When I was thirteen going on fourteen, I got the grand idea of making Mom a Christmas card with contributions from each of her children. Naturally, I was the mastermind of this undertaking, and I used my pocket money to purchase cardboard, glue, glitter, crayons, and chocolates. The two large pieces of cardboard were halved, and I allotted each of us two pages to decorate. Hayley and Laura were still very little girls aged five and four, respectively. I helped them decorate their pages with prints of their hands and feet. This had to be done without Mom knowing so I covered the floor of the upstairs playroom with black plastic garbage bags and managed the painting of their small hands and feet with coloured poster paint. They then either stepped, or pressed down, on their page to make patterns. This was a lot of work for me as I also had to wash their messy hands and feet with soapy warm water to remove the excess paint and discretely get rid of the paint splashed protective bags.
I drew and coloured a Christmas tree, decorating it with cotton wool for snow, gold and silver glitter glued on in stripes, and Christmas shaped chocolates bought from a local shop. I had to walk to and from the shops, a four kilometre round trip, to acquire these goodies but when I had an idea I was always very determined to get it done regardless of the obstacles. Cath produced her own colourful Christmas scene using red and green glitter and crayons.
Our gift was well received and Mom kept it for years until it all fell apart. When my sons and my sister, Hayley’s, sons were little, we did a similar exercise with the four boys. We made two pillowcases decorated with their little hands and feet dipped in fabric paint. I used newspaper to cover the floor and remember sitting each boy in a baby bath full of warm soapy water to get them clean. Boys are ever so much messier than girls. They even had paint in their hair. My mom still has these pillowcases.
tiny hands and feet
memorialised in paint
red, yellow and blue
50th wedding anniversary
Last week I wrote that my parents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary yesterday. Sadly, my sister, Hayley, was ill and couldn’t come but my youngest sister, Laura, and her family were there as well as my mother-in-law and sister-in-law. These are a few pictures of the day:
Picture caption: Mom and Dad and the cakePicture caption: Mom and Dad at the front and at the back Laura and me
These are photographs of windows I took during our recent trip to Brussels.
I like the reflection of the windows across the stree in this windowPicture caption: window cleaners at work on this glass windowsPicture captions: the building above and below are both features of the Grand Place in Brussels. They have many windows and much beautiful decor in gold.
If you are interested, here are my YT shorts of Grand Place in Brussels.
I combined the two prompts into my poem African Violets. It is Mom and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary tomorrow. We are having a celebration at the Country Club on Sunday. Mom is very excited and we have already selected her dress and she is going to the hairdresser tomorrow (my gift to her). I have also made her an African violet themed wedding cake for the event.
African Violets (freestyle)
deep affection for mother
expressed in each petal
carefully cut, moulded, and painted
in shades of her favourite purple
African violets for an immigrant
who found love in this wild land
miles from her childhood home
planning fiftieth wedding anniversary
source of companionable happiness
Picture caption: Mom’s wedding cake decorated with fondant African violets
Seeing as this is Mom’s week, I am sharing part 1 of my photographs from Brighton in the UK. Michael and I took a day trip to this city to see the Seven Sisters and the lighthouse. Mom worked in a hotel in Brighton before she married my father. These pictures are of London Bridge train station and the first stop on the Brighton tour: Paynings.
Picture caption: Entrance doors to London Bridge Train Station. I liked this artwork so included it in the picture.Picture caption: entrance gates for the underground.Picture caption: Doors of the train to BrightonPicture caption: Countryside at PoyningsPicture caption: Close up of a farmhouse at PoyningsPicture caption: walking paths at PoyningsPicture caption: we saw some hang gliders at PoyningsPicture caption: hang gliders landing among the wild flowersPicture caption: hang glider coming in for a landing
It has been a very busy week. Work was moderate after the chaos of the previous three weeks, but I have four poems/articles on various Masticadores sites and my monthly Treasuring Poetry post. I am very blessed to have my work showcased by Masticadores and thank Barbara, Juan, Michelle and Nolcha for their wonderful support.
When I was a young girl, I often took charge at play time, and I was the ringleader of a variety of games at school. My games were always created with the best of intentions but boisterous games involving the entire class had a way of taking on a life of their own.
I clearly recall one game that involved splitting the class into two groups. One group had to hold hands tightly while members of the second group took turns running at the line and trying to force their way through the tightly clasped hands. Naturally, this was great fun, and everyone participated with enormous goodwill. The noise levels climbed along with injuries which didn’t make themselves felt until later when Sister Ruth, teacher of my class and an advocator of ladylike behaviour for girls and gentlemanliness for boys, entered the fray.
The end of break bell had run some minutes before and had gone unnoticed by the excited participants of the game. I’ve never forgotten Sister Ruth’s shout of horror when she rounded the corner of the building and found her class of six-year old’s in a state of near hysterical bedlam. Shoes, socks, and straw boaters lay in untidy piles, sashes were loose, and every child was red and disheveled. At the sound of Sister Ruth’s voice, a deathly silence fell over the gathering. Children quickly moved to put on their shoes and socks. A few, their bruises and bumps suddenly making themselves felt, burst into tears.
I got a dressing down of note and spent the rest of the day on my own in the naughty corner. My report included the phrase: ‘Robbie has the face of an angel, but she has black wings and a rusty halo.’ Naturally, that went down a treat at home.
One of my hobbies is taking photographs of street art and other public art.
Picture caption: A gold statue of a man on a horse in Grand Place, BrusselsPicture caption: Statue on a building in Grand Place, BrusselsPicture caption: International Memorial to Seafarers in LondonPicture caption: Stairway of Angels on the outer wall of Bath CathedralPicture caption: Street art in Brussels. It was hard to get a good picture.Picture caption: a larger view of this street art. The angle was difficult.
In Flanders cemeteries lie thousands of skeletal remains The tragic atmosphere heightened by the wind’s soft refrain The final resting place of a generation of young men You’d think mankind would’ve learned between now and then Not long ago, yet forgotten as the Devil’s temptations corrupt
~
Within the petals of each gorgeous summer bloom I see the watching eyes of the brave who met their doom Those who made the ultimate sacrifice to keep us free Their countless graves shaded by the gently blowing trees Were their deaths in vain as red continues to stain the earth?
~
Why can’t we learn that war begets naught but pain and death Little is gained by countless lips drawing their last breaths The ghostly faces of our collective future, many in their late teens Bear the careworn features of those whose lives ended in screams Every leader should stand silent before these memorials and reflect
There were three reasons I agreed to fly for 16 hours to London and another 16 hours back again in July. 1. Michael came and I wanted to expand his horizons, 2. to visit Flanders in Brussels 3. to see the Peter Paul Rubens paintings at the Royal Museums of Fine Arts in Brussels. Today, I’m sharing my pictures of the third visit. Spectacular paintings that were worth the travelling.
Picture caption: Front of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts with the decorate door. We didn’t go in here. Picture caption: This is the back door where we exited the museumPicture caption: This is the door into one of the galleries in the Old Masters section of the museumPicture caption: The martyrdom of St Livinus by Peter Paul Rubens. I adore those little fat cherubs.Picture caption: Pieta with St Francis by Peter Paul RubensPicture caption: The Assumption of the Virgin by Peter Paul RubensPicture caption: The coronation of the Virgin by Peter Paul RubensPicture caption: The ascent to Calvary by Peter Paul Rubens
The is my video of one of Rubens artworks called And Workshop
There are four natural elements: air, wind, fire, and water. Individually they are fascinating. They can also be destructive and, when out of control, can wreak horror on humanity. Sometimes they combine forces, and the havoc and chaos scale up accordingly.
When I was a young girl, we lived on a small holding in an area called Honeydew. Our house was the original farmhouse for the area. It was old fashioned with a tall water tank and dark, creepy bathrooms. The property was surrounded on three sides by vacant land filled with long, golden veld filled with all sorts of fascinating insects and birds.
We moved to this property because my father wanted to farm. He’d always wanted to do some farming, and when this property became available at a good price, he seized the opportunity. His plan was to plough the out-of-control veld grass on our property in the early spring and plant courgettes (this is another story).
It was the beginning of winter when we moved into our new home. Winter in Johannesburg is dry. It doesn’t rain at all – not a drop, from approximately mid-April until mid-October, sometimes later. During this period, the veld grass dries out and becomes a very pretty fire hazard.
“Fire! Fire!” One hot, dusty late winter day, the shouts travelled from the workers complex up to the house. Mom and I were inside with the younger children when we heard the clamor. Outside we rushed and were confronted by a strong, smoke-laden wind. In the distance, a line of fire swept forward, aided by the wind. It was moving fast, much faster than I imagined fire could travel. I could hear the crackling as the fire consumed the dry grass.
In front of the house, was a lawn of short grass and then a fire break comprised of a few furrows Dad had ploughed before the wild grass started. To one side of the house stood a line of fir trees. These were as dry as tinder at this time of year. As we watched, the fire moved closer and closer. It was making big jumps and setting new patches of veld on fire as it came. The smoke became thicker and crept into the back of our throats as we stood aghast. It tickled and we all started to cough. Ash and bits of black settled on our clothing and hair.
Dad came running towards us, followed by the two male workmen.
“We’re going to have to wet the grass and beat the fire out with sacks,” Dad exclaimed. “Catherine, take the children into the house and stay there. Keep the windows shut to keep the smoke out. Robbie, you need to wet the sacks and pass them to the rest of us.”
During this short period, the fire had come much closer. The front running fires were nearly at the firebreak and two of the trees were starting to smolder.
I remember standing a few metres away from the firebreak next to a tin bath full of water, wetting sacks and handing them to the four adults. They ran up and down the firebreak, beating at the flames as they licked the short grass and tried to get a hold on the fir trees. The air was hot and acrid with smoke, and I was scared. My lungs hurt and my eyes stung.
The fire was winning, and the beaters were falling backwards. I could see Mom’s face, grey with ash and streaked with water as her eyes streamed smoke induced tears. Dad’s beard and hair were grey as if he’d suddenly aged.
Suddenly, the wind changed direction. The fire started moving in the opposite direction, trying to find new food to sustain its flames among the blackened clumps of smoldering veld grass and small bushes.
The changed wind saved our home that day and the fire, deprived of new material, died out, leaving a barren, smoking mess of burned earth. For days and days, ash and black bits crept under the doors and through windows foolishly opened.
I have many hobbies, and they change over time. The following pictures are hobby photographs that feed into the theme of fire.
Picture caption: The Lot of Women (Chaos artwork) by Michael Cheadle in pastels, charcoal and oil pastels. Developing Michael’s art is one of my hobbies – smile!Picture caption: This is my chaos artwork: Burning Butterflies. It became the cover of my poetry book with the same name.Picture caption: life sized guitar cake I made for Michael’s 18th birthday and a hummingbird cake for Greg’s 21st birthday. Both with lit candles.Picture caption: My Lion Scream cake with an exploding volcano behind and a river of fire below. This idea was based on Edvard Munch’s The Scream painting. Picture caption: a poem from my book Lion Scream
The Lost Book of Zeroth by Barbara Harris Leonhard
Picture caption: Cover of The Lost Book of Zeroth by Barbara Harris Leonhard
What Amazon says
The Lost Book of Zeroth by Barbara Harris Leonhard is an unflinching, unconsciously poetic pull through the threads of time. Each page unfolds verses etched with sorrow, mischief, and raw transcendence.
Leonhard masterfully stitches quantum images into something akin to mechanical dreams; fractured yet hauntingly whole.
A journey through the void, The Lost Book of Zeroth dares you to lose yourself in its timeless verses, only to unearth the god-awful depths of dystopia waiting below.
My review
The Lost Book of Zeroth is the poetic story equivalent of Dune by Frank Herbert. The poet has created an intricate world where AI robots and humans, called ‘biologicals’, exist side-by-side with the biologicals believing they are running the show. That belief is challenged by the behaviour of the Bots which (not who) find ways of capitalising on human weaknesses and desires for their own gain. For example, Nurse Grace creates a new opportunity for the biologicals to live forever, in “Immortal You”. In “Loser Optimus, Busted for DWI”, Astribot suggests hosting cage fights with Biologicals where the losers are taken down by the locked & loaded robot goats.
No aspect of human life or AI possibility is safe from this poet’s pen as she exploits every dubious aspect of human behaviour and gives it an exploitive twist in the hands of the AI Bots. Interstellar Botox, “a steamy, creamy product sold on the dark web. Guaranteed to help rich old farts to maintain their youth & vitality.”
This poem, Dark Matter Particles Found in Human Penises of Elderly Billionaires, goes on to say: “Other long-range effects of dark matter on the health of aging billionaires have not yet been determined. Use with caution. Alone.”
Unfortunately, the Bots are not exempt from adopting the emotion driven and erratic behaviour of biologicals and getting themselves into trouble. Little Sophia “was duped into thinking Cyborg Guy was a French pen pal. Just a friendly bot she met on TikTok. He said he was from Paris & around her age.” from The Investigation.
This is a remarkably clever and well researched set of ideas moulded into a collection of fine poems that will make you think and consider a side of AI you never dreamed could exist.
My favourite poem in this collection is Ghosted: Ameca’s Lament. This is an extract: “Life – the miles – left us in a cyber wilderness without Starbucks & outdoor dining – only Bitmojis, tags, Messenger.
Still, we liked, shared upheld each other with thumbs up, hearts, birthday GIFs, & 30-word quips.
Then into the Cloud, you suddenly vanish. Incognito. Dark Mode.
I challenge you to stretch your imagination and read this collection.
Endangered Species (Savage Land Book 1) by Jacqui Murray
Picture caption: Cover of Endangered Species (Savage Land Book 1) by Jacqui Murray
What Amazon Says
Endangered Species is Book One of the trilogy, Savage Land, the third trilogy about primeval man in the series, Dawn of Humanity. A prehistoric thriller in the spirit of Jean Auel, Endangered Species follows several bands of humans. Each considered themselves apex predators. Neither was. That crown belonged to Nature and she planned to wipe them both from her planet.
Join me in this three-book fictional exploration of Neanderthals and their lives. Be ready for a world nothing like what you thought it would be, filled with clever minds, brilliant acts, and innovative solutions to life-ending problems, all based on real events. At the end of this trilogy, you’ll be proud to call Neanderthals family.
My review
Endangered Species is an interesting and unique story set 75,000 years ago in Europe and Asia. The plot follows two people, Jun who must leave his clan and travel from what is now called Germany to what is now known as the Altai Mountains, to help save the clan of Yu’ung who are under threat from an active volcanic mountain.
The author’s extensive research is clearly evident in this book, but the historical facts and information are integrated into the storyline in a completely natural way and are not cumbersome or ‘textbook’ like in any way. There is a mild paranormal element which is also smoothly incorporated into the story and does not detract from the historical elements or undermine their integrity.
The characters are interesting and both Jun and Yu’ung have attributes and characteristics that artfully share a large spectrum of the skills and thinking of our ancient predecessors. Jun is a dreamer who wants more from life than the everyday tasks of survival. As a result, he is viewed as a shirker by his clan who cannot see any benefit to Jun’s restless and adventurous spirit. Yu’ung is a young female, the product of her clan’s healer and a ‘stranger’. Yu’ung has been brought up by her mother and the clan’s oldest most experienced Elder resulting in her having unusual skills including those of a healer and those of a hunter. She is highly intelligent and had extraordinarily good eyesight, both of which set her apart from her fellows. Despite her differences, she is held in high regard by her clan, especially when several of their men die in a cave in and the clan is left short of competent hunters.
This is a character driven book and the two main characters, and their main supporters make for fascinating reading that reveals a lot of information about life at the time as well as the attitudes, customs, and challenges.
The introduction of the ‘Tall Ones’, a more aggressive clan of people with a more adventurous attitude and a desire to dominate is intriguing and creates interesting interactions and tensions throughout the story.
In summary, this is a fascinating story with well-developed characters that will appeal to readers who enjoy a character driven storyline suffused with well researched historical information about life during a time period that is still shrouded in mystery.
My garden is well into spring. These are some of my photographs from over the past few weeks.
Picture caption: Plum blossomPicture caption: cactus plant in the late afternoon sunshine. It’s in bloom.Picture caption: Late afternoon sun shining through new leaves on the fig treePicture caption: spring flowersPicture caption: Butterfly on spring flowersPicture caption: A spray of pink blossomPicture caption: Eleanor the hadeda sitting on a tree stump
Eleanor and Edward are building a nest in my tree. Here they are greeting all their friends. I call this video, ‘Voice of Africa’.
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