⌗FMF Challenge, SEARCH

Hello fellow writers. I am partipating in the FMF Challenge for the first time after the WEP-IWSG 28 days challenge. If you would like to join the 

⌗FMF Challenge, go to this link :

here

SEARCH

I keep forgetting things, dates, names . So when I remember that I'VE FORGOTTEN something, I write it down, usually in my daily notebook. Then when I re-read my entries, I'm in for a lovely time of searching for information : in my records, in my books, in my films....And more often than not on Wikipedia.
As my late Auntie Ann would say, you can't trust everything their articles say - but anyway I Love researching on Wikipedia. I check a date or a name then start learning something new and thread on from there. Very time consuming but it always gives me pleasure and I hook up with new books, music, authors, actors, films, historical figures....and ENJOY.


6 minutes, sorry.


An example of a search. I was wondering when David Bowie wrote SPACE ODDITY, in regard to the 1969 landing on the moon, while listening to the song the other day.
It turns out, the song was released in June 1969, a month before the Moon Landing but of course, once they had already left Earth, and there were probably reports on the launch and trip; as the event was amply televised. And then I listened to the song again in light of the information.
If you would like to listen to the song, click below

HERE

What did SEARCH evoke for you today ?

Leave a comment and I'll have a look at your post.

Thank you for reading. Have a pleasant day.

⌗28 days, February 27th, COMMIT

To My Sister

Kathleen with my middle daughter Emma, 7, in 2005.

You will never see the sky again.

We shall not quarrel anymore.

You have set yourself free, left me

behind, to experience

the aches of solitude.

To see the sun sink

beyond the rooftops.

You took up all the room

but it was not your fault.

I cowered, hidden away

in the eaves, grabbing at crumbs.

You would fill the kitchen

with words and I would hurry

out of sight, not wanted,

no place for me.

©susanbauryrouchard

My sister Kathleen, committed suicide in 2011, at the age of 49. I was 3 years younger.

Here are some songs we used to listen to together during our childhood in the '70.

Nino Ferrer, LE SUD and THE GARDEN. Two of her favourites.

here
and here

UP, UP AND AWAY   Music for pleasure. My first personal record that I listened to from age 6. And I still do.

a song by Jimmy Webb, 1967, sung by Enchanted Escape. Albuquerque, Balloon Festival every year in October. Here.
Peter Skellern, MANIFESTO and YOU'RE A LADY.  The second, my all-time favourite.

Vinyl album 1972

John Spencer, MAMY BLUE. One of our favourites, she and I.

1971 version by the Pop Tops

Kris Kringle, SUSIE. My little private song.

On the album Memphis

And to finish on a joyful note,

GUANTANAMERA, performed by The Sandpipers.

here

⌗28 days, February 26th, PRUNE

PRUNE

The Cherry Tree

We prune the cherry tree in November, 

the rose bush in December.Then, I trim the bush 

all year round: discarding sick leaves, 

faded flowers. I cut the dried stalks.

The raspberries need extra care:

I snip and clip.

I clear the weeds so they don't

choke the delicate stems.

The fig tree captures our attention

every October, as does the pear tree.

The nut- and apple trees at Elie du Bois

are disregarded for years.

They keep producing bountiful crops.

One has been battered and bashed

by the autumn and summer storms.

The apples don't have far to drop,

The branches kiss the ground.

The roots are still firmly entrenched.

The trunk is angle-ironed.

When wind and water unleash,

The setting sun robes the clouds

and heavens with a prune hew.

©susanbauryrouchard

Toulouse April 2014

Pear Tree, Toulouse

Cherry tree, Toulouse

Rose bush, Elie du Bois, Dordogne, May 2014

On the Road, Dordogne

Cherry tree, Elie du Bois, December 2014

The Meadow, Elie du Bois

⌗28 days, February 24th, MOURN

MOURN

My Father in my Bones

Again he is in my head. In his armchair, he mutters;

reads the paper, politics. From his lips flows

contempt for a boss from his past.

He is smoking. Curls of grey climb and stain

the ceiling, the walls. A yellow light lingers.

The radio bellows: cymbals clash and trumpets roar.

I hear angry shouting through the door.We share

the same nightmares. Piranesi staircases wind up

and roller-coast down. Now he is gone.

In my own house there's a drizzle. Cruises my bones.

Weaves a path between flesh and veins.

A patter of rain falls on the panes. It slithers

in broken lanes. On iron railings it drips, drops.

On the window rim it seeps into stone. Pools of icy

water sketch landscapes. A map of the world.

We share the geography he loved. He used to pore 

over an atlas, fighting forgotten battles. He dreamt

of perfect quests into unknown lands, I dream too.

We share a passion for history. When I think, whimpers

of wash creep up over cutting moss, I shudder.

Aches skate across my shoulder blades.

I remember him in his chair. A garden seat in the shade

of the hazelnut tree. Even in warm weather

he shivered beneath a tight woolly.

His small boned hands at the end of my arms are numb.

I have blisters bobbing bubbles, bruised chins

and shins. We share a razor sharp blood line.

We share the notes of a tune tumbling

into bass booms and silent grumbling.

©susanbauryrouchard

published Paragram Anthology, Remember, December 2014.

My father died in September 2005. I wrote this poem in January 2009. It was twice this size. I edited it a first time between February and May 2009; then again in 2012 and 2013. After it was published, I didn't touch it again. My mourning was complete.

⌗28 days, February 25th, THRIVE

Thrive

Baby Alice thrived on her mummy's milk. 

Blowing bubbles to the clouds. 

Wee lass, a smile, a banana mouth with full blooming lips. 

A sparkle in her eye. So trusting, so helpless.

The fawn walks within minutes. 

We hold our head, roll over, sit, crawl. 

Baby Alice heaved herself onto her feet, 

clinging to the coffee table, 

the bookcase shelf.

She thrived on the puréed fruit: 

media manzana, media platano, media naranja. 

On the mashed vegetables, potato, carotte, spinach 

mixed with a mince of red meat, fish or chicken.

Baby Alice thrived on the Barcelona sunshine, 

the sweet air of Elie du Bois. 

She took her first steps at a wedding in Sitges. 

Baby Alice was lazy. 

She wanted the pushchair to ride to Square Nougaro, 

Les Minimes, in Toulouse.

So she had it, but she wasn't in it ! 

She walked behind it, 

held on to the sides and rolled it to the park. 

Little Alice thrived on the games, 

the swing by the seaside, 

at the Robert Louis Stevenson park on the beach at Alum Chine.

Little Alice dug holes and fashioned forts. 

She buried herself in the sand, 

her head sticking out like a rugby tee. 

Little Alice jumped in the waves and 

sat on the edge, toes wriggling among the seashells.

The tide gently lapped at her legs. 

And suddenly, it turned a trick, 

slapped her full in the face. 

'Spurt, spurt, sting, sputter. Pouah! 

The gigantic shark-carrying waves in La Reunion

 were far too threatening.But little Alice thrived winding in and out, 

rushing through the bambou maze. 

Behold her first meeting with the mosquitoes. 

A spotted dick, more like a pea-spattered bean !

Little Alice thrived singing 

Here we go round the Mulberry Bush, a fat conniver. 

She stomped up the mound shouting, 

'The Grand old Duke of York...' 

And then, in late spring, who should come along ?

Baby Emma: a playmate, a companion, a doll... 

And the merry-go-round thrived on a brand new tune.

⌗28 days, February 23rd, REACH

Reach

Dream your dreams, reach for the clouds. 

You only have one life, so experience it to the full. 

Let your feelings flow. Let your emotions grasp the better of you. 

Fly into a rage over a bee like

Drew Barrymore's evil stepsister in Ever After. 

Angelica Huston as the cruel stepmother: 

'Whatever I've done, whatever I do, it is never enough'.

Break down and sob when grief overwhelms you. 

Let the tears trickle down your cheeks at the sound of a song. 

At the surge of music, 

the unfolding of that poignant scene on stage or on the big screen.

Laugh out loud, cry with joy. 

Natural beauty makes you weep with felicity. 

Reach for the heavens and touch the moon. 

Share and love together. Fulfill your dreams. 

Bliss comes raining down on the bold.

To wrap up my poem, listen to The Pretenders, Lovers of Today.

click here

Chrissie Hynde

I'll Stand By You, sung by Chrissie Hynde.

click here

Interview about her book Restless

here

⌗WEP Challenge February 2019, 28 Days

With the Insecure Writers Support Group I am participating in the WEP challenge. To know more go here.

28 days

my contribution : a short story.

               The clock is ticking. Sam observes the seconds' arm click onto the next black button. The face stares back at him callously. It just records Time. No care for a petty human life.

Sam rises and brushes a lock of carrot red hair from his eye. He shuffles into the kitchen. Sets the kettle on the gas ring and fires it up. He grab his 'Best GrandDad' mug from the slender wooden peg. Two spoonfuls of coffee, a rush of sugar. The kettle whistles and he pours the water.

Out of the window, the goat is munching at frosted grass. Beyond he can watch the white horses crashing onto the rocks. Sam shambles back into the sitting room. He reaches for his tobacco and takes his pipe from the mantelpiece. He drags on a frayed jacket and steps through the glass door. He settles on the bench, brushing droplets from the nooks of the stone.

He feels guilty at smoking while he sips the scalding drink. What difference would it make now ?

The surgeon had been adamant, There was nothing left he could do. Sam had scratched down the words in his diary the day before, when he got back. 'February 1st, only 28 days more to go'.

He taps his pipe on the fence of the compost heap. Crossing the threshold, he picks up the paper. He throws it onto the table. He won't be reading it. Let others worry about the news. the ringing startles him. He eyes the telephone: a monster about to erupt into his gloom. he doesn't pick it up. It seems to toll forever.

He is floating above a pine forest, snow glistening from the branches. The treetops look so insignificant. he feels a surge of peaceful bliss. The banging insinuates itself into his dream, gnaws at his brain and his body plummets back to earth. The soothing image disappears. Wrenched from his nap by this intruder, his eyes open. He stares at the damp-stained ceiling. The banging doesn't let up. he swings his feet onto the floor and sticks his toes into his mules. he steps down the hallway, fixing the front door, clenches the knob and turns it.

Patty is standing on the mat.

"Granpa !" 

She collapses at his appearance. He catches her arm and draws her in. He leads her to the settee and lodges her between two cushions.

"Is it true ?" She looks up, pleading.

Sam remains silent but his gaze expresses it all.

"Oh! Granpa, why didn't you say anything ? Mummy was frantic with worry when the doctor told her. Why don't you answer the phone ?"

"I..." His voice falters.

"She wanted to come herself but..."

" I know."

"Don't worry Granpa, I'm going to take care of you from now on."

"I'm alright."

"How can you say that ?"

"I've had a good life."

"Don't you want to make peace with your daughter ?"

"If she needs to, she can."

Sam's eyes are two saphires. Patty breaks down and sobs.

"Oh, Granpa, please..."

©susanbauryrouchard