Winter Woodland ~ Luccia Gray #writephoto

Winter Woodland

Bare trees scrape clear sky,

Shivering pine leaves listen

To snow flakes melting,

Continue reading at Re-reading Jane Eyre

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The Perfect Tree ~ Fandango #writephoto

”Dad, let’s go. I’m cold,” Doug said.

“Yeah, me too, Dad,” Dana said, echoing her older brother.

“Steve please,” Arlene said. “We’ve been out here for hours and you still haven’t found your ‘perfect’ tree. It’s going to be dark soon, the kids are tired and, quite frankly, so am I.”

“Just a little while longer, hon,” Craig said. “I don’t want to have to come all the way back out here again. I’ll know it when I see it.”

Arlene looked at her watch. “Kids, let’s give Dad another 15 minutes,” she said. “If he hasn’t found his perfect tree by then, we’ll go.”

Continue reading at This, That and the Other

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Time #midnighthaiku

*

Swift days of summer

Time too fragile to be held

Years pass unnoticed

Youth that fades with the flowers

Bears seed and fruit in winter

*

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Funny way to write a book! ~ Jim Webster

Reblogged from Jim Webster:

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As the late, great Samuel Johnson once said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.” It’s all well and good writing a book, how the dickens are you going to get anybody to read it? More to the point how are you going to get them to pay for the undoubted privilege?

At this point I confess that if I was forced to live on my earnings as a writer, I would be writing this from shanty made from pallets and cardboard, situated nicely overlooking a rubbish tip. This is not the blog of somebody who is offering to show you how I made my first million. Indeed looking at my sales, it might well be worth reading this blog only to know what not to do.

Continue reading at Jim Webster

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Robin and the Frost ~ Jane Dougherty #writephoto

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For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt and for dverse, a poem written in quatrains using the rhyming scheme of one of my favourite poems, Yeats’s ‘When you are old and grey’.

When crisp snaps frost at fall of winter night,

The trees fill with the sound of restless birds

That cannot put into our human words

Their anguish at the fading of the light.

Continue reading at Jane Dougherty Writes

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Take that (again), Norman Rockwell… #thanksgiving #humor #travel #Scotland

barbtaub's avatarBarb Taub

A few years ago, we celebrated our first Thanksgiving in Glasgow. I already knew it would be difficult to get a turkey, as they don’t appear in the local shops until close to their traditional starring role as Christmas dinner.

But I heard about an organic turkey farm in Scotland, so I put the address into my phone Sat-Nav and headed out. Soon I was deep in the Scottish countryside, admiring a field with adorable ponies grazing in it, but worried about the fact that my phone wasn’t picking up any signals. By about the tenth time I passed that same field, the now-familiar ponies weren’t nearly as attractive, so I switched to traditional navigation. In Scotland, that means by pub: “Easy as kin be. Tak’ a pointy caw afore ye come tae th’ Prince’s Bonnit, then seicont left efter whaur th’ Three Cygnets used tae be ‘n’ up th’…

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Living Lore: Lady Godiva ~ Gary Stocker

Continuing Gary Stocker’s Sunday series of posts on the folklore, ancient sites and legends of Britain. If you have similar stories to share from the area in which you live,  please read the footnote and send them in.

The philanthropic Lady Godiva (“God’s Gift”). Lady Godiva is certainly one of Coventry’s most famous (and favourite) daughters. She lived in Coventry with her husband, Earl Leofric, in Norman pre-conquest times and just after. She did manage to retain her lands after the conquest.

Anyway, I am sure that a lot of you are familiar with the legend, her husband kept on putting the rates up, which was having an economically detrimental effect on the citizens of Coventry. So she asked him not to do it again. He said that he would not if she rode naked through the streets of Coventry, so she did!

She let it be known beforehand, so everyone in respect to her modesty, stayed inside away from the windows and doors. Except for a lecherous tailor who became known as Peeping Tom. Accounts vary as to what happened to him. Some say that he dropped dead and others say that he became blind. The legend appeared about two centuries after it supposedly happened and there are various theories about what really happened, if it happened at all. Whether it did or not, I still like the idea that there are some people in authority who care about the people below them!

There are various statues around Coventry about this. There is a statue of Lady Godiva in the city centre. Also in the city centre is a clock. On the hour a jack of Lady Godiva comes out underneath the dial, whilst a door above the dial opens and Peeping Tom appears! Near there, under a covered walkway, is a wooden bust of Peeping Tom. He was originally in a pub called the “Peeping Tom”, which eventually became a clothes shop. Although he did remain on public view in one of the windows.

 

There were actually various Peeping Tom statues around Coventry. My dad and his parents were from Coventry, but had to move out when their house got badly damaged in the blitz. My grandfather had been in the First World War, but was too old for the second one. He had a reserved occupation at Riley Cars anyway. He told my dad that one morning after an air raid, one of the Peeping Tom statues (I am not too sure which one) had had a metal chamber pot put on his head in place of a protective helmet. A case of the British sense of humour shining through adversity!


About the author

Gary Stocker graduated from Coventry Polytechnic in 1991 with a degree in combined engineering. He worked in civil engineering for nearly twenty years. For the last six years he has worked in materials science and currently works as a test engineer. His hobbies and interests include voluntary work, conservation work and blacksmithing. He is also interested in history, mythology and folklore and he says, “most things”.


How did your granny predict the weather? What did your great uncle Albert tell you about the little green men he saw in the woods that night? What strange creature stalks the woods in your area?

So many of these old stories are slipping away for want of being recorded. legendary creatures, odd bits of folklore, folk remedies and charms, and all the old stories that brought our landscape to life…

Tell me a story, share memories of the old ways that are being forgotten, share the folklore of your home. I am not looking for fiction with this feature, but for genuine bits of folklore, old wives tales, folk magic and local legends. Why not share what you know and preserve it for the future?

Email me at findme@scvincent.com and put ‘Living Lore’ in the subject line. All I need is your article, bio and links, along with any of your own images you would like me to include and I’ll do the rest.

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A Very Good Morning ~ Neel Anil Panicker #writephoto

Mornings were Manisha’s best time of the day.

Being an early riser helped.

She loved to wake up at the crack of dawn, much before man and machine joined forces to ear splitting cacophony, brain numbing cacophonous hell.

Early mornings would find her in the woods behind her modest house.

There, undisturbed, she would find time to connect with her inner soul.

Continue reading at Neel Anil Panicker

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Recheck the DNA ~ Teresa Smeigh #writephoto

Jack checked with the lab and made new appointments for DNA testing. He was getting anxious about the results, he had to admit to himself. Somehow he is feeling that things aren’t going to go their way. What if the twins aren’t theirs? He loved those boys and breaking up their family, and possibly another one, if indeed the twins had been switched, would be heart-breaking.

Continue reading at  Tessa can do it

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A pattern in the night

Image: Pixabay

I couldn’t sleep. I’d gone to bed sleepy, read until I could read no more, then snuggled down expecting the inner lights to go out within minutes. An hour later I was still waiting… and wide awake. It might have had something to do with the discomfort in my hand. Nothing to do with typing too much of course… not possible. I gave in and got up, heading for hot milk and more of the damnable painkillers. I wasn’t best pleased about the whole affair as I need to be up by six at the latest, Sunday or not, and it had been after midnight when I had finally gone to bed in the first place.

The previous night it had been the wind howling outside. It is odd, I have no qualms about being high on a hilltop in the wind, buffeted by gusts and struggling to stay upright. That I enjoy. But I don’t like the noises the house makes in a gale. I hadn’t particularly cared for the creaks and groans of the trees either when Ani and I had been out for our walk. But I had slept as soon as the rain began to batter the windows. That I find soothing.

It is strange the associations we make with sensory impressions and how deeply they are ingrained and affect behaviour. The smell of candlewax I find both comfortable and uplifting. The sound of rain on an umbrella is happy… and on canvas the memories of camping trips and laughter come back. The list is endless…

I was thinking about it when I was cuddling my granddaughter. The small sounds of a sleepy child seem to trigger the competence of motherhood again. The body knows what to do…how to lift and hold, how to rock and calm. Probably with far more confidence now than when the skills were first learned. The smell of paint reminds fingers what to do to create an image. The touch of flour tells them how to make pastry. The sound of a waltz reminds the feet how to dance.

I wondered how much our memory is rooted in the physical. All of it in some ways, as we can only experience through the senses. We know there is muscle memory, a pattern known to the body that it can repeat with increasing ease and accuracy as we learn new skills. Then we add the overlay of emotion, of course… a context that frames and defines each memory and colours our perception each time they are triggered. It is all part of the constant programming that builds up the layers of individuality that make us who we are.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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