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...