Day 16 - Our Father

16th Oct 2019

OK , so just past half way.
And I am flagging - a little ....
But no, I am not giving up 

Day 16 of the OctPoWriMo  2019 Challenge. Here goes

Our Father

Pears, a large bagful from the farm
not uniform enough for the shelf
 in the shop
left, after giving to those in need
and now we are offered  them.
This is how Our heavenly Father
Looks after us,
gives us our daily bread
or pears,
or curtains,
or coats for the children in a
harsh winter
Always He provides for us

And   an  Acrostic

My Dad

Fondly I think of you from time long ago
A walk by the river, hand in hand, we
Talked , or rather I chatted on
Happy to be with you , my Dad,
Ever after my hero, especially in the
Rough moments.

The nights you spent with me
Intent on helping me to find joy in the
Maths that I found, oh so hard, but you,
Exceptionally patient, never gave up on me.

15th March 2021

A little piece from a few years ago, written when me and my husband found ourselves with the house to ourselves as the children had all left home.

 Two have boomeranged back in the meantime so, there is no more butter, except at Christmas.

Butter or Margarine

Are you a butter or margarine person? Why do you make that choice?

Is it that you love butter but it costs twice as much as margarine , so there’s no real choice, you just can’t justify having the butter?

I slurp as I lick my lips and my fingers. Butter melts into and drips from my toasted rolls. So much joy in the taste of it. I remember butter, great lumps of it sliding down potatoes, the potatoes we had with bacon and cabbage when I was a child.  I remember the farmhouse table at my grandmother's house, with a fresh cob loaf and butter cut into wedges  to be placed on the bread and eaten like that, no spreading involved. 

I take my time prolonging the happiness going on in my mouth, a happiness that actually feels as if it’s in my brain, and which travels through my body.  While I’m in my temporary Heaven, I ponder the fact that for years, while bringing up the children we chose, for reasons of cost and many mouths to feed, to buy cheap margarine.

Now, margarine is not the same thing as butter, is it? Because , isn’t it true that you wouldn’t want, nobody would want , margarine dripping down your chin or to bite into thick lumps of it in your sandwich, which means that you eat less or none at all, being as it’s not the tastiest accompaniment to your fresh bread. You wouldn’t put slabs of it, for instance, onto your toast and let it soak in and then put more on, just to feel and taste the deliciousness of it on the warm toast.

But all the children have left home now, so we can spoil ourselves, eating nearly half a pound of butter each every week. I know, that’s a lot right? It could be more, though. we have to be temperate with it. It’s hard.

My mother and my grandmother both had butter in their pantry or fridge all the time, having no time at all for the unnatural alternative and mum would bring her own with her ( only Kerrygold would do) whenever she came to visit.

It has become, for me, one of the pleasures of life, which I don’t want to give up but which I have to watch carefully because I am eating a lot more bread and new potatoes, both tasting so delicious with the added knob of butter.

Maz Green

Family minded writer of short stories, poetry a blog and other stuff gramswisewords.blogspot.com

Our Daily Bread

8th Feb 2017


Just to say, the visits to my blog have just gone past 27000. Thank you loyal followers . And all those who write such encouraging messages either on the blog itself or on facebook or google, know that you give me the greatest lift when I read your words.

Six sentences:

Our Daily Bread

She whispered a prayer to herself,  Give us this day our daily bread, as she put one foot in front of the other, covered head bent against the wind.
The baby on her back was hungry and whimpering whilst the toddler stumbling  beside her battled the mud in his bare feet, hardly able to keep going
Her home a heap of rubble, her husband killed,  Maria with hundreds of others,  now headed for Calais, where they hoped to find shelter and safety.
She repeated her prayer many times as each mile they went seemed more difficult and all she wanted to do was stop and rest, but she had to go on.
Every night the whole group would huddle together for warmth and some would go and beg for food if they were near a village, sometimes coming back with a meager portion to share between them.
On the last day Maria was cheered because the weather had picked up, and when they got to the camp volunteers came out to meet them and greeted them warmly, giving them a meal, clean clothes and shelter, for now....