Seagulls on a beach
how they hover
how they move
looking for chips
looking for food
where's the fish?
that once was there
how can that be honestly fair?
Seagulls on a beach
how they hover
how they move
looking for chips
looking for food
where's the fish?
that once was there
how can that be honestly fair?
Whitby seagulls are assassins and are the size of little pigs
Are they the starey seagulls? I've seen a few of them, I've noticed that they do that intense starey look .:o They got the look and not the look of love, more the look of, flipping heck
I've imagined that this mound was built as a look out. The people cleared an area of woodland and built this so they could stand on the top and look out above the dense forest that would have been all around at that time . That's my guess anyway
I've imagined that this mound was built as a look out.
It's a good a guess as any BB. Personally, I favour the view of Michael Dames, who thinks Silbury represents a pregnant woman. The rest of her body is seen in the surrounding ditch; the thighs and breasts are clearly visible from above. The ancients thought on a monumental scale - the sheer amount of rock-hard chalk dug out to build Silbury Hill is staggering
Take my hand child,
as an adult,
I must hold,
I must sever,
with love and assurance,
for my future,
I must let you go.
The baggage is simply too much,
to carry around forevermore,
but you will not die,
you will only become
a better me.
As I look within, at myself,
the mirrored reality,
I wonder what I truly see?
child or grown up?
fear, nerves,
hate and anger,
happiness and laughter,
the haunting question mark
looms...
A tightrope of uncertainties,
can be detected,
just as fear may be smelt in the air,
grasped in the shaking fist,
delicate, risks everywhere.
To take or not to take?
the options are non-existent,
for to live is to carry on,
risk is inevitable -
lets hope it pays off.
As I think; deeper,
look closer,
what is it that comes foremost to mind,
that I see, in my minds eye?.
I must not lie,
the voice calls out,
for there is no worse self infliction you can apply,
so I bare that in mind, as I question,
what I see,
unaware of the opinions of others;
of you, of me.
I realise,
if I were to lie, I'd only be fooling myself.
There is no escape,
from a life time sentence
of denial,
when you know what it is your denying.
Always there will be,
a part of you
knowing and working,
to keep it all within.
I'm not sure if that piece entirely makes much sense, its just more of the same really but maybe it'll strike a chord with someone? who knows. I like to think it sounds somewhat poetic(?) perhaps. I hope to try and write something more 'jolly' shortly (though I've probably jinxed myself by saying so(!)).
It's a good a guess as any BB. Personally, I favour the view of Michael Dames, who thinks Silbury represents a pregnant woman. The rest of her body is seen in the surrounding ditch; the thighs and breasts are clearly visible from above. The ancients thought on a monumental scale - the sheer amount of rock-hard chalk dug out to build Silbury Hill is staggering
When I googled about a bit, I came across some mounds that had been built in North America about the same time . Evidently there is a collective name for the people who created them. Guess what it is .... Mound Builders ! https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mound_Builders
I'm going to see if we know if there was a lot of water about in that area or if it ever flooded , as it looks like there is lots of connections to rivers in North America .
I've had a look at the pictures , but I can't see how it looks like a woman
Are they the starey seagulls? I've seen a few of them, I've noticed that they do that intense starey look .:o They got the look and not the look of love, more the look of, flipping heck
Lay northern clogs on Lowry's grave,
His art deserves the honour,
For Michelangelo who gave
So much, a stone Madonna,
For Edgar Allen Poe be brave,
At night, place belladonna.
Leave sheets of paper for John Clare
And petals to inspire,
A flame for Blake to help repair
His chariot of fire,
Love letters for Charles Baudelaire
That simmer with desire.
Place absinthe where the sunlight spills
On Vincent who reposes,
For Oscar Wilde arrange new quills
But nothing old of Bosie's,
For William Wordsworth, daffodils,
For Holbein, Tudor roses.
For tombs of artists let us look
And bring them gifts tomorrow,
Leave Betjeman a quaint guidebook,
For Holman Hunt we'll borrow
A Bible and for Rupert Brooke
Some poppies picked in sorrow.
Comments
The Ringmaster entered and sensed something wrong,
The Big tent lacked people and sound,
The juggler let plates spin and wobble so long
They shattered to bits on the ground.
The fearless cat tamer who lashed the whip straight
Now dreaded each tiger and lion,
The strong man attempted to pick up the weight
Yet couldn't lift one ounce of iron.
The old fortune teller's predictions were marred
When her mind lost all psychic force,
The girl who rode side-saddle pulled the reins hard
But failed to control the white horse.
The boy on the trapeze fell without a net,
The Ringmaster looked at the clown
Whose shiny red mouth made a terrible threat;
The ghost circus had come to town.
©
The circus isn't always serious, I saw a funny circus, there was a banana joke, bananas are amazing, so versatile.
Seagulls on a beach
how they hover
how they move
looking for chips
looking for food
where's the fish?
that once was there
how can that be honestly fair?
Whitby seagulls are assassins and are the size of little pigs
I've imagined that this mound was built as a look out. The people cleared an area of woodland and built this so they could stand on the top and look out above the dense forest that would have been all around at that time . That's my guess anyway
I wrote a poem called I, Banana - I might post it next time Sandy
The cat's on her favourite chair keeping
As snug as a cat can be
But while she is peacefully sleeping
What images does she see?
Is she in the corn near a farmhouse,
Crouched down with an icy stare
That's fixed on a hapless dormouse
Who's unaware she's even there?
Or is she beneath a grand ceiling,
Relaxing on cushions of silk,
Where dinners are always appealing
And saucers of gold contain milk?
Perhaps she is making a bee-line
For moggies who scrap in the night
Or singing to some other feline
Beneath the moon's silvery light.
The cat wakes and with the dream finished
No eyes are the equal of these;
They seem, now that sleep has diminished
As deep as uncharted seas.
©
As cavalry appear
The stinking rot of horses hide
Is drawing ever near
“Reload” is the order cried
As horsemen start to trot
No saviour here to pray abide
Just powder, gun and shot
“Fix bayonets” is the order cried
As horses start to run
Thundering hooves cast ground aside
As sabres catch the sun
“FIRE” is the order cried
As teeth and eyes flash by
Crackling smoke from ranks inside
The square’s loud battle cry
“Close up” is the order cried
“Reload” follows fast
“Aim low – FIRE” as horses slide
And scream as muskets blast
“KILL THEM” is the order cried
As horsemen start to fall
“KILL THEM” as the square divides
To batter, stab and brawl
as an adult,
I must hold,
I must sever,
with love and assurance,
for my future,
I must let you go.
The baggage is simply too much,
to carry around forevermore,
but you will not die,
you will only become
a better me.
As I look within, at myself,
the mirrored reality,
I wonder what I truly see?
child or grown up?
fear, nerves,
hate and anger,
happiness and laughter,
the haunting question mark
looms...
A tightrope of uncertainties,
can be detected,
just as fear may be smelt in the air,
grasped in the shaking fist,
delicate, risks everywhere.
To take or not to take?
the options are non-existent,
for to live is to carry on,
risk is inevitable -
lets hope it pays off.
As I think; deeper,
look closer,
what is it that comes foremost to mind,
that I see, in my minds eye?.
I must not lie,
the voice calls out,
for there is no worse self infliction you can apply,
so I bare that in mind, as I question,
what I see,
unaware of the opinions of others;
of you, of me.
I realise,
if I were to lie, I'd only be fooling myself.
There is no escape,
from a life time sentence
of denial,
when you know what it is your denying.
Always there will be,
a part of you
knowing and working,
to keep it all within.
I'm not sure if that piece entirely makes much sense, its just more of the same really but maybe it'll strike a chord with someone? who knows. I like to think it sounds somewhat poetic(?) perhaps. I hope to try and write something more 'jolly' shortly (though I've probably jinxed myself by saying so(!)).
When I googled about a bit, I came across some mounds that had been built in North America about the same time . Evidently there is a collective name for the people who created them. Guess what it is .... Mound Builders !
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mound_Builders
I'm going to see if we know if there was a lot of water about in that area or if it ever flooded , as it looks like there is lots of connections to rivers in North America .
I've had a look at the pictures , but I can't see how it looks like a woman
Yes they are starey alright !!
http://fineartamerica.com/images-simple-print/images-medium/the-disapproving-seagull-lori-beesley.jpg
Bananas are lovely with custard.:D
Lay northern clogs on Lowry's grave,
His art deserves the honour,
For Michelangelo who gave
So much, a stone Madonna,
For Edgar Allen Poe be brave,
At night, place belladonna.
Leave sheets of paper for John Clare
And petals to inspire,
A flame for Blake to help repair
His chariot of fire,
Love letters for Charles Baudelaire
That simmer with desire.
Place absinthe where the sunlight spills
On Vincent who reposes,
For Oscar Wilde arrange new quills
But nothing old of Bosie's,
For William Wordsworth, daffodils,
For Holbein, Tudor roses.
For tombs of artists let us look
And bring them gifts tomorrow,
Leave Betjeman a quaint guidebook,
For Holman Hunt we'll borrow
A Bible and for Rupert Brooke
Some poppies picked in sorrow.
©