time and thrust into ours.  Much like the poor people immortalised in Pompeii.  It makes me feel too much.

[I would have thought Shelley’s Ozymandias would have been the first poem my brain would go for, I almost felt apologetic when it didn’t! But, according to the notes in the link I found, Larkin was writing about something he’d seen in Chichester Cathedral…so obviously my subconscious was still playing with historic random words?! (Remember this?)]

Anyway, yes, I’ve been in a strange dimension a bit this weekend.  The following came out after reading today’s words:

Series  Node  Drop  Disagree  Measure  Picture  Agent  Obscure  Articulate

As a series of obscenities

Whizzed past my earlobes,

I could feel the carpet

Acquiring another large node.

When his volume finally

Started to drop, I agreed

To disagree;

Threw in a hug for good measure.

(His face was a picture)

In this life, I seem

Like the agent of angels:

Bringing light to the obscure stuff

Some have no words to articulate.

(But only sometimes.

Other days I swear that the

Morning Star itself shines forth from me.

And so, beware!  One day I’ll fall,

And cast dark shadows)

Notebook page

So yeah, I’d say I was the opposite to a mighty king, wishing to have his form preserved and carried into the future.  I don’t want anyone looking upon my face any longer than they have to!  I really do have a worry that there are toxic forces at work in me that may take people out if I lose my concentration, and so when I’m dead I want shut away forever 😉

I would like to think my creative works might outlive me, however.  I have a hope that they’ll go on entertaining people, helping them delve into feelings and sort out how they feel a bit.  I love when people respond to my work and tell me how they interpreted it.  It’s easier to get the best parts of me through the written word.

It would be nice to leave some hugs for future generations in the pages of a book 🙂

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Good Evening!

From Random lists

I come to you with dust in my nails, and having drunk so much Irn Bru Xtra I don’t know why I don’t glow in the dark yet.

Something about Spring flowers poking through, the nights getting slowly lighter, and the air smelling new is making me want to do more housework.  Or maybe it’s just the remnants of this dratted cold addling my mind?!

Whatever is going on, I keep staying up late writing, and feeling slightly better about getting out of bed in the mornings; but I am burning candles I didn’t know I even owned, aaaand I have a quinine habit.

But stuff it, I’m loving having a creative outlet again  😛

Lines 7-9 of the second verse came to me first, as the “moral” of my poem became evident when I read the last three words on the generator.  I tried to leave enough room for the rest of the poem on my page, but I had to squish bits in near the end!

(Our eldest regularly points out how untidy my notebook pages look, and how he can write neatly but he’s younger than me…)

Complex  Edge  Report  Spray  Quiver  Lip  Level  Impress  Repulsive

“Son,” she started, thoughtfully,

“Life can be very complex

(At least, others will make it seem so)

Everyone is searching for that edge:

A good report, the best spray tan,

The latest, most expensive shoes –

But please don’t listen

When they tell you that you’ve failed!

Get right back up,

But don’t be afraid to show the quiver of your lip;

There is strength in vulnerability

That gender does not change.

Everyone takes you on their own level:

Some you will impress,

Others will deem you repulsive –

But only you decide what faith to put in them.”

The Green Greeny 😉

My boys are always questioning why I cry so easily and Daddy doesn’t.  There is no easy answer to this (well, aside from hormones!).

We say that different people react to things in different ways, but it is hard not to paint a non-crying person as stronger to a kid.

I hate that.

I do try and point out that after a good cry and a cuddle, things always seem better; and so it’s worth it – but still they ask!

Our almost seven year old is so aware of pecking orders in his class/Top Trumps packs/the crazy amount of Match Attax cards that the kids all seem obsessed with in his year…it just appears to be a natural part of ordering and processing life.

Put people into boxes and equate one’s ability to show emotion to an admission of weakness…

I really hope my little guys continue growing in their empathy and understanding of what makes people sad, and never completely buy into the macho image.  As much as the drama in this household could do with being brought down a notch or two at times (!) I do love hearing about their inner worlds and providing the haven they come to when their little hearts are heavy, or their thoughts are tangled up. I’d hate for them to feel it was wrong to feel at all!

What is your take on this?

[Photo credit: Pixabay]

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hi!

*Again waves at the screen like the loony she is*

How are you all doing?

[For anyone just finding my ramblings: I’m Montaffera, and I challenge myself to write a poem every day using 9 words from a random word generator.  I look up any I don’t immediately know, set the timer for 15 minutes – then write. 

I always use the words in the order the generator gave me, and I am only allowed to tweak punctuation and line distribution in my poem outside of the writing time, before I post it up here.  I must stop writing when the timer sounds, and so far I’ve always managed to use all the words…]

From Textfixer

I was back pounding the pavements today, after hubby being here to ferry us about for the last three days.  My back is not best pleased, but it was nice to get some thinking time in 🙂

The scene in the poem came to me as I thought about why one would need to send a ‘dispatch’.  I didn’t have to look any of the words up, so I comfortably fitted my writing into the 15 minutes. 

Just as well really, because I had been faffing about so much looking at my stats (400 HITS IN TOTAL BY THIS MORNING – YAAAAY!) quickly tidying up, and putting on a washing load etc, that I only had 15 minutes left before I’d have been too late to get down to collect our youngest!

Dispatch  Muscular  Avoid  Generation  Psycho  Fork  Magnetic  Industry  Fortress

He knew it would be his last dispatch;

As the battery died,

He focused his efforts on

Planning how to get past the muscular guard.

He knew he must avoid

The generation of any sound

(So could not turn psycho

And stab his foe with the convenient fork)

Slowly, slowly, he cranked the power

On his magnetic device

Attempting to pull back the bolt

From inside his cell, praying ‘muscles’ would not

Discover this bated industry.

Inch by inch, the metal moved

(Sweat pouring from his brow)

Each sinew straining to escape the fortress.

Purple poetry

So are we going with James Bond or Dr Who as ‘he’, do we think? (Or an Austin Powers type?!)  The cell is dark, I can’t really make out the main character 😉

How is the guard going to be dealt with?  I’m thinking the sleeper hold might come into play, but there could be other options. 

Who received the ‘dispatch’?  Are reinforcements on their way?

I wonder, too, who the baddy is who owns the ‘fortress’?

What do you see when you read the poem?

[Photo credit: Fortress from Pixabay]

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hello!!

I have finally made it back to the site! 

It has been a complicated day, where I have been trying to sort little fires instead of being able to settle to work on my poem and post.  I see from the news (and some poor friends’ Facebook posts) that others have been tangoing with storm  Doris, however, so at least hubby worked from home and saved us that hassle!

(Though, apparently, our eldest spent his day in the music room and small gym hall because his classroom had a leak)

From Jimpix

The fancy font/colour combo on the generator means it was another Jimpix day (ominous string music, please) and I ended up researching for about eight minutes before putting the timer on, and that meant my poem time ran through the start of dinner, and my food got a bit cold.  *Sigh*

The hardships of a creative life 😛

I notice that I didn’t write in the space on my notebook page what a ‘Crake’ was, but I did look it up.  I had no idea what ‘endemism’ was until today, either.  This poetry lark is good for my education 😉

I wrote most of the first two verses, my subconscious only kicked in for the last line of the second, and took over for the third.  I think it shows…!

Fairy  Staffnet  Endemism  Capitalist  Worldly  Roman  Bird  Announce  Crake

When he’d trapped the real-life Fairy,

And conversed through the night with her,

He sent reams through the Staffnet:

About her take on endemism

Of this most interesting of species.

He confirmed they had capitalist trade,

And were much more worldly than first thought;

Around since before Roman times,

Understandings with a certain bird family –

Then he fell silent, and no more did announce.

When they finally went to check,

They found strange glitter on his face;

As he lay motionless

By a still-smouldering screen –

Crake feathers scattered far and wide.

Red rushedness

I used ‘through’ in two consecutive lines in the first verse (boooo) so that needs tweaked.

It amuses me that in the third verse ‘they finally went to check’. It reads as if the man who trapped the Fairy was always rambling about fictional things over the intranet…why would ‘they’ not have scooted down to his office to examine his catch before?!

In the last verse, I saw a professor lying on the floor – tweed jacket with leather-patched elbows and all.  What did you see? 

I wonder why he didn’t show anyone the Fairy on the way into his office?  Did he trap her in there?

So many unanswered questions…

[Photo credit: Pixabay]

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Good Afternoon!

From Random Word Generator

I had a longer time than usual to write and think this morning, as hubby went on the nursery walk with our youngest and I wandered back home alone. 

I had Pink playing on Spotify, and sauntered along, miming the words and swinging littlest’s latest book pick in its special bag.  It was pretty windy (storm Doris is due) and a bit nippy in the finger department, but it sounds and smells like Spring out there. Yippee!

The first word in today’s selection instantly made me think of our boys, the eldest in particular.  I must have to straighten his clothes at least five times before I let him out, and he still always looks scruffy 😉

This morning our eldest had an ongoing disagreement with a friend he was reluctant to go back to, so we had to talk around possible solutions to that for a bit before he acquiesced to putting outdoor layers on.  I am glad he chats these things through with me, however I wish issues would surface an hour or so earlier, sometimes… 

I was lucky in that hubby had taken the day off work, so I didn’t have a 1.5 mile obstacle course to tackle after hugging my boy, but could just bundle him in the car!

What followed from the fixing of the collar in the poem, I am sure any mum of school aged kids can relate to; if they don’t homeschool! It took every scrap of my 15 minutes to get the lines to scan and make sure all the words were fitted in, but I’m quite pleased with it at far as it goes!

Collar  Unfair  Beginning  Resignation  Particular  Lack  Railcar   Embarrassment  Cave

So I fix his crooked collar,

Ruffle his unruly hair;

He pouts a little, but still loves me

(While muttering that it’s unfair)

Yes, a new school day beginning,

Resignation being hard won;

This morning, in particular,

Mum is not feeling the fun!

But once he’s in the playground:

Lack of energy…? Restored!

Racing off in line’s direction

(Being the ‘leader’ his reward)

Later, I come home to silence,

Fix a railcar’s track, tweak books

(‘Case the mess should cause embarrassment

If postie into our ‘cave’ looks…)

Poetic purpleness

The ‘lack of energy’ line, hubby says, is ambiguous.  But I meant that our eldest’s energy has come back in the playground, so I tried to convey that by tweaking the punctuation.  I didn’t cheat and go back to change the words 😉

How was your morning?  Do your kids resist school every day, or just sometimes?  Do you have a chart that gets them moving or some other motivator?

Come, chat to me in the comments 🙂

[Photo credit: I took this last year on our way home from school, as usual our eldest is ignoring others’ path in life! Love him.]

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hello 🙂

From randomlists

There has been a particularly warm response to my blog over the last few days, thanks as always for taking the time to read the burblings of my mind (you know you rock, yeah?).

I am really touched that you are here *proffers hugs*

I went out to a café while our youngest was at nursery today, and put the world to rights with a lovely mum pal.  So today’s poem had been written just after midnight, letting me relax knowing it was done and I wasn’t depriving the world.  😛

The generator was pretty kind, it must have seen the bags under my eyes from yesterday.

Misty  Geese  Kick  Willing  Yarn  Great  Argument  Rush  Apologise

On that misty morning

I stared at the water,

Til the geese flew over;

Giving me the kick I needed.

Flying in formation,

Willing to lead, and follow,

And trust in each other –

To journey on together…

My yarn fell from my lap,

I clutched the phone –

Ending the Great Argument –

Breathless in my rush to apologise.

Greeny McGreenface

The speaker, in my head, lives in a stunning location.  I think it is in Canada somewhere, and looks out across a wide garden and down to a lake.  It was a gorgeous sunrise.  She was knitting socks, on four double-pointed needles, and the yarn was blue.  (Sorry, knitting friends, I didn’t see what make of yarn)

What do you think the ‘Great Argument’ was about? 

I was given no clues, though I had the feeling that she was calling someone male? She didn’t say their name.  My scene faded to black as she started to spill sorries down the receiver! 

It was one of those old dial phones, hence the pic.

(Isn’t pixabay fab? All those pictures without the usual copyright restrictions.  No, I am not an affiliate, I just love the idea of them. Hubby told me about them, and pexels, but I digress…)

I found this site with sixty quotes about arguments, which was quite interesting.  I think Wendell Berry’s is my favourite:

Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.

I’ll wager he didn’t have kids to deal with of a morning, then.

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hello, poetry pals *waves*

From Textfixer

It tickles me that when one asks the mighty Google to look up ‘degenerate’, the Also Try section suggests Ellen Degeneres’ Wiki.

…do we think it’s cos of this?!

(Just to point out, I knew what ‘degenerate’ meant, I just wanted to see if there was a nuance I wasn’t thinking of straight away, that I could use in my poem)  (No, seriously)

Anyway, I’m back to a relationship bust-up in today’s offering.  Goody.  It was ‘contempt’ that swung it.

Degenerate   Brutally   Heretical    Computation   Agent   Fashion   Amnesia   Contempt   Root

“You are such a degenerate!”

“Do you have to be so brutally honest?

All the bloody time?

Besides, that would be a

Heretical statement

In some quarters, you know…”

“None I’ve been in!” she snapped back.

He did some computation of her mood.

“Darling…” he tried, but no.

“Don’t ‘darling’ me you –

You agent of the devil!”

He blinked, trying to fashion a response.

If only he could knock

The correct part of her skull,

Bring forth amnesia:

Utter contempt all fair forgotten

To its root.

What blessings then…?

Notebook scribbles

I have no idea why, but the male speaker in this was played by Burt Reynolds; in a white suit.  Well, I know why a white suit, but would Burt Reynolds talk this way?  He had a posh English accent in my head.  And no cowboy hat.

I should have gone to bed earlier instead of staying up til 2am tinkering with this site.

When I tapped around the idea of Reynolds playing someone British, however, I found this discussion about him hypothetically taking on the role of James Bond.  Hmmm…

The female speaker in the poem was played by Nicole Kidman. 

Now (it would appear) my subconscious is coming up with an idea; penning the piece without my input; getting it out there; pitching it to producers, and having big names perform it.  [All before I had written it, within fifteen minutes, this morning while my kids were out of the house]. 

*Thinks about all that for a second*

I really do need to lie down.

[Photo credit: Pixabay]

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!

Hello lovely people,

From Jimpix

I was rather dismayed at today’s words.  I left the timer to one side while I tapped about a bit and educated myself.  I have never been to ‘Wakefield’ and wasn’t too sure what ‘lugubrious’ meant.

Turns out the latter described my mood! 

Ah Jimpix, you never fail to make me think, I’ll give you that…

Scripts   Scooter   Shian  Wakefield   Lugubrious  Rain  Remind  Regina  Factory

We clutched our scripts,

Running full pelt

Dodging dogs and prams,

The odd mobility scooter –

Faster, faster down until –

The train had not escaped us,

And we flopped into our seats.

Shian had the giggles:

Leaning forward in her seat

Shaking.  Which set me off.

We were so excited

As we pulled into Wakefield;

Unaffected by

The lugubrious rain.

Shian thought to remind me

Of my coat, sat sulking

In the corner of my seat

(Used to being a proud Regina

Of my wardrobe court)

I shook it out,

And swept it ‘round once more.

Our nerves did not kick in

Until past the glass factory.

Notebook, in green

It appears that there are two train stations in Wakefield, and a few glass factories, so I am hoping there is a plausibility to a person having to pass a glass factory on the way to some venue, where that person would need to be in possession of a script!

I found this company who welcome new members and perform in Wakefield and surrounding areas, so maybe the scenario in the poem holds up?!  It took me just over 12 minutes to write the poem, so I am glad I didn’t try to squeeze around 10 minutes of research in there, too!

Do these generators not know how wide my perfectionist/worrier streak is?!

Anyone from or know Wakefield, and want to set me straight in a comment?

Copyright © 2017  Montaffera All Rights Reserved

Please do not use any of my content (posts, pictures, poetry etc) without my permission, but feel free to link back to my blog if something catches your eye. Thank you!