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!'

THE ART OF HAVING THE LAST WORD:2

I needed something from the store and was crossing  the living room towards the front door, when I chanced to look out of the window just in time to see JP emerge from the side door into the garden. He was looking down, and frowning and then he half-ran half danced down the path toward the gate waving his outstretched arms up and down as if on a very slow take off run. I peered through the glass, ducking back quickly as he turned and walked slowly back up the path.

Now I should mention here that lately he has been very grumpy in the morning; irascible actually...well truth to tell, a lot of the time his tolerance of the human voice, particularly mine, is limited, so I try to keep conversation to a minimum for as long as possible.  He came into the room.

Me [big smile] What was all that about?

JP. All what?

Me. That dance up the path.

JP. No idea what you are talking about.

Me. Come on. What on earth were you doing, you don't usually dance down to the wheelie bins. [laughing]

JP. Where are you going?

Me. Don't change the subject.

JP. Tell me where you are going and I'll tell you what I was doing.

Me. You first. [you can tell that we have pretty dull lives if we can make a drama out of nothing.]

JP.  [looking sheepish]

Me. [suddenly putting two and two together; the half run, the downcast eyes and flapping arms] Oh my God...[now laughing hysterically] It was the wretched Starlings again...wasn't it?

JP.Weeeelllll! The greedy %$&^***!'s. zose pointy beaks, I 'ate zem.

Me.It was worth it just to see you flapping your arms for take off.

JP. So, where are you going.

Me. To the store, but I've forgotten why.

JP. Silly beech!

November: That 'inbetween month'

Mr London Street

   in his post Thirty Day Trailer says - [why am I always quoting him? Well, he is a source of interesting ideas and he doesn’t squeak if one steals an idea as long as he is linked] -that he has a lot against November; calls it the ugly sister of the calender.

What I have against November is that it has come too soon, the way that Friday seems to come straight after Monday most weeks, and I'm buggered if I know what happened to Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.

Of course I totally lost a month when I lost my place in blogland, but that does not explain what happened to September and August, or the 9am that becomes noon, missing out ten and eleven o/clock in the process, then in a twinkling it’s time for bed and I have done nothing to make this particular day any more remarkable than those which preceded it.

November is a sad month coming as it often does after the joys of an Indian summer and seeming to stave off the Christmas Season with an outstretched hand and a screaming ‘noooooo, not yet, please!’. It reminds us that once again we have not fulfilled the promise we made after last years frantic rush, never to leave it all to the last minute, again.

November causes havoc in the gardens and in leafy glens. After the splendour of autumnal colours the leaves fall and turn to squidgy slimy muck underfoot.

November is the month of remembrance. November the 11^th is marked by a two minutes silence, and the Sunday nearest to it is marked with pomp and ceremony, wreaths of Poppies, solemn marches to War Memorials all over the country and nationwide two minutes silence.

One year, on the 11^th I was in Canterbury, browsing around the Saturday market. I was totally absorbed in my own company and my search for something or other that was terribly important to me at the time. Truthfully, I had not noticed the date and wondered why so many people were standing around as if deep in thought. I wove in and out of them, a little irritated at the slow pace of everyone, or almost everyone; the fact that there were those who were going about their business continued to lull my dull senses. There were a few ‘tuts’ and some black looks but it wasn’t until the Cathedral Bell tolled the ending of  the silence and everyone moved that the enormity of my behaviour brought on a rush a shame and sick sweat and a wave of red that crept over me from head to toe. I abandoned my shopping a drove home.

But there is something good that happened in November. I least I think so.

I was conceived on November the 11^th 1933. No doubt about it, it was a good month for me.