Hurricane Irma was my first hurricane completely on my own. When it was predicted to come up the east coast, I considered going to stay with some cousins on the west coast, or even getting a hotel in Orlando. When the track changed, sending the eye of the storm up the west coast instead, I decided to stay home.
I could have gone and spent the night with some friends a few miles away. Maybe I should have or maybe God wanted me home alone. I learned a lesson about pride when my power went out at 8pm. One of the reasons I hadn’t wanted to stay with my friends was that my power had been so reliable during Hurricane Matthew last year.
I learned a lot about drawing close to God too. After tornado warnings that were…
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By AJ O’Brien.
She was a total stranger to George,
but she lay in his arms.
The car hit her two minutes ago
as George walked home.
He rushed over and knelt beside her,
not knowing what to do.
“I’ve phoned an ambulance ” said a voice
from the gathering crowd.
“There’s an ambulance on the way. Okay.
Just hold on.” whispered George.
Her empty eyes looked up.
“What’s, what’s your name?”
“George. What’s yours?”
“Sally. I don’t. I don’t feel any pain.
Is that good, good or bad George?”
“I don’t know Sally. The ambulance will
be here real soon. Oh God. Please don’t die.”
Sally closed her eyes.
Blood began to trickle from her left ear.
“George? George? Where are you?”
“I’m here Sally. I’m here.”
“Tell me something nice George. Something happy.”
Sally whispered, her eyes still closed.
“Oh. Okay. I know. It’s…
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I went to the city with the stinking cars
With the office blocks tall and their windows of bars
I walked through the bustle in the putrid air
My mind was gone my soul was bare.
Where a smile was once now only pain could be seen
Grey was the colour concreted over the green
Eyes bore down, a frown on every face
Ghosts of yesterday were gone without trace
Fight your way onwards fight your way down
Wear not your thorns but polish your crown
Ask me now where I’d rather be
Drowning in the city or dancing in the sea?
© 2017, Danny Kemp All rights reserved.
I was born in 1949 and I can remember playing on bombsites in what must have been the middle to late 50’s
If love played the game as played by fools
Then life could be lived outside any rules
That governs the heart as it learns to give
A love so pure that it’s a joy to live.
But life is lived on a higher string
That no love can twist or suddenly bring,
To the rationality of the pain and tears
As the heart is bled by loveless spears.
© 2017 Danny Kemp
A Sad Tale Of Toes
His feet were warm, having been spread out in front of the hot radiator whilst he worked at his desk. Hers, on the other hand, were cold. Freezing cold!
She had not worn slippers to protect her feet, preferring to simply tuck them under herself, sitting in a leather armchair watching the TV. Foolhardy with no consideration. Now they were about to strike!
After stretching his stiff legs against the crisp chill of the freshly laundered bed sheets, he lay on his left shoulder, his right foot slightly upon his left, keeping the warmth within his body as much as he could. Her right foot led the attack.
It was a strategy he was accustomed to, but he was not aware of just how cold her feet were. The big toe was first into the fray, surreptitiously sliding against the underside of his overhanging right heel. The next move was not her usual method of attack. She had recently read an account of one of Nelson’s attacks on the French fleet. Nelson’s innovative move had surprised them, now it was about to succeed in bed! Or was it?
Both feet attacked simultaneously.
Raising her leg she placed her knee heavily against his kidney, causing her right foot to slide further up his pyjama clad leg, as her left foot slipped between both his feet. He could take no more……..
“Why dear love do you do make such a move,
When you have only to choose
My advances of thrills and bliss
Bestowed on your body but without the risk
Of freezing my ardour before it does start
By allowing your cold to attack my heart?”
He was Russian. A man of many poetic words, few making sense.
She was Italian and the opposite, being verbose in the extreme. Only this time he never heard most of her words as she mounted the most ferocious physical attack he had ever been involved in.
She rolled on top of him, pinning him uncomfortably against the bed.
“Ardour you say? You obviously don’t mean harder,
As you couldn’t care less if you tried!
You keep your warmth to yourself as if your skin’s been fried.
I’m sick of you with your selfish ways, and inconsiderate behaviour too.
You’re just about to be hit on the head, with this heel attached to my shoe!”
She pounded away, never stopping for breath, nor ceasing to curtail her blows.
She sneezed in excitement, but even that, didn’t stop her to blow her own nose.
By now she was away. Her body now warmed, even sweat appearing on her brow.
It was now that he flipped, no more could he take. He swore this solemn vow!
“I promise my love that from this day forth no more are my feet my own.
I admit my faults. ‘Tis true that my love for you I have not always shown.
I will warm you through, be kind to you, by sharing my bodily heat.
Now please my love, be gentle with me, go lay on top of my feet.”
This tale of toes is not over, it never ended that night as if a sweet dream.
As his feet lost their heat, it finally ended in a terrible, piercing scream.
Her love had departed along with his heat, but that was not all that he lost.
He now saves money, by paying less, than his regular pedicure did cost!
Do take seriously all your wife’s woes,
Or else you too might lose some toes!
© 2014, Danny Kemp All rights reserved
To give something back I have arranged for a chance to win a free autographed copy of The Desolate Garden starting today on Goodreads……
There is more informing here on my webpage…
Since last year December I was doing what I like to do most of the time. It’s like going back to where I belong without thinking any second thoughts.
I became a care taker of this Guest house from 25 December 15 and still I’m kind of attached to this place because of its architecture and colonial building and antique furniture and many more.
This place is called Gentleman’s house from 15 century onwards, as this city has a very rich history and careless local people who don’t give a damn about any thing.
After I have joined here I felt some supernatural things always around me and this building with the knowledge of owner or not but every time when I enter the house I feel the positive energy around me.
This Guest house is only have 6 rooms and with a 50 sited café with a limited food…
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I love this first sentence. It was always the refuge forest of nymphs and shepherds, abode of love and shelter of fantasy.
Siempre fue el bosque refugio de ninfas y pastores, morada del amor y albergue de la fantasía. En los claros del bosque danzan los dioses antiguos y en lo más hondo se refugian los proscritos; los maquis se lamen las heridas de la derrota al tiempo que los enamorados primerizos retozan al abrigo de las sombras.
El bosque es la casa inacabable de ardillas, linces y corzos; mariposas, libélulas y mantis religiosas. En las noches de celo se oye la berrea de los machos; el cielo del bosque es un clamor de pájaros.
Y si agudizas el oído, podrás escuchar un bisbiseo que viene de las hadas, los duendes, y los enanitos de Blancanieves.
Si te coge la caída de la tarde sobre el Eume, verás una serpiente de cobre salir de un bosque encantado; sin embargo estos días parecía un chorro de lava emergiendo de las entrañas del volcán…
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