Hello. Welcome to my ‘About Me’ page. My pen name is Anne Saddler otherwise known as the Grey Hen With A Pen.
I live with my husband and dog in the suburbs of a small port, in the county of Cornwall, in the far South West of England. I settled here many years ago after living a somewhat nomadic life. My father was in the Royal Navy and we moved every time he was posted…so every 18 months or so. This meant that I barely had enough time to settle somewhere, and make friends before we moved again.
Well hello to any readers who are still out there. It’s been a while since my last posting mainly due to the distraction of the Lockdowns here and the Pandemic. No excuse but it has taken my mind off the subject.
Talking of which I thought of featuring some albums that have had a big effect on me over the years. We all can acknowledge the obvious “great albums”….say “Sgt Pepper”, “Are You Experienced”, “Pet Sounds”, The Runes album, “ Nevermind” etc….there are many wonderful works to note. However, sometimes an album comes along to knock you sideways quite unexpectedly.
The Poor Clare strode down the narrow cobbled street with the relentless purpose of a marauding Viking, her pudgy face hard, and expressionless. An oversized wooden rosary swung from a rope belt that pulled in the folds of her voluminous brown habit. Unlike her cloistered sisters, Bridget Riley had grown fat as the extern nun now known as Sister Mary-Joseph.
Sister Mary-Jospeh and the other extern sisters, were allowed to leave the convent grounds to mix with the faithful and carry out missionary work in the outside world. …
What do you see when you look into the face of this young man? A romantic, a poet perhaps? To me, this sketch-like painting, the muted colours, the splash of light about his head and reflected in the collar of his shirt tell me this fragile young man is thoughtful, reflective, sensitive even. Although he is aware of his manly beauty, he has no need to advertise it with bold ‘look at me’ colours or ‘bravado’ pose. Fresh-faced, his fine, equine features, the halo of curls, his large dark eyes and steady stare are those of someone who possesses the…
‘Still Alive Mother?’ is the third story in my series of narrative monologues. The story centres around an elderly lady whose daughters send daily texts to check on her — but their mother, widowed and living in a profitable bungalow begins to smell a rat. As with my other monologues, the seed of the story is based on a true-life senario.
After some revision and editing, in March 2021 I entered ‘Still Alive Mother?’ into a Short Story competition — it was long-listed, but sadly got no further. …
A hate crime, also known as a bias-motivated crime, is a crime motivated by prejudice. Victims of bias-motivated crimes are people who are (or are perceived to be) members of a racial demographic (identified by such things as ethnicity, language, nationality or appearance) or social group (identified by such things as gender identity, sexual orientation, religion, disability).
Unfortunately, Asian hate crimes in the UK, America, and many other countries, have increased during the pandemic.
To paraphrase: If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.
Take a stand and help stop hate crimes against Asians.
Floriography is the language of flowers. Blooms, plants and floral arrangements can be used to send coded messages, or as symbols.
Caterpillars, however hard they try,
Can only ever eat and creep,
And only when a butterfly,
Are they ever free to seek,
Places far beyond their dreams,
And leave behind the pale green leaves,
Of lilacs, apples, elegant rowans,
The lilacs, lilies and the roses.
My passion, the multi-florous wreath,
In a kingdom full of blossoms,
Into velvet darkness, deep…
Unbuttoning what is veiled and lost,
Once upon a midnight happy,
Tormentors of my dreams…
Richard Saddler listened, with increasing irritation, to his wife’s breathless, and faultless, recounting of the alarming events which had led to little Annie Flannigan’s demise. Elizabeth, an unwilling, but enthusiastic witness of the whole sorry affair, had arrived home late, and flustered, and was eager to share the experience as her excuse. Richard pulled his unlit pipe from between his thin lips.
“Stop yer blethering, woman,” he said. “What do I care? One less Irish is no loss, in my mind.”
He surprised her with a back-hander that knocked her off her feet and split her lip.
“Now shut yer…
Hers is a disturbed experience of conversation.
The bitter sentences repeated, heard and evaluated,
Each word to another.
A momentary pause.
The hemlock words again repeated repeatedly, until the end
To start again.
The intention to confuse, and in the confusion to slip away, with pride intact.
She repeats the words, the rolling syllables, the sentences that wound,
until — finally tested,
He turns in one direction, and she, another.
They rolled once, then twice.
However they landed,
She moved to where they were.
Something had blasted them,
She could not know it.
I have been interested in, and studied, philosophy and religion over many years. Although I don’t follow any particular religious pathway, I understand why many people do.
I am both fascinated, and bemused, by the fact there is one Christian bible, but a myriad of interpretations of its message, which results in thousands of differing faiths.
This poem sums up the viewpoints of the many, and varied, believers and non-believers, who I have spoken with over a number of years.
Anne Saddler lives in Cornwall. She is a writer, blogger, and poet. Anne is a qualified lecturer and former Adult Education Tutor.