Dear Ursula Muhlschlegel

Tiny in frame both in height and breadth

white of hair, curious eyes behind
gold circles of glasses.
She has a bedroom laid out like an office
with pencils sharpened, rubbers, rulers all at hand
the drawer beneath holds envelopes
stamps and piles of crisp writing paper.
All is ordered and tidy, taken care of.
Breakfast with her is meticulous
with linen napkins in matching holders.
Tablecloth blistering white
and pots of tea and coffee just at hand.
Even as she serves you crisp fresh
bread rolls and hot drinks
you breath the aroma of
thoughtfulness that goes into
everything and every action.
Consume her kindness in word and deed
knowing that the heart within this
tiny lady beats a mighty tune
take care, take care, take care
possess a pure and radiant heart
it seems to shout.

At the bottom of the ladder

We held a memorial service for my husband’s father, a lovely gentle man, in our flat in Rhodes.  We had a room full of friends and the atmosphere was special with memories shared, tales told.  It was emotional and there were a few tears shed.  Suddenly, our next door neighbours in the flat opposite started a typical row.  Screams and shouts filled the neighbourhood and the lovely atmosphere was dispelled with foul words flying through the air.  They grew in intensity and I could stand it no more.  I went out onto our balcony and lifted some potatoes and threw them at their shutters shouting “Shut up!  We are trying to pray in here!” at the top of my voice.  The potatoes hit their shutters with satisfying thuds and rattles as I repeated my cry.  There was a sudden blissful silence in response and I entered our flat again and sat down.  I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the silent contemplative mood but the room felt different.   I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me in total astonishment and shock.  Yes, at times even I realise just how far down the spiritual ladder I really am!

Money laundering - my style

Last night I was ironing and discovered a note of money in a pair of trousers, not mine, but one of my son's.  I remember my mother saying that it was dishonest to take money from your husband’s pockets.   However, she elaborated, if you happened to gave them a good shake and something fell out, then that was fair pickings!  The logic seemed sound if slightly morally flawed.  The note was crumpled into a tiny ball, deep in a pocket, and I straightened it on the ironing board.  Then used the iron to flatten it and was impressed how new it looked.  I suddenly decided to iron all the paper money I could find.  With what satisfaction I returned the crisp flat hot notes to my purse.  The thing is today, it strikes me as more than a little odd to iron one’s money.  Is this the first sign of madness or the last action of an anal retentive individual?  As I use the bills in public I’m careful to crumple the notes a little.  After all, no one needs to advertise how strange one has become to the whole world!

Tips for a happy life

When you are full of wind and need to fart
Let it go, let it go, let it go
When you’re angry fit to burst
Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in
When someone’s hurt your feelings to the bone
Have a big sweet coconut bun.
When you’ve done something wrong move on
But do something good twice, to cancel out the debt
When you’ve said the wrong thing  and hurt someone
You’re a pratt, you’re a pratt, you’re a pratt
If you meet a bully in this life
Stand firm, stand firm, stand firm
If you meet a hurt  soul
Listen well, listen well, listen well
When you walk a beach alone
Soak it up, soak it up, soak it up
When you’ve a good friend through thick and thin
Thank them well, thank them well, thank them well
When you can see the beauty in the rain and cold
Hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight
When you can’t sleep at night no matter what you do
Let it go, let it go, let it go
But be sure to leave the window open like your mind
Let it go, let it go, let it go

Trust

It is the foundation of everything
On this all is built
No virtue, no quality, no saving grace
Can stand without its base
Look in vain at honesty, courage and even kindness
If there is not trustworthiness all will be as nothing

Look deep to the core of people
Sense whether that trust is there, if not flee
Do not let beauty, speech or any gift of man or God
Distract you

This is the acid test
It is the spoon upon which the others are measured
If it be missing then all is lost
Poured out upon the dust they will soon be effaced
Find within the root of trust for without this
there is no fruit only the fire of loss.

Funny Poem - not mine

At our creative writing class in Coleraine someone brought Brian Rankin's poem and we enjoyed it so much I thought I'd share it here.  Brian raises money for orphans in Uganda with his books and can be contacted on email  at  bjrankin_20@hotmail.com .  Enjoy it and if you want to hear him read it himself - you can at this link (bottom of page) http://lowcountrylad.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/tha-poet-farmer-brian-rankin.html


The Ballad of "Wee Willie & Big Mary" by Brian Rankin


Wee Willie still lived with his mother
Tho' he was fifty-four
He just worked away on the farm
Never went out the door.

A miserable looking crettar
As thin as you could get
Seven stone would've been his limit
If he was soakin' wet.

Then his mother passed away
To her funeral neighbours came
No longer there to shelter him
Willie was now...... fair game.

At the graveside there were several girls
Who made sure they kissed him
But "Big Mary" waited till the end
She wasnae goin' to miss him.

A hefty heifer - man she was
As broad as she was long
She gave him a hug and lifted him!
With big thick arms so strong.

Like a roaring fire were her cheeks
Like tree trunks were her legs
Every morning an Ulster fry
Sausage...bacon...eggs.

When she finally set him down she said
"I might call some day for tea"
Willie was dizzy, feard and flummoxed
"Aye.... That's alright by me".

So she started to call with cakes and buns
For she was a fair ol' baker
He thought that she was after him
But she ... was after acres!

You see, she had a wee farm of her own
Nothin' but whin bushes
Her ween of sheep - they had to graze
In amongst the rushes.

She had got her eye on his nice land
Its rolling fields so green
The good farmhouse - the tidy yard
As nice as she had seen.

She turned the charm up full on him
He thought she was a clinker
It wasnae long till she'd reeled him in
Hook and line and sinker.

Before he knew it - the date was set
And she had him up the aisle
But they had no choice - with her size...
Had to walk out single file!

Into the wedding car was a squeeze
She must have been twenty stone
Willie was jammed up against the glass
For she filled it on her own

That night, he got into bed before her
Sort of feard - he lay still
Then Big Mary.. she got in
And he sort of rolled downhill.

"I think it's straight to sleep" she said
"For that big day did weary us"
He lay in tight at her back
The heat from her was serious.

He thought about the comin' winter
And how she'd keep him warm,
He thought about the buns she'd make
And how she'd help him farm.

She'd be a quare help with the sheep
For lambing was a battle,
And with her size - she'd fair block a hole
If he was movin' cattle!

Aye - he slowly came to the conclusion
She'd be good about the place
Soon he was drifting off to sleep
With a smile upon his face.

So how does this story end up
The marriage - was it a go?
Was it happily ever after?
I'm sorry to tell you... no.

For later on that night - disaster!
The marriage was ill fated
Big Mary rolled over in her sleep
Wee Willie.........suffocated!

Preacher Al

I had a great uncle Al, a real character.  He was an Elim preacher and was always joking around.  My Dad was showing Al the sights in Northern Ireland and had driven up the mountain to show him a scenic reservoir.  Unfortunately, the officious security guard on the gate refused them admittance.  Despite all my Dad’s pleas, the guard was adamant.  Uncle Al leaned out the window and in a booming posh voice said

“I didn’t have this trouble when I was Governor of Bahamas!”

The red faced security guard waved them on through.  Uncle Al invited us to his church in Ballymena for a service and I was amazed.  People would shout out during his sermon, things like “Yes, Jesus!” or “Praise the Lord, brother” or “Thanks be to God” at the top of their voices.  I was fascinated it seemed so lively compared to other boring church services and so unpredictable.  At that moment, uncle Al introduced us to his congregation.

“Sitting there,” he pointed at my Dad with an outstretched finger, “is my nephew Bengy from Dungiven, who thinks we all descended from monkeys!”

The entire congregation turned and glared and we slid down lower in our pew.  But even he got fed up with being heckled.  There was a large lady in the front row wearing a huge hat with a single enormous feather at its peak, who screamed out at the top of her voice during his sermon the same phrase,

“Oh, for the wings of a dove, to soar nearer to thee, oh God”, again and again she screamed.

At last, Uncle Al lost all patience, and announced in a resigned tone

“Oh God, stick another feather in her hat and let her go!”

The entire audience roared in approval.  That was the weird thing about uncle Al he seemed to get away with the most outrageous behaviour without causing offence.  It was his abundant good humour that made everything palatable.  He died singing a hymn in his wife’s arms, happy and beaming to the end.