Moo Indigo-the ballad of Doris and Flo.

We are the trailer cows

Feel free to have a browse

It’s so fine to have you near.

 

Whenever you are feeling low

Take a breath real slow

And know we are here to cheer.

 

We munch and chew our cud

Wherever we are stood

We have no worries or fear.

 

We like it by the trailer

From here we can see who mailed ya

And our presence brings you here.

 

We like to swish and moo

We’ll always make room for you

Just don’t stand too near our rear.

 

Moove over Duke-love from Doris and Flo…

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is intended to be fun. It was written for d’Verse poetics and inspired by the beautiful and emotive photography by Sharon Knight. This image was entitled Trailer Cows and was from https://sunearthsky.com/

We were given permission to borrow the images.

I liked all the images and would have enjoyed writing about many of them but this one captured my imagination the most. I was taken by the two cows, whom I named Doris and Flo.

 

Simple things

It was a simple gesture

………………….  As the sun rose the seedling grew

Nosed its way nonchalantly through the weeds.

…………….  Caressed by early summer sun,

Nourished by November rains.

 

With all its might it pushed through the merriment

Of opportunistic pumpkins and weary watermelons

And reached high for the sky,

……….  One leaf at a time,

stretching                sighing               saluting the sun.

 

It was a simple gesture

…………. It spoke of unfaltering love.

………………………… The sunflower smiled

…………   And reminded me that life is enriched

By the simple things.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

This is for d’Verse meeting at the bar, where we were asked to consider silence. This sunflower was in my garden in NZ, planted as a seed by my husband to cheer me up in  Spring/summer 2014 when I was unable to tend the garden following major surgery. I could see it from the bedroom window.

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,

 

 

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.

 

Leaving it all behind…

There are days when the tragedy of life is too great to bear

When win some, lose some just won’t cut the mustard.

Winsome-wearied, weathered and worn

 

She hailed a taxi.

Time to get the hell out of this hateful hole

Before it swallowed her whole.

 

Bright skies before her, burning sun

Radiant beauty of migrant birds in flight-heading for a warmer winter shore.

Leaving was the answer of this she was sure.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This painting from Artistic Interpretations at imaginary garden with real toads. I think this one reminds me of the place she was leaving.

 

 

 

More Magic

Herbs and bits of stick

medicines to cure

gardening lemongrass, hogweeds, valerian.

 

Rituals and superstitions

lunar chart an astrological schedule

The garden thrived.

 

Chinese medicine, English folklore

Everyday magic

Layman’s alchemy.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

A second contribution for d’Verse MTB, using the erasure style…a second stab at Magic…but from a different source….

Image-spices and herbs by futureshape.

blackout 2

Charlie the pheasant…

Charlie was a pheasant

Who lived out in the bush

He came out when the sun shone

Eating insects in a rush

 

His wife was rather drab

In plumage next to him

She strutted across the garden

In sunshine frost and rain.

 

Mating calls would echo

Springtime rooster ruled the lair

Sometimes he had a harem

For the pheasant chicks to fare

 

Charlie was a pheasant

Who didn’t live for long

But in this time brought happiness

Despite his awful song.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

Submitted for d’verse open link night.