This Little Old Lady
One of the Poor People Of Paris
Humming her favourite tune I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles
Cecilia was her name.
Though ‘poor’ dressed elegantly, her blouse a rainbow of colour with puffed out Greensleeves
Sitting alone outside the One Mint Julep sipping her mint tea
Suddenly she stood bolt upright and in her best pigeon english shouted out Walk Don’t Run when she spotted her beau, he of Hidden Charm
Sitting quickly in beside her, a peck on either cheek then a prolonged hug.
She was so excited, turning to the tables close by urged each and everyone to say bonjour Meet Mister Callaghan.
He had just returned from Martinique a proper Country Gentleman at least that is what everyone about him, thought.
The writer though knew better! He had returned from there broken hearted with the strains of the Concerto In C Minor still ringing in his ears.
All he could think was Show Me The Way To Go Home as Somebody Stole My Gal while she sung her Lullaby Of Leaves and he whispered Goodnight Irene.
He had then considered spending April In Portugal taking in his favourite show Unchained Melody but in contemplating Zing! Went The Strings Of My Heart sitting down his Black Russian for company allowing The Terry Theme From Limelight waft over him pondered his next move.
(c) Chris Black. August 2018
~The Poet’s Poet~
With special thanks to Chet Atkins all 20 tracks in Italics are original recordings from a CD titled Chet Atkins Zing! Went The Strings Of My Heart LTG 39577.
Indulge yourself – check it out.
It’s taken just seven days for you to return and the world is a changed place.
There has been a major bridge burn since the last time you were here.
The armies around the world continue to have a go at demolishing the fragile peace the civilised world longs for:
It really is getting too much to handle, it’s becoming a total blur.
News bulletins are becoming something you want to miss, hiding your head in the sand.
It is not going to go away, you know, if you believe differently you’re at nothing.
Let us hope that the person in charge steers well clear of that RED button.
~The Poet’s Poet~
Composed back in 2016, published in my book of poetry and short stories Same Train, Different Track.
I was reminded of it earlier this evening by a blog post from Fransi Weinstein – 365 and Counting. If you are not familiar with her weekly post do check it out always interesting.
Sitting in the glaring sun, he wasn’t such a vision.
Fat and fortyish, the wicker chair in which he sat appeared not manufactured for a person of his stature.
The glass topped table reflecting the high afternoon sun, displayed an overflowing ashtray.
The smouldering havana cigar lying next to two empty beer glasses while he held on tightly to a glass full of an alcholic beverage.
The monkey sitting at his right shoulder, his eyes gave the appearance of being glased over as though he had partaken of some of the liquour.
Then picking up his cigar, the couple standing close by, seeing him struggle with the silver zippo lighter, offered him a box of matches.
The conversation was quite brief, he thanked them for their gesture they replied “nada” and moved on.
Checking his watch he thought, 16:30 time for a siesta.
The people in the village of Mijas were now familiar with his movements.
He had learned to live in this place, people also got used to his tone, he’d be heard to say in conversation “You learn about a country by living in it, experiencing its cultures, mixing with the larger community and in general engaging and talking to its people”
(c) Chris Black. December 2017.