Posts Tagged With: Postaday

It’s Raining Today


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Categories: Verse | Tags: , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Beauty – (for dverse)


is an


in raindrops of time

Eyes that bewitch, dreamcatcher eyes with multicoloured stories inside


A flower of a smile reaching deep

A memory of  fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves 

The curves in the sand dunes

the waves when you bathe

And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again

For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.


Categories: Verse | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

After The Storm

After the






She walked





Kept well to the







of the

















Categories: Verse | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

dVerse – Let It Rain

soft rain
takes me home

to watch drops
roll on a window pane

grey skies
waves caress sand
-a background refrain

I walk the forest
hesitate not
in my step
it leads me away
from where I came

the passion
of the Amazon has gone
the storm that lashed my skin
nectar of native fruit sinned

her arms tightening
under the lightning

I know
I’m not tamed

for the soft shores of a final destination
that to roam is my home

that my peace is found
in the eye of the monsoon

Categories: Verse | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Haiku from the Wind

Lappland leaf carried by a breeze from Italy – (please click on Semprento’s name above to see poetry by my beautiful, graceful Italian poet who whispers words into the breeze)

the wind speaks
a leaf

by Semprento


Categories: Haiku | Tags: , , , , , , | 4 Comments

An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida

Taha Muhammad Ali (1931-2011) wrote most of the poems for his first book in 1982 and 1983, when the Israel Defense Forces were invading Lebanon, leading to the massacres at Sabra and Shatila.  But it was in 1948, in Muhammad Ali’s village of Saffuriya, captured by the army of the newborn Jewish state, that the seeds of  The Fourth Qasida were probably planted.

Along with most of the village’s population, the teenage Muhammad Ali and his family fled on foot to a refugee camp in Lebanon, where his 12-year-old sister, Ghazaleh, died of meningitis. They were able to sneak back a year later and eventually even to obtain Israeli residence cards, but were never to return to their ancestral village, as Saffuriyya had been razed to the ground and turned into Tzippori, a moshav or Israeli settlement. Taha Mohammed Ali  settled in Nazareth instead, where he opened a souvenir shop for Christian tourists.

In his poem “The Fourth Qasida,” Muhammad Ali addresses Amira, the girl to whom he was betrothed in childhood, but whom he was not able to marry because she ends up on the wrong side of the Lebanese-Israeli border. Amira’s mysterious departure, never to return, can be equated to the events around Saffuriyya, but is left open for the reader’ s own interpretation at the same time.

The deeply moving poem is full of the flavour of what used to be known as ”Asia Minor’, with its references to nature and fruits, which add tragic appeal. The Fourth Qasida can thus almost be tasted, and is a poem, like many in Arabic tradition, that should be read or ”thought” aloud.

With each reading one discovers more, as always, and for me, in the latest reading, it is when a sudden ”powerful feeling” grows, that Amira might return, and then the sudden shout of ”Amira!” of the last stanza, that echoes still now. Enjoy the read. 

The Fourth Qasida

When our loved ones leave
as you left,
an endless migration in us begins
and a certain sense takes hold in us
that all of what is finest
in and around us,
except for the sadness,
is going away—
departing, not to return.

The pomegranate trees
whose flowers you loved,
drooped and their shade withdrew,
and the path, and the china bark tree,
and the brooks—
all departed
after you left
and won’t return.


During the winter
strange birds seeking refuge arrive,
among them quails
and songbirds with colorful wings,
and also birds of prey,
and some that are sad and frail
and hold you spellbound in their goodness
gathering pebbles and grain,
and trembling in the tremendous cold
and out of a sense of profound strangeness—
though all of a sudden together they leave.
They come as one in winter suddenly,
as with it they suddenly flee.


I have, Amira, a strange and powerful feeling,
which grows still stronger in winter,
becoming increasingly forceful
and strange,
and I sense that you’ll arrive
one day with these birds,
an olive’s dove—
graceful and gentle,
and restless,
alighting near
the almond tree in our garden.
A dove whose feelings of cold are fatal,
whose sense of strangeness can kill,
whose longing for the olive
grove is lethal;
a dove who smiles,
her eyes holding gardens of sadness,
while joy’s remains linger on in her coo.
The minute I see her, I’ll know her,
and recognize, too, catastrophes’ rings
hanging from her tender neck.
I’ll know her clear, springlike glance,
her dewy gaze
like the dreams of lakes.
I’ll know her shy, velvety steps,
her measured paces,
like breaths taken by seedlings of lettuce.
And I’ll know her sweet, singular, lilac voice,
which—every time I heard it—
I sensed was coming from deep within me,
a remote place within my soul,
lost and unknown—
this voice that reaches me
and which I greet
and embrace before my hearing stirs.
I will not mistake it,
for I can distinguish between
the voices of all the doves of the world
gathered together in a single garden.
And when I see her, my feet will set out
for the heart’s site within my breast.
But I will not let her see the tears
welling up in my eyes,
neither the tears of my joy for her,
nor the tears of my fear for her,
and not the tears of years of sadness,
nor my years of pain.
My blood will rush in my veins
to meet her then and welcome her.
And she will know us as well,
our sadness will lead her to us,
our anticipation will lead her to us,
the longing will lead her,
the evenings, the ardor.
The night will guide her,
and the clouds and grass
and the forest will show her the way,
the seasons and rivers
and paths—
all will guide her towards us.
And she will know us and cry
remember us and weep,
gather the greens and grain
and sob,
tremble from the force of the cold
and the depth of strangeness,
and weep,
We’ll tell her of the fields of thorn,
the colocynth fruit
and crimes of the wind,
the fangs of dispersal,
the mill of night and its cruelty,
the ardor of evening;
we’ll speak to her of defeat,
of bitterness and the loss—
and remind her of the olive buds,
as she weeps on and on.
She’ll neither find us strange nor fear us,
and she will not draw back from us,
but suddenly she’ll depart
as suddenly as she appeared,
and the winter that brought her
with it when it arrived
that morning will pass from our garden
swiftly like a train.
Waking from her slumber
in terror then, she’ll cry
and hanging from one of its coaches’ windows
she’ll weep,
withdrawing into the distance,
the tears filling her lovely eyes.


When our loved ones leave us,
as you left,
an endless migration in us begins,
and a certain sense takes hold in us
that all of what is finest
in and around us,
except for the sadness,
is going away,
departing, not to return.

There Was No Farewell
We did not weep
when we were leaving—
for we had neither
time nor tears,
and there was no farewell.
We did not know
at the moment of parting
that it was a parting,
so where would our weeping
have come from?
We did not stay
awake all night
(and did not doze)
the night of our leaving.
That night we had
neither night nor light,
and no moon rose.
That night we lost our star,
our lamp misled us;
we didn’t receive our share
of sleeplessness—
so where
would wakefulness have come from?

Should you wish to ”hear” some more from Taha Mohammed Ali, please do click on this poetry reading of ”Revenge”, read by the poet in Arabic, then by Peter Cole in English (just before the 4th minute), a pearl of an experience.

Categories: Verse | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Writer’s Lair ~ Lappland

When I used to teach Creative Writing I sometimes would have the students troop of out of classroom or lecture hall into a nearby forest or field, just after the first snow had fallen, or at least a good frost, or when a coating of thin ice had covered grasses and branches. They were not allowed to wear coats or gloves, and I’d have them plunge their hand into the snow for a minute, or breakthrough the ice over puddles.

Then I’d tell them to write their last letter to the world. Some would be shivering. But all would write – and fast – creativity used to come crystal clear. On most occasions these student would be using English not as their mother tongue, but as a second, or third language. Most could knock off a few pages in minutes. I would walk around the group that I would scatter far and wide throughout the forest, motivating them by telling them how cold they felt, how their fingers were getting numb (they were) and how they had to get their ideas out on page before it became more and more difficult to write.

I prefaced these sessions by looking at Scott of the Antarctic’s last letter, or a meditation exercise, or other features, before going outside.

When the students read their ‘letters’ at a later date, some of the material was quite emotional.

For those who want to write, have the will to write, need to, have to, breathe to, but still get blocked, there is sometimes no other way than to put one’s self into a position where only by concentrating on the given story and getting it out onto paper brings warmth. Forcing the story that you know is there out of you.

This winter I am heading north again to Lappland, to live as the Sámi did, in a tipi for as long as I think will be beneficial. There its write or..well, there is no ‘or’ in these conditions. Writing is the only way to escape the cold. And the book must come, or defeat stares back, numbing defeat, mixed with the plunging cold. My method is not madness, as you instinctively know – those who know that the novel is not merely scribbled out onto paper, or tapped onto screen over a pre-planned duration of something commonly known as time. You already know the toll. The difference here is to keep the turmoil physical as much as possible, so that mentally, it flows – instead of the normal opposite when writing.

So buy a thick sleeping bag, the kind that can see you to a mountain top in the Himalayas. You will need dried foods, a small burner, a mattress, animal skin or straw, tea bags, coffee, pens and paper, gloves with fingers, a spade – the spade is to ensure the ‘floor’ of your tipi has two levels, so that the cold air settles down at a lower level than where you are. Lastly you will need candles or torches. Candles are extremely dangerous for obvious reasons. There is no daylight for the winter months in northern Lappland. This works to your advantage, but it is often more motivating to write in the beginning of the year, when daylight slowly creeps back for a few more minutes every day; somehow that fits well with the progress of your work.

Try it. Or try it with me. The productivity and creativity reaches record-breaking levels. And yep, it hurts. But is there one writer among you who can say it doesn’t; whatever approach we use to get the best, the very best work out?

Sámi in summertime (source local)

Sámi tipi in summer

Categories: Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Flight of the Oryx

During those hot sultry nights, when the humidity and heat were so high that the air conditioning immediately condensed, and sent billowing clouds into the cabin, that familiar music would somehow pacify the background and bring a cool freshness to the surroundings.

Entering a Qatar Airways plane at some exotic city in the globe was like an instant massage, be it Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Buenos Aires, Katmandu or any number of desert destinations. There were the stewardesses, usually from Eastern Europe or South Africa, with their bewitching accents, or from Asia, with their enigmatic smiles, and the immaculate burgundy and grey decor. But it was the Qatar Airways tune, piped along with the air conditioning that seemed to really work the magic; when that soothing feeling, of entering the cabin to take a flight from desert to Europe, or desert to more jungle, seemed like real therapy. There is just something in that music they played, better than any James Bond theme song, or Tchaikovsky ballet score, or Rolling Stones latest.

But Qatar Airways offered more: the Japanese stewardess, when I was getting off the plane, who had slipped off shoes to stand on a seat, to bring down a heavy piece of luggage, who gave a small shriek, stumbled and fell into my arms when I offered her a small package, for in those days, with such good service on board, I often brought some small gifts from Europe for the hard-working flight attendants: ”I thought it was a bomb!” the Japanese stewardess had said to me, red-faced, as she sat caught just in time in my arms.

And there was the Slovakian air stewardess, on September 11th, 2002, who when I told her how much I’d enjoyed trekking in the Tatra mountains of Slovakia, had purred:  ”therrre arrre two good things that come from Slovakia; the beerrr, and the wommmen,” and slid her hand into my open shirt and wiped it up my chest – electric. And that was on September 11th 2002, heading to Pakistan from Munich,after a couple of people had left the plane, one a woman screaming we were going to crash and the other a bearded Pakistani in pashtun hat after he answered a mobile phone call, both causing the delay which allowed the delicious chat.

Other airlines in the Persian/Arabian Gulf region had their strong points too; Etihad and Emirates, Oman Air, Gulf Air and Royal Jordanian, who brought a plane back to the gate for me when I was late, a plane I boarded with razor blades in my bag, having passed the bag through the x-ray, the security guard asking me if they were there, and I mistakenly answering ”no”, and him replying ”I trust you.”

But Qatar Airways just seemed to be a touch different. And those electric feelings? That’s why I write. I like to set my books in wonderfully exotic locations, but the trips taken to get there are also a secret delight. It was Robert Louis Stevenson who said that it is the journey, not the destination, and he travelled by donkey. I am sure he would have had a few more interesting words to say about his journeys had he been sitting waiting to take off to Tahiti, or Samarkand or Cape Town in those planes with the oryx on their side.

Categories: Voyages | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

A Writer’s Lair ~ Oymyakon @ -71.2ºC

In order to write my first book I decided to live in Chamonix, France, next to the Mont Blanc, highest mountain in Western Europe. I worked as a mountain refuge warden there for a while, at some 2,000 metres altitude, but soon enjoyed reading the mountains more than a reader would have reading my never-appearing novel, so I moved down to the centre of town as winter set in. I loved Chamonix.

La Cham in winter – my flat top right in centre background building

La Cham in summer – same flat

La Cham – view from street outside flat door

I loved the friendships I had, with the PGHM, the mountain rescue team, a friendship I struck when working at the refuge, and particularly when one night a hammering at the door woke me; a man in a terrible state, having stumbled and jumped down the steep mountain side to the refuge after watching his wife fall over a cliff, meaning a call for the helicopter. The rescue helicopter went up to look with searchlight and found her, but radioed back they could not get near her in the cliffs at night, and that anyway, she…did not survive the fall, that much they could see. I had gone up anyway to find her, especially after the helicopter team told me in no uncertain terms not to tell the man his wife had been killed in the fall until morning, as he might very well just step straight over a cliffs himself at the news,. So I went up in order to not have to answer his questions and after a few hours saw she was..not in a state of survival. I waited till morning, standing at the door of the téléphérique, the cable car, to tell him, at which he crumpled onto the floor of the cabin, and the big moustached cabin operator later remarked:

”you know Managua, I would have expected him to fly at you in a rage and hit, beat you,”

To which I had answered, ”Yeah, great. Thanks.”

The PGHM had recovered her body and then got into an argument with the local police, who wanted to take the man back to the scene for ‘questioning’.

”I’ve seen it before,” the station head of the PGHM had remarked: ”we’ll have two bodies over cliffs now.”

And the other friendships; with the ski instructor, a woman who had skied down the Bossons glacier, and who giggled at my British reserve when she and her friend had thrown their tops off to sunbathe at a mountain lake only hours after meeting me; and there was Catherine D’Estivelle, the climber, and the woman who owned the bar that let me keep a tab running all winter, the bakery owning couple who made the freshest bread on the spot, which I ate where it was cooked, and the many, many others, who regarded the tourists with mild indulgence; the tourists who had a penchant for acting like tourists – you know what I mean…of which perhaps the most touristy were the Swedes, who drank copious amounts of booze but would not touch the water, for fear of it not being pure, who boasted of a clean Sweden while pissing on the streets at night, uprooting all the Christmas trees in Viking exuberance and drinking coffee slowly each morning, wearing heavy mountain gear that clinked and jangled and jarred on their nerves.

And I decided to leave. To leave the town I loved. The blue/green late afternoons in the shade of the pine tree slopes of the mountains, the cream mornings of snow-capped mountains between open shutters, the beautiful and mysterious neighbour who sunbathed nude on her balcony below mine, the newsagent who gave me my morning newspaper and coffee every morning when I walked through the door, and the mountains, again, and my mountain climbing partners , and the seasons.

My last season in Chamonix was late summer, in the Saami definition of eight seasons. I was living my last few weeks in a tent at the bottom of the Mer de Glace glacier, and my morning plunge into the water rushing off the bottom of the glacier brought a new definition to the word cold, as well as embarrassment, when one morning I had jumped in, lay down briefly in the current and clambered out quicky, and heard a ”coooeeee!”, looked left, looked right, looked behind, looked in front, my skin growing red, my vital parts shivered to mere millimetres, and then heard the ”coooeee!!” again, looked left right front back sideways and finally..upwards, to see a woman on delta wing, circling before landing, and laughing at my lack of restraint.

And the morning I left I met a silver-haired solitary Czech climber, who was hammering nails in his boots and knotting old ropes – his dream happening at last: climbing Mont Blanc, his food with him in cans, his home a tarpaulin over a wire, his happiness complete.

I was going to Oymyakon, the coldest town in the world (lowest temp recorded -71.2ºC/ -96.16ºF) , in Yakutia, Siberia, and chosen because I was sure that sitting in a hut in the coldest town in the world was a sure-fire way of writing, and importantly, completing a book. Immediately I set about planning an expedition through Yakutia, until I remembered it was to write I was going, and to attempt to ensure I was getting myself stuck into a small cabin, with a pile of logs, tea pot and long lost love deep in fur. The last one was not actually a requirement, though it was true that having someone to cook always means a necessary routine can be installed into a writer’s drab existence at the table, which is in reality a window of course.

I left.

Yakutia Airlines

A local Yakutian lass – not necessarily a good cook (picture from

And arrived.

Yakutia, and in particular Oymyakon, fits some requirement’s of a writer’s retreat, but not all: it was exotic, not pricey – the cash flow is going in 1 direction after all, if the book is to be scribed – and the fish can be caught and cooked, a welcomed way to meditate. Oymyakon is a small town, the nature is beguilingly beautiful, but it forces you back to the writing table quickly, and the natives are not too restless.

The town is found on the infamous Road of Bones. It does get a sprinkling of tourists, which is nice, and not all are similar to the Norwegians who got stuck and needed rescuing, claiming to be broken down, or the Germans who also got stuck and chose not to leave their vehicle when being rescued to thank the rescuers. (They would have been charged in another country of course, in places like Vancouver, but then would have probably found ways to sue for being charged for stupidity, as some do.)

The fact that conditions were harsh, and risky, like the mountains of Chamonix, is something of a bonus for a writer. But it is also a pleasure when the little luxuries are available – bananas were prevalent, which was comforting, because at -55ºC ( -67ºF) they are more useful to hammer nails into wood than a badly made hammer, and don’t stick to the tongue like the head of a hammer does – something I can personally vouch is true, and if you don’t think you look absolutely stupid walking around town, even in Oymyakon, with a hammer stuck to your tongue, then think again.

Freezers are cheap

Another balmy day

The wolves do hunt at night, and it if true that if the cold mist descends with the plummeting temperature in the deep snow and you are lost, then you have about 15 minutes to unlose yourself and find your way. After that your chances get pretty slim pretty quick, except your chances of being found next morning when the day is clear, a mere few metres to your cabin. But this provides the tension for your novel, so is worth the risk..

Did I write the book? Yes. Did I find a cook deep in the fur, in a cabin down the road? The culture in Yakutia is captivating. And for those against fur, I can honestly tell you from experience that artificial fur just shreds; falls apart at those temperatures, and not keeping warm is not a question of fashion.


Join me, soon, when I look at other likely writer retreats, in what will become my ”Writer’s Lair” series.

Categories: Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

But If You’re Talking About Destruction You Can Count Me Out/In

”The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.”

(Che Guevara)

‘Revolutionary’, in the image of the brutal if sincere Che, has a positive, romantic flair much in the same way as to ‘nurse’ something along is positive, and to ‘doctor’ it isn’t, inexplicably.

But nursing things along is not what revolutionising is all about, according to Che, and I dare say he knew. It is about short, sharp shocks. However, the problem with revolution’s revolutionaries is the penchant for reinstalling a ”past”, instead of wanting to take society a step forward. Granted, the laws of physics apply fully to politics: every action demands an equal reaction. How else could we explain Hitler, Pol Pot, Ayatollah Khomeini and Pinochet? How else could we explain the swing the Republicans took  in USA, that sees them now seeking to ‘moralise’ while calling for ‘less government’?

Revolutions can work long-term.  1776 is the classic, as was the French revolution, kind of, and the Haitian revolution against slavery in 1791 (though massive repayments to previous slave owners after the successful revolution permanently damaged the nascent Haiti’s prospects).

Maybe Che Guevera was an exception, but his masters, or minders in Moscow – whether he liked them around or not – were among the most conservative of all, and the Soviet revolution had long lost its way. But Che’s early writings show a doctor horrified by poverty in latin America and its blatant causes, for which the North American and European continent heartedly contributed to.

Tonight 409 years ago, a revolutionary at the other end of the evolutionary scale called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the houses of parliament, in order to restore a Catholic monarch to the throne. The 5th November has now accordingly become Guy Fawkes night in much of England, when British boys and girls blow their fingers off with fireworks instead. Hopefully not too many this year.

An effigy of Guy Fawkes, wheelbarrowed around streets by children mysteriously asking for ”a penny for the Guy” is followed by the tossing of the straw-filled figue onto a large bonfire in towns and villages nationwide.

The real Guy Fawkes fared little better, and was duly hung, drawn and quartered in the best tradition.

Guy Fawkes night needs to be expanded, to symbolically include all the fanatics and fundamentalists who have found their way through the woodwork, as worms do when the foundations are rattled. The trouble is that the foundations do need rattling. Strongly. Catch-22.

Categories: Opinion | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Prayer Time


There should be no doors to a church
No nails to a cross on which a victim is hung
In order for us to chant a hymn
No priest in sacrilegious sacraments
No virgins to satisfy the inability of some

There should be no lord no saviour
Except a deep understanding of nature
No commandments
No flock to follow
Deaf, blind and dumb

No teacups or mugs
With the picture of the pope
No creedence to the belief in any holy goat
No masses to join to whitewash any guilt

Stop believing someone from a fantasy they call history
Has a role for you
Spend a little time in the freedom of natural rhythms
Do not be tamed into becoming sheep

Do not be shamed, into becoming sheep

Categories: My Forest & I | Tags: , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Ese’s Shoot & Quote – Obsession

I don’t get this super-skinny obsession. I really think women look more beautiful when they let their curves show.

Vanessa Marcil

ese’s challenge

Categories: Images | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

Tall Trees And Autumn Carpets

Categories: My Forest & I | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Another Autumn Day…

Categories: My Forest & I | Tags: , , , , | 12 Comments

Aarr, there be gold in them thar’ trees!

Categories: My Forest & I | Tags: , , , | 8 Comments

Ese’s Shoot & Quote – Desire



Ese’s Weekly Shoot & Quote

The Mont d’Aravis, the highest peak on the skyline, that I climbed so many, many moons ago with my father, a beautiful climb. The desire to get to the top again so strong, but it will never be…

Most-women-desire-someone-who-makes-them-laugh-and-also-feel-safe-so-basically-a-clown-ninja                              Anomonous

Categories: Voyages | Tags: , , , , , | 10 Comments

The Beatles ~ Tricks on their Album Covers

They helped define a generation, becoming almost recluses 2/3rds through the 60s, but still there in the albums they made. There are not many of us who understand the impact they had during those years without having been there. But The Beatles echoed into the 70s and even 80s, and are still played now.

What some have forgotten or some don’t know is that The Beatles played with us now and then. One of their most famous games, which they always denied, was the rumour that Paul McCartney had been killed in a car crash. Clues to his demise were left on some album covers and in some songs. Here’s some examples. The first one is perhaps the easiest, as it has been the most discussed – let’s see if you can find two clues that point to Paul McCartney’s disappearance, counting the clothes The Beatles are wearing as the first clue.

Regarding the clothes, the answer is that Paul McCartney is dressed as a corpse – barefoot, while John Lennon in front takes on the role of the preacher, Ringo Starr the man from the funeral parlour, and George Harrison, last, the grave digger. If you look hard you might see that part of the licence plate on the car behind reads 28IF = if Paul McCartney was alive he’d be 28 years old.

The next album cover is pretty transparent – with the black walrus, that is Paul apparently, according to the lyrics of Glass Onion (click below) ”We fooled you all, the walrus was Paul

Magical Mystery Tour is full of little hints and clues however, not least in the music. Photos of The Beatles include some with Paul McCartney with his shoes off again, and has one picture with ”I was” on a sign in front of him. He is the only one with a black rose in his lapel – the others have a red rose, and the only one with a bouquet flowers. There is also the Fool On The Hill picture with Paul’s head sliced in half, and a picture of doctors and the police who tried to ”save his life” in front of a large headstone. The Beatles’ drum features the words ”The 3 Beatles” inscribed, and if the starred logo on the cover is held against a mirror the large stars form a phone number – if connected, that when dialled connects to a funeral parlour in London.

On the Let It Be album cover, only one Beatle pictured has a blood red background: Paul.

The Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band has 3 main clues on the cover - can you see them? The first, yes, is the sad faces of the younger Beatles n the left, looking down at the ‘grave”, which has a letter ”P” in yellow flowers, also representing Paul’s base guitar; with 4 ‘strings’ and played left-handed.

In the middle page of the old album format Paul is seen with an OPD badge on his shoulder. OPD = Officially Pronounced Dead.

On the back cover he is the only one facing backwards, his head covering the ”Within You” part of Within You, Without You song.


On Blue Jay Way, one clearly hears ”Paul is buried” ”buried”  chanted in the 1st & 2nd verses as the refrain. Why did The Beatles set us up like that? We are less than likely to know…



Categories: Mysteries | Tags: , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Friday Fictioneers ~ Igor’s Moment Of Gory Glory

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, my prize, something I designed, a likeness of one of my……previous…guests, here at my castle, by my own hands. Igor! The covering! Unveil it!”

“Uh, Count Dracula, sir, you’ll be wanting some rest, its getting early…”

“Igor! The cloth, pull! Oh I shall do it myself!”

A stunned silence from the Count meets the ripple of applause from selected guests.

“Igor! IGOR! Where is her flowing hair? How has your face been chiselled behind her like that?”

“I thought you might like it, Count, as a holding her head, ready for you to…”

“Igor! Shut-up, imbecile!”


Click on the photo to go to Friday Fictioneers – 100 word stories

Thank you to Claire Fuller for the Sculpture and photo

Categories: Flash Fiction | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 53 Comments

Friday Fictioneers ~ The Code


Step by step.

A grand last view, if not grand last words: “Keep movin’ ye rat!” A shove in the back.

As if I’d stumble so easily!

And even shady palm trees. .

Step by step. T’wards my necklace of rope, and my ocean, looking suspiciously calm today.

No more maraudin’ when swingin’ from the gallows. No more saucy wenches, teasin’ me of my gains as I hang…

Ah, but I imagine by now you’ll be thinkin'; “what’s a dead man doing writing?”

Did you forget the pirate’s code, and really think the bushes were free of my crew?

…Tut tut…


100 Words

Friday Fictioneers – welcome aboard!

Picture Renee Homan Heath

Categories: Flash Fiction | Tags: , , , , , , | 64 Comments

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