The Spice Incident

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Our cupboards hold a fine collection of jars.

So when I saw it on TV, ‘cumin is good for you!’

I’d eaten turmeric for years in lieu of chocolate bars.

Happy with my kitchen find, anticipating vigour,

I set to work on writing lists of all the things I’ll do.

There is always plenty of jobs in our house,

in your house too, I’m sure.

 I’ve no idea what motivated my spouse,

 he tidied the spice jars… 

He threw away my cumin powder-

the spice I’d put to use. 

He said, when questioned that

‘His stuff always gets thrown away’

Well, that simply isn’t true. Although-

he brings home other people’s crap

Second hand e-cigs (eww).

A stolen wine decanter – no thank you.

Not to mention the garden furniture

that started to grow mushrooms.

All these items are still there –

apart from the fungus infected wicker chairs.

Communication is what’s needed here,

when I speak he doesn’t seem to hear.

I wonder if he’ll read this poem,

it’s just my way of getting things across.

It was just a bit of cumin.

 

(Fiction) Samantha Henthorn © 2018.

Small Distractions

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You cannot be on here little bee.
Resting on this loo roll, I keep here
for dog poop, not for you, little bee.
Why do you not move? When I try
to rescue you? We have to save you,
us human beings. So that you can
save us, it seems.
You cannot be here, little bee.
The cats will get you, they don’t
watch Countryfile. And anyway,
you have work to do.
Grateful for these mini dramas,
small distraction rescue.

Samantha Henthorn © 2017

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Ok, the bee had flown away by the time I grabbed my phone, but there definitely is another bee on the flowers in this picture.

Happy writing, Samantha 🙂

Now For Something Relaxing

20170703_185745It is rare, during stressful and busy times in our lives to take a break and chill. With all the excitement of the last week (even though it was ‘good’ stress), I found that I was getting tired. I usually read to relax, but I found that reading made me think about writing, soon my mind was running quicker than my body! So on Sunday, I picked up ‘Cloud Nine And Other Poems’ by Elaine Patricia Morris. Reading poetry is different to reading books, for me. I can just go with the flow and enjoy. Think about the words, or don’t think about them, it’s nice to have a break. Favourites for my reading session yesterday were ‘God of —‘ , ‘Cows’ and ‘Ice Cream For Breakfast’. Elaine’s blog is watermelonseeds.wordpress.com.   Happy reading! Samantha

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Pink.

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Eyelids unlatched, squinting at beckoning light, unfamiliar hotel bed

day one. Layers lost, flip flops on, colour me sun! bring it on!

Hopes pinned on that healthy glow, sun down, sangria flows.

Day two, water park local’s fluorescent swim suits, and tanned

cottage cheese skin. Hot dog legs, holiday photos, hoping still for

day three healthy glow, that looking slim and younger pretence.

Shakes start, sun stroke, even my goose-bumps are peeling.

Day four, the beach, a floating hippopotamus surfaces the sea

he has sunburn upon sunburn, wife’s laughter is forbidden.

Day five tight skin, tight clothes, throw the towel in. Foreboding,

inherited moles. After-sun lotion drained, long dress adopted.

Day six packed case, anticipating own bed and compliments

‘gone a lovely colour’.  Don’t want to leave, but ready for home.

Day seven the journey, the night flight’s bathroom mirror tells

a tale, there is no glow or colour for pink, pointless sunbathers.

 

Samantha Henthorn copyright 2017.

Drainers

Drainers

 

Who pulled my plug? Who turned my light off?

Two days of darkness just from one day’s work.

Moving trough concrete, life should be easy.

Someone’s at home, but the lights are all out.

A draining conversation in the pool, about world news.

Skull in a vice grip, inside sounds like a broken fridge.

Every second and every day has to be paced.

Who drained me? Do you want to swap? No?

Well shut up.

copyright Samantha Henthorn 201720170612_103918

 

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Water the Flowers, Not the Weeds

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We’re reclaiming our garden, it’s our 2017 thing to do.

Ten years we’ve lived at this house,

the lawn fraying under the weight of next door’s tree.

‘I see you’re at it again? You can do mine next!’

Yes… I’m gardening, and why shouldn’t I be?

Little does he know in my pocket are a packet of pumpkin seeds.

Sleepless nights trawling the internet…

How to prune roses.

How to grow dwarf phloxes.

Husband shouts out with a start:

‘My Grandad used to throw used tea-leaves onto the lawn; Why? Is that a thing?’

We google it; turns out Grandad was a genius.

Barbeque upgraded to pizza oven, tis the season,

now we’re the noisy neighbours.

We’re reclaiming our garden, it’s gossip free, smoke free, a sanctuary.

I’m one episode of Gardener’s World away from becoming an expert.

Not that anyone’s asking my advice, but I know how to turn Hydrangeas blue-

(in theory)

The essence of gardening is to prune,

‘Let it grow!’ Husband moans, and am I glad I listened.

The tree that bent over in the snow of 2011, the one assigned for the chop,

turns out it’s a Bay Laurel! Producing leaves popular in a variety of Mediterranean dishes.

Ah! That was a good day…

Disappointing germination; Underestimated ground frost.

Empty planters; Slug diners,

No bulbs because of the dog.

‘The Mexican Orange Blossom has flowered’

I whisper when it dawned on me late at night.

He frowns, he said I sound like a spy, is that code for summat?

Garnishing the front path is proof of our whirlwind romance with the out doors.

A potted box topiary, pruned within an inch of its life.

March while August, we’ll be in the garden.

Husband in the shed, deckchairs for the wife.

 

Samantha Henthorn copyright 2017