tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1241338752618499172023-11-15T23:37:45.421-08:00Mavis CreatesPoems and short stories.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-84494648899221965782011-05-24T13:38:00.000-07:002011-05-24T13:38:00.587-07:00Shhh.I want to tell you all about it,<br />
To express my fury, fears and frustration,<br />
But it's like having a dirty secret.<br />
I am not free to express myself, you see.<br />
<br />
I would express scorching ash over her green shoots. <br />
Shoot acid at her bare flesh.<br />
Gouge her eyes so I can see,<br />
Throttle my oxygen from her gasps. <br />
<br />
So I must be strong, and silent.<br />
And she?<br />
There is no reciprocation in this pact. <br />
<br />
But self pity is vile. <br />
<br />
I must drink cool pools<br />
Breathe deep draughts<br />
And tell you, who travels alongside me, <br />
I am the same as you.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-14304499278958788462011-04-26T06:58:00.000-07:002011-04-26T06:58:07.162-07:00The Poodles visited St Paul's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsgKvRBkfOCNQg3c_Ey4J6EqDK1gJPkMc121pqkx0ZjdwjHLMTZf6N_xC2Wv88gJ-xQqz92gF19Ev5pY3CkUHoQ6XnUmJMhmAWLcZV-Q_9Zerlw8kgidX-cVW4SboE8RZq1JxQUm30qZE/s1600/Crispin+and+Roger+with+St+Pauls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsgKvRBkfOCNQg3c_Ey4J6EqDK1gJPkMc121pqkx0ZjdwjHLMTZf6N_xC2Wv88gJ-xQqz92gF19Ev5pY3CkUHoQ6XnUmJMhmAWLcZV-Q_9Zerlw8kgidX-cVW4SboE8RZq1JxQUm30qZE/s320/Crispin+and+Roger+with+St+Pauls.jpg" /></a></div><br />
When the poodles went to St Pauls<br />
They marvelled at Mr. Wren's halls<br />
And on the way home<br />
They posed with the dome<br />
Dressed in their best wooly shawls.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-44537883041258831892011-01-18T07:36:00.000-08:002011-01-18T07:36:16.598-08:00A Point of ViewI appear rude and thoughtless<br />
And unappreciative of your care<br />
Because you are far too touchy<br />
And intolerably unfair.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-87905607426423527922011-01-12T03:49:00.000-08:002011-01-12T08:25:05.805-08:00Them and Us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD7Oj_VUPfgtmlLMo6C7AYrnwwgqr5vilFtlmLvjgrRsn_wMuSBUFUmMc7OwvFLPjYFo4ejZNE8Vu_1013ouhrc7VvZboOPbHdn5EHARkmgsBm_zMt6elAkvvcPRcZudJB5HeaL6Vstcp/s1600/Gran+big+bang.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD7Oj_VUPfgtmlLMo6C7AYrnwwgqr5vilFtlmLvjgrRsn_wMuSBUFUmMc7OwvFLPjYFo4ejZNE8Vu_1013ouhrc7VvZboOPbHdn5EHARkmgsBm_zMt6elAkvvcPRcZudJB5HeaL6Vstcp/s320/Gran+big+bang.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561273973864827234" /></a><br />You're different from me<br />Look, you have freckles, and your hair is longer than mine.<br />We're different from them<br />Look, they have external reproductive organs,<br />But at least we're not like them.<br />Look, they've got big noses and speak with accents,<br />However, we are all more important than them.<br />They don't speak at all. <br />Look, they have four feet and some even crawl on their bellies.<br />Even so, we all have brains which is better than them.<br />They just grow in one place and can't think. <br />Nevertheless, they are organic which is superior to those.<br />They're not alive, only mineral.<br />They were bound together in sea beds and in volcanoes.<br />Which makes them more complex than those. <br />They formed in the stars.<br />But they're not completely un-transmutable.<br />Look, their nuclei are made from quarks.<br /><br />When they burnt my Gran at the crematorium, all that was left was ashes, <br />We keep them in an urn on the mantle piece.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-55420775148637379472010-11-02T02:57:00.000-07:002010-11-02T03:11:23.412-07:00Wild Lychees<span style="font-style:italic;">From a Chinese childhood</span><br /><br />A lychee tree overhung the garden<br />Its roots above the storm drain. <br />The hard shells of its fruit stained my thumbs. <br />The labour of peeling bark-like skins from eyeballs<br />Rewarded when blisters popped. <br />Fragrant juice tracked through the dust on my forearms<br />To drip from my elbows. <br />Each globe slipped in the mouth<br />Slid across teeth and tongue, <br />Till, unable to resist any longer, <br />Bite released cascade <br />Of sweet nectar.<br />Scented flesh<br />Stripped from glossy black stone<br />With busy little chews,<br />Surrendered.<br />And I fell to unwrapping the next one.<br /><br />Later, my mother, noticing the brown smudges on my thumbs<br />Accused me of eating lychees <br />As if it were a sin.<br />Hands behind me, cuffed, <br />I bowed and shook my head. <br />But I didn't really care what she thought.<br />Some pleasures are too wonderful <br />to be denied.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-20148410552128694182010-08-19T13:26:00.000-07:002010-08-19T13:26:08.802-07:00Franz, the blind jackdaw, has breakfast.<object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/76FijsP9ekw/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/76FijsP9ekw?fs=1&hl=en_GB"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/76FijsP9ekw?fs=1&hl=en_GB" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-63000452845171422042010-06-29T04:42:00.000-07:002010-06-29T04:49:42.889-07:00St. Sebastian<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyytkBmRoiBB_K-kHzN_1ZTylvg6V5QRLqh0y_63xGUxxLbheUPyBGW0-Agv2cqu6g4FDGmCetq58eU_z5wQmSK70WXmgMXIyndInQGe5GpxnK2vJqh-agyBtGKtFhcAOs2Qd-ELPlSkH/s1600/St+Sebastian.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyytkBmRoiBB_K-kHzN_1ZTylvg6V5QRLqh0y_63xGUxxLbheUPyBGW0-Agv2cqu6g4FDGmCetq58eU_z5wQmSK70WXmgMXIyndInQGe5GpxnK2vJqh-agyBtGKtFhcAOs2Qd-ELPlSkH/s320/St+Sebastian.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488160008437455410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A poem inspired by the sculpture of St Sebastian by Claire Curneen (pictured right).</span></span><br /><br /><br />Transcending pain?<br />Whatever!<br />The hands open and stupid,<br />Small features are blankly insolent - mid-shrug.<br />Where there's no sense there's no feeling.<br /><br />The martyr,<br />A thick white lump.<br />The extremities crystalized.<br />Hands and feet achieved some potential<br />He could act or run.<br /><br />But the rest,<br />The calves, legs, torso and flabby waist with tiny genitalia<br />Are but cellulite on a baby.<br />He is a goat's-cheese of a man.<br /><br />What would make such a man special?<br />And Sebastian needed to be important.<br />So important something greater than can be deceived (to paraphrase the ontological)<br />noticed him.<br />Saw his capacity for turning mulish self-aggrandisement into a virtue.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Something</span> admired Sebastian's gullible faith without base.<br />His conviction.<br /><br />And taking pity on him<br />Paradoxically, given his lack of existence,<br />With ineffable wisdom<br />He set Roman legions against him<br />And at the moment<br />The wounds poured forth,<br />Wouldn't it have been good<br />If he'd turned Sebastain's blood to gold?Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-62129263261816275502010-04-15T05:10:00.000-07:002010-04-15T05:14:11.807-07:00Wicked Thoughts!Glimpsed its face,<br />Didn't mind its own business<br />As an innocent would<br />With eyes turned skywards, or<br />Down, inspecting fingernails.<br />No, it met my flash of recognition<br />With malicious glee.<br />Wet, bulging orbs stared back at me.<br /><br />Shame, like an egg cracked on my head,<br />Slithered down to my shoulders.<br />A cold shawl warped my flesh.<br /><br />“Everyone has bad days,” they said.<br />“Nothing's as bad as you imagine.”<br /><br />Do they know how its breath stinks, and<br />Now, I must lift it and suckle that bite.<br />Clutch it close,<br />Like the secret.<br /><br />Only you helped me, when you told me<br />“We all have vile babies, you know.<br />We spend parenthood justifying their need for oxygen..”<br /><br />How I laughed.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-42883356792495679292010-02-23T07:23:00.000-08:002010-02-23T08:16:01.612-08:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">In an Empty House</span><br /><br /><br />The thin tin cooker<br />Like a tower block<br />In the eastern block<br />Brown window<br />Greasy fog<br />Obscures pinched features<br />Peering out.<br /><br />Grime with mouse-droppings<br />Fetch the 'oover.<br />Steaming hot buckets<br />And brushes.<br /><br />Let's clean this out<br />Out. Out. Out. Out. Out.<br />Let's replace it with an<br />Aga.<br /><br />Ahhhh.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-27365308711971205382009-11-03T06:23:00.000-08:002009-11-03T06:24:29.687-08:00A Rip In the Space-Time Continuum.She looks as though she's seen a ghost.<br /><br />Blonde curls poke through her<br />Straw sun-hat, torn at the brim.<br />Stitching together hat, wearer and big red dahlia,<br />To present an unearthly vortex<br />Of animal and vegetable.<br /><br />Round eyes jiggle within smudged black lines,<br />Eyelash half unstuck, trembles when<br />She blinks.<br />She leans forward confidentially.<br />Red lips, furred by myriad rivulets above <br />Powdery chin, <br />Mouth, <br /><br />“I saw something that was there.”Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-2091828979201270022009-10-13T05:31:00.000-07:002009-10-14T02:59:39.665-07:00On the Island of ParosToo long in the sun, <br />My admiration of Parian marble,<br />Disgorged onto the road,<br />Like chunky snowdrifts,<br />Flagged.<br /> <br />Thirst had turned my calves to pure alabaster..<br /><br />Sun flailed my fair skin <br />Till I imagined it hung in ribbons<br />From scorched shoulders.<br /><br />Ahead, a black crow<br />Fluttered above the track,<br />Next to a low whitewashed dwelling.<br /> <br />Shading my eyes with a hand, I peered.<br />The crow stretched out an arm and beckoned.<br /><br />Not a crow but a woman.<br />An ancient Greek widow, in black gowns<br />Greeted me by clasping my hands between hers<br />As if enfolding them in prayer,<br />Before ushering me<br />Into her dirt-floored hovel.<br /><br />At a plastic table, sat a beige-clad couple.<br />I joined them, and the old lady <br />Placed a glass of cloudy water before me. <br /><br />The German pair, <br />(They had the caramel leather boots and bags <br />All German tourists wear.)<br />Seemed to sympathise,<br />With eyes fixed <br />On their own glasses, un-sipped.<br /><br />An amoebic swarm<br />Flashed within the liquid;<br />Primordial soup.<br />I wanted to wait for evolution.<br /><br />The old lady smiled<br />And nodded encouragement.<br />Her eyes lit by the strong sun<br />Striking through the tiny window<br />Into this stifling interior,<br />Were blue and cloudy.<br /><br />I picked up the glass <br />And while the German couple <br />Looked on, <br />I drank.<br /><br />I drank down my host's<br />Kind, hospitable eyes.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-78666723334384362842009-09-26T03:21:00.000-07:002009-09-26T03:23:17.878-07:00The Luxury of Work-aholicismShort-legged heavers,<br />Kick the ground behind them.<br />Shoulders and sternum snap into straps,<br />Stretch inertial glue till<br />Tiny rock rolls to relief,<br />And the truck climbs the track.<br /><br />In the black of the pit<br />Five lights bob on the brows<br />Of the heavers. <br />They slide and strain, <br />In a square dance of pain,<br />A squealing wheel <br />Marks time. <br /><br />Muscles search for stores.<br />A breakfast of bread and fat<br />Barely meets the need<br />But thick and wide <br />Thews collide and kick <br />The ground again. <br /><br />What do they think <br />As they spend their strength?<br />Do they feel manly pride<br />In their collective power?<br />Or are their minds blank<br />Like any beast<br />Set to toil hour after hour.<br /><br />On a Calcutta street,<br />A mountain of jute <br />Totters on a matchwood cart.<br />Before it,<br />Little red donkey, <br />Splayed and dead<br />Too thin and tiny for his heart.<br /><br />Miners and donkey<br />Had no choice<br />Forced to labour<br />Beyond their limit<br />Neither took any pride in it.<br /><br />Life's work-horse <br />May crash with colic<br />But a working man<br />Is not a workaholic.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-85136492711356002572009-09-25T11:43:00.000-07:002009-09-25T11:48:00.502-07:00SchedulesShe refers to earlier times as, when she was alive.<br />I say, “Before I was in service.” <br /><br />But actually we have that the wrong way around.<br />There was a time when I was alive <br />And she was in service, <br />Like a bus is <i>in service</i>, <br />Going somewhere<br />Full of life.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-43042463191204276432009-09-18T12:13:00.000-07:002009-09-18T12:32:39.255-07:00Dirty Laundry“Hang the fucking flannel up!”<br />I whisper in a hoarse cry,<br />The words break free like <br />Adultrous men in black, <br />Up to no good.<br /><br />I see my snarl in the bathroom mirror.<br />Guilt at such pettiness<br />Makes me wince.<br /><br />My friend has just been widowed,<br />Another's in remission,<br />And here I am screaming about flannels.<br /><br />Good job I didn't really yell it out.<br /><br />Yet, still I try to justify my fury.<br />It's a symptom.<br />A tip of an iceburg.<br />A metaphor.<br /><br />Perhaps,<br />But I feel small.<br /><br />I hang up the flannel,<br />Then decide to throw it <br />In the boil wash after all.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-60107714740980342832009-08-02T05:41:00.000-07:002009-08-02T05:55:34.985-07:00My Mother's Soup Bowl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nTsdtiZYTGUsPhydIvDD85tDdkehoSvuSio6Iq5LtfbBUdr6hxRvVLXbQZITD1k4zksw7hXwPjp4gDFf8pdYl4HyXBEcRvntolZF0INogI59ZKu1b3eok072B96s5stGETX8HRh43KMW/s1600-h/BILD0309.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nTsdtiZYTGUsPhydIvDD85tDdkehoSvuSio6Iq5LtfbBUdr6hxRvVLXbQZITD1k4zksw7hXwPjp4gDFf8pdYl4HyXBEcRvntolZF0INogI59ZKu1b3eok072B96s5stGETX8HRh43KMW/s320/BILD0309.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365347833113279170" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />My mother's soup-bowl has a lid,<br />And knobs on each side.<br /><br />Squat, and plain, with a primitive design<br />Painted in earth colours,<br />It reminds me of my mother,<br />With knobs on.<br /><br />She died,<br />Not yet seventy.<br />Carotid arteries choked<br />By almost a lifetime of rich food.<br />Carrot broth in her sixties did little good<br />For a woman who hated vegetables.<br /><br />I recall her eating Heinz tomato soup.<br />She supped her warm medicine.<br />Pursed lips drew liquid from spoon -<br />A stilted ritual.<br />When the last drop was gone,<br />She put the lid on.<br /><br />Now, years later,<br />Nourishment swelters<br />Under primitive earth-colours.<br />I take the lid off,<br />Release a spicy cloud,<br />And sip her memory from my spoon.<br />I empty the bowl,<br />Just like she did,<br />But when I am finished,<br />I leave off the lid.</span>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-19469070434562415342008-10-16T02:34:00.000-07:002008-10-16T02:41:05.640-07:00L. Ron Hubbard?<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0Ek1-gbSgvgwr7FcMM19wSKYer878kQ8Bqt6QRDK-8TXWDqoJzXRsWdM__Y27dcGNEvoAfFn0ekuxYb3LfQORnkwUnbGi-_4bNtk3YCRZDZie_jsjv0FXDtjt1szHS7T4ReGISqQukG1/s1600-h/aa+grange+over+sands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0Ek1-gbSgvgwr7FcMM19wSKYer878kQ8Bqt6QRDK-8TXWDqoJzXRsWdM__Y27dcGNEvoAfFn0ekuxYb3LfQORnkwUnbGi-_4bNtk3YCRZDZie_jsjv0FXDtjt1szHS7T4ReGISqQukG1/s320/aa+grange+over+sands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257684334716814018" border="0" /></a></span><br /><div id="{DEED1DDB-C15E-4329-87F8-65C4D14DCAE2}" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9ksmwMf46U6ppJolD5MXLafFwy3I1qfwgbWRuFfF7HmjI-yIuM0Qs_PEAu7UcufQLKgJxaznyM-jqjy3mWTRKi80CtWYOd9MBJiAfykrRUVHgVkAW6uePNtZPZGEwKID6QcbwUEO6VsC/s1600-h/aa+grange+over+sands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9ksmwMf46U6ppJolD5MXLafFwy3I1qfwgbWRuFfF7HmjI-yIuM0Qs_PEAu7UcufQLKgJxaznyM-jqjy3mWTRKi80CtWYOd9MBJiAfykrRUVHgVkAW6uePNtZPZGEwKID6QcbwUEO6VsC/s320/aa+grange+over+sands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257683148635267618" border="0" /></a></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span name="myContent"><span style=";font-family:arial;" ><u><b>L . Ron Hubbard?</b></u><br /><br />When I see a swallow's wing<br />I think of Helliconia Spring<br />From a hole a Morlock creeps<br />And by a pool a Yahoo sleeps.<br />Jerry Cornelius, rides again<br />A hero amongst common men.<br />Rented-a-tent, Rented-a-tent<br />There's aliens crawling in through the vent.<br /><br />It's life Jim, but not as we know it.<br />Give me warp and try not to blow it.<br />The worm-hole's closing now we're doomed<br />In Veils of Azlaroc - marooned.<br /><br />I see the stargate shimmer there<br />Where the heat meets the air<br />I smile and wonder at the minds<br />That built these worlds for human kind.<br />The Arthur Seas and Asimov hills<br />It would be dull without such thrills.<br />Imaginations rich and bright -<br />But L Ron Hubbard? - Pile of shite!</span></span></span>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-29058479318060175392008-10-13T06:15:00.000-07:002008-10-13T13:34:20.221-07:00Hygienists know a thing or two.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrcF1hOLUAJmyitqkPBhyphenhyphentOqK2df0hmCKupztCULiFnBOxwLtJoK54hJ_BU-CPRKnnLHDHNllYTJIyhnvgUFJ_XKZ8WTWPn5eOu1JnRNhzoXpJ1_wtDB02gkA9MWhlOSZEprTY9mhBLxr/s1600-h/Scary+Mavis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrcF1hOLUAJmyitqkPBhyphenhyphentOqK2df0hmCKupztCULiFnBOxwLtJoK54hJ_BU-CPRKnnLHDHNllYTJIyhnvgUFJ_XKZ8WTWPn5eOu1JnRNhzoXpJ1_wtDB02gkA9MWhlOSZEprTY9mhBLxr/s320/Scary+Mavis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256630130650968818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><u>Ode to the Hygienist</u><br /><br />She's a professional,<br />She's a health professional<br />If you don't show you're humble<br />She'll let let your molars crumble<br />She's a professional,<br />She's a health professional<br />Eye-shield and white coat prove it<br />She's got brains so move it.<br /><br />You snivelling little pleb!<br /><br />Just look at that bacteria!<br />To which you are inferior,<br />If you don't floss and clear this dross<br />She'll confiscate your bony plate<br />And lascerate your gums.<br /><br />Cos, She's a professional<br />She's a health professional<br />And she nearly came top in her class.Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-37633587832106369982008-10-04T02:48:00.000-07:002008-10-04T03:30:55.843-07:00Freedom<div id="{749ACC5A-3C47-4465-82BB-7B69A926C9B1}" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYMhddcbbE2KB_RVCvbgtirR1AJaBVJAqrTb9Qke0Q_vvhbOH0sEYNWAUmbAuYNsnZ60Z2YAMNO0KCZnPbh0J29SDQVQlrSfJ2HNH_zlW7qBikX3pFmtVxTzOa2cb9dYXFmLUsk1OKMFZ0/s1600-h/Canary.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYMhddcbbE2KB_RVCvbgtirR1AJaBVJAqrTb9Qke0Q_vvhbOH0sEYNWAUmbAuYNsnZ60Z2YAMNO0KCZnPbh0J29SDQVQlrSfJ2HNH_zlW7qBikX3pFmtVxTzOa2cb9dYXFmLUsk1OKMFZ0/s320/Canary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253240336640592066" border="0" /></a><u><span style="font-weight: bold;">Free at Last</span></u><br /></div><div id="{63790D50-4AC6-42EC-AAE2-F0BC79BA1DFE}" style="text-align: center;"><br />The door was left open,<br />I yearned to be free.<br />I hopped to the doorway,<br />Cocked my head to see;<br />The window was open<br />A breeze cooled my head<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;" id="{9239FDE7-F904-44A5-A649-7662689B1379}">I heard a finch singing<br /></div><div id="{0C19D703-C7C0-4B48-9755-15BCC9D483FF}" style="text-align: center;">"Here's freedom," he said.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;" id="{8675678A-D1ED-47E9-ABF8-926D7CA52FCD}">With no further caution,<br />I flew to the sill.<br />I slipped through the op'ning,<br />Borne up by the thrill.<br />The clear sky above me,<br />Sweet meadows below,<br />Zephyrs around me,<br />I heard a cock crow.<br /></div><div id="{51830712-20EC-404B-BAF1-4576DC72B32A}" style="text-align: center;"><br />I lit on an oak tree.<br />Heart beat in my chest.<br />My wings were still feeble,<br />I needed a rest.<br />The finch stopped his rondo.<br />I swelled up with pride,<br />My song became solo.<br />I sang for my bride.<br /><br />Each chirrup and cadence,<br />Melodious phrase,<br />Expanded to warm me.<br />Oh joy of my days!<br />I sang sweet deler'ums<br />From my prominent perch,<br />The hawk found it easy<br />To narrow his search.<br /><br />No other bird sang<br />As the shadow passed o'er<br />I thought them entranced<br />By my glorious score<br />The shock of the snatch<br />Took my last notes away<br />My freedom was lost<br />On that marvelous day.<br /><br />Would I hop through the window<br />And sing in the tree,<br />Knowing the perils there are for the free?<br />My answer, at once, from my beak opened wide,<br />At least I knew joy at the moment I died.<br /><br /><br /></div><div id="{A6E0DA06-8344-4982-8B50-736F974A545C}" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYE8uVFHJCX22xwAqh_mzDW9RSLEwHy72oVPT-_-fSjzqgprijVlbp2GsAMjK8_Z-cetG7B2YQfLDgyq2i4T4bgs1s82jDNE2fJv87Y4hPu-jArhUvI3r33PPo2qwQrz5P3kIqi_ahW9T/s1600-h/eagle-owl+eyes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYE8uVFHJCX22xwAqh_mzDW9RSLEwHy72oVPT-_-fSjzqgprijVlbp2GsAMjK8_Z-cetG7B2YQfLDgyq2i4T4bgs1s82jDNE2fJv87Y4hPu-jArhUvI3r33PPo2qwQrz5P3kIqi_ahW9T/s320/eagle-owl+eyes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253240199497897058" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This is actually the eyes of an Eagle Owl, photographed at<br />a recent country show, but I couldn't resist using it to illustrate this verse.<br /></span></div>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-27999665880033075802008-10-03T07:11:00.000-07:002008-10-03T07:30:06.079-07:00Don't We Just Adore Blind Faith?<div id="{C439C5C4-1966-4853-882C-2C1DC6A71AE9}" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Qqm5br2MJkAFgL1rtaEMO31SWZE3ER3LFPI8T0PIRWzAvcbZC9FphGHJQtt2RLJ63nNIOyYQYDjG2QEW7IX9BAxEXujOHCUyuP3UphO4a1IURymge9ZS1OKRGhpJJtQ35_7jUwExqSM3/s1600-h/Bath+in+sink+Crispin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Qqm5br2MJkAFgL1rtaEMO31SWZE3ER3LFPI8T0PIRWzAvcbZC9FphGHJQtt2RLJ63nNIOyYQYDjG2QEW7IX9BAxEXujOHCUyuP3UphO4a1IURymge9ZS1OKRGhpJJtQ35_7jUwExqSM3/s320/Bath+in+sink+Crispin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252932903424930914" border="0" /></a><span id="{F4AB5B65-A539-4AB6-9C7A-EA2B51E1C49F}" style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Don't we just adore blind faith?</span><br /><div id="{02C721B7-A46B-4095-A9C3-9E46F971C3ED}" style="text-align: left;"><hr /><br /></div></div><span id="{2797E6A9-DBD0-4774-A841-6B2ACC6F735E}" style="font-weight: bold;"><u><br /><br /><br />Green Beetle</u><br /><br />Cryptocephalus hides his head<br />Not in the sand, nor in his bed,<br />Instead it's there for all to see<br />Metallic green on Hazel tree.<br /><br />He has no shoulders nor a neck,<br />So birds don't know which end to peck,<br />Like debris from a welding spree<br />Metallic green on Hazel tree.<br /><br />Once forged by fairy farrier<br />He shuns the aurucaria.<br />Prefers to nibble tenderly,<br />Metallic green on Hazel tree.<br /><br />Deep within the dusty vault<br />A scarab beetle dry as salt<br />Wishes he could one day be<br />Metallic green on Hazel tree.<br /><br />Cryptocephalus hides his head<br />Behind a name that's seldom said<br />Which hardly brings to mind for me,<br />Metallic green on Hazel tree.<br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >(Penned 1st September 2008)</span><br /></span>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124133875261849917.post-77775796621365539382008-10-02T05:50:00.000-07:002008-10-02T06:46:23.435-07:00In The Beginning<div id="ms__id49"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQizXsu5tEOPVSxX7VCZ6U6nlMh3Auv2xbdxX9PVXivJnF0Rxid_I3N97rGALZt__xDdprs8sSPpyVkMnFFicrOeUgsbKep-bL18F011DY5E-9SzIwvalWzTBYSoDKzDBO3CM3LI8h9er/s1600-h/Oak+above+reservoir+400.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252543806490558386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQizXsu5tEOPVSxX7VCZ6U6nlMh3Auv2xbdxX9PVXivJnF0Rxid_I3N97rGALZt__xDdprs8sSPpyVkMnFFicrOeUgsbKep-bL18F011DY5E-9SzIwvalWzTBYSoDKzDBO3CM3LI8h9er/s320/Oak+above+reservoir+400.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span id="{C9546543-D3C9-4FD6-9622-E1D579FAD49C}" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><br /><br /><u>In the Beginning</u><br /><br />When Mavis began creating,<br />She was a shapeless, chaotic mass.<br />Thoughts perished between her synapses,<br />Mid birth.<br /><br />"Let there be light," she said.<br />Separating the light from the darkness,<br />She made something to see,<br />The Earth.<br /><br />And she saw that although is was shapeless and chaotic,<br />She was part of it, and reflected in it.<br />Communicating with it -<br />What mirth!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div>Mavis Mooghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692591049951066989noreply@blogger.com3