GOING HOME

I am having trouble finding enough of interest to keep two Blogs going at the same time, so I have decided to make The View from this End my principle Blog. It feels so much more like home. Daft, I know, after all, they are both floating around in space but, there it is.

I don't have the courage to close this Blog, having lost 'The view'  once, accidently and not liking it one little bit, I shall hang on here...post poems, perhaps, and trivial stuff suitably described as piffle. So please, do come back to me at my old place and help me to re-furnish it.

EVERY GOOD WISH TO ALL.

WISHING YOU ALL A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 

AND A HEALTHY, PEACEFUL NEW YEAR

SNOW DIVER

this is a just a little something 

to make you SMILE

BLUE MOON

Blue moon, you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own
Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for
You heard me saying a prayer for someone I really could care for
And then suddenly appeared before me, the only one my arms could ever hold
I heard somebody whisper 'please adore me'
But when I looked, that moon had turned to gold - oh oh oh
Blue moon, now I'm no longer alone
Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own Without a love of my own
(Blue moon)

[Rogers and Hart]



When I was young
And in my prime
I sang and danced
and played with rhyme and gave no thought
to
passing
time.

I thought about the the boys I'd kissed
who'd kissed me back,
Of softly padded fingertips
and how they felt.
I thought in white
I thought in black,
and gave no thought
to
passing
time.

I dreamed a future-technicolour bright
where softly padded fingertips
would put my world to rights
Where every kiss would stop my breath,
Where those I loved would sneer at death
and
swiftly
moving
time.

Now old, the padded finger tips are calloused
and time waits to stop my breath.
But still, a tune, a song can brings back to me
full versed - the magic pulse which once
brought every nerve to life, and...
I remember when, so long ago
I thought I knew in white
I thought I knew in black
but gave no thought
to all the shades between
as I cling
to
fleeing
time.

JP and Picasso. A sorry tale.

The revelation of the treasures hidden in the attic, garage and shed of Monsieur Pierre Le Guennec -consisting  of 271 pieces of art by Picasso, and valued conservatively at £55 million, has dredged up an old story from the archives of our family history. And, once again we are hearing some derisive phone calls that begin with:'Thank's a lot, Dad'.

As a young boy aged thirteen or fourteen he helped his mother and her partner in their Epicerie in Cannes, stocking shelves, carrying boxes and delivering groceries on his bicycle. Chez Picasso was one of his regular stops. He would ring the bell at the gate and would be let in by the housekeeper, carry the goods to the kitchen door and receive a pourboire, usually enough for a small bet at the Bouleodrome, where he often played, and won against grown men.

This particular day he rang the bell, and waited, then rang again. Finally Picasso himself came to open the gate and beckoned JP inside and over to the kitchen where he deposited the groceries onto the table. Then the great man patted his pockets and turned them inside out to show he had no small change on him. Disgruntled, JP turned to go but Picasso said 'No, wait, just a moment'. He emptied one of the white paper bags onto the table and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, and with a few bold strokes drew his famous Dove of Peace on it, dated and signed it and presented it, with a smile to the boy.

Outside the gate JP looked at the paper in his hand, crunched it up and threw it into the ravine and muttering words that only be translated into 'what a mean, miserable old......' rode back to the shop in high dudgeon.

'THANK'S A LOT, DAD!'