My kitchen shelves ...Eclectic mix plus cobwebs!

A great storm came in the night and tried to mash down the flowers...the red hawthorn tree is so bursting with blooms this year I just had to go out in the wet and bring some inside.

My Indian and African masks look down amongst the cobwebs..who has time for dusting anyway!

My shelves are full of love and light of all kinds. The Hindu goddess in red is Lakshmi...a gift from our dear friend Renu. If you rub her palm it is said she will bring you good fortune and wealth. It's never worked for me exactly but I'm not complaining at the abundance that we enjoy in our western world. So many people have such miserable and perilous existences.

My artist son made this probably ten years ago, when he was a student but I've always loved it.

A little Mexican painting on tin from Irene

Lovely fat garlic

More from my artist children

Beautiful bronze Buddha with little white porcelain hare sitting at his feet

This Christ figure was a gift from Southern Italy 

My mobile phone/camera bag from Panama

This is what my son thought horses looked like when he was about seven years old.Scary scary teeth!!

So as you can see my kitchen is rather bonkers but I enjoy it's eclectic mix that reminds me of so many friends and dear ones.

And to put it into a little context here are a few images of friends enjoying a meal..actually it's more a case of here are some images of a typical meal..I love feeding people!

 Me and Marge..before my hair went quite so bright white! I'm on the right!

And just for fun..Here's a poem I wrote called 

The Meal

Welcome all , relax, sit down.

So glad you all could come.

Have an olive, a glass of wine.

Pass the plates along.

All day I’ve picked, diced and chopped

as the puppy played round my feet.

The onions, grown with love and care

sizzle, watch the heat.

Green beans sliced and gently steamed

salt flaked potatoes

roast with thyme.

Black poppy seeds crack and dance

on tender leeks divine

Self seeding fennel, grows like weeds

their fragrance fills the air.

Bake them sliced with milk and butter,

oh but my, they’re fare.

Cucumber cool in yoghurt

Beetroot slid hot from their skins

revealed as scarlet slashes

gleaming as though full of sin.

Take some fried radiccio

artichokes crisped in tempura.

Have some, help yourselves,

I always cook too much.

Pass the salad down this end

The rockets grown too long

but those tomatoes they’re just fine

they smell of summers gone.

Hunt among the green leaves

you’ll find avocado there,

all specked with toasted pine nuts

and wet with oils desire.

It’s great to see you all

Top up your glass and

Pass the bottle round.

More water anyone?

Here’s A bowl of strawberries

with flowers of feverfew.

Pile them on with clotted cream

and roasted hazel nuts.

Coffee next or herbal tea.

Relax, don’t rush, unwind.

We’ll light the fire and all draw near

Let’s talk the night away

And if you are all too tired to drive

There’s empty beds upstairs

the kids have flown the nest long since.

For breakfast I’ll poach pears

serve them with a slice of cake,

sweet cheese from yellow quince

or toast from bread I’ll bake

the cupboards never bare

I’m so glad you all could come

Life was made to share.

Facebook poems

Been having fun with flooding facebook with poems..
Josie just put this one up and reminded me how much I love it:

The Harvest Moon, by Ted Hughes 

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

I love the image of the the great red moon booming softly through heaven like a bassoon...beautiful.

I was assigned Willim Blake and so the one I put up was the magical;
Auguries of Innocence 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus'd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf's & Lion's howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov'd by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by Woman lov'd.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider's enmity.
He who torments the Chafer's sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist's Jealousy.
The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return'd to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.
The poor Man's Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith
Triumph's over Hell & Death.
The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour's iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They'd immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.
The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

gift of silence written last year

A gift to you

If I could give you a gift 
it would be simple,
silence.
If this were the perfect poem 
it would make a space for you 
to be between the words.

In telling you of my love for you
I would fall short
For I can only tell you
what love is not.

My first performance..of a few poems

Well...I have never done anything like this before..exposing your words and inner images is like laying your new born out on the rocks..but it seemed to go well and as I scooped the mewling babe back into my arms to hide away under my shawl... I got a very pleasant tingle..