Month: June 2005

  • Sorry, For now my only usuable site will be at http://www.Xanga.com/More_Than_Just_Crabs/


     

  • 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.



    —



    the morning birds,

    and yes,

    you singing

    in the bathroom.



    —



    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.



    —



    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.)

    ———-

     

     


    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 †


     

    —————

     

     

  • 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!


    —————-


    “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).

    ———–

     

     


    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.



    —-



    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.



    —



    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!)

  • 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!


    ________


    “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)

     

    _____

     


    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.

    ———-

     

    I have been told the leylandii is rare in America, here is a link  http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/61679.stm

     

  • 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.

     

    —————


    “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.



    ————–



    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!”



    ————–



    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.



    —————



    “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.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)

    ———-


    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.



    ——

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged 10





    Haiku:



    I glared at the cat…

    And looking at me,

    It dropped the bird.



    ———-

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged 10

  • If I vanish a few days from Wednesday it’s cos I am in hospital, but don’t worry. TERRY.

     

    ff % 243 Group haiku. (June 2005)



    bf=blackie fortuna, EC=Empty Chairs, LP=Lord Pineapple, SLM=Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10), RTT=The Reverend Tobias Trontby, Vicar of Shawthwaite, TW=Tiffy Witherington.





    ————

    beautiful sunset

    and no camera!

    (LP)



    ————



    the morning paper

    a murdered child

    i go back and pray

    (RTT)

    ————



    just one star

    then clouds…

    I go back indoors

    (SLM)



    ————



    I open my eyes:

    in the sunlight

    a swarm of sneers

    (bf)



    ————



    now so slow

    will not scare

    the crows in the field!

    (LP)



    _______



    my video broken

    I stare at the clouds

    (TW)



    ————



    I can feel you

    warm sun

    I can feel you!

    (EC)



    ————



    cucumber slice

    falls from sandwich:

    ant soon there

    (LP)



    ————



    the vegetarian

    hurries past

    the butchers

    (SLM)



    ————



    no longer seeing

    the milky way:

    my old eyes

    (LP)



    ————



    so cold

    as I remember

    her death

    (LP)



    ————



    Beethoven’s ninth…

    I cry myself

    to sleep

    (LP)



    ————



    __________

    Terry Cuthbert. June 2005

    ————–

    Ps Sorry about the last post, it vanished! My stupidity! Thanks to Ben got the post back but not your lovely comments.

  • ff % 243 Group haiku. (May 2005)



    bf=blackie fortuna, EC=Empty Chairs, LP=Lord Pineapple, SLM=Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10), RTT=The Reverend Tobias Trontby, Vicar of Shawthwaite, TW=Tiffy Witherington.



    ————-



    waiting for the fur cones to open out on the heater (SLM)



    —



    on the tiny island noticing every flower (RTT)



    —



    together, the dog and I clean up after the barbecue. (TW)



    —



    a dripping tap… the only sound in the old chapel (RTT)



    —



    it is not the wasp’s fault, it did not know I was blind (EC)



    —



    the spider weaves an haiku on my cardboard bed (bf)



    —



    with my tears I christen the still-born baby (RTT)



    —



    plastic flowers, I feed with a duster  (TW)



    —



    Christmas morning: a father steer’s his son’s new bike (LP)



    —



    frozen river: the duck pecks at the ice (SLM)



    —



    daybreak. I wash my hands in the snow (bf)



    —



    a pressed flower falls out of her bible (RTT)



    —



    making daisy-chains out of buttercups (SLM)



    —



    “isn’t my dress a pretty colour!” the child cries. “red” whispers my friend (EC)



    —



    after the fire dies, the stray cat yawns and vanishes. winter moon (bf)



    —



    white blossom? snow? white blossom? (LP)



    —



    cricket on the village green. i just pass around the teas (RTT)



    —



    I take out my wrapped sandwiches and pigeons fly in (LP)



    —



    in the church hall children are singing. I tend my garden with joy (RTT)



    —



    I shoo the wasp from my lemonade. it flies into mummy’s and I cry (SLM)



    —



    my touch goes dim. I look. a moth (bf)



    —



    her book marked. she never did read the last chapter. my mother. (LP)



    —



    the spider web is a cat’s cradle in the crown of my hands (SLM)



    —



    In the shop doorway, myself, a box, a flea (bf)



    —



    sweeping up wet confetti, look up, see the rainbow (RTT)



    Terry Cuthbert.

     

    ——————-

     


    Rain



    Sheltering under a tree.

    A stray dog joins me.



    We look at each other and we each sigh.



    This was to be the perfect day.



    —

    Marie St. Denis.

    ____________________

     

    Illness keeps my comments short, but it does not stop my enjoyment in reading.

     

     

     

    MORE ON MY AMERICAN HOLIDAY! SEE “The_Clowne_from_Clown” site!

     

    and on my  Three_Headed_Goliaths site,  Tiffy throws away her dildo!