Not moved yet

Still here,
Dependent,
Waiting.
Well.
Well.
Water.
Wishing.
Still here.
Waiting.
Soon come.

Interesting

I found out recently that every word I write in this blog, and every picture I post, by dint of it being a Blogger blog, can be used by Google whenever they want, (should they ever want to!) in whatever context they want, as often as they want, with no reference to me at all.

Or, as they put it....

When you upload or otherwise submit content to our Services, you give Google (and those we work with) a worldwide license to use, host, store, reproduce, modify, create derivative works (such as those resulting from translations, adaptations or other changes we make so that your content works better with our Services), communicate, publish, publicly perform, publicly display and distribute such content. 

Now, I'm not writing to make a million, clearly; so the potential lack of imaginary income of said imaginary use, publication, display etc.etc. is slightly less concerning than the complete lack of ownership and control of my content once it's been posted on this blog.

If they asked me I'd probably say 'Yes, go ahead, use what you want!'
But they're not asking me, they're telling me.
And that I'm not keen on.

So I'll be decamping to Wordpress over the next few days where I'll have a choice.

Wish me luck!

Glint

Misused, confused,
My trust abused,
Your burning hands
Were not refused.

My life forsook,
Your touch, your look;
My reputation,
Cost enough.

But how you lied,
I'm cast aside,
My dreams, destroyed,
To feed your pride.

And now that
 By your hands to die,
I see it now,
The reason why.
That devil quick,
to spite, to fly,
The glint, that evil,
In your eye.

Cornflakes are crispy,
Yoghurt is not,
Bread is quite chewy,
And chilli's are hot.
Which one's my favourite,
Which one's the best?
I don't know the answer,
What is this,
A test??

The Blinkered Man

She saw his hunger,
And fed him,
A morsel at a time.
Tiny crumbs from her table;
So small,
She hardly even noticed them.

Not him.

To him,

Ambrosia would have tasted sour by comparison.

A lapdog to his own ideals,
Her presence almost incidental,
To the fantasy in his mind.

So willingly he paid the price,
His torment meant as little to her
As mewling puppies.

Oh blinkered man!
Her cunning wrapped you in perfumed deceit,
And robbed you blind.

Too late, he saw,
Too late,
Where duplicity dripped;
What cruel manners she employed,
To put him from his friends,
His funds, his life.

So blinded by his pointless tears
He didn't see the signs,
Or feel which way the wind blew.

But in willingly delivering to her,
His heart;
He sealed his fate.

In fact,
So complicit was he,
In his own demise,
He hardly felt
The dying tremors
When she left him.

The Argument

It wasn't a reasonable way to go,
But words will be spoken,
And who's to know,
Which way
This ragged wind will blow.
For words,
Once spoken,
Can't retract,
And wounded hearts
Will just react,
To save the moment,
Quick and fast,
But really,
There is no way back,
From this...
Whatever broken minds might wish.

The Cost of a Quiet Life

A lifetime of quiet resentments,
Paved the way,
To red mist driven,
Steely sharp,
Slashing, slashing madness.

If only she had told someone.
If only she had let it out.
If only he had let her breathe,
Let her believe;
Believed in her,
Just a tiny, tiny bit.

But his overbearing arrogance
Made him a wife full of tiny holes,
Filled full of ire,
A raging soul,
At war with herself,
Behind her perfect, placid smile.

She waits for them now,
To come and take her away,
Quiet and covered in red.

The woman that never compained,
Never murmered,
All in persuit of a quiet life,
That in the end,
Killed him dead,
And took away everything that she had.

Egbert Wipe

Egbert Wipe he stole a bike
Whilst dressed up like a nun,
This all night party monster
Was stuffed full of stealing fun.

He'd had a drink, or two or three,
In fact; that's just a lie,
He'd had much nearer twenty
And now rode in search of pies.

Oh! Pies with shortcrust pastry
And with tasty fillings too,
A pie and then another pie,
And then a massive brew.

He wobbled to the market
Where he found the bakers stand,
But was hampered by his wimple
As he ran off, pies in hand.

Then his balance just deserted him,
And on his face he fell,
Pies abandoned on the tarmac.
But there's one thing more to tell.

Poor old Egbert was arrested
For his theft of tasty pies,
And the caption in the paper
Made much fun of his disguise.

So the moral of this story
Is 'don't drink before you ride',
And if you're wearing fancy dress
Then stay away from pies!

My Rose

You make my heart smile.