Sunday, 30 December 2007

Still trapped!

Would you believe it? My back is still not playing nice, urk! Which is a shitty bummer and blimmin' painful to boot (tho' don't boot me, or even touch my left leg, which is fizzy and zinging with sciatica, perleese.)

We were due to have some friends come to stay over the New Year, but I had to cancel at the last minute, bah.

My poor family are having to look after me, thank goodness my bro is staying and is a wiz at tea-making, pill-providing and fried egg maker. Also, my lovely daughter who has been up to help me with the work I simply cannot do, ie bedmaking, hoovering etc.

She also made the most de-licious Xmas dinner, with her own hands and in her own home on The day and we had such a lovely Xmas that I think I shall renounce anymore xmas dinners being cooked by me and hand it all over to her (ha! she still managed to peel sprouts whilst under the 'fluence of Baileys-over-ice x 3.)

Mr T did all the last fortnight's ironing this morning, and didn't moan at all (lies, he did, loads but I gritted my teeth and allowed him his 'space' to express himself.)

And, just recently I was awarded a Roar Award for my writing, woo, hoo!
Thanks, Carenza xx

Saturday, 17 November 2007

This was my first entry to The Clarity of Night* 'Halo' short story contest

The Knowledge

Barefoot, I run from the warmth of the bonfire party. I do love my clumpy, platform boots, but I also love to feel the freedom without them. I glance over my shoulder as I leave my family and reach the edge of the woods; I know Spike will follow me. How could he not?

From the corner of my eye I see the moonlight reflecting off a white rock and I quickly shrug off my biker jacket, flinging it down on to it, so Spike will know which way I’ve gone this time.

Behind me now in the distance, the fireworks electrify the air with their sparking and fizzing. As I make my way to ‘our place’ the brambles snap at my leather mini-skirt and fishnet leggings, but I laugh, out loud. I don’t care as Spike will soon take them all off me, anyway.

I shiver, deliciously, but then find myself blushing. Like a little girl, I’ve only allowed him to kiss me and feel me up so far, and not gone all the way.

It is a bit creepy in the dark, so I stop to get my bearings. The shadows begin to make sense and I move on more easily.

If I allow him to make me a woman tonight, we will be together forever, he told me. And, when I’m sixteen, he will leave his wife. And Spike will marry me.

(c) Karen Philpott

* Find the site under 'Read this ...' in my margin, my entry is no. 76

A (too) late entry for The Clarity of Night * 'Restless Dawn' short story contest

knocked over

they never came to tell us til late afternoon having seen sophie first believing he still lived with her and been told to come here to his mum and dads he died in the early hours but there was nothing on him to say who he was I do not see it coming and I am thumped in the head as they said the man my boy was killed in a hit and run and I wretch as I topple over keening and vomit over my knees my man reaches for me weeping a towered deck of cards collapsing I gulp air like a thrashing fish except I don’t care if I die hours tick by rocking my chair backwards forwards on my island but yet my heart still beats cradling the memory of when he was born big blue eyes and blond hair didnt everyone love him didnt that driver know this this question makes my head a spinning top dont notice yet another cigarette or tea peoples faces contort wildly into whooshing sounds deaf to them I spiral into delicious madness a comforting delirious fantasy time tocks on the dark nights garb envelops me through the window as I and the blackness singularly amalgamate but no peace I hold my breath for the first time in this long nights vigil as the orange mist of morning is about to detonate and blind me I can no longer stave it off and raise my head to howl a dirge

(c) Karen Philpott

* Find the site under 'Read This...' in the margin.

Saturday, 22 September 2007

Another poem

Lady Alma St Fillan

(The Ghost of Finlarig Castle)

As I approach the fearsome fortress,
My Castle, resting in the wooded knoll:
Its awesome square towers are silhouettes
Against the deepening dusk;
The red sun is setting on the silvery water,
That laps against the boundary of the loch.

Barefoot, I slowly pass by My Gavin’s grave.
There is another, entitled Lady Alma; where I lay.
Ivy and moulding, wet leaves grab at my feet and I push my
Through tangled, moss enthroned branches, which sway
And groan and want me, I know, to be away.

The dank, weathered walls are cold and, with the mist now
Rising, I turn and, espy the bridge low
Against the horizon, that is now almost a memory;
In the darkness, before the moon must surely show
Itself I will walk right through the wall,
And back, through the ages, in My Home.

© Karen Philpott, 2007
(also published on WikidWords site)

Tuesday, 14 August 2007

Well, here goes ...


Loneliness grips as I am on my way,
And dare to search for you again.
Fog drowns all vision, but I hear you say
‘I’m here.’ The words hanging in refrain.

Drawing me along our avenue
Your arms encircle me as I am filled
With blame and remorse for you …
And dread for the love I fear I’ve killed.

We each hold on. And together we cry,
As we reach the corner and find our place
Our sanctuary, where we sit by
the flames and I watch your face

As your eyes search mine with care
you tell me, ‘stay,’ and stroke my hair.

Karen Philpott

Friday, 10 August 2007

This was going to be called Writtings & Pomes......

........ but, I thought that might be a bit silly.

However, I chose pushing pencil, because that's what I'm going to be doing.

At last.

I need to get Writing, thus, pushing the pencil. Or, the keys to be precise.

End of first literary witterings on this extension to my blog.