No Requiem by @KatyWalters07 #Poetry

No Requiem Three Fisher Girls. Tynemouth (1881) Finslow Homer from the public Domain.

No Requiem

ln wind and hail,
She ground the fish scale,
A tumble of hair, blanketed,
Pale face, no sign of lace,
A dark dirty gown,
An ashen frown,
That did not deter,
Her beauty.
Tendrils of ebony hair
Escape a blanket stale,
With fish blood,
Tumbling with guts into a pail.

At the end of her day,
She will away,
To candle and mirror,
Powder and colour,
Masking.
The death of a myriad fish,
Some rich man’s dish.

ln the grey dawn of her morn,
She will again grind away,
Her youth.

1800s and early 1900s, 1000s of girls employed as fish gutters, followed the fishing fleets. The work was long and hard, the girls gutted the fish and the “guts were taken out with a very sharp gutting knife. Their fingers were wrapped in “clooties” – bandaged cloths to prevent any knife nicks – but they endured painful sore hands.

No Requiem Copyright Katy Walters
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Look for WINDOW TO LOVE

Window To Love Katy Walters

Sam peered through the window; where was Tammy? She’d promised to be with Sam in less than an hour. After a life-threatening car accident, Samantha used a wheelchair to get around and depended on her close friend Tammy.
As Sam waited, she espied a beautiful and rather large dog bound across the garden lawn to her window. The owner was nowhere in sight. Perhaps the dog was a stray?
Sam knew peered through the window once more and to her relief, saw the dog trotting happily at the side of a reasonably handsome, reasonably aged man. But to Sam’s dismay, the dog seeing her, stopped and pulled at the lead to cross the lawn. As Sam lifted the curtain slightly for a better look, the man turned and waved. Sam shot back behind the curtain. Blast. She didn’t want him knocking on her door. After all, she was home alone and injured. Not a good position to be in with a strange man, She didn’t return the wave back and dropped the curtain abruptly.
Little did Sam realize this was just the beginning of a stream of giddy and sometimes frightening adventures with this reasonably good-looking man and his handsome dog.

Poetry Stirs The Heart by @KatyWalters07

Many years ago, I was given a book of Poetry published around 1900. My uncle cherished this precious volume and safely guarded it in his small book cabinet. I treasure the book to this day and often turn the pages. Some of the poems are by famous historical poets, and others are from the less famous. But all the poetry is so moving and often offer words to stir the heart or the mind.

Poetry Stirs the Heart

The poem below is a few lines proffered by a poet who gave only a Surname – Thompson.

TITLE:  BOOKS,       Thompson.

In my library, “There studious let me sit

And hold high converse with the mighty dead

Sages of ancient time as gods revered,

As gods beneficent, who blessed mankind

With art, with arms, and humanized

A world.”

This second poem was written by Lord Byron. He was one of the leading figures of the Romantic Movement.

TITLE:  BOOKS,       Byron.

But words are things, and a small drop

Of ink.

Falling like dew upon a thought

produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps

millions, think.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the third poem. He was an American poet and educator.

TITLE. BOOKS,       Longfellow.

Leave us heirs to ample heritages

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest

Sages.

And giving tongue unto the silent dead.

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Look for LADY LYDIA’S QUEST ~ On sale for 99¢!

Lady Lydia's Quest

About the book:

The Duke of Medhampton invited Lady Lydia Fowler and Lady Olivia Faversham and their families to a week-long round of festivities. It would be an exciting week of hunting, with dancing and soirees in the evenings. As it was the beginning of the Summer Season, the guests would include an influx of debutantes with handsome doweries and suiters with suitable titles.

On the first morning of their stay, to Lady Lydia’s horror, she discovers her dear friend Lady Olivia brutally murdered in her bed. Lord Sebastian Elton, the fiance of the slain young woman, is distraught. Overcome with grief, he vows to find and kill the fiend who took the life of his beloved Olivia.

 

My Study by @KatyWalters07

My StudyThe lounge area of my home—also known as my study—holds a special place in my heart. I think of carpets, sofas, the comfort of visits from lifelong friends and family, the surprise of birth announcements of children. I remember family birthday parties that took place in my study with cake, blowing out candles, and the making of secret wishes. Spring with French doors open to the scent of roses and horse chestnut trees. In whispers, I recall funereal buffets with soft weeping.

My study is the silent home of my soul; of thoughts unspoken, turning into novels and poetry tapped out onto a plastic keyboard.

My Study

A sunlit room of oaken beams where dreams

Stream flowing through fresh windows,

Searching scarred shadows, papers shown, reams,

Of prose, doomed epitaphs, mellow.

Pastel portraits of animals long dead,

Haunting, dog running, flowers, fields,

The spring of adolescence, blossoms fed

On a winter of shattered innocence, concealed.

 

Figurines from ancient dynasties,

Pagan, Hindu, Buddhist, and Abrahamic,

hover in the mist of lost loyalties,

Whilst the Virgin steps on the serpent’s hiss,

Outside the dark Cathedral of Trees,

Inspires, bringing sorrow to its knees.

Copyright: Katy Walters

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