Daily Snaps
“Time spent with cats, is never wasted”
The Lookout Cat
The lookout cat, at her very post
Neatly and frozen, staying, in the exact same pose
In her current pray, she seems, totally engrossed
Or just maybe, she already had a feast and ate a roast
And now only digesting, is the utter and most
Task she is able, for the least this moment, to coast
“If you’re not bringing anything to the table, give up your seat, please!”
A Bench at the Beach?
Looking, for my very favourite spot
The one, I prefer for my rare and deserved break times
Yet, buried, under so much snow it seems
The workings, of some wintry plot!
But, the snow aside,
Since, I really don’t mind
And, now, sitting down for a few
Totally, enjoying the silent view
Before once again, the evening‘s
Most glorious sun, sets
“A calm, cloudy, and sunny Sunday, what a contradiction indeed!” Gun Roswell
A Summer’s Sunday at the Beach
When the Sunday time, loudly, its present chimed
We ran, like we were on fire, out there, from the dire
Into the open wild nature, with colours so lush
There really was no need for any kind of rush
To enjoy the art work devised by our beloved Mother Nature
Was there for everyone to see, without any kind of fee
But we ran, as fast as any one can, really
For you see, there was somewhere else we wanted to be, really
Beside the calm and cooling waters, fooling around like a bunch of sea otters
We made our way, discarding all clothing, falling where ever they may
Splashing into the soft waves, letting the healing waters save
Ourselves in the process, as this was the place for us, the total bliss
We played and frolicked, until the darkness descended we stayed
Then only, reaching for the softest of sands, lending each other a hand
To find the discarded garments, a little dirty, maybe even sandy, was a mild statement
But nobody cared, as it had all been time so well spent
Out here, on the beach, on this summer’s Sunday we had reached
And if we were to be lucky, maybe next weekend, we could come back again
“My little pretty red gloves bring me joy and warmth; after all it is winter or at least, it started once again, surprise!” Gun Roswell
Red Leather Gloves
“This is when the gloves come off!” She stated with a huff and added a puff.
Throwing down the protective shielding onto the ground, she was about to defy all beliefs of what would happen when exposing yourself to the elements.
It was that time of the year, when the cold season had taken over. There was no hiding from the white powdery substance covering most of the northern world. The only thing to do to survive was to put as much woven garments on top of the skin as possible. The degrees sinking down below zero in the tens, sometimes even hundreds, this season lasted for a length of six moons.
But those damn gloves! How they irritated her, especially today. They were always in the way. Grabbing things was not easy, not to mention holding a big rugged shovel.
She looked at the discarded gloves laying on the ground. Red against the whitest of snow. Pretty were they, she thought and kept staring at them, while her fingers were getting numb. Finally, as beckoning her, she scooped the offending hand garments from the pile of snow, pulled them on and admired the colour and the feel of them.
Once again, she was very, very happy in her gorgeous red leather gloves.
“All kinds of witches are about, usually all year long, but especially on Easter!” Gun Roswell
The Three Witches of Easter
The three witches from some-wick
Never mind with
They ain’t winning no beauty contests
To that many can attest
But ugly can be an asset
Especially for the wickedness
Scaring folks and cattle
Just by showing up tattle
After all, this is a holy ball
For all the witch kind
And if you any of them find
Then try to stir to the right
As the witches always drive
On the left hand side
“Cat hair all over the place!” Gun Roswell
Black cat on the street
A black cat, proudly sat
In the middle of the street with utter and total ease
She did not move one single inch
Not even in a really, in a tight pinch
Passers by, simply, needed to beside her to slide
As this proud black, was cat sitting ever so wide
Her face was calm and her nose was up
Nothing would her now settled mood stop
She was only gazing, at the clear blue skies
Maybe, because it was as far as the crow could fly
This black cat’s attitude was totally snide
Sassy and bossy, with fur so gloriously glossy
As she clearly was the only owner, and the queen of this street
All kinds of witches are about, usually all year long, but especially on Easter!” Gun Roswell
Ye Old Witch
She is so old, her teeth are gold
She is almost blind and bold
But never the lesser one
Usually, having all the fun
When she smiles
There is no vile
The children she likes
Never ever strikes
Only candy will she eat
When she is riding on that broomy seat
Her charm is the grey cat
Which has become quite fat
Cheers and best wishes to all
Before the cauldron her again calls
And until next Easter
She will be off her keister
All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware”
Martin Buber
Red-Velo-Bike
When you really feel like
Your feet might be on a strike
Then, just hop on a Velo-Bike
It is such motorized fun
Under, the warming sun
No, this is certainly not any kind of pun
Just you dare to ride, ride, ride
Your borrowers and red, Velo-Bike
“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware”
Martin Buber
A golf cart awaits you
To simply fool the neighbours
And maybe, even all other strangers
You hired a simple cart
Which was in itself, quite smart
Added a big bag of clubs
Well, actually, some might have looked alike stubs
Quickly, hopped inside the vehicle
While the others looked at you, stating it was totally unbelievable
Maybe they were even a little jealous
Because of this, what you ma called it; helluva
Trick, you just made up
“I have always been caught by the pull of the unremarkable, by the easily missed, infinitely nourishing beauty of the mundane.”
― Tana French, Broken Harbor
Simply, Red
Simple, should be the word
Yet so easily slurred
But, for any kind of mundane day
When all the colours, are just grey
Then with one simple touch of red
You will be, unravelling, the thread
Rantings Of A Third Kind 