Sunday, 1 March 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/ My Little One



My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,

I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown a man

and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.

Tennessee Williams
Photo by Alistair

Sunday, 22 February 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/I taste a liquor never brewed





I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

Emily Dickinson
Photo by Alistair

Sunday, 15 February 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/Learning



 I'm learning to say thank you.
And I'm learning to say please.
And I'm learning to use Kleenex,
Not my sweater, when I sneeze.
And I'm learning not to dribble.
And I'm learning not to slurp.
And I'm learning (though it sometimes really hurts me)
Not to burp.
And I'm learning to chew softer
When I eat corn on the cob.
And I'm learning that it's much
Much easier to be a slob.

Judith Viorst.

Sunday, 8 February 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/ Conceit



I heard a winter tree in song
Its leaves were birds, a hundred strong;
When all at once it ceased to sing,
For every leaf had taken wing.

Mervyn Peake
Photo by Alistair

Saturday, 7 February 2015

Changing Paradigms in Education.





No comment or introduction is really needed from me  here. I'd just ask you consider this argument from educationalist Sir Ken Robinson.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Porage Anyone?

A few lines on why I have started another blog called The Porage Diaries.


If I can really remember I called the blog The Porage Diaries simply because I liked the name. I started blogging on it about my diagnosis of type two diabetes. But it didn't last long. Shortly after I lost interest in talking about that so I took those posts down but kept the title. It's been sitting waiting on me for a long time now it seems.

The last few years have been busy and several aspects of life have intervened to take precedence or more honestly to rob me of inspiration or enthusiasm for blogging. Here at Crivens Jings And Help Ma Blog I've kept it going with the odd piece and regular Sunday postings of poetry. During Scotland's referendum last year I was very engaged with politics and the debate about our future. Some of that found its way into Crivens Jings but I was always a bit uncomfortable. It's a personal blog and although politics is personal it's not what I want the blog to become about. There are times when I would like to write about life or other stuff and I'd like to preserve Crivens Jings  solely for that.

So I'd like to write now and again about politics or share articles for other sources. That's going to be at The Porage Diaries. As a committed YES supporter I was devastated by the result against independence last year but like so many others I have to come to terms with the fact that many people, the majority in fact, could not find themselves convinced by the argument for an independent Scotland. They will have had as many reasons for their decision to vote No as other people did for voting YES. I don't blame them for that no matter how deep my personal disappointment may be or my conviction that it is still the right thing.

When ever something occurred that he saw as a set-back or at the end of holidays when we had to return to normality my Dad would always say "Ah well. It's back tae auld claes and purritch the morn." That's just how I felt after September the 18th 2014. Not that this is a reality I want or am prepared to accept as anything other than a temporary measure, but it certainly fits with my mind-set.

So, if this blog in any way charts the days towards a time when Scotland can be independent or improved within the framework of the UK then The Porage Diaries seems like a perfectly good name for it.

Welcome one and all. Please feel free to comment, argue or disagree but do it politely or I will cut you off at the knees. Comments will be moderated.

Porage anyone?


The Sunday Posts 2015/Smile



Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through for you
 
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile

Words John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons
Music By Charlie Chaplin. arr John Barry

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

Beautiful she sleeps.




 I stretch slowly as my eyes open, enjoying the feel as muscle slowly tightens to push nights sleep away. Dawn is come and the lovely G is warm beside me. Beautiful she sleeps, her face is perfect peace. Hair, tousled and spread around her, billows softly across jaw and pillow. Beneath, closed eyes stretch long lashes down to kiss her cheek. I gaze in awe at a face so comfortingly familiar yet so exciting and can't resist the urge to reach and push a stray hair from her face. Still sleeping, she frowns and her expression turns soft pout, the gentlest of breathy whimpers crosses her dreaming lips. A hand comes up to touch her nose and, drained of energy, is left beside her face. She shrugs covers closer around her, her other hand touches mine and clasps me instinctively. Connected, I lay perfectly still, watching and content. Smiling, as beautiful, she sleeps.

see you later

Listening to:


Sunday, 25 January 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/The Tale of Custard the Dragon




Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

Ogden Nash
Photo of Julia by Alistair

Sunday, 18 January 2015

The Sunday Posts 2015/Wisdom



When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I have looked Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange -- my youth.

Sara Teasdale