Magpieing For the 46th Time . .

. . . prompted by Willow's gloves, and recent disreputable aspersions from You Know Who(*).

Plea

There's an old saw that says "Cold Hands, Warm Heart."
Let's strip our gloves off, then, and make a start.
With fingers blue with cold, my frozen mitts
would wind their way around your warmer bits!
As sometimes happens push will come to shove
so "Hand In Glove" sometimes tries "HandInG Love."
If your cold heart forgives that awesome pun -
I'll doff my Freudian Slip and we'll have FUN!

(*) Caddoc Trellis, who else?

A Freudian Slip

When Ada went off shopping
in Llandudno one fine day,
what did she come back with,
but new underwear. Ole!

'A slip' she called this garment.
It was silky, soft and see through
with naughty matching knickers,
trimmed with dainty frou-frou.

At first, I thought she mentioned
she had bought it for her lover
then realised, with Freudian slip,
she'd actually said 'Mother'!



At this point, I feel I should add some information that was recently brought to my notice by a fellow Blogger,
as I wonder whether Ada has read it too...

Frequent Sex Linked With Good Health
The first comprehensive national survey of sexual attitudes, behaviors and problems among older adults in the United States has found that most people ages 57 to 85 think of sexuality as an important part of life and that the frequency of sexual activity, for those who are active, declines only slightly from the 50s to the early 70s.

P.S. Please remember, where USA leads, UK often tends to follow...

Festive Poetry Bus Challenge December 27th.

Muse Swings asks blogpoets to commemorate the most useless (etc) gift they ever received  . .  or gave.

Christmas Unwrapped by Ada Trellis

What's a young gal like me supposed to do

with artificial knee joints? One or two

I just about could understand - put by

as hostages to fortune. Cracked, creaking, dry,

my own knees, crumbling from too much pole-dancing

might one day need some serious enhancing.

But THREE?  I ask you! Tesco, can it be

you're offering a "Buy Two Get One Free"

on hip replacements, knuckles, sundry parts?

Soon you'll be stocking artificial hearts

along with DIY instruction kits,
translated from Chinese -

                                             behind your t*ts
hear bleatings of your harts. Cut quick. Cut deep.

Do not attempt lepracement while you sleep.

Not shootable for infants under sex.

We are not riable if you end up wrecks."

Caddoc's behind this gift!  Soft in the head!

I gave my silly man a Garden Shed,

and to make sure he stayed in there alone,

threw in an Entry Level Saxophone.

Now we can swap our tales of Festive Gifts

and hope our giggles make an end to rifts.


Note to Ada from Cad: I had a quiet word with Trellissimo, and he let me in the back door of your post, as you might say, in order for me to explain my thinking as regards the unusual gift! Sometimes a chap does need to chime in, in the hopes of ringing your bell...
Caddoc Claims His Right To Reply! 

Have you not heard the old refrain

"Knees Up Mother Brown?"

The third knee, dearest, is to use

to stop you falling down!

When the other two are in the air,

the third will keep you steady.

Shall I carve a wooden leg

with knee joint in already?

You could use it like a walking stick

and always keep it handy -

especially if it's hollow,

and could be filled up with brandy!

On a Theory of Boat-Rocking

Do you count your Christmas Cards?  The ones you get as well as the ones you send? Do you notice, as Caddoc and I do, that these two numbers are regularly more or less equal? At our first Christmas together, before the rot set in, we sent almost 80 and had 79 back, though some of these arrived well into the New Year.  As our enthusiasm for Christmas and various other pastimes declined, our card list shortened until last year, we sent only 8 and were happy to receive 7 in return and one marked "Deceased." Could there be an important piece of Sociological Research in these observations? I can see it written up  in some Learned Society journal.  "Trellis,A. BA. and Trellis,C. CA.  'Observations on Long-Term Regressive Flux Equivalences in Annual Quasi-Religious Missive Transactions'" or somesuch academic babble.  Much the same theory, I imagine, applies to bloggers, their followers and the comments they get.  A blog with 1000 followers will regularly get (say) 80 to 100 comments. Such bloggers presumably spend or waste their time circulating blogland, sticking their names to two or three hundred follower lists thus ensuring that other bloggers will return the favour and everyones' comments lists will satisfactorily grow.  The relationship - followers to comments - probably won't be one-to-one as it is with Christmas cards, but I'd bet evens that the ratio is pretty constant.  It could turn out to be an important Sociological Coefficient, a reliable indicator of a world-wide-web propensity for mutual sycophancy. I mean, when did you last see a derogatory or even a mildly critical comment?  (Oh, THAT'S what this "after blog owner approval' is all about!  Silly Me!)

Poetry Bus Challenge. 20th. December.

We have a simple single word prompt from the Weaver of Grass this week . . STAR

BINARY

"I am Caddoc's dark star,

encircling him with ponderous

gravity . . . "

"Behind her back I call her

my White Dwarf. Huge. Hugely dense

each thimbleful weighs tons . . . "

"We two are bound as one.

Paired binaries, inseparable.

On our collision course."

"I eclipse her and she, me.

Virgo and Capricorn locked

in heavenly combat."

"Unchangeable as physic's laws

we would not, could not change

our gruesome orbits."

"We have peered too long

through our telescopes' wrong ends.

Together we must admit . ."

" . . the background hiss of the space

between us, and there perhaps explore

the kiss of background love."

Lingering Thoughts

After The Bus!

A Bus might do for poems

but where presents are concerned
it's Santa's Sleigh that counts the most,
it needs no three point turns.
It navigates the airways
far better than a plane,
and hovers over chimneys,

come wind, or snow, or rain.

Santa's  rotund figure
still manages to squeeze
through chimney pots or CH vents
because he aims to please
the lucky children, snug in bed,
who close their eyes and snooze,
while Santa gobbles up mincepies
and, here and there, some booze.


For somtimes on the mantlepiece
a little glass of sherry
waits patiently for Santa
to make sure he stays merry
and full of cheer at Christmas time,
instead of getting narked
with spending half of Christmas Eve
a-fumbling in the dark.

Beep! Beep!

So, this is what ADA does when my back is turned... She either thumbs rides with a shaggy dog, or chases a  
Poetry Bus!


To Ada's little diatribe,
I'd like to add my voice -
I'd really like to share her ride,
(I promise, minus mice!)
But just for now I'm hiding out
back in the potting shed...
I think she's once more wanting
to cuff me round my head...

So if I have to buy my own ticket, here goes...

Warning to Dodgy Doggy Drivers

There was a young dog from Ashdown
who drove a car all around town.
But he started to cuss
when he hit a red bus
which caused him to have a breakdown.

Poetry Bus. 13th. December.

Perceptive readers will  no doubt recognise this misquote from Dr. Samuel Johnson.

"Sir, a dog driving is like another walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all."

Which strikes me as an appropriate lead in to my application for a ticket on Titus's bus.This picture is one of his/hers or hers/his dog's prompts.

My dog can drive a Chevrolet
the way some poets write.
The neighbours say, "He's awesome"
They surely mean he's s**te?

The Central Reservation
he thinks is sooooooooo poetic,
like centered text that's driven by
their versified emetic.

He could not pass the Driving Test.
He never found the time
to learn even the simplest rules
like metre, image, rhyme.

As their ramblings wander down the page
he wobbles side to side
But he knows not moderation.
(though there's much that he should hide.)

He does not seek approval,
greets comment with a yelp.
Dogs that drive, like awesome poets
are beyond all hope, all help.

Mal Teasers?

No - Maltesers! Though Ada can be a bit of a tease at times. You see, this weekend, rather than having after dinner mints on the menu, Beloved decided to ring the changes, and bought MALTESERS instead.

This break with tradition, lead to an interesting conversation, especially after I discovered a way of silencing Ada's lips, like so.

I then posed the question - which I would like you all to ponder with great seriousness - if you had to choose which part of a Malteser to be, would you be the crunchy, honeycomb centre, or the spherical, chocolate shell? No prizes for guessing which option Beloved Ada went for, but what about you, Blog hopping visitors?

Sled, Sledge, Toboggan?

Snow Joke ...or
'S no Joke?


Sliding on a sledge
can tip one over the edge.
Here's to soft landings!

Ada underneath
to cushion poor Caddoc’s bones
might solve the problem...

But she might complain
and banish him to the shed.
Life can be a bitch.

Magpie Tales has brought up the SNOW subject with Willow's brooding picture prompt this week, but in the bright light of day this image suggests the clean, crisp delights of a fresh fall of snow, and we all know how crisp and clean Mrs Trellis likes her world to be!

Senior Citizens' Bus Tickets

The prompt on this week's Poetry Bus invites busboarders to write a poem, preferably fun-laden, based on the name of their "local" Ours is called "The Cad and SchoolMarm."  This is obviously untrue, but it's more interesting than "The King's Head" or the "Pig and Whistle."  So here goes.

The Cad and SchoolMarm

Sir Jasper was a thorough cad.
The SchoolMarm was a virgin.
(I bet that all my readers think
the rhyme will be "no urgin' ")

In fact, the SchoolMarm slapped his face
and told him "Sling yer hook!"
(I bet that all my readers think
the end-rhyme will be "luck")

Sir Jasper tried it on again.
She thumped his underbelly.
How could he know he'd taken on
Ada T. of Abergele.

For Ada's faithful to her lad.
A wholly different breed of Cad.

Caddoc

As this will prove...

If you see this pub sign
then you may think of me,
for sure, I am a lemon,
as many will agree.

Sometimes I am acid
and can give people the pip,
but only when I'm grumpy
and start to lose my grip.

Otherwise I'm jolly
and a very happy fellow.
(Why don't you ask Ada,
if she thinks I'm mellow?)

But Hairy is no longer
something which I claim -
I wonder, now I'm Baldy,
will she love me just the same?

Dressed For Galumphing!

Caddoc is galumphing towards The Festive Season According to Caddoc.  How about some Galumphing Gear for his Christmas present . . . ?

And I'm Not Laughing

Be careful what you wish for, Beloved...

Not In The Least Bit Funny!

I'm just back home after popping out to the wine shop for something celebratory. Two other customers who obviously didn't know who I was, were swapping jokes.  Example.

Two Abergele residents, Ada and Caddoc Trellis, were found guilty of a most horrible murder and were sentenced to be executed by firing-squad. Each was granted a last request.
Caddoc asked permission to play a final serenade to his beloved Ada on his beloved saxophone, and this was allowed.
Ada asked "Can I please be executed before my husband?"

Not So Fast!

New Year might well be approaching at a gallumphing rate - (although "gallumphing" is rather outside my expreience) - but we haven't even encountered and survived Christmas yet.  One thing at a time, Caddoc dearest.

New Beginnings

With the New Year approaching at a galumphing rate, what better time for starting over? They have called a truce (hence the new blog name), and Caddoc has been allowed to move out of the potting shed, back into the matrimonial home under the watchful eye of his Beloved Ada. At the moment, she is busy making his favourite lunch of leek and potato soup, and has trusted me to declare this new blog well and truly open! May God Bless all who sail in her!

Thorns

There are thorns more cruel than those which grow
on scarlet roses. Invisible but sharp
their barbed and treacherous weapons pierce my heart
and cause more pain than you will ever know.
You choose to blush and say it is not so,
that you would never think, when we're apart,
of dallying with any young upstart,
and yet that blush has set your face aglow.
I would that it was caused by none but me,
that I alone could light your inner fire
and fan its flames. Who's kindled new desire?
What young and foolish lover could there be
who captivates, then makes of you a liar
bent on making sure my eyes won't see?

Oh, Woe! Am I Undone?

And no, I don't mean I need to check my trouser fastening! Look what was delivered to my Beloved when my back was turned this morning!>>>>>>>>


SOMEBODY has been trying to undermine me by sending bigger, brasher, bolder coloured blooms than the ones I chose for my Ada!

Here are my tastefully arranged blooms, meant to signify love and devotion. They were delivered in my absence, accompanied by that mystery bunch! The florist must have been wondering what the occasion was for Mrs T to be showered with bouquets in this unheard of fashion.

Now I am wondering how she will explain them away, when I confront her... Mrs Ada Trellis, explain, explain!

SUDDENLY POPULAR!

It's almost as if reinstated rompings with husband Caddoc are being noised abroad in Abergele. I can almost believe that followers and fans such as VivInFrance and Madame Butterfly have been spreading the word. Should I care? Not Ada!  For the time being, I am Head-In-The-Cloud-Nine, or whatever the patois is, what with satisfying Caddoc's demands for leek soup and other matrimonial obligations. But we won't go into that.

What was I saying?  Oh yes!  Followers and fans and Abergele Nosey Parkers spreading the word . .  for today I was overwhelmed to receive not one but TWO bouquets!

Though both were unattributed, I'm sure the peachy roses come from faithful Caddoc, for these soft colours signify life-long devotion . .  touching, and worth a small reward.  The red roses . . . (how shall I explain them or explain them away?) . . came with the legend "For the Hottest Old Bat in North Wales", in a hand I do not recognise and I shall be disappointed if it turns out to be the florist's.

At the moment, Caddoc is taking a stroll down the village, to buy - he says - more champagne. And  while he's been away these tokens of amorous interest were delivered. When he returns, I must pretend to be confused, even outraged, and look down my nose at the red blooms, while we hear what Caddoc has to say . . . wouldn't it be fun if he "lost it" and went thrashing round Abergele with his rusty old shotgun . . .

Cad's Morning Moan

Snow trees stand about my garden.
Weather gods I WILL NOT PARDON
for freezing my spuds and sprouts and leeks.
I pray this won't go on for weeks...



Thanks to my  Beloved I have bought a ticket for this mysterious Poetry Bus, although it may have difficulty going anywhere without a snow plough in attendance. Perhaps I need to explain, although the third of the DriverBug's choice of subjects was bare branches, there are none around today, as they are all covered with snowflakes - I hope this won't make my ticket null and void...

Poetry Bus. November 29th.

Keen followers of the Caddoc-Ada story will understand that I don't have a lot of time for poetry at the moment. But Ada rarely let's a challenge pass without responding.  So here goes for the third of DanaBug's prompts: -

"Write about the place you dream of living someday. Or if you're lucky enough to already live there write about home."

The was a young blogger called Sam
Who watched the snow fall and said "Damn!
In weather like this
I have only one wish.
To live not in the place where I am."

Third Instalment

 

The End


The record player was to hand,
and rather than a Colliery Band
or Male Voice Choir on the spindle,
(and you may think this a swindle)
the 45 played Ballroom Dancing!
Cad and Ada's sprightly prancing
warmed them up and kept them cosy...
And what happened next?

 Well, don't be nosey!

Second Instalment

The Middle

In flowered garments, satin smooth,
my Ada did not try to move
away from my arms' warm embrace,
but settled happily in place
with head beneath my stubbled chin.
"Come in, my dear", she cried, "Come in!

Come, sit you at the kitchen table,
the soup is hot. If you are able
to eat it so...But maybe...we could...
(don't you know...?)
try something which is just as good
at warming up cold hands or heart...
we have been very long apart..."

First Instalment

Wishful Thinking

The Beginning

The halo of the kitchen light
beckoned to me Thursday night,
I strode towards my lady love.
Could we join like hand in glove
and finally come to erase
the past few warring, lonely days?

I knocked - the door sprung wide-
and casting every doubt aside
my arms reached out with glee.
But what is this? A vision? She
who stands before my eyes
is radiant. What a surprise!

Her shopping trip was worth the while,
her transformation made me smile.
Here again was my sweet Ada,
not one who, before, had made a
lemon appear sweet! This siren
might have inspired Byron!

For a recap on the story so far, you may need to go HERE

Tete a Tete over leek soup . . .

Did you ogling blogfans see my husband's latest post! (It's right under this one). The freezing weather or something suddenly struck sparks from the normally cringing Caddoc!  He just about threatened to break down the back door and claim his leek soup by force.  Quick, Ada, quick!  Must heat up two generous helpings of his favourite. Into the microwave.  Five minutes, he said. So what's keeping him?  Where's his new hat?  Hope it fits.  Oh  . . . what a tizzy-wizzy I'm suddenly in.  Just time to cast off the twinset and pearls and slip into something from my shopping trip to Llandudno.  Nothing too . . . too . . . you know.  O Goodness Me!  Suddenly I feel like a silly girl on her first date. Hope my bladder doesn't let me down. Why did I say that?  Was that him pounding on the back door? Dim the lights a bit. Now, Ada, don't give too much away! Pause. Big breaths. Fix usual severe look to face.  Put schoolmarm glasses back on. Mustn't let him think I'm, what's the modern word? Easy!  

"Who's there?  That you, Caddoc? Alright, I'm coming. No need to break the door down . . . "

No More Mr Nice Guy

Never mind about tomorrow lunch time!!! Enough is enough, my little Stingray. Haddock has no wish to turn into a frozen fish finger overnight, and the barometer is falling. Snow is on the way. I need a helping  of your hot soup NOW, if my extremities are to remain intact, for the left over pizza I had for lunch did nothing to improve either my temper, or my temperature. I shall be knocking and entering by the back door in approximately  five minutes, so get that soup on the hob pretty damn quick...

A Little Chink of Light, Look You.

My husband Caddoc AKA Cad the Blogger (here) maybe doesn't realise I've been monitoring his recent antics with mounting interest.  I have been away the last few days in Llandudno. The shopping there is better. For a Welsh chapel-goer, I have splashed out considerably on some new outfits, one of which is quite suitable for day-wear. I also nipped into the excellent Llandudno "Homebase" for a doormat to replace the tattered old doormat which has disgraced my doorstep far too long.  I found quite an attractive one with a prominent "Welcome" legend on it.  Re-reading that last sentence, I get the feeling it is capable of more than one interpretation. Be assured I wasn't referring to you, Caddoc.  It's your gardener's hat that's tattered, not you. And surprise, surprise, I decided you needed a new one . . .

. . . an improvement, I think you will agree, even if little can be done about your face.  Then, imagine my surprise on returning to Abergele, to find you have parted with your saxophone!This can only be, I assume, in response to my recent complaints. Now that's going one step too far. You take your Ada's grouching far too seriously sometimes. I've had a look round some online music stores, and, well . . . Christmas is coming, and although these things are not exactly cheap . . .  And do you know, I didn't know they come in different sizes!  I'd like to think you were equipped with a nice big one.  Finally, I have just made a big pot of Welsh leek soup.  Far too much for one refined lady living alone.

Solution To The Saxophone Problem

Please note Ada,  I have donated my instrument to a worthy cause! I will never play another note on it. This shows where it is now.
So farewell wind instrument...

and hello silence!

Late Edition Extra...Silence which has now been broken by the dulcet tones of my beloved! I've been TOOTED! And she's bought me a new hat, apparently, though I have yet to be presented with it.

Wonders will never cease!

 

I hope she remembered it needs to fit my 23 1/2" head...

Another Plea To Ada

Empty is my cup; its tarnished face
rebukes me. When did it drain dry of love?
The heady wine of passion will not slake
a thirst which longs for tenderest embrace
from loving arms. A hand in velvet glove
could lead me where it willed, and I'd forsake
all other paths. I call upon your grace
of spirit, hoping it may rise above
recriminations  for my past mistakes.

I have to thank Magpie Tales for providing a picture which had exactly the right emotional feel for my latest outpouring to my Beloved.

Monday's Child. November 22nd.

Another contribution to the Child's Garden of Verses, prompted by this illustration:-

Dragon's Eye View

What strange animal is this?

It has no tail or wings or scales.

It's colour is not green.

Its yellow skin seems not to fit,

flopping around its waist and hip.

The strangest beast I've ever seen!

It's friend has spiky horns and tail

grown from its head. Red its lower

skin. What a tale to tell

my dragonettes when I get home.

I bet my Naughty One will say

"Ada, did you flame them both away?"

Strictly Not For Kiddywinks

Another Monday's Child prompt tempted me to add this piece of naughtiness in my ongoing attempt to woo my lady love. See HERE for stage one, or HERE for stage two, or if you need further clarification, ask Ada.

Ada the Queen of my heart -
this little Welsh Dragon upstart
is starting to pine.
O, won't you be mine?
Love,
Cad
the silly old f**t.

P.S. don't miss the previous one of today's posts ! It shows my thoughtful side much better than this tarradiddle.
Here's the link for you.

Poems For Ada

Life was one long hand-hold

In the Springtime of our life together
we had time to talk and exchange thoughts.
But fate, which falls the same for many people,
soon forced another path, one often fraught
with accusations, discontent and tears.
We ourselves destroyed the peace we sought.
Now, through conscious change, may we not take
a better heed of lessons life has taught? 

But things changed.

I would shower you with fragrant petals,
serenade you underneath the moon,
if you would condescend to smile upon me,
and forgive the paltry efforts of a goon
who'll try his best to win back your affection.
I hope that you will give your answer soon;
I'd like to wind time back to our beginning...

May I suggest a second honeymoon?  

Time to start again.

Message To My Beloved Part 2

Perhaps you would have understood better, my dearest, if I had posted this version of the song I was trying to serenade you with - no scantily clad pouters in sight. But I must say the Golden Lady with the dark hair in the first version bears more than a passing resemblance to your good self in the days of your youth, don't you agree?

Having survived the night here in the potting shed,  I now present you with my adaptation of verses for you to sing as you play your guitar, accompanied by my banjo.


Song For Ada

"Rock me, Mama like a waggon wheel,
rock me Mama any way you feel "-
I'm your Caddoc and sure, I'm real!
Oh Mama!
(plinka-plinka-plink-plink)

Dig my potatoes and trim my leeks -
be the perfect lady love that I seek.
You can pluck my banjo any day of the week
Oh Mama!
(winka-winka-wink-wink)

Let's forget the warring and call a truce-
trip the light fantastic 'til we both turn puce
and need to drink a gallon of orange juice.
Oh Mama!
(drinka-drinka-drink-drink)

Sorry the YouTube clip seems to begin at a strange place, but click to play anyway...The words are fine as long as you ignore the spelling mistakes!

What's Today?

Would you believe it's -

STIR UP SUNDAY? - 

- that's what a TV chef is telling me, at this very moment, even as I write.  HE'S talking about making your Christmas Pudding. I'M talking about making mincemeat of Caddoc the Haddock, look you!

Master Chef is talking about getting all the family into the kitchen on this the fourth Sunday before Christmas so that they can all take a hand in stirring the pud. Including the dog!  The very idea. I'm talking about banishing Caddoc to his Shed as punishment for the "serenade" he posted yesterday - for I need no more convincing that "Cad", the blog author, is indeed husband Caddoc, green-fingered gardener, indifferent saxophonist, and general . . . words fail me.  Go visit his blog, watch and listen as I did with mounting horror as a bevy of scantily clad young women parade themselves in his YouTube selection, twisting themselves this way and that . .  what's the modern expression . . . "bumping and grinding" . . . their seductive young hips writhing in a pitiful imitation of . . . of . . .  stirring up unmentionable passions in impressionable young minds, inflaming young men to transports of ungovernable lust before they hurl themselves upon these provocative maidens with lecherous snorts and grunts and carry them off to secluded nooks and crannies in Pentre Mawr Park where the women "license their roving hands to go before, above, between, below" (click the link if you dare! Just look at it!  Blatant nudity and undisguised eroticism!) - until the whole of North Wales seems to be one long sustained bellow of . .  of . . . well, never mind. You wonder I need to go sit in a damp, freezing cold Welsh Chapel twice very Sunday?  And there was me, Ada Trellis, retired schoolmarm, Mary Whitehouse Soundalike, Scourge of the Permissive Society, on the point of considering the possibility of discussing the question as to whether after due deliberation and a thorough examination of all the various issues involved, I might readmit Caddoc to the Marital Roof.  Only as a first step, you understand.  There!  Glad I got that off my, my, er . .  my chest!  Is the shed comfy, Caddoc?  We are back to Square One  . . . well, perhaps Square Two, my little Welsh friend.

Message To My Beloved

If you want to meet the lady in question, pop over to HERE - but be prepared for a surprise, perhaps...

Confession Time?

The Hour Approaches

I hide behind my trellis with alarm.
The witch's dust may signify my end
and force me to admit the truth I hid -
she is is my best and truest lifelong friend.

Beneath her outer shell there beats a heart
as soft as any pink and white marshmallow,
which, once toasted to perfection by my fire,
could melt the very core of this poor fellow

who stands before you. Hapless in my shed
I while away the hours by chasing dreams
of how to pave the cobblestones with gold
to lead us to a better life. It seems

the longed for time may come upon us soon,
when both will be content to work as one,
though love, not magic, will  provide the cure...
Perchance our fighting days are almost done?

To understand what is going on, it might help if you were to visit HERE first! Then you need to realise all these moments in time were sparked by Willow's Magpie Tales prompt this week. If you are still puzzled - then Gesundheit!

Magpie Tales#41

I use this week's prompt from the indefatigable Willow to continue the contest with my estranged husband Caddoc Trellis.  (Oops. Did I say "estranged"? Sorry, "strange" is what I meant . . . )

Witching Hour

Five to XI! (*) I brush my pointy hat
and sandpaper the splinters off my broom-
stick some eyes of frogs and blood of newts,
that sort of thing, into my portmanteau
and take a trial spin around the room.

(Wheeeeeeeeee! Out through the open window!)

The stars look down. The baleful Moon is full
of craters just like husband Caddoc's face.
I'll strafe his Shed with Witching Dust I've made
from ground-up bones and condiments to taste.

(That'll hexxxxxxx the poor old git.)

My Witching Dust's a Truth Drug. Just one sniff
he'll spill the beans. That "Trellis Fencing" blog
authored by "Cad" who I suspect is Caddoc -
he'll own up, just like falling off a log.

(Caddoc!  Are you in there?  Come out and fight!)

Drifting smoke suggests he's frying wee dead mice
in batter. And he thinks that I'm the witch!
Perhaps we should join forces. Combined spells
could lure a Gardener back to an Old Bitch . .  ?
He's such a softie. (So am I at heart.
Perhaps, perhaps we could make a fresh start . . ?)


(Coooeeee!  Caddoc  . .  all could be forgiven . . . )


(*) Pronounce as "five to ex eye", or "five to eleven"  
Either suits the "pentameter" reasonably well. Schimples!

Times Are Gettin' Hard, Boys...

So I've started thinking about alternative Christmas Goodies. How about these for tasty Festive treats?

Method.

After whacking, skin carefully, dip in egg and breadcrumbs, and fry in butter until golden brown. The tails make perfect pick-up points, as they remain relatively cool at all times.They may be decorated with red or green ribbons, to add to the Seasonal Jollity.

Mind you, you will need strong teeth to masticate these bony morsels to a consistency where swallowing is possible. Their bones are somewhat tougher than sardines or pilchards...

N.B. Nobody in their right mind is expected follow this recipe...

Monday's Child#21

Will the prompt picture prompt KiddyFriendly verses?

Come Hither, Little Turkey.
Don't be deceived by beaming smile
or pumpkin-pie aroma.
It's just a ruse to help beguile
the turkey's "Why, Hello Ma!"
Then, when he's close enough to sniff
I whack him with the pie-dish
a single, brutal, well-timed biff -
and a warm(*) Thanksgiving wish.
(I bet my readers think I'm vile . . )

(Children have to learn sooner or later than life is cruel, bloodthirsty and unfair. Particularly to turkeys. At Thanksgiving. And Christmas.)

(*) Warm?  Actually about 180degC. 20 minutes per pound + 20 minutes
In many fan assisted ovens, 140degC is quite hot enough.

Kiddywinks Korner?

Not in my shed. But this picture prompt I saw on Dr FTSE's blog got me thinking.

WARNING-  

Children and animal welfare exponents READ NO FURTHER!

Rat Man Rant

Mice aren't nice.

They gnaw.

What's more,

they're twice

as quick

as my stick.

But in my shed,

I like them DEAD.

Poison pellets

in shallots

might work.

But why shirk

the death blow?

POW!

Splat!

That's that. 

I believe thanks are due to BKM at Monday's Child  and Phoebe Ericson, who drew the original way back in 1947 . Both would no doubt be scandalised at my interpretation...

Now Look At Me

Do you wonder, after Life With Ada, that I have become a crumpled wreck? For her latest Cad knock, she has crept into my shed and made shards of my special pots! Their broken parts carpet the bench where I had them neatly stacked and some have been ground into the shag pile rug I rescued from a tip. I said my shed had hidden depths. Shag pile, leather recliner, blackout curtains - oh yes, they're all there in my Home From Home corner...
I can see I shall have to go to B&Q today to replace my pots. Thinks, should I next replace potty Ada?

Once I was Handsome

...now plus 'E'!  As edited later, thanks to Dr FTSE
Look at me! Once upon a time...

I told you my shed was like the Tardis. It managed to hide this photo for years, underneath a bag of Growmore. So, now it has surfaced, I can let you see me back in my glory days...

Don't all swoon ladies, but if you bump into Ada, do tell her what she's been missing for all these years?

Magpie Tales#40

This week's prompt from Willow gave me a Bright Idea!

BOLAS


Necklace of polished stones
with chunky badge attached . . .
Where most women see bling
Ada sees bolas!  I'll swing
it round and round my head
till it whistles like the wind.
I'll make for his Garden Shed.
(Are you with me, followers
 and fans?) Whey-hey!
It's Smash Some Plant Pots Day!







Interpretation and comprehension of this Opus will be helped by reading
earlier posts about Caddoc Trellis's Beloved Garden Shed.

Wishful Thinking

If only...

Ada, as usual, sat there unsmiling.
Despite the harsh treatment
and relentless grilling
her man remained true.
But this was thrilling -
she knew what to do!
Open her heart,
her legs and her arms
and welcome her husband
with all of her charms!
Why had she spent long years
frigid and cold,
when the warmth she had longed for
could be hers to hold?

"To have and to hold"-
was that not the vow?
She pulled out her mobile
gave Caddoc a call.
"Come to the shed now -
I will reveal all!"

It was dark in the potting shed,
until the moon
lit up the wheelbarrow-
made Ada swoon
as she realised Caddoc was
eager and willing,
as he stood in the doorway
where moonlight was spilling...



My imagination was incapable of proceeding beyond this point- possibly just as well. But if anyone knows of a potent love potion that would make my Beloved act in the manner heretofore mentioned, please tell me how to acquire same? I am getting desperate, you can tell...

There's A First Time For Everything

And this is mine! I have been relegated to my garden shed once too often and today the worm has turned. I have dug deep into something other than garden soil, and am planting seeds of rebellion. No longer will I be the silent partner, even though the ears who listen to me will not be the ones I most wish to whisper into. Ah, Ada my Ada, after forty years you still remain the light of my life, but you have drawn the blinds down in your mind, and your brilliance eludes me.
The World of Blog will be my confessor, and and my salvation. It's better than talking to myself.

Poetry Bus. November 8th.

A Garden Shed Widow's Pipe Dream
(after reading Ariel's Song from "The Tempest")

Full six foot deep my Caddoc lies.
Of his bones are caulis made.
These shallots once were his eyes:
Nothing of him that could fade
but will Scheming Ada riddle
into something edibible.
Bird-scarers hourly chink his knell:
Clink-clank, clink-clank

Oh, how I wish he'd go to...

What's that, dear?  I must have dozed off...


The original, by W.S. (which is linked above) answers
Jessica's sea-themed prompt here for the Poetry Bus, 8th. November.

Magpie Tales#39

Marital disharmony in the Trellis household continues, thanks to Willow's latest prompt.

Caddoc-a-Doodle-Do

Now what's he up to, Caddoc in his shed?

Sounds like his saxophone has sprung a leak?

Or . .  that vile rooster he brought home last week

is making merry with its jabbing beak

to peck a few more pockmarks in his head.

Some men would pluck their Little Chick in there -

not Caddoc! The imagination baulks

at the thought!  Those impassioned rooster squawks

speak not of rapture.  He takes it out for walks . . .

. . . whatever keeps him out of Ada's hair.

(Pssst . . . reading this might help. Regards, Ada T.)

Poetry Bus, November 1st.

Go here to see the multiplicity of prompts offered by Liz  this week, all connected to Halloween.


Grow It With Music

In our back yard there stands a garden shed,

and from the shed, nerve-shredding wails and moans

leak through my kitchen window. Tears I shed -

of laughter! Caddoc’s playing saxophone!

He thinks it helps his baby pumpkins grow

plump for All Hallows’ Eve. “For don’t you see,”

he says, “that serenading sweet and low

inflates my pumpkins?” One of many bees

in Caddoc’s gardening bonnet, I suppose.

In Spring I’ve heard him serenading trees.

Bet they’d like to uproot themselves and run –

as I would.  Caddoc’s sax is not much fun.

The Poetry Bus Challenge, 25th. October

Argent's interesting prompt sought poems about "Meetings"


Name Dropping


Biggles I met at the Llandudno fete
in '64. He took me on a flight of fancy.
Man, oh MAN, I fancied him, his leather
airman's helmet gracing his airman's head.
But I digress. Dick Barton, Sherlock Holmes,
some footballer whose name I now forget,
all these from time to time became my friends,
Ill Met by Moonlight or at day's High Noon.
Jimmy Stewart, Marilyn, two comics
who wore bowler hats - Quarrell? And Hardly?

I can't escape them even in my dreams.
General de Gaulle (what a monstrous ego),
explained he won the war all by himself,
a feat he claimed was worth a Croix de Guerre
or two. We were dream lovers. Didn't last -
I swapped him for the Ghost of Christmas Past!

Not too many people know that Linbergh
landed first near Abergele. He stopped
by to say "Hello", or was it "Hiya,
Ada!" (being a Yank, you see). There is
no end to famous well-knowns I have met,
even The Man Who Never Was. A pet
he was, or was it never was?  I bet
I've known a lot more famous names than you -
But youth and youthful popularity
were thrown away on Caddoc!  Pity me . . .