Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
finds us, fairly close, could be
our fingers touch; two stones mating
and it's cold, instantly breakable.
I can't blow your blood
round if it stops,
we can only pretend. You should
be told there is a limit to this
heartbeat and looking like
the same piece of machinery;
that someone else will disconnect
the necessary organs, break off
the productive flow; that one half of us is
daubed with different time.
You should be told.
or perhaps you already know
and the craft today is how
you blindfold your tomorrow.
Maybe you see how separate we are,
even when our breath feels now
like one delicious thought.
copyright Alex May '72
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A darker variety!
Not sure what this is? Perhaps magnolia - I am hopeless!
Lovely pink and white heather!
Another gorgeous rhodedendrum this one a delicate cream colour!
But- I shall miss the internet, and the blogging , and, believe it or not, some of the soaps!! ( sad isn't it!) So I shall be back sometime !!
Monday, May 11, 2009
First time I have really read these words! I was surprised to see the french words creeping in on the last line!
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. At first the infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad, made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, in fair round belly with good capon lin'd, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and modern instances; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side; his youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide for his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Last scene of all , that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion; sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
As You Like It, 2. 7
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A clock ticks,
twice a second in the vacant air,
it hits against the silence
of the room,and holds in defiance
the emptiness, the apparent nothing.
And tells of someone near.
The clock ticks,
a scarf liesdraped across a chair,cold silk not worn today, butused some time. But not todayso discarded it is still, still.Placed across the chair.
still twice a second. Someone will know
what the time is, in this patient silence;
someone wants to know, someone not yet there
and the room waits silently.
Like the scarf across the chair.
Poem by Alex copyright
Friday, May 1, 2009
....and look at these little beauties, fragile, wild flowers growing ' willy-nilly'.....
... and how can we forget those stingy things, ouch!.......
.......but they have a beauty all of their own-- and they make an excellent nettle wine :)
Finally, keep your fingers crossed for this poor chap, he is hanging on in there!
We do have the 'proper' flowers too, but I thought you might appreciate the ' walk on the wild side' of my gardens today!