Lemon Lime Follies

Citrus Zest for Life / Pucker up!


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Unmasked – Poison Ivy

artwork by Rhys Cooper - found on Pintrest - sourced here

artwork by Rhys Cooper “Poison Ivy”  – found on Pintrest - sourced here

 

An absolutely smashing costume – created with fine silks, voiles – after all, it is but to wrap oneself in luxury on a night when the veil is thinnest – an earth hungered “femme fatale” crossed with the likes of Mata Hari.

 

Truly delicious, yes?

 

Would I dare – to bare – it all – for one night’s soul’s pleasures – before bowing my head – in reverence – in homage to my ancestors – who have walked this earth before my time?

 

Frolicking in delights of earth’s bounty harvested bright under burning sun, offered under skies black and dark, with stars’ sparks lighting the way, silver kisses offered under lantern’s golden glow?

 

Yes.


 

WP Daily Prompt: Masks Off   We’re less than a week away from Halloween! If you had to design a costume that channeled your true, innermost self, what would that costume look like? Would you dare to wear it?

 

Rhys Cooper Homepage

 


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Life’s Circle

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times;”

“and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.”

“Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?”

 

Death dances with his luscious partner Infinite Jest – together they make merry on many a quest. Although it seems macabre to suggest this, ’tis true, but Beauty lies not with partners infidel, for this would leave her feeling blue.

image found on Pintrest - sourced here -

image found on Pintrest - sourced here – mature content

Death does not become her – Beauty is muse – but alas Infinite Jest, her wild cousin doesn’t believe this true.

In her infinite wisdom, Jest understands, that deep within Beauty’s fair heart, darkness too lands, with wings as light as the raven’s soaring flight, and in sight alone, there is majestic delight.

Beauty shivers with cold in moments too – for her passions run the gauntlet of all wooed.

Like all things climatic, every thing must end, and the sudden drop of  temperatures that ran hot, in moments before, must embrace the cold silence that awaits at Death’s door.

The Gods and Goddesses pity not us mortal fools, for they understand that when it comes to games, we most often do not understand the rules.

We may attempt to break and bend in sly hopes for further gains, but time, like Death, plays no man’s games. It matters not if we beg, borrow or steal, all efforts lusted after with zeal, will ultimately end, playing out our charade, for is it not truth to suggest it has all been a fool’s game?

So it is, that Truth and Beauty bed down, dreaming of the ‘morrow, never forgetting the sorrow, that Death brings. Infinite Jest, she too rests, but wisely plants seeds of understanding, which slowly with time, germinate in rime, and yield bountiful harvests – by way of knowing. So mortals rest easy, for as the sun sets, the night walks in, but in darkness there is a suggestion of the promises yet to begin.


WP Daily Prompt: Finite Creatures :  At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?

Shakespeare’s Hamlet: Yorick


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Imaginary Who?

Imaginary friends at play, as a child I can’t say, that I am certain, I had a special friend such as this. Peculiar child was I, content to play in cupboards with room to spare, rare bare in essentials, a box of soda crackers, a can or two, and that would do. Stories, scenarios and people I would invent, delighting me for hours in moments spent – constructing, enacting stories I told, using my imagination and it all would take hold – firmly lost in worlds created, it’s no wonder that I spend my time – now – fabricating tales, weaving magic, in print.

If curious, venture here – enjoy at leisure, if you have time to spare.  Write Up the Spine – my creative writing blog – peopled with imagination of all shades and hues, prompting and challenging me, even when I have the blues.

 

In earnest I have to suggest, that I was blessed, if one could call it a gift, from a friendly, but not welcomed addition to my list – rather thin at the time, of imaginary friends.

Fourteen years ago, tragedy befell me so – hit on my noggin’ was I, suffering a blow to my cervical spine. Bowed but not broken, but living in constant pain, and suddenly a stranger, trumpeted out my name. He introduced himself as Albert and asked if he could stay, as he had traveled far and wide, and it was a rainy day. He sought comfort and new company, in lands far away, and since my imagination was crimped and cramped he thought it might be a wonderful place to stay. Far from his home, he had decided to roam, seeking adventures grand.

Being generous in spirit and without too much thought, I invited Albert in and offered him a shot – of tea and crumpets – which he declared with his trumpet – as being just right, for what would surely end up as a miserable night. And so as we sat, together us two, he regaled me with his stories, many – not a few. As the hours passed, I was certain of one thing, Albert was gentle, wise and a curious thing. Not wishing to impose, he asked if he might stay the night, and since it was dreadfully cold and awful outside, I answered “all right.”  …

"Albert" my African Elephant - image from Wikipedia - photographer Muhammad Mahadi Karim

“Albert” my African Elephant – image from Wikipedia – photographer Muhammad Mahadi Karim

Off to bed, wondering and dreaming about this new-found friend; his tales and stories were rich and funny,  certainly he was more than just good company. In my state of chronic pain, he was welcomed relief, and in the morning I asked if he might be inclined, to stay somewhat longer, if he really didn’t mind. Albert was thrilled and so we made arrangements – after all I had to consider the comfort of my guest – as it turned out he really wasn’t fussy and enjoyed most things with grand finesse.

All was well, but of Albert there was one quirk which did cause a bit of a spell. In order to be comfortable and completely at ease, Albert preferred to lounge about – not on the couch, or crouched in a corner, but rather his happy roosting place, was squarely on my shoulders. Such weight! The size! The mass and volume – unbearable – but there was nothing to be done for it, but accept this peculiarity – and so, to this day, if I seem rather ill-at-ease, don’t be put off, if I say to you not to mind, it’s just my friend Albert, visiting again, after all he has many tales to offer, having traveled far and wide, leaving Africa for a vacation, is no easy station, for an elephant his size!


African Elephants info. 

 

WP Daily Prompt: Imaginary Friend : Many of us had imaginary friends as young children. If your imaginary friend grew up alongside you, what would his/her/its life be like today? (Didn’t have one? write about a non-imaginary friend you haven’t seen since childhood.)

 

Other creative responses: Chronicles of an AngloSwiss    Ripples N Reflections    As I See It


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Over Hill Over Dale

So if you are a happy explorer and have ventured into the hills and valleys of cottage country, then you better be prepared. Forget GPS and cellphones – despite all the open skies there is often satellite interference and stretches of miles where you are in the dead zone (cue creepy music) – no cell phone signals.

Driving through acres of forests, even on a secondary highway, that on any given day really doesn’t see too much traffic means you better be more ready than the Boy Scouts. No distinguishing landmarks, unless you think you can figure out one spruce from another, and houses that look abandoned, complete with rusted out old pick-up trucks sitting in the tall grass, until, you catch a glimpse of someone peering suspiciously at you, as you slowly drive by, are what you will see.

A pre-trip vehicle inspection is necessary, because gas stations and mechanics are few,  and if you are unlucky and need roadside assistance, you may wait for hours before seeing a soul. Ensure your brakes are in fine working order, because if you suddenly round a corner, you’re more than likely going to meet a group of fellow travelers; it’s just that they are going in a different direction and will not be too helpful to you in your state of “lost in the back woods without a clue.”

Normally, these happy wanders aren’t too inclined to help – and if they are weary and spooked, you may just find yourself needing an insurance adjuster, after towing that is, to cap off your day. Gentle enough, these folk, but they aren’t the brightest of bulbs and are rather indecisive about their routes. You may have plans and places to be, but they really don’t care.

However, if you do manage to avoid this type of meeting, and continue along your way, be ready for the additional cost of new suspension and shocks, for it is certain that you will definitely leave asphalt for gravel – which in most cases, is a road that is minimally maintained, washes out into ruts worse than your Great Grandmother’s washboard, and there will inevitably be pot holes galore, forcing your driving skills to take on a new dimension – slalom on the slopes and straightaways.

My advice: generally country folk are hospitable enough – and if you manage to find an open corner store, chances are you will get the proper directions, including multiple variations with short-cuts and points of interest to consider. However, it has usually been my experience as witness, that by this point, you city folk are desperate and display sheer shock etched in pale faces, from your joy-ride thus far. Better to turn back and head home – if you can find your way, because for as much as we welcome the tourists, most are happy to see the tail lights of your vehicles, as you drive away.

WP Daily Prompt: Circuitous Paths: A stranger knocks on your door, asking for directions from your home to the closest gas station (or café, or library. Your pick!). Instead of the fastest and shortest route, give him/her the one involving the most fun detours.

Note: No stranger ever knocks on my door – no need for a doorbell when the girls are enough to cause anyone to stop dead in their tracks, even before leaving the road – which is private – as are most up here in cottage country. So strangers and knockers beware!


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Peep!Peep!

In the grand Cosmos, I’m sure there is a gathering of the Great Feathered Ones who watch over certain births – including those perhaps deemed foul.

Such is the case of my untimely arrival – premature – clearly in a hurry – but nonetheless, too early. Although there was nothing physically wrong with me at all – all girlie bits intact and other systems go – but small is small, ergo – or perhaps eggo – foul.

From what point of view could I possibly relate a feathered tail other than that of an incubator?

Carefully swaddled and hustled into a warming oven, on a dark and cold late December’s night, the nursery quiet as there was some epic flu invasion happening, meaning the hospital could, in effect, be termed as “in lock down” – this is when I decided to announce myself to the world.

My menu read: Turn every 4 hours, baste and slow roast.

Perhaps this is why I am fond of little peepers?

In short, a warming roasting pan was my home for at least 6 weeks – and certainly, within this time, I was cared for by humans – nurses, my mother – and I suppose whoever else was permitted to enter the “sacred grounds” of maternity wards way back in the day, but of these people, I remember nothing. No offense to any of them, of course – clearly they did a great job – but truth be told – most of the credit has to be given to me – I was the one who decided to stick around in the slow roasting pan – and peep my way to full term.

Perhaps this too explains why I dislike winter’s cold – considering I spent the first few months of my life artificially tanned and warmed.

I suppose, in the end – now 45 years later – I’m still a chick at heart – even though I’m a bit of a “tough old broad.”

An added note: Thank you Great Feathered Ones for watching over my birth – not so fowl – but fair, in the long run.


WP Daily Prompt: Reverse Shot: What’s your earliest memory involving another person? Recreate the scene — from the other person’s perspective.


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En garde!

A white glove is slipped off a hand – and with an elegant swipe, it slaps across a face.

“En garde!”

What? You are challenging me to a duel? You absolute fool – heh! I accept your challenge!

Swords or pistols?

Neither! We will battle in time-honored tradition –  Épée.

It is done.

 

Weapons chosen – attired in proper fashion – formalities performed – and so the ….

Huh? Oh sorry – my bad – Avant-Garde?

Well, of course it would be suggestive of a grand ego to think that I had indeed been well and truly ahead of my time in some flash of creative brilliance, leading to an innovation or technique that eventually would become fashionable and exceedingly desirable, thus lending to my credibility and fame and fortunes – but that is absolute nonsense.

The great artists – those often so well ahead of their times – would have gladly exchanged brilliance for a good old-fashioned beheading in moments of greatest despair and frustration; Genius may eventually be noted and heralded – but most often, it is a source of ridicule and rebuke. Do you think Van Gogh felt treasured and reaped the rewards of his brilliance? Surely, he was, by definition: avant-garde:artists, writers, musicians whose ideas, styles and methods are highly original or modern in the period in which they live”.

Google image - not sure of true source

Google image – not sure of source

Perhaps he used a good-old-fashioned rapier when he was dueling with his demons and cut off his ear?

An idea to consider when deciding if one would favor being “avant-garde”. Forwards thinking – yes – a good thing, but personally, I would rather be “en garde” – on duty and call, having been ahead of my time in several moments. The result – I lost my head. Nothing, but trials and grief, comes from being so forwards that you always are watching over your shoulder, looking back – wondering who is willing to duel with you.


 

 WP Daily Prompt: Avant Garde: From your musical tastes to your political views, were you ever way ahead of the rest of us, adopting the new and the emerging before everyone else?

Classical Fencing


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Swept Off my Feet

As Autumn’s leaves fall the urge to clean sweep begins – in fury hasty lest Winter’s untimely arrival knock on the door.

Messy? Messy? I don’t “do” messy – ever. Everything in its place and space and every place and space in every thing odd – fibro brain fog does that to a person. You know, you take the milk out of the fridge, to splash into a cup of tea, only to discover a few minutes later that 1) the tea is still black 2) the milk isn’t in the fridge. Search high and low – stop for a puff or two – in anger or amusement – smoke a hit – and consider the possibilities. Eventually, if lucky I may find the milk – lounging in a cupboard with plates and bowls, or hiding under steel coating in the microwave. Sometimes, it has been known to walk itself down the hall into another room, resting casually on a shelf next to papers in need of filing.

The mind knows not how it wanders in moments clear – much less when fogged.

No – I’m not a neatnik – but I’m not crazy over the top messy. The problem lies somewhere between – never quite figuring out which system I should be using to best arrange my things.Outwardly, it all appears fairly orderly – but the chaos rules within and comes pushing out, bursting the seams, leaving a trail of debris and flotsam in its wake.

No matter – if I use my extra hour wisely – I can always de-clutter – sort through the ranks and files – toss in heaps, hide and tuck in new places until I really have the time and inclination to make a great and thorough job of it.

Problem?

found on Pintrest - sourced here Silver blonde via amerrymishap

found on Pintrest – sourced here Silver blonde via amerrymishap

To sleep – perchance to dream.

I’d rather spend an extra blessed hour resting – sleeping the slumber of the dead – which means no distractions, noises, or NASCAR racing through the house. There is nothing short of painful injuries sustained as a result of dog accu-pressure – 2 girls chasing a 3rd, with pit stops on the bed. I am the unfortunate who pays the price.

So in my world, be it as it is – some times weirdly amusing, others foggy fragmented, or plain vanilla boring, I don’t mind messes but sure could use quality sleep.


 

WP Daily Prompt: Sweeping Motions: What’s messier right now — your bedroom or you computer’s desktop (or your favorite device’s home screen)? Tell us how and why it got to that state.

WP Daily Prompt: Twenty-Five Seven: Good news — another hour has just been added to every 24-hour day (don’t ask us how. We have powers). How do you use those extra sixty minutes?

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