"tidied" poems
To strive, for recognition
An assembly point for thought
Triumphed within an open page
Paper evidence of unspoken verse
Retrieved from the place behind this heart
Do you mind?
Don’t look over my shoulder at my vulnerability
Private stance is mine
Do not mock as I turn the page
A personal preview of this unlocked memory
Back of my neck, prickling
Anticipating on the spot reaction
Young, ill at ease
Crying from the yard
Hiding the scars
Don’t rush away the memories, a deluge
When time was so limited
Become brave
Force open the private recess
Cobwebbed and masked by dust
Speak clearly, not from mumbling
Mouth, I need to………….. know
I am blemished
So glad to be alongside you
Reunited, forgotten, forgiven.....now ribbon tied
Can we bury?
It would seem not......but wait and remember
Deceived by the dark
Under dressed for the occasion
Battered suitcase dragged and kicked open
Essays of remembrance
Headlines screaming for discussion
Released for a while
Obeyed and tidied
Press down and close the rusty catches
My new day transcribed here
I don’t mind, lean on my shoulder
See my vulnerability
It makes me strong
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 6:29 AM UTC
Scribbled in a pre-sex haste
of hormones and awful
music taste,
your name on the back of a receipt
is no way to treat
a one night stand
that you met at the bar;
held hands with in the street;
and subsequently left when
the night became light and neat,
tidied up in a 10am alarm clock
call.
Could’ve waited until
we were both awake,
that way the alcohol would’ve warn off
and we could take this major issue
for what it was-
excitement;
and much anticipation; and placing into
action every lesson learnt from Nick Hornby books,
or pieces of information tucked
deep within our internet bookmark lists.
At least stay until after
Desert Island Discs
next time,
because then buses shall be running
on time, and you won’t have to risk
the public transport roulette table
that spins around this town,
this great noun in the Anglia east.
Now it's the news, and the news
is you've gone. For a moment
I slipped back into a sleepy cement,
making for rough fingers-
that last night made the ascent
up to warmer climates.
And now back to lonelier nights
and Nick Hornby books,
afternoon wake-up calls
from Mum, back home,
asking how to download
the latest Google Chrome.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
We all want someone to hold whilst the music plays
but this is a delayed reaction to teenage hormones,
you're clutching to not-a-lot-of-nothings,
smart jeans and smart cologne, a stolen ring
from your step-father's collection tidied away,
deep, in a box under bed sheets in that drawer.
Your mum says the right one will come 'round
soon enough, but so far the results
of dressing differently have resulted in
women speaking like spray from under a van:
rainwater white noise and not a lot else;
though you're still searching, if not for you,
for your mother instead, elderly and re-married:
some else's burden, another husband to carry.
Carry out of the bottom of drunken wine glasses
and into clear meadows on weekly walks
where discussions take place, peace treaty
talks about holidays in the Mediterranean,
upon balcony ledges they'll embrace, learn
about fading stars, the history behind buildings
visit local bars to drink sober cocktails
conjured up in off-the-web smoothie makers
bought with the ambition to make a living
and help the community out.
If not now then when, your **** shouts
hiding beneath moneyed material
cut in sweat shops, washed in sweat heaps,
delivered by the sweaty mail man of the Bronx,
will women love me you'll say,
will women want a house with me, stay the night
under reclaimed, bought from thrift shop,
lights and kiss until mornings turn into weeks,
those weeks into new jobs
and before you know it, retirement plots
in allotments off Broadway?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
He switched off the TV and turned to his wife;
“That's the worst news report that I've seen in my life!”
She tidied their supper away and she said,
“I’ll be dreaming of that when we’ve long gone to bed.”
“Did you see all that famine, starvation and drought?
Well it sure makes you think what this world’s all about!
Global warming and climate change melting the poles;
I just wish someone used some pollution controls.”
He nodded and sighed as he straightened the chairs;
“Can’t believe all that bloodshed caught me unawares!
It’s just seems there’s a war every place that you look;
Religion and greed? Hell, they’ve written the book!”
With his arm round her shoulder they looked down below
as the Moon bathed the Earth in a silvery glow.
In her cute alien ear then she heard his grim mutter;
“Here we are in the stars looking down at the gutter.”
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Twas the last day of school
before a long winter break
Not a student was learning,
they were all munching on cake
The children had tidied,
supplies all snug in their places
With candy cane smiles
lighting up their sweet faces
The artwork was stowed
in their backpacks with care
In the hope that they'd bring
holiday cheer home to share
When outside the portable
there arose such a clatter
Ms. G sprang from the party
to see what was the matter
The class followed her out,
filling up the whole porch
And right out in front of them,
near as a bright as a torch
Rudolph, nose blazing red
through the dark Vancouver rain,
Behind him the reindeer
pulling Santa’s sleigh like a train
Santa jumped out spritely,
red hat bouncing with glee
He waved at the group and
boomed out, "Hello there Ms. G,"
“And Division 14,
all of you good girls and boys.
We’re rehearsing our run
to practice delivering toys”
The reindeer pranced all round,
putting on a fine show
Santa offered his hand and said,
“Come on Ms. G, let’s go,”
“We’ll drop you in Mexico
before we head back,”
Ms. G happily agreed, asking
“do you have time for a snack?”
The class joyfully welcomed
the jolly crew to the party
They delighted in the games
and the food, eating hearty
Too soon it was time
for the guests of honour to go
Santa sprang to his sleigh and
exclaimed, ** ** **
"Now, Rudoph and Dasher!
Dancer, Prancer and *****
Now, Comet! on, Cupid!
On, Donner on Blitzen!
“To the top of the portable
then over the school
To Mexico we go,
to Ms. G’s holiday by the pool.”
And off the sleigh flew
with Ms. G safely strapped in,
Her pink toque a-bobbing,
her face all a-grin
They heard him exclaim,
ere he drove out of sight—
"Happy Holidays to all,
and to all a good night!"
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
Crest of the wave shoulders
moulded into the final box;
Russian doll soldiers
have nothing on this once free-bus-pass holder.
Open the windows to the let the fresh death out,
past the PVC French doors, triple glazed
and no doubt worth their weight in gold.
Tidy up her lips with thread reinforced with care
and a careful hand tidied up in a well healed white gloved pair.
The next-to-the-cemetery funeral home sits not far from Wakefield
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Matt... get up
Not in an angry tone, but in that slightly disappointed tone that your mum uses. The tone I use to myself at times like this.
Get up.
But how shall I "get up"?
Do I simply climb off this sofa and clean up that Lego my kids left?
Seems so... basic...
Or is this something else?
Does "get up" mean I need to "get" something that's missing from me? And what is this "up" anyway?
Up is higher, better, stronger, more positive, more productive, more useful, more, just ... more... more than I am.
Scary thought being more than i am. Not because I have to do more than I am doing. Just because I haven't done it already. That I already wasted so much time when I could have been doing more. When I could have tidied up the Lego and be using this very time reflecting on a job well done. But the Lego is still sitting there.
"It's not going to pick itself up."
There it is again
As I watch this Lego, still not picking itself up, I reflect on the lessons you learn from Lego.
One brick at a time.
Think outside the blocks.
Create something great from small beginnings.
Or, in the words of Clutch Powers "we build on each other".
Valuable lessons, if I get up.
Up. The opposite of down. The opposite of where I am on this sofa. Unless you consider my position relative to the ground. I'm not rock bottom. There are people starving in the world you know? No. I'm on a sofa. Looking at some Lego bricks.
Which still haven't picked themselves up.
Get up.
Get UP.
Up
UP
down?
No up.
Ugh
Ok
I'm up.
At last! Now get dressed.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
sweetly swimming
in the colder tides of
emptiness—
tidier than the backseat and
your umbrellas; tidier
than the rolling crests of
suburbia;
tidied by the frayed smoothness
of sea.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Unintended circumstances brought me back
Where the wild things are. Or were.
Youthful images reemerge as I traverse my old home.
A senseless vagabond roaming former lands
With bittersweet observations and nothing short of good intentions.
Old landmarks remain, others disappeared as I did.
My room remains open and lonely with tidied sheets
And outdated athletic apparel scattered throughout.
A sign that my presence here is obsolete.
I've been dreading this day for some time now.
Not due to my father's underwhelming support
Or my mother's overbearing nature.
I've been dreading this day because of the monsters under my bed.
They don't exist anymore.
I'm not afraid anymore.
My biggest childhood worry vanished the minute
I stepped foot out of the house for good.
So when I stepped foot back into my room to fall asleep
I gave one last look where my nightmares once resided.
Just in case I had fooled myself into becoming one of
The vast majority of adults too mature for childhood villains.
And then it happened- my innocence evaporated from my body.
My sophisticated eyes were no match for my former foes.
I had confirmed the last traces of my youth had been eliminated
From my very existence- migrating under mattresses around the block.
So all I can do now is lie here and reminisce about
Where the wild things are now.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
The North Wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then,
Poor thing…
The house that poor young Robin bought,
You’d scarcely call it a house,
A single room on a farmer’s farm
You’d not swing even a mouse.
But he moved on in, and tidied it up
And asked Rosemary to stay,
She sat in silence, her knees clamped tight,
And her first response, ‘No way!’
‘There isn’t a cupboard to keep a broom,
The kitchen’s there by the wall,
We couldn’t live in this tiny room
To even think, I’m appalled.’
But Robin said, ‘It’s just for a start,
I’m going to build on a wing,
I’m making the bricks from mud and straw
It will all be done by the Spring.’
So Rosemary had unpacked her case,
And hung her clothes on a hook,
Then looked in vain for a tiny shelf,
There wasn’t even a book.
But Robin slaved, out in the yard,
Making his bricks from straw,
The walls went up and the roof went on,
And he laid the wood for the floor.
At first they slept on the floor inside,
And Rosemary kept it clean,
She said, ‘Don’t touch, till I am a bride,’
And pillows went in between.
He put his love all into his wing,
All carpeted now, and swish,
And set it up as a bedroom then,
‘Are you coming to bed?’ ‘You wish!’
She only ever kissed with a peck,
She never opened her lips,
He wanted more, but couldn’t be sure,
As he nibbled her fingertips.
Then one day, down came the winter rain
And the wind it was blowing cold,
Rosemary lay there shivering so
She allowed him just one hold.
His hand had strayed, down where it would
You’ll admit we’d do the same,
But he found down there, in that neighbourhood
Something that changed the game.
He leapt on up, and he washed his hands,
Said, ‘You’re not even a girl!’
‘Didn’t you guess,’ said Rosemary,
‘It’s not the end of the world.’
She chased him all around in that room,
‘I thought you wanted to play,’
While Robin stood, his back to the wall,
While holding her off, ‘No way!’
He fled into his favourite wing,
And hammered and bolted the door,
His bricks were melting out in the rain
And mud flowed over the floor.
She went on back to the troupe ‘Les Girls’,
While Robin stayed on the farm,
You’ll not see him venturing out these days
He lives in a state of alarm.
With just the sight of a petticoat
He’s a shuddering, gibbering wreck,
And ask him if he will leave his wing,
The answer comes back, ‘Like heck!’
He’ll flee to his farm,
To keep him from harm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
David Lewis Paget
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.
Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"
I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"
I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"
and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling
Its a worthwhile Sunday
I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.
Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
A house perched
On solid foundation
Provides shelter for a generation.
Homes aren't made of brittle bricks,
Wanning woods or crumbling stones;
You can't raze a well-built home.
A divided house will not stand,
A listing castle on shifting sands.
The peaks, dales and family travails,
At home are not abnormal,
They're common and diurnal;
Yet the undaunted home prevails.
Your house comprises various rooms
For eating, sleeping, and mundane routines.
Homes furnish rooms with smiles and tears,
And gatherings throughout your years,
To be shared or on one's own,
The choice is offered,
You're not alone.
Houses grow proud, though gratifying,
With amenities truly satisfying.
Homes swell with smells of love,
The sounds of children snug above,
A sense that all is safe and sure;
This day has given more than enough.
Houses get tidied, cleaned and aired,
Decorated for special affairs;
Homes are fingers, toes and hair,
Hampers, dishes, and underwear.
Its doors lead to who knows where.
Doors to let you out;
Doors to let me hear
When you're back again;
Welcoming your return.
Homes fill us
With memories
Houses never will.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
The little vacuum was happy as could be, he was
Being treated to a trip where he had never been.
It was out side where the light was real, to feel the
Air on his hose, would it be sunny, cold, blustery.
Excitement was growing his cord extended with
Help of a friend the extension cord Barry.
So the door opened eager to see what could be seen,
Was the outside world all he had heard sites, sounds,
Smells, now he was cleaned regularly he could take
In the smells and sites he was about to see.
They stepped out side it was all he had dreamed no
Longer in the box time to play to be happy, there was
Big Garry the family car gave me a wink with the
Indicator when he saw me.
Time for a clean was spoken, As like me not tidied up
Much, but now was his turn to smell fresh and clean,
Garry was big but not much older than me. Beep, beep
Went the horn, was that the neighbour couldn't be my
Car as I'm not in the seat.
So we started to vacuum the mess was not the best but
Clean Garry would soon be, Then left alone as the phone
Rang, alone with Garry, then out of the corner I saw you.
Approached we were, I didn't like the look of this person,
Specially as they had waited till we were alone. my Daddy
Told me never talk to those you don't know, as a stranger
Can be dangerous, not friendly.
He spoke saying hello who left you out here all alone,
I hovered but could not be heard by my family, he was
Trying to take me where I wished not to go, but I was
Not alone, I had my friend Garry.
Garry did honk his horn his alarm startled the stranger,
Running out, to what could be seen, saw what was
Happening and came to protect me.
The police were called, flashing lights did I see, told was
He never to leave alone things that are part of the family,
As strangers are danger don't you see, Gary was lucky
As no keys did he have on he.
So stranger danger we both learnt that day, never to be left
Alone for any time, as it only takes a moment to be lost to
Be taken by those that are not family.
*--This was the story of how a stranger should
Never be spoken to, or go with no matter what they
Promise to give. The only people to talk to are family
And the polite police men and woman who will get you
Back if left alone or lost away from family--*
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Cloud gazing, and yet head hung low
Duct workers maintain their pumps
Assumptions of the first red curtain show
Will the Black Lady come up trumps?
Defending she does of a savage blow
Boundaries pass, still have that lump
Fear dissipates fast, you just know
Wet fish slap, touch down bump
Mission seamed so clear at this fresh start
No predictions of a brain confuddulation
Hike, zigzag, spin to the coldest part
Lump no longer lonely, face mutation
Back to back days of kart
Winning is a fictitious temptation
Easy(ish)-flow braced up for the heart
No longer now is there frustration
Excitement and passion, give me a smack
‘Give a **** overtakes fear in a split
Dee Bath bound, spells **** good craic
‘cos you know darlin’, you are fit!
Anticipations of caressing your back
I’ve even tidied up my flat of a pit!
Panic not of spending a whack
Fly when cheapest, I’ll see you in a bit…
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:46 AM UTC
surprising, probably teasing,
hopefully. it was said.
deflated, we walked the lane,
watched the flood. water
everywhere, washed the car
needlessly. tidied
the outbuilding, swept the
cellar. it has been
raining a lot recently. be
careful what you say.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 12:40 AM UTC
Lizbeth's mum
tidied up
Lizbeth's room
such a mess
plates and cups
on the floor
and LPs
here and there
underwear
cast aside
not picked up
then she found
the *** book
in Lizbeth's
chest of drawers
opened up
saw pictures
of women
and **** men
positions
and advice
she sat down
on the bed
going red
hands shaking
closed the book
didn't know
anything
of those things
that she'd seen
other than
the basic
position
should she say
to Lizbeth
what she'd found?
just 13
why would she
need the book?
and has she
done those things?
Lizbeth's mum
put the book
back again
tidied up
polished round
went downstairs
in a trance
turned on her
radio
on came Bach
concertos
the cellos.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
I realised too late
That I should not have
Tidied us into separate picture frames
When we could
Perhaps
Have shared one between us
Like those other lovers
Who sit together on swings
And giddy themselves
And that I should not have
Scribbled over every thought
And possibility
And guess
I should not have hemmed back
The inch of romance
I once set aside for you
Because the only thing that stopped me
Was fear
You remain my one love story
The sole great un-requited affair
The unspoken words
Between each conversation line
The coffee stains on the pages of my novel
That will forever anticipate a you that is past
And you remain my one love story
You are the love story that I told myself
Was not love
And we were never anything other than silence
And holes in the conversation
Like dropped stitches
When we were twelve
You asked me out via someone else
And I stamped hard on your offered palm
Never stopping to learn
Whether you meant it
And I hope now that you did
Because then it is not so foolish to call you a love affair
And I still do not quite believe that I love you
Only
I saw you today
And my chest
Ceased to be that glacier it chooses to be
Pinned under the lining of every coat
I own
And you said
Hey!
And I hoped I wasn't imaging it
That you were pleased to see me
Because I know that the
Global Warming
Of my world had to be worth something to you
And I have always been something of an
Introvert
And you have always been something of a skateboarder
But you are immortal
In my
Sort-of
Maybe-not
Half-way
Down-trodden
Hold-back
Confused melting
As I paint the pavement
With the contents of my
Ribcage.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
~ following “A Simple Poem”~ (1)
But of course, we reference revelations,
for our brief self-description are guises,
meant to hide, meant to impress, reveal
little, enhance our mystery, preserve our
secrecy. expose and hide simultaneously
within our mid-of-night aura mystiques
Safe behind the curtain, we wizards speak
in voices and tongues, giving up our innermost everything in verse, write of our blessings and our curses, holding little back while we give ourselves away, hint by hinting, writ by writing, a series of
+++++++’s
I choose, I chose, to dress my chess pieces
in a clear varnish, **** the consequences,
sail towards the torpedoes, heading direct
to meet your eyes, giving up my forest
tree by tree, poem by poem, a leaf and
a branch, only tinkering and fussing like a new parent over each new virtual birthing,
and then once tidied,
once spent,
my secrets unconcealed,
we wonder quick if each
puzzle when connected
to its predecessor is
understood
as a tiny pointilisme dot,
a speck
and that you are wise enough to
comprehend how each speck,
lives only unique in its
conjunction,
only tandem-with both the one
nearest and the ones dabbed a decade
long ago, and when you connect
my dots, I stand before you completely
a full and a naked folio,
one book of a single reveal,
the sum of my totality,
an addition of many integers,
summing up to 1
So,
should we pass by each other,
our eyes will pierce, each wrinkle,
solving the equation of who we are…
a single human, readily identifiable,
total recognition, via the reconnaissance
of our letterered footsteps
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 11:12 AM UTC
My springtime's never ending suns
I carry sunglow from window to bed,
planning, when the next day has come,
just as soon as the pets are fed,
and I've tidied up my empty head,
walked the dog, give cat the cream,
to run and jump and skip and play
not laze around and sleep and dream...
Too late! my pet's wet chomping jaws
send my dreams to damp moist earthy days
of screaming pterodactyls & dinosaurs...
My summer sun's they always shone
so brightly that they hurt my eyes,
and I hid and wished it, Begone!
with my false exasperated sighs...
I lazed around and fantasied,
conjured darkness for my needs,
and willed self toy for troglodytes
so dreamily these beasts use my hands on me
on dark cave floor's breed in me, such dreams...
Of Hekate's hounds entering... in my mind
behind the private door's of my eyes.
Now my Autumn comes crashing down
there's earlier settings of darker suns,
troglodytes and hell's hounds keep me bound
on stiff stalking legs ***** one-eyed proud
as creeping winters begin to run...
My pale face mirrored as I count my sum,
of my omniverse to find it finally means,
of my dreams this whole world wide,
dream leads to this... Whereof? I cannot dream...
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 7:05 AM UTC
An apple a day keeps the doctor away
The number thirteen is unlucky, they say
But what do they know as they kneel, as they pray?
Very little, or so I suspect.
To know one does not is to follow a path
Down which Socrates travelled through Plato's remarks
In a dialogue 'twixt many men playing parts
In a drama we cannot reject.
The orchid expresses a testicle's tresses
He yields to a woman's flosculous caresses
Her petals wilt down as the flower undresses
With a perfume unbottled, unkempt.
The covers they rise and the muscles they twist
The lovers meet under a treacherous tryst
Yet nothing prepared for the moment they kissed
And their eyes met with love heaven-sent.
"Loco! Loco!" they bray, wanting neatness to stay
Tidied rooms, closing doors as they're lost by the way
Through which others have carried us day after day
And they're bowing, conforming to norms.
For it's hard when you're scarred to not simply be harmed
By the things that they show you when you are unarmed
By the people you see being not formed but farmed,
Staring blankly with evident scorn.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
near the marches.
it is my brother’s birthday
soon, , stopped
in the village to shop.
it is a good store, post
office at the back, steaming
gently, brown paper, calculating.
the candles are dear, just one pack left,
perhaps a power cut come lately?
anadin, i tidied, whilst i waited gently.
outside she wondered at the ivy
outside to inside the place.
some one moved gently
behind her.
i could not sleep with all
that wondering.
the wandering through
the marches.
sbm.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Milka wanted Benedict
to take her across
old Tom Dubbin’s bed,
(the old boy was down stairs
in the lounge
waiting for death);
she’d put aside
her mop and bucket,
unbuttoned
her light blue
overalls,
but Benedict
had refused,
said it wasn’t
the time or place.
But still she lay,
her blouse undone,
her skirt hitched up,
pouting her lips.
They won’t miss you
for a short while,
she said, besides
who will know?
Benedict tidied
the sink, washed
away the spit
from the old boy’s mug,
straightened the towels.
I could always scream
and say you wanted
to take me here,
she said.
He pulled back
the yellow curtains,
opened up
the windows.
For everything
there’s a season,
he said,
this is not it.
What if I say
you pushed me
on the bed?
she said.
They know you,
Benedict said,
they think you’re a
***** anyway;
they know me,
know what I’m like
and will say, no way.
Milka got off the bed,
pulled down
her skirt
and buttoned up
her blouse,
tidied her
blonde hair.
One day you will,
she said,
one day.
Maybe, he said,
one day, yet in
his mind or in sleep
at night, he often had,
taken her,
as she called it,
across some
old boy’s bed,
but so far not
for real, just inside
his young man’s head.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in mind.
she may have kept my fringe tidy when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.
she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.
we had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.
i wish i had kept them, even with the damage. the incident was one afternoon .
a lamp needed moving, plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.
those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?
so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.
i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.
sbm.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he
gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.
he is home from holday.
sbm
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC