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LordPineapple
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Name: lord
Country: United Kingdom
Metro: London
Birthday: 9/8/1947
Gender: Male
Interests: Poems by Lord Pineapple, Sophie Morgan, blackie fortuna, Horace Smith Esq. Wee Duncan D. Ingar Gorse, Jacques du Lumerie, The Rev. Tobias Trontby, "Empty Chairs", Tiffy Witherington, Three-Headed Sarahs', Marie St. Denis, AND guests.
Expertise: Poetry, many published poems to my name.
See also http://Clowne.homestead.com/blogs.html
Occupation: Other
Industry: Research
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
7/7/2003
 Lifetime
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A LIFETIME PREMIUM PAID
MEMORIAL SITE
Donated
by LittleEgypt
10-08-2005 In Memory
Of
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Terence David Cuthbert
aka
LordPineapple
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September 8, 1947
July 31, 2005 |
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| Sorry, For now my only usuable site will be at http://www.Xanga.com/More_Than_Just_Crabs/
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| Little Love Songs.
you read out bits
from your newspaper,
but i only ever remember
your voice.
---
it is so quiet,
that i hear only your heart
breathing for me.
---
listening to all the poetry
within your silence.
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the morning birds,
and yes,
you singing
in the bathroom.
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you shave me
so tenderly
that i think
you are merely
stroking my face.
---
i write you a poem
each time you touch me
even when the words
do not linger in the air.
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you always start off
just washing my back,
and then...
oh, i love you!
---
i gave the dog
the wrong tin of meat,
but you only laughed
and cooked some chips.
---
i search for my hanky
you give me yours,
and i want to cry in it
through happiness.
---
The Poet Known as "Empty Chairs".
("Empty Chairs" is blind.)
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I look at the inscriptions on the stones
in my church,
and I wonder if
they are just forgotten names
of silence.
For can anything else exist
other than for their names
and their rotting bones?
Is this all a sham,
is there nothing beyond of this,
will our memories
turn to the same dust as our flesh?
If that is so,
then I feel even more than ever
that kindness to the living
is the most important role of any vicar.
I can not "save" what is mortal
but I can always bring a smile
to a face full of tears.
---
The Reverend Tobias Trontby †
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| MY US TRIP: see The_Clowne_from_Clown blog
Medical update: I have accute anemia now, which means I can do things like travel but I got to keep sitting down every few minutes.
As usual, I'll post my pieces and visit your blogs over the next couple of days, that is so I can read your blogs properly of course. Terry.
and sorry, more Sophie!
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"In The Cemetery"
We went on a car-ride
To a cemetery
To see where Grandad was buried.
It was hard to cry
Over someone I hardly remembered,
But I pretended to be sad.
And I put some flowers on the grave
And did the three blessings.
(Not that that Grandad was Catholic,
That is Mummy's dad
Who is still alive
But lives a long way away).
I looked at the other graves
As Nanny sat down.
I read some of the words
And was sad to see
One grave was for a boy who died aged four,
who died two years ago.
"Why do I come here Sophie?"
Nanny asked me.
"To show you remember?"
I asked back.
"You are a good girl" she sighed
And we went back to the car.
It was a beautiful sunny day,
But the birdsong and the wild flowers were wasted
In such a sad place.
---
Sophie Lucy Morgan (Aged 10).
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Diary extracts from August 2004.
Mam Tor towers above my church. At present, the hill-side is a mass of Scottish bluebells, and children slide down it's slopes on trays, and lovers hold hands and marvel at the sights.
They call Mam Tor "The Shivering Mountain", because the other side the mountain does shiver in high winds. In 1949, a road was laid around that side of the mountain at a considable expense, but each winter it had to close when there were high winds, and in 1982 a gale brought half the mountain onto the road and left large cracks in the part not affected, so it was never re-opened. It was not the first time this happened on the road and frankly it was not worth re-building.
On the church side though, how different! it is beautiful in mist, in snow, and in sun, and I have often puffed up it's tracks to the top to feel at one with God.
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It is time for the well-dressing outside my church, when scouts guides cubs and brownies spend a week sticking flower-petals, twigs, moss and other natural substances, to make wonderful pictures.
For several years now they have followed the design of local artist, Celia Potts, (who also designed the new wonderful stained glass window in my church, all free.)
This year the surprising theme is Jonah and the Whale, but I did do that in my Sunday School.
Since 1860, every year's well-dressing has been photographed and kept in the church vaults, only to be read, viewed by appointment. Of course since the fifties, the photos have been in colour, and I have noticed Jonah has not been used before.
The other well dressing in Shawthwaite has less religious themes, they are working now on a view of the railway with a steam train coming through the valley. Very beautiful but as the idea of dressing the wells is to thank God for spring water in an otherwise waterless area, I think it misses the point.
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Another beautiful day, and I stroll through the village in my dog-collar smiling and talking to people, and visiting the old the sick and the depressed.
I have so much to do in my parish, trips out for the younger kids, bingo, and my vast church garden, that I do not get out nearly enough, though my wonderful curate; a lady in her fifties, also does a great job.
She is invaluable, for it is amazing what there is to do, from VAT books to flower-arranging to going to Buxton to visit villagers in Hospital there. It is a busy life, but it is better than being some Father McKensey!
----
The Reverend Tobias Trontby †
(note: Mam Tor and well-dressing and so on exists, but the people are ficticious, and oh, ignore the date, wrote this this week!)
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| As last time, I'll blog then read your blogs inbetween rests, Terry.
I am not sure why I am writing a lot of Sophie poems, wrote another one since the below, maybe it's because being ill, I dream back to my own childhood. I know one thing, Freud would have a field day with me!
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"Return To The Park"
Sitting in the park with Elgar,
Stone-skipping on the lake.
I love it when it is warm,
When the sun is out
And I have time
To do nothing much more
Than drink water and laze.
Elgar is now twelve, but says
He doesn't want to leave childhood,
He had seen too much of grown-up life.
Thinking of my dad, I agree.
I wish this could go on forever,
No more cares but a money-spider
Climbing up my arm.
Elgar makes me laugh,
Black, with it, and so on,
He has started talking like
The Famous Five children.
"Gosh!" he says "what a spiffing day!"
People stare at him as he shouts
"Jolly fine weather my good man!"
I, of course, get the giggles.
Yes, the sun on our skin,
Picnic at our side,
It's lovely to be with a male
I can really trust,
Not like my dad.
---
(Note: I mentioned Elgar to a supply teacher and she said "he's a great English composer!" and could not understand why some of us laughed.)
---
Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)
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The crane pulled up
The leylandii tree
That was as big as a Leyland truck,
Will I miss the beast?
Will I "dog & duck"!
It took over the pub garden
And darkened all my rooms,
And killed any flowers nearby
That I tried to bloom.
I'm glad the thing is gone
I bet my customers will be too,
"Good riddence giant leylandii tree
I never loved you!"
You were planted by my Uncle Jack.
Though God knows why.
I'll place a rose garden there instead,
And there I'll sit on my nights off
Drinking beer till I die.
---
Tiffy Witherington.
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| Well, all the tests are through. I have a serious liver complaint. Painful, but nothing to stop any plans for this summer! (btw I have never been a big drinker)
Leaving new entry, will catch up with your blogs in between sleeping spells.
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"Sometimes I want to run away from what is real, this is one of those times, so welcome to the land of fantasy...or is it?" Sophie.
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I trapped the moon
In a balloon
And took it off to school.
And when I popped the balloon
There was the moon
That went "boo!"
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I heard God
Speak on my i-pod
And He said to me
"Make us a cup of tea!"
So I brewed a cup
To see God sat up,
He was turning all my pencils
Into little gold angels.
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"Flying Fish"
The fish flew over the trees,
It was glad to be free,
It did not at all pine for the sea
As it soared through the sky.
Birds looked at it
Cats looked at it
i looked at it
But it did not care.
"Flying is better than frying!"
The fish joked
As it carried on flapping it's gulls
Until it was
Far, far away.
So far away
That no one believed me
When I told them
That I saw a fish in the sky.
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Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)
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A Poem.
The lady told us off
Cos we were outside her gate talking.
If people has no respect for us kids
Then why should we respect them?
Why should we be nice to an old bully,
After all, I have seen her
Talking outside people's gates.
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Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged 10
Haiku:
I glared at the cat...
And looking at me,
It dropped the bird.
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Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged 10
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