That David Beckham poem? Still brewing at the back of my consciousness. Promise I will work on it and call it Regrets.

I saw a harpist; now let's get this straight...she was not a harpy by any stretch of the imagination, but a harpist. 

 

 

I was not pissed but I wrote a poem about her

 

. First draft..needs refining. Now if i was really clever I would make the form of the poem the shape of the harp.

 Mmmmm there's a thought. 

 

 Here it is: 

 Harpist in Spring 

 

 

 

 When Delath seated herself 

 she planted her feet not in rich loam

 but either side of the three-legged instrument 

Like a spinner at the wheel. 

Pulling the resisting frame back into her embrace 

 She spun magic 

From long strings of winter. 

Caressing silver strands and coaxing melody from Springs long past. 

 The harp sang 

as she wove her spell of warmth, sunlight and dew covered valleys, 

shining green hills, with bright streams. 

Dust motes danced around, fairies in the haze. 

 Spring skipped into our room with calm and quiet 

 and the certainty of new starts. 

 We listened in silence, robing ourselves anew in ancient tongues, 

 melody whispered from aeolian harps long gone. 

 Two delicate hands sounding like many instruments.

 Pegged and veneered.

 One speedy as the returning swift

 The other slow and sensuously paced. 

Let the ancient song flow 

Engorged streams 

Fast and bright 

Filling the hall with spring.

another sad poem 

 Closure 

He said yes its over i met someone else 

 you did

 you did the things you said 

were they real? 

Were they lies no

 i meant them 

you know I did

 I know you did 

you did

 times change 

they did 

they did

 you broke my heart

 Did you make me up? 

 you do get some weird things in your head

 I did

 I did 

I got you in my head

 good grief woman get a grip

 I did 

I did I got you in the grip of my heart

That other poem...I would like to enter this for some competitions, but is it good enough? Will it reveal too much of my inner workings? Or not, as the case may be. Can it be improved or do I leave it?

Making Sense

In ashes of a doomed encounter
No spark
Vision blurred
Fire quenched by
Tears?
Or foresight?
Memory's betrayal, smoke
Pervades all I touch, everyone
I love.
Always in the embers
Guilt.
Is passion ever wrong?
Doubt rains shards of regret.
What changed your mind?
Your face a crumpled sepia
After image
In my mind's eye.
But the cadence of your voice
Lingers.
An echo in my grey heart.
Why can't we talk any more?
Raise my heart from the dead earth.
Make me complete.

Had a few ideas for poems

 

. Some provoked by hearing the harpist, another inspired by an event at Murcia airport last Friday. 

 

So what happened at Murcia? This is a tiny airport with only 3 gates, flights to Madrid and a couple of places in the UK. I had a surfboard, it only cost 8 euros but Francis so much wanted to take it home.

 

 Tried to check it into the hold and was told that as it was sports equipment it would cost 25 euros to carry. 

How ludicrous that was, so I tried to cram it into the suitcase without luck, whilst it was on the conveyor belt as well whilst the girl pretended to look the other way. So I told her I would trash it and took it off to find a bin.

 Of course in these days of high security there was no bin in the place. I gave it to Steve and he said he would look outside for one and so off he went. I took the kids over by the doors to wait for him and in doing so noticed at least 10 Guardia Civil with green uniforms and pistolas. Oh dear, would they apprehend my suspicious looking husband?

 Steve returned to the concourse, still carrying the surfboard and looking fraught. 

There were no bins outside either. Then he started to panic as he saw all the guards. Surely they would notice the surfboard whereever we dumped it and a full scale security alert was sure to follow. I ridiculed him to no use.

 In the end and totally exasperated I grabbed it from him and asked the girl in the Ryan Air kiosk to take it off my hands, which she did willingly. 

 Meanwhile a line of boys clutching footballs and soccer magazines had formed from doors to immigration control. I encouraged Dominic to join the line and I stood behind him. Some famous fotballer was obviously using the airport.

 We got the digital camera out so as to be able to identify this famous person at a later date. A short while of waiting when a coach pulled up and the whole of the Real Madrid football team came out and walked through the concourse very close to us including David Beckham. 

Now up until this point I had never really taken notice of him. I knew he was a talented footballer but despised him for his choice of wife, his courting of the press and his profligacy with money. Also the papers and TV had been full of tales of his affairs for the past fortnight to the point of saturation. However, I was strucjk by the delicacy of his features and the finenessof his physique, his silky hair pulled back in a ponytail, he looked like a porcelain doll in his blue suit. I wrote down my impressions and will mould them into a poem. I could see why people think he is classically beautiful for he was, quite thrillingly stunning. So when I have worked on it I will post the poem here.

Found a poem I was looking for which I wrote a few months ago 

 

 

Breaking 

 Can you break your own heart?

 Did you try? 

Was it worth the pain? 

Did you sigh? 

Can you do it over and over 

 Because each time you

 Give in?

 Can you break your own heart?

 Is it a sin? 

Can you leave on a high?

 Do you lie?

 Is the pain too much to bear? 

Made you cry 

Is it because you have to win? 

Can't lose or let him in 

Will you break your own heart? 

Is it a sin?

When I say phinetically I mean phonetically of course. Being exposed to so many Welsh accents is infectious.

Formed a poetry group with 2 other women...maybe muse will strike doubly or trebly. We are anxious to create...we know we can do better than some who are published.

Monday 19th April


Muse muse, wherefore art thou?

In search of inspiration this frustrated blogger went to Swansea and listened to a harpist play. Unfortunately did not find out how to spell her name so wrote it phinetically and lo and behold...a poem emerged.