Wrong Move!

 

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Image by Scott Webb from Pixabay

I had half an hour before the man came to install the new bannister rail, so I decided to nip to the market.

I crossed the road from my house, hardly reaching the pavement when one of those alien people came towards me, head down and holding a mobile phone where his face should be.

Now, as a rule, they see you coming from the corner of their eye, but not this one. I stepped to the right. So did he. I stepped to the left, he did the same, and we seemed to be doing a two-step.

Now I know this happens all the time with people with phones in their faces and is usually quick and you are on your way.

Not this one. He wouldn’t look up from the phone and by now I was getting annoyed, so I let him have both barrels. “Will you stand ******* still so I can get to where I’m going?”

He looked up with a smile on his face, and I guess he wasn’t expecting a woman of my age to have such a mouth on her. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and for a second I thought I might get a mouthful back.

To my surprise, he grabbed my arms and danced me around in a kind of waltz. When he stopped, I was facing my front door, showing me just how far I hadn’t got. He kissed my cheek and wished me a Merry Christmas, leaving me standing there with my mouth open.

For a woman of my age that was quite a moment, and I watched as he went on his way, phone in his face again, neatly sidestepping the people who came towards him.

I stood there with a stupid smile on my face, wondering if any of the neighbours had been watching. If any of them were, they probably thought I had lost my mind. I decided to wait for the bannister man, before taking a second shot at getting to the market.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t bump into any more strange men…

©anitadawes

Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge

Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 157 #SynonymsOnly

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The magic of the season is all around us. Can you feel it?

 

My

upset

Granddaughter’s

Tears for freckles

Her face scrubbed red raw

What can I say to her?

A sign of beauty, not that

I didn’t believe it years ago

I needed to think of something quick

I told her they were the shadows of stars…

©anitadawes

Jaye’s Question…

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Image by Pexels from Pixabay

 

This morning Jaye asked me how I come up with the words and poems for some of the prompts we do, as she is convinced she couldn’t do this quite as well herself. I dispute this.

I am not good with questions, they normally have me running for the hills.

That inner part of me belongs to me, I don’t like to spill it.

One of my many muses prompted an answer.

First, I think of something.

It could be a word overheard on tv, something I have read, the words of a song.

Whatever it is, one of my muses will jump in, I assume because they liked the thoughts in my head at the time. Then we work hand in hand.

I know the difference when I try to write without one of them. It’s mostly rubbish.

Thank God for outside help, or I would be very bored.

It’s as simple as that…

©anitadawes

Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge

Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 156, #Poet’sChoice

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Will

You stay

One more day

Turn on the lights

Vanish the darkness

Don’t take Christmas with you

Words were spoken, yet we mend

Don’t wrap my tears beneath the tree

If you must go, leave the dog, she’s mine

Don’t close the door one last time, stay with me…

©anitadawes

Jaye’s Journal ~ Week 48

Jaye's Journal x12

 

 

I may not like growing old, and I really don’t, but I have discovered something far worse.

The worst thing of all is watching everyone else grow old too.

And this isn’t restricted to the people you love, your family and friends, but animals too.

I noticed the tell-tale signs a while ago, but it didn’t ring any alarm bells then. Now it has. All those niggly aches and pains caused by overdoing things have now begun to look more sinister.

Somewhere along the line during our lives, I think we get complacent, confident that we can go on forever, that somehow we are indestructible. In my own case, this is mainly due to all the things I have managed to survive and walk away from. So it came as a bit of a shock to realise that this may not continue to happen after all. That one day I might not wake up in the morning.

This is where the fear begins, as you watch the people you love struggle with ordinary everyday activities and see the pain they try so hard to hide. You can’t help it, but you start to wonder who will go first, and selfishly pray it isn’t you.

One of the worst things I see every day is the difference in our magnificent Merlin, our rather large, black and white cat. Always so strong and fit, suddenly he cannot jump up on his favourite chair and seems to be walking slower these days. He is talking far more these days too, and appealing to us with wide, imploring eyes. I wonder if he worries about the future too.

Living each day as it comes, and refusing to think about tomorrow, seems to be the best way. Make each day the best it can possibly be, rather than living every day as if it will be your last, as that gives out entirely the wrong attitude, I think.

None of us knows what will happen tomorrow, but we can only hope there are more days left than we think!

 

 

Love remembered… #Poetry

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Image by Pixabay.com

Love remembered

Something familiar disturbs my sleep, my thoughts

Knowing is not enough to reveal all

It feels old, far away out of reach

Yet demanding, needing to be found

Understood, remembered

Music I don’t recognise steals part of my day

Strange scent assails the air, faint, almost recognisable

The way of passing someone wearing perfume

as if walking through a half-remembered fog

Leaving sticky fingers on my memory

Nails clawing the dark corners of my mind

Where the knowing hides

My dreams like the dark spaces

I remember him, but sunlight washes it away

All but his voice, my name whispered from his lips

Wait for me, I will return

This voice I know from the many lifetimes past

Why must love be lost like ships passing

Can destiny be tricked to let us love again…?

©anitadawes

Remembering…

 

This is the time of year when I remember my father, thinking of what could have been if the Second World War hadn’t taken him from me.

I pay tribute to the man who gave me my height, my patience, my creative streak and my weird sense of humour all the time, but especially on Remembrance Sunday.

I know all of these things about him because people have told me what he was like. How he looked and sounded when he sat at the piano, belting out popular ragtime melodies.

They laugh when they tell me how funny he looked, stomping out the beat in his huge army boots.

I have lived all my life with these images, but have no way of knowing if they are true because I never met him. He didn’t return from the war and never met me.

I like to think that my life would have been so much better if he had come home, for my mother never got over losing him.

People say I shouldn’t feel sad for someone I didn’t know, but in a way, I do know him. He is a part of me and it certainly feels as though I knew him well. As well as I know myself.

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I wrote a post last year about these ice soldiers, and you can read it here.

When we moved to Hampshire, one of the first things I wanted to do was visit the coast. Something I have done many times since, but on that very first time, we walked past the D-day Museum on the seafront. There was a huge tank outside and this bronze statue of the Unknown Soldier. As I studied the soldier, something about his posture and bearing had me imagining that this is what my father would have looked like.

To me, my father is the Unknown Soldier, and I like to think I will get to meet him, one of these days…

©jayemarie

#Wordle 428 #Poetry

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My mind is in crisis over the card I received this morning

The lies, the silence, his friends cover for him

I remember hearing whispered conversation

Realising now that the person who sent the card

Wants me to know my husband is having an affair

Is it the woman herself who wants me to know?

I resign myself to the fact

Truth melts away under scrutiny

The late nights make sense now

The lame excuses, the strange scent

Lingering on his clothes

His excuse for that, laughable

It’s like a thunderstorm hitting me all at once

Am I grateful for the unknown author?

Ripping the scales from my eyes

After twenty-three years of marriage

Now I feel only disgust at myself, my ignorance

Lit by a postcard, delivered by an unknown hand

Why did they want me to know?

Not a friend, they would have come up and told me straight

One thought came to mind, was it

Someone he’s past over for this current lover

How long, how many?

I don’t think I’ll stick around to find out…

©anitadawes