Reblog: Tiny Tuesday #12

I share the music blog Sondshine Sounds with my friend KK, and every Tuesday she posts a “tiny” concert. These things originated in our various lockdowns, when artists often performed alone to the camera, or to only a very tiny audience.

Today KK has chosen a country singer – I knew it was country as soon as I saw them wearing those ginormous hats. Indoors.

Whaddya think? Like it?

Songshine Sounds

Graphic graphic for the "Tiny Tuesdays" post

If you’re anything like us, you’re missing your regular drip of live music to keep you going. Luckily, lots of mini-concerts are still happening online, and we can tune in to to get an intimate musical fix.


Last month, NPR Home Concerts brought together a country powerhouse trio for a special mini-concert. Miranda Lambert, Jack Ingram and Jon Randall have made music together before, and it shows.


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The Pole Vaulter

inspired by Fandango’s One Word Challenge (FOWC) of 6 July 2021, essay.

One essay, then he’s out of the race,
Approached standards with speed and with grace,
When he got there, the pole,
It got lodged in a hole,
Snapped in two; he fell flat on his face.

Apparently in the pole vault, you have the bar, which is the thing they have to jump over. The two things that hold the bar in place above the ground are called the standards. Who knew?


Prompt image for the Fandango One Word Challenge prompt

Funeral Blues

For Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #125, where we write about the image below, by Jarmoluk at Pixabay.com. Actually I ran dry on creating something original, but I thought I would share the famous poem that sprang to mind, Funeral Blues by W H Auden.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W H Auden

Beautiful, no?