Someone had to do it…. Take 5.

Brubeck Blues

Sax to the beat

wilful wistful wily

Drifting down the street

Repeat.

 

Piano vamping

Blues scaling

E flat minor Brubeck stomping

Five four time, once more

Five four time.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

For d’Verse….TAKE 5…..

Image Wikimedia

 

 

 

 

 

Feel that walking bass…

On the one level

it was a tango fandango.

A pink flamingo

a daring dance of dating

in the early throes of spring.

 

 

Shrill trumpet rising

sounds of Chuck Mangione

staccato toccata- reminiscent of Children of Sanchez

Conspiring to court Consuelo’s love

With a pink flamingo face.

 

One legged lover

with snazzy syncopated rhythm

with a strut to the left olé

and a strut to the right olé

strum that walking bass.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

Things have been out of kilter this month and hence I am a little behind in things.

For d’Verse….

This is Tuesday’s poetics prompt that I didn’t finish….merging with meeting at the bar- and all that jazz….incidentally I think pink flamingoes merge well with jazz…

Links to Chuck..

Children of Sanchez

The image is from Wikipedia and has creative commons licence:

File: James’s Flamingo mating ritual.jpg

http://www.flickr.com/people/pedrosz/

by Pedros Szekely,

 

 

Leave no stone unturned.

It was a dreary dismal day

The drizzle spilled like tears down the kitchen window.

What have we become? We of so little value,

Worth not perfunctory care and consideration.

Has hope hidden itself under some far-flung rock?

I will leave no stone unturned.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse quadrille on the subject rock.

The image was taken yesterday at Lake Windermere.

I guess it is treasures like the one on this rock that remind us that there are always moments to be valued.

 

Count your blessings…

Here it is- (I’m sorry- I tried)

The moment of realisation

That we didn’t make it big.

 

But on a day like today, I count my blessings,

It is good to be alive and thrive in spite

of the complexities of life.

 

Why worry? Why ruminate

On what could have been,

When we can celebrate the beauty and the bounty of all that we behold.

 

With fragile threads we weave our stories

Try to fasten our futures on to what we hold dear

We take so much for granted, and we often fear

 

The void, the loss, the loneliness, the finite ending.

We should instead let our spirits soar and hold this beautiful moment

In our memory for eternity.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

Morepork

In NZ the native owl is the Morepork and this is the sound of its call- Morepork. We have always loved owls as a family it is perhaps their mysticism or perhaps their association with wisdom. My viewings have been limited to those in captivity but my ears are attuned to their call both at home and in NZ. We had several lived in our backyard bush on Mount Tiger and I would fall asleep listening to their calls most nights, it was as familiar as the sound of the cicadas in summer, but here it was during half term when we were caravanning in Cheshire amidst the trees not far from Arley estate that I heard the familiar sound.

This Saturday I had to get the train to London very early in the morning, 5.30am, before it was light to represent our research project at the Rethink annual conference. As we parked the car at the station I heard the call of a lone owl.

Early morning mist

Lone owl calls- winter darkness

Train leaves the station.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse haibun monday, where we were asked to consider owls.

The images are all my own.

 

Wish you were near.

If I could turn back the clock and revisit the years

The worry and fears would feature less in our lives

I would hold your hand tightly and cherish the tears

I would be kinder, argue less, smile more and realise

That the memories and moments and having you near

Are worth more than ever as ever-swiftly time flies.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is my contribution to the birthday open link night at d’Verse. I am a November birthday. This is about my children, especially my firstborn twin, who is a long way from home and is bravely making her way in the world with no family at her side. When I look back at all the moments I wish there had been more time not less.

 

 

Ode to the town hall clock.

The town hall clock, hands of time

Counting the minutes, measuring the moments

Of our paltry lives.

 

We don’t look up enough

Sometimes we don’t see beyond our own story

Yet still the hands move round.

 

That same clock struck 11, sixteen years ago.

Same minute, same location, same season.

The leaves fell to the ground in remembrance.

 

Synchronicity in those hands

You were so small then in your red coat.

Time stood still for that one moment.

 

I captured your essence in early digital perfection.

The father, the child, the moment

Beneath the town hall clock, the hands that never stop.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse. It is my ode to the town hall clock which seems visible from just about everywhere in Lancaster. The theme and timing is appropriate as it will be Remembrance weekend. The feature image was taken after the service in 2001 where ironically my husband was in the remembrance parade before he became a veteran of war.