I write silly limericks each week on a friend’, Esther Chilton’s, blog. I don’t usually share them here but I thought I would with the one I wrote on her blog last week. I hadn’t been feeling well and I forgot I had written this. I can’t remember the word that we had to base the limerick on, I think it was State, you have a one word prompt. It does not have to be the word you rhyme with, it can sit anywhere within the limerick:
Just look at the state of my hair!
This lockdowns been really unfair
My mane has extended
Far more than intended
From the top to the foot of the stairs!
I hope it made you chuckle. Limericks have a two, two, one pattern, the first two and last line should rhyme and lines three and four are often shorter and have a different pattern to their rhymes.
Something is watching me… Not cctv, not a plane or helicopter, not a satellite. Just… Something.
People say I’m mad, I’ve lost my mind. I believe in portents, I’ve seen the films, read the books. I looked at the Internet. The news isn’t fake. It’s real. Aliens aren’t coming, they are here. My friends call it gibberish, flim flammery, but I Know I’m being watched.
The eyes are there, I can feel their power. Watching, waiting, ready to take over. All it will take is one tweak to their gene pool. One extra piece of the puzzle. One grim fact and then……. Man will be subservient.
He was stern, bearded, he was a patriarch and knew it. He had always been strict with the women and girls in the village. They could come and go, but were not allowed to go to lessons, while the boys had schooling, and of course the best food and clothes.
Nothing would change his mind, that was how things were and that was how it would always be.
His daughter, turning ten years old, looked up to him. But she was clever. Too bright for washing clothes till her hands went red, too clever for feeding the chickens or wringing their necks and plucking them when the time came. She could do everything girls five years older than her were capable of. She stitched and sewed, she span wool. She was useful and her father knew it.
‘father’ she would ask. ‘Why is the sky blue? How old is the world?’ Or ‘why are the clouds that shape?’ One day she even asked why the moon waxed and wained. Her father would just say ‘none of your nonsense my girl’ or ‘get back to your laundering’. The daughter turned round sadly and carried on with her chores.
For two years this carried on, until one day the father became ill, he took to his bed, and despite his wife’s care he only grew worse. His eyes were closed when his daughter bought his supper to him one evening. She spooned some broth into his mouth, he retched, but she persevered. Little by little he supped the food. Later she came to check on him and he seemed a little better.
A week later he was sitting up in bed. His daughter came into the room and he held her hand as she gave him more broth. ‘what’s in this food’ he asked ‘it tastes strange, bitter’ ‘just herbs’ she said.
When he had fully recovered the father asked his wife what she had used to make the broth, ‘it wasn’t me’ she said. ‘Daughter talked to the old women, she made the broth after speaking to them’.
Later he talked to his daughter ‘how did you know how to cure me?’ ‘I asked questions like I always do’ she said.
Finally his mind changed. ‘you will go to school my girl, if you can learn such things off old women, I want to know what you can learn in class’.
The daughter started school and after four years she was taken into college. Finally she was trained as an apothecary. From then on the father insisted all the children, girls as well as boys, should be taught.
This was something I did in a workshop a couple of years ago. We were taught by a lovely man from Egypt who showed us how to do some Arabic letters, we each uses a stick with a knib carved in the end. As when you write the alphabet as a child we practiced writing letters over and over again. Then we could do what we wanted so I wrote my name but decided to decorate it with flowers and cats. I used it for ages on a Web page. It’s good to find old things that gave you pleasure in the past. X
I’m so tired. I’ve been working on this all day. I spent ages referencing all my quotes, adding citations, trying to make it flow. I have to get it in by tomorrow so I’m going to do some more later on. But now, well my hands are aching from typing. Correcting mistakes. Trying to get the writing formatted so it fits into the boxes. I’ve still got to add some questions and answers. Help!
When your cat decides it’s been ignored long enough, and you have to switch off the computer because she’s walked on the keyboard and jumbled your writing up. Then got in the way so you can’t see the letters on the keyboard too!
So, decaff coffee time, sandwich time. Listen to the radio for an hour. We all need a break, otherwise you turn into something like Mrs Rochester in Jane Eyre. A mad woman locked in a bedroom, tearing out her hair (while trying to cite and reference books about the artist Hokusai)!
Cat’s rule in this house. And I’m not complaining! Back to work in a bit.
I think I follow the “volcano” method of working! The important bits I need are near, then everything spreads out around that and spills over. My Pc is covered in prints and there is lots more sitting on the printer. I need a stapler. I’ve managed to wrangle one of the things I’m writing into shape, but I have to use Harvard referencing for the more academic stuff. Help. I’m drowning in it.