Poems and stories...

at home on an early may morning

2011-08-02T05:48:00.000-07:00

Aniseedy smell of sea fennel
greets me at the open door.
ducklings huddle,
desecrating flowerbeds,
demanding food.
in the field, the
black and white cat stalks
the hedgerow,
erupting into a flying leap
as a rabbit skitters away.
next door
my neighbour befriends
Destruction
with his gun.

The Secrets of the School

2011-02-08T10:41:00.001-08:00

In the hall
under the eaves
spiders lurk
practising their times tables
They have cracked the 8 times. Pips easy.

In the gym
behind the bars
frogs squat
recovering from
a punishing set of circuits.

In the kitchen
on top of the counters
cockroaches crawl,
scavenging for
sugar grains or forgotten cake.

In the classrooms
next to the noticeboards
worms wriggle,
tunnelling through
paper and posters, stickers and stamps.

In the staffroom
inside the armchairs
mice nestle,
snuggling down for a night
with the newspapers.

In the office,
at the desk,
lizards laze,
neglecting
to answer the telephone.

But in the playground
around the climbing frame
children whoop, whistle
and play
to their hearts' content.

Captain, my Captain

2011-01-10T11:58:00.001-08:00

Father, my Father
May I know you as a daughter.
Beloved, cherished, affirmed,
special.
Loved.
May I be a loving sister to your children.

Captain, my Captain.
May I acknowledge, respect and obey you
as my leader and authority,
seeking to carry out your wishes,
keeping my eyes fixed on you
as a servant girl looks at her Master.

Spirit, my Spirit
May you be in me and with me
breathing your life
through this earthly body
bringing eternal hope.

May Writelinkers Challenge: A devil a dragon and a dodo

2010-05-09T07:01:00.000-07:00

Two stories for the latest challenge: 300 words limit

Out with the Ark

“Come, on, Janie,” urged the boy, his trademark smile twisting his mouth up to one side. It had always made him attractive, added to soaring eyebrows, long dark eyelashes and the black eyes which set off his dusky features. Almost perfectly handsome. Janie wondered, not for the first time, what he saw in her. She took a deep breath. He’d almost certainly not want to have any more to do with her now.
“I CAN’T, Nick, you know I can’t.”
“Why not? You love me, don’t you?” He grinned again. In the darkness she could see his teeth glinting in the light spilling out through the open door. Janie looked nervously over her shoulder. Was her mother listening?
Nick noticed. “You know what she’ll say. Honestly, Janie, your mum would be lovely if she wasn’t such a dragon with you and your sisters. No one else has to be back home so early. I wouldn’t be going out with you if I didn’t love you, having to get you home by 10. She’s so old-fashioned – pre-Ark, I’d say!”
Despite herself, Janie smiled. Her mum WAS awfully strict. But still…
“Look, she won’t find out. We’ll be careful. I’ve got the condoms already and John said we can use his flat this weekend while he’s away. It’s a great chance.”
Janie hesitated. Nick saw his opportunity. “Janie, you’ve GOT to do this. I’ve said I love you but I won’t know you really love me if you won’t sleep with me. I don’t think I can carry on if you don’t.”
Torn, Janie heaved a sigh. “I just can’t, Nick. It’s just not right.” Her eyes brimmed over, but he took no notice.
“That’s it, then. We’re finished. You’re a complete dodo – virgins are an extinct species, didn’t you know?”

PETSHOP FOR EXTINCT ANIMALS

PETSHOP FOR EXTINCT ANIMALS: proprietor Lou C. Furr read the sign over the door. Laura peered in through the window: it was so grimy that she could barely make out what was inside. There were certainly no cute puppies or furry hamsters in cages to be seen. Nothing for it but to go in.
The place smelt musty – not the usual pet shop smell of bran and sawdust, but something like rotten eggs. Still, she might as well ask. Her mum had been so sad since Bugger, the family Jack Russell, had died. Laura had decided they needed another pet.
“What do you want?” A voice startled her. A tall man, dressed in black suit, appeared through a door at the back. The shop was gloomy but the light coming through the door was so bright it was like looking into a bonfire. Laura blinked.
“Umm – I’m looking for a puppy… or a kitten…” her voice trailed away uncertainly.
“Something young, is it? Have a look, then, see if there’s anything you fancy. Haven’t got much in at the moment.” Now that her eyes had adjusted, Laura could see that the room was lined with cages: most seemed empty, but she went closer. The first cage had a lizard curled up in the corner. As she peered at it, it uncurled, revealing webbed wings sprouting from its back. It waddled towards her.
“Watch out!” Laura jumped back as a shaft of flame shot out of its mouth. She glimpsed rows of sharply pointed teeth.
Shaking, she turned away. “Umm – what else is there?” Then she spotted it. Cute, fluffy and perfect.
“I’d like that chick,” she smiled, suddenly cheered up.
“Sure. You can let it wander round the house: it won’t fly away. Dodos make great pets.”

The Devil Takes His Chance

The atmosphere in Heaven was tense. After eons of subterfuge, the revolt was out in the open.
Satan swaggered before the throne, surrounded by his cohort of rebellious angels. He looked strangely small.
“So,” boomed God, “you want to do it YOUR way, do you?”
“Better than yours,” jeered Lucifer. “Do this, do that – there’s no fun here. Just rules, rules and more rules. And everyone so damned happy all the time. No juicy gossip or baiting some less fortunate being. Not even the odd fight to bet on. It’s all so BORING. We’ve had enough – haven’t we?” He gestured to his minions, cowering uncertainly behind him. Obediently, they hissed in agreement.
High above him, God sighed. Heaven shook like leaves in a breeze. “Well, I can’t stop you. You’re quite free to do what you like. But you can’t stay here.”
“Don’t want to,” retorted the angel, his handsome features now looking quite devilish. “I’ll go down there. Earth.” He pointed to a globe, glowing blue and green, spinning among stars.
“AND,” continued Lucifer, “I want to make stuff as well. Why should you get all the fun – creating all that life?”
It would certainly be good to get rid of this troublemaker. God had an overall plan, but it wouldn’t be pretty in the meantime. Still, Lucifer wouldn’t get it all his own way.
“OK,” replied God. “I’ll let you make two animals. You can create a dragon – and a dodo.”
“Sounds fine. I’ll be off then. See you around, sucker!” The devil and his demons vanished in a small thunderclap, noticed only by heaven’s house mouse.
God grinned. “That’ll curb any power he thinks he might have. Nobody’s going to believe that dragons exist – and the dodo won’t last more than a few centuries!”

Mpira - again

2010-05-09T02:51:00.001-07:00

You were a dog with many quirks.
You could talk. And talk you did. When we used the word ‘walk’ – or spelt it out, even phonetically – ears would prick up, followed by an alert glance. Then up you’d get, rushing to the lead, expectant. Sometimes you seemed to know we were going when we had only thought about it – could you really read our minds?
You’d say sorry – by groveling, one shoulder to the floor, even rolling over onto your back at times.
You did that when you were pleased as well, squirming and wriggling with gentle pleasure.
Your enthusiasm, when we returned home, was violent. Shrieks of delight, screams of joy, vertically bouncing up and down. Rushing off to fetch your ‘baby’ – an ancient soft toy – or a ball, to show us.
The expressions on your face: puzzlement, embarrassment, amusement in your smile. Laughter. That lopsided grin as you sat, laughing, just so happy to be with us. We were yours.

Absence

2010-05-09T02:35:00.001-07:00

I heard a tapping on the door last night.
for an instant
I thought you had returned.
the house groans,
missing you.
my steps on the stairway
sound like yours.
my heart aches. still.

You filled large spaces.
your presence
pervaded the very air. I breathe
now with difficulty
as grief
clutches at my heart.

Griefs and sorrows

2010-05-09T02:31:00.001-07:00

We carry griefs and sorrows within
lives of mourning. for an instant
we might forget
until a step, a smile, a sense
of absence
tugs memories from closets.

our bodies force thought from
unwilling minds. my eyes see
the chair you sat in. ears
hear a sudden tapping
at the window. i sense your presence
in the other room.

how sad my memories make me.
my spirit grieves within
raging at death,
destruction of my hopes
sadness
ruling in every fibre.

you are still here.

Mpira

2010-04-22T03:39:00.000-07:00

The emptiness of the house
snatches at my throat
deadening thought,
paralysing movement.

For an instant I had forgotten
That you are no longer here to greet me.
Silence pounces,
clawing my heart, reopening the wounds.

How can I bear it?

Strangers...

2010-04-12T01:43:00.000-07:00

Strangers

In the night I wake
wondering what happened
to our familiarity,

your face strange on the
pillow’s creamy whiteness
dreaming far away from me.

Friendship deep in love,
once closer than my heart
joy beyond all my description

fled out the window
with a stranger’s stare and
so love suffered destruction.

How strange we are

How strange we are
meeting at the breakfast table
bathed in routine.

Hearts and thoughts
hidden behind the newspaper
reading nothing of each other.

Mundane queries
stifle creativity of feeling
as our minds rush ahead into the day.

We go to work; we talk; relate
better to the strangers we work with
than to each other, the strangers we have become.

Blessings

I bless the day I met you
stranger on a train
travelling forward to adventure
of a different kind.

I bless the day our eyes met,
our mouths spoke of truths
and unknown exploration
of all things new.

I bless the day our hearts met
experiencing
in joyous acknowledgment
true recognition.

I bless the day I met you
stranger on the train
of happy circumstances.
Together. Always. Ever.

March 'Writelink' competition

Lighten the dark - a story for Writelink

2010-04-01T00:49:00.001-07:00

“Bother this. The battery has run out. I only charged it up yesterday.” Nick jiggles the phone, as if to shake sense into it. The tiny glass screen stays obdurately dark.
“Never mind.” Lena pulls hers out. “I’ll call the office. It was the grid references we wanted to check, wasn’t it?” She gazes across fields, waterlogged from the recent rain, glinting wetly in the dull light. Heavy clouds chase across the sky, bringing a chilly wind with them. The air smells damp. “Oh – I haven’t got a signal. It’s gone all dim as well.” She frowned. That morning, her laptop screen had been dark, words and pictures only just visible. She had fiddled around with the contrast, but couldn’t lighten the darkness of the screen.
“We can’t start the survey without the refs, now that these fields here are flooded. We’ll have to start on higher ground and I don’t have the exact coordinates with me. We’ll climb up a bit – the shadow of the tor might be blocking your mobile.”
Turning, Lena glances up at the hill looming above them. “I don’t see why I can’t get a signal. They’ve just put in new masts - we’re supposed to get good reception all across the county now.”
“ Well, it’s not working, is it?” Nick is growing impatient. “Anyway, we’ll get a good view from there and can decide exactly where to start.”
Nick is right. The view is magnificent. The country rolls away to the east, disappearing into the low cloud mass. Below them, the ground lies as flat as a sheet of glass, resembling nothing as much as an old waterstained mirror. The drainage ditches have all but disappeared under the floods, only the hawthorn hedges spiking scratches across the surface.
Lena’s mobile gives a signal, although the screen is still quite dark. She taps into the internet, accessing the data they need from the environmental research station.
“OK, that’s that then. Where shall we start? Nick?” Lena looks up. Nick has disappeared, but she hears voices coming from behind the rocks. As she steps nearer, she hears an old man’s voice.
“You’m better do somethin’ ‘bout it.” The words are threatening, but the voice is kindly. “Them sheep bain’t be stayin’ here, then what’ll us farmers be doin’? Countryfolk’ll die out.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asks. He looks up, frowning, as Lena joins him.
“I is tellin’ youse, sheep already be dyin’. The grass is poisoned anyways, youse can see that.”
“We haven’t heard reports of sheep dying,” says Lena, “but we HAVE come to carry out soil surveys to find out what is happening to the grass.”
“’Tis poisoned, I tell youse,” repeats the old man stubbornly. “As true as my name be Dagonet. Look you there.” He gestures at the hillside below. They stare at the round circles of flattened grass, no longer a healthy green but dark and dank.
When they turn back to Dagonet, the old man has disappeared as if he had never been there.

***
Back at the office, Lena boots her computer up. The screen is still dark, but she can access the maps with no problem.
“Look at this,” she says, “the circles form regular patterns around the masts. What should we do?”
“I don’t know,” says Nick. “I’ve already contacted the phone companies but they say they’re not responsible for the masts in this area. That old man, Dagonet, is on at me every single day about it.”
As he is speaking there is a crash as Dag throws the door open: “Come quickly, while there still be time.” He grabs Nick’s arm, urging him outside.
“He’s right, Lena. Come on.”
The sky blackens as the car weaves its way between the Levels, the drains gleaming wetly on either side.
The car corners a high hedge and comes to a juddering halt. In front of them is a giant as slender as a bundle of willow withies, astride the landscape, its metal legs blocking their path. The soil around it is completely bare, light glinting off its darkened surface as off a mirror.
A low rumble in the distance is all that is left of the brief flash of lightning which momentarily illuminates the dark sky, showing the storm edging nearer.
They tumble out of the car. “Give us yer mobile,” Dag says to Nick. He holds the phone high in the air with one hand, his shepherd’s crook in the other. He faces the giant, brandishing the crook as if it were a sword.
The wind roars around, tearing at their clothes with sadistic claws. The sky cracks open with a vicious light and slow, heavy rain falls, then gathers speed, hammering at them until their hair is plastered to their heads. The roar of thunder increases, the lightning flashes brighter until Nick can bear it no longer. He squeezes his eyes shut just as he sees Dag, who has been holding the phone all this time, bend his arm and hurl the mobile to the ground at the giant’s feet.
The metal legs of the mast begin to shake. They crumble slowly, melting to the ground, bringing the giant to its knees.
It looms over them, the ground shaking beneath it, then collapses at their feet in a mangled twist. Sightless metallic discs rock on the ground, their dead glare reflecting the lightning which still bounces from one blackened horizon to the other.
Nick and Lena are wide-eyed, their frightened eyes slipping first one way, then the other.
“There we go, we do be ended with all this,” says Dag. He picks up Nick’s phone. “See?” The screen is no longer faint. Lena’s phone, too, is fine.
“Look,” whispers Lena. She points at the bare circle. It no longer resembles a blackened mirror. Grass is growing in it, shooting up rapidly. The darkened earth is lightened with a sheen of green, then becomes indistinguishable from the turf around it.

997 words

I am, I do not, I do, I am not

2010-03-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

I am – yet I do not

I am a daughter
yet I do not behave daughterly,
confiding in my mother, asking
her advice, coming to her for consolation.

I am a wife
yet I do not behave so completely
as to be perfectly obedient, compliant,
putting my husband first above all else.

I am a mother
yet I do not act motherly,
softly offering love without reproach
nurturing, supporting, a haven for my children.

I am a teacher
yet I do not always consider
that my charges are yet babies,
needing better communication than I give them.

I am a friend
yet I do not act so lovingly
that I will go extra miles
to bring comfort and consolation.

I am not – yet I do

I am not a writer
yet I draw forth meaning from
few words scattered on a page,
bringing insight and emotion.

I am not a painter
yet, occasionally, my use of colour
in paint brings emotion to the fore,
and I am satisfied.

I am not a cook
yet baking speaks to my soul
and pours love out
to those I prepare food for.

I am not a seamstress
yet the act of mending rips and tears
concealing blemishes in cherished garments
brings me contentment.

I am not a manager
yet organizing systems, people,
bringing order out of chaos
fulfils the tidiness in me.

I am not a lover
yet, through tiny acts of service,
through tender thoughts and caring words
I love. I do.

The Man Jesus

2010-03-02T12:17:00.000-08:00

Did he know the weight of generations?
Expectation of performance,
living up to forebears of greatness?

Could he build an ark
In times of drought, or, like Abraham
embark on a journey to unknown places?

Would he become Israel, leader of a nation,
or part the Red Sea as Moses did
with a raising of his staff?

Should he become a warrior king like David
or build a mightier temple
than Solomon?

Did he know his greatness
from the humble beginnings
as a carpenter’s son?

Had he heard whispers
in the night between his
parents?

Did he wonder as he read of
his genealogy? So many generations
leading to his appointed time?

He became his own man, fulfilled his own destiny,
completed and began anew his Life’s work.
The Child of all the generations. The Christ.

It was the cat's fault

2010-02-28T09:57:00.001-08:00

It was the cat’s fault.
It’s 2am when I’m woken up by the cat. Hmm. Unusual. So I turn on the light. And there’s the cat. With a rat in its mouth. A large, large rat. I stare, astonished. Why has the cat decided that our bedroom, on the ground floor, is the obvious place to store a rat?
The cat is impressed that I am impressed. She smiles at me, and starts purring. Her mouth opens. The rat escapes.
The cat is so pleased with me that she takes no notice.
Now there is a rat on the loose. In the bedroom.
I leap out of bed and start chasing the rat. Under no circumstances must I allow it to get under the bed. I am not wearing any clothes, but that doesn’t matter. At first.
Then I think to myself, maybe chasing a rat, stark naked, is perhaps not the best idea. So I put on some shoes.
The rat is still on the loose. I’m shouting at Jenny to block the door so it can’t escape. Jen is shrieking.
Eventually, I chase it over to the window – the low, floor to ceiling window. I throw the window open so the rat jumps out.
I notice the lights on in the house opposite. Mrs Jenkins, woken by the screaming, is staring at me. I am floor to ceiling naked. Apart from my shoes.
“It was a rat,” I mouth. She smiles at me, and winks. Oh dear.

Grandchild, grandmother

2010-02-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

The baby snuffled in her sleep;
sighed, then wriggled.
Wakeful, the grandmother
heaved her body from the chair,
wrinkled eyes creasing with worry
watching the soft eyelids

flutter. The child stirred again,
murmuring softly, tiny lips sucking.
The old woman soothed the girl
with song, breathing below her breath,
forgotten melodies revived
unbidden.

The baby smiled; sweet mouth
curved up, contented
in the warmth of the crib.
It was cold in the room; the
grandmother hugged herself
against the chill

as she reached for her shawl.
Carefully, she lifted the baby,
Snuggling her against her breast
wrapping her tightly.
Now both of them would be warm again.
Together.

Just like Grandmama

2010-02-21T02:51:00.001-08:00

Lucy could read when she was four, but she was very short-sighted.
"So like her grandmother," her parents sighed.
Clever Grandmama had been nearly blind for most of her life.

At eleven, Lucy had protruding front teeth, large feet and sturdy limbs.
"So like her grandmother," proclaimed Lucy's aunt.
"Grandmama looks so much better now that she has false teeth."
Lucy drew the correct inference.

Lucy endured the many, unflattering, comparisons until she went to teaching college.
"A teacher, just like Grandmama," muttered Lucy's mother
as she washed the old lady's underwear for the third time that day.
"Not like Grandmama," thought Lucy. Grandmama graduated top of the class. At the Sorbonne.
Lucy did well, but not well enough. She didn't achieve a First.

Aged thirty, Lucy's Grandmama was given her own school to run.
Aged thirty, Lucy was still teaching nine year olds in the same classroom where she had begun.

"These career girls miss out on having a family," said her mother meaningfully.
"Your grandmama, of course, had a wonderful career as well."
Lucy gritted her teeth. She handed in her notice.
She applied to teach as a volunteer, going to Uganda. Far, but not far enough.

"When are you coming home?" asked her parents.
"I hope you're not going to marry a black man," said her grandmother.

Lucy ignored them all.
She met a Ugandan, the son of a tribal chief. Married him - very happily.
Had two children - a boy and a girl.
Eventually, she had four perfect grandchildren. Just like her grandmother.

The Naked Runners Club

2010-02-17T10:41:00.000-08:00

It started quite innocently. The morning jog through the fields down to the river, a quick dip, then a gentle jog back. Sally loved the sense of freedom she got from being up so early, before anyone was even thinking about breakfast.
One morning, she wondered what it would be like to feel the dew between her toes. She ran back home carrying her trainers. After that, she found it easy enough to run barefoot over the grass.
She jogged with a swimsuit beneath her shorts, but it was a bit of a chore carrying a towel to dry herself off with after her swim. She started leaving the towel at home, drying her body with her T shirt. The T-shirt was too wet to put back on, so she carried it, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her skin. One morning, she forgot to put the swimsuit on. There was no one around, so she skinny-dipped. T shirt and shorts were soaking wet, so Sally trailed them behind her as she sprinted carefully home, sure no one was watching her.
It became a habit. The sense of freedom when running completely naked was addictive.
So was the sight of her. Joe had always been an early riser. All that summer, he never missed seeing Sally in all her glory.
One day, he joined her. Naked. Sally smiled and took his hand. And so the Naked Runners Club was born.
Me too. Nine months later.

Running Bare

2010-02-17T06:58:00.000-08:00

What happened last night is the stuff of films. Really. You know, where the heroine just happens to go outside wearing only a towel, then she loses it, gets locked out of the house…you know.
It doesn’t happen in real life now, does it?
Except it did. Sort of.
I live in a nice semi-detached in a fairly quiet road. I cycle to work, go jogging twice a week.
I’d just got out of the shower after my run when I remembered I’d left my running shoes outside the front door. Why didn’t I wait to get dressed before I went to fetch them? Who knows? Anyway, I didn’t. I despair of myself sometimes. I nipped downstairs, towel tightly wrapped around me. Opened the door, only to see next door’s Golden Retriever making off down the garden with one of my trainers (brand new, top of the range Nike) in his slobbery mouth. So of course I took off after him.
I caught him before he reached the gate. There was a brief tussle, then victory. I had my shoe.
Unfortunately, my towel had slipped off in the process. Caesar grabbed it, charged out of the gate and off down the road.
What’s a girl to do? Yes, you guessed it. I streaked around the side of the house, clutching a strategically placed shoe and threw myself through the back door.
That dog certainly lived up to his name this morning: Seizer.
I might suggest he is renamed. And rehomed.

So it began...

2010-02-09T12:14:00.001-08:00

The whispers, coming from nowhere
caught fire, raged furious, growing
as real as flames.

The rumours, coming from nowhere
grew greater, greedily sucking
reputations, destroying character.

The tears, coming from nowhere
took the village by surprise, shocked
into silence.

Whispers.
Rumour.
Tears.

Whispering in the trees

2010-02-09T11:43:00.000-08:00

A sudden murmuring in the trees
jerked my heart.
Fear gripped
I stood still.
Listening.

A wind howled silently,
cold claws clutching
dripping dread.
I heard
nothing
as the whispers
faded away.

A most unwelcome New Year's guest.

2010-01-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

"Oh, so you're here for New Year, Commissioner?" Sarah eyed her fellow guest. Silver-haired, distinguished-looking, eminent, he must have been a catch for the party hosts.
"Well, yes," Sir John replied. "We usually go on safari - somewhere really remote - but as the High Commission's recommendation was to stay put and not travel, I thought I'd better take my own advice. Set an example, y'know."
"Yes, that has put a bit of a damper on the holidays," agreed Sarah. "It's been quite tricky travelling lately as it is, but of course we're safe enough here in town."
The man opposite didn't reply and Sarah realized his attention had wandered across the room. The police chief was also present. She smiled. "Well, if you'll excuse me...?" Sir John nodded as she moved away. Glancing back, Sarah noticed that he had already gone to talk to the policeman, seeming to be engaged in earnest discussion. She and her fellow guests would certainly be safe in such company.
The party carried on in full swing, sombre topics of escalating food prices, hijackings and the dishonesty of servants jostling with boasting about golf handicaps, children, fashion and gossip. Midnight came, when all talk was drowned by the gunfire of champagne corks popping and fireworks exploding.
The next morning, the usual clearing up revealed that there had been unwelcome visitors. Elderly Mrs Mitchell next door had been robbed at gunpoint. Shot and killed by a most unwelcome New Year's guest.

Someone old, someone new...

2010-01-09T09:20:00.000-08:00

Winner, First Footers Writelink January 2010 monthly competition

Joan knew she was putting a damper on the celebrations, but she just couldn’t help herself. This was the first New Year’s Eve since she’d moved into the house that Sam wasn’t there to share it with her. She nursed a glass of ginger wine, barely sipping it as talk and laughter flowed around her. She had rarely felt so alone – he’d always been around, sharing her highs and lows. Now he was gone.

“Mum, have a mince pie?” Sara, her daughter, leaned over, concern in her eyes as she proffered the plate.
“No thanks.” Joan smiled with an effort, adding, “they do look delicious. I might have one a bit later.”
“There won’t be much later,” Sara laughed. “It’s almost midnight now.”
Joan looked around. People were still chatting and enjoying themselves. It was nearly midnight. She got up, moving towards the window as the countdown began.

“Five, four, three, two, one…” The room erupted as everyone hugged and kissed, exclaiming loudly. Joan accepted the embraces, then turned back to gaze out into the darkness. A sudden movement on the garden path caught her eye. Could it be? Surely not? Heart beating quickly, Joan went to the door, flinging it open. Yes! She was right. He HAD come. Sam had returned.

A pretty little Persian cat stepped daintily across the threshold, her four feet pattering on the parquet, Siamese Sam strutting proudly at her side.

Winter

2009-12-28T04:12:00.000-08:00

“I’m reclaiming Winter!” Gran announced with a smile
I wondered: I hadn’t seen her in a while
But Granny was always so young and so spry
There didn’t seem anything she wouldn’t try.
“So Winter is lost - it’s missing, it’s gone?”
I decided to humour my Granny along.
But to my astonishment she nodded her head
At the truth of my words I had only just said.
“That’s right – just you look: just listen to me!”
I gazed through the window, but all I could see
Was rain, cloud and fog – not a sunbeam in sight
The day was so dark it could almost be night.
“So what do you mean?” I wondered aloud
“How could it be lost? Winter’s always around
these dark days ‘fore Christmas. We’re longing for snow
to cheer up our spirits and help the days go.”
“That’s right!” said my Gran, “That’s just what I mean
This dull dreary weather should never have been.
I’m ordering snow through this website I’ve found
So before you all know it, while I’m still around
There’ll be white stuff galore to cheer us all up.
Now, who’s going to help make the Wassailing Cup?”
So saying, she wandered away with a smile
I wondered: I haven’t seen her for a while
Not since I awoke to a snow sprinkled morn
Where, standing in splendour outside on the lawn
Was a wonderful snowman – or lady, I’d say
With a smile on her face and a hatful of hay.
“Yes, Winter is here now,” said a voice in my head.
But oh, what a pity, that Gran is now dead.

With sympathy

2009-12-28T03:31:00.000-08:00

Words cannot express
the depth of Sorrow
where Life meets Death.
May you remember
with Joy
in your pain.

Winter lament

2009-12-09T11:45:00.000-08:00

I know it is Winter: it’s dark and it’s cold
it plays up me rheumatics now I am old.
But still, all the same, I just can’t accept
the cold and the grey and the eternal wet.

What’s happened to Winter? To tell you the truth
it’s nothing like Winter was all through my youth.
First we had autumn, with glorious leaves:
huge windy days and frightening trees.

Then the gales started. Nights black as sin.
We cuddled by firesides, ate crumpets, stayed in.
Till suddenly waking one day with alarm
‘cos outside the house ‘twas unnaturally calm.

Oh the lightness and brightness of wonderful snow:
we dashed out the house with our faces aglow.
We whooped and we danced and we sang out for joy
oh, snow was our uttermost favourite toy!

And so Winter began: the snow came to stay
as our constant companion all through those days.
Our world stayed quite white, frost rimed my nose,
my fingers, my mittens, every one of my toes.

But I didn’t care: no, none of us did.
No longer cared we that Summer was hid.
Oh bring back old Winter, who cares if we freeze?
It’s better than sitting in wet to our knees.

A fireside tale...

2009-12-08T09:11:00.000-08:00

Stockings hung in the fireplace; the table was set;
mince pies were all ready, as I was, and yet
something was wrong: something didn’t feel right
as I stood at the window and gazed at the night.
My stomach was twisted and knotted inside.
“Where is he? He’s late. Something’s happened!” I cried.

Outside, the wind roared and the branches they blew
as the rain lashed the windows and drove a chill through
all the house as it wept in the gales and the storm -
though inside all looked cosy, comforting, warm.
I ran to the phone: picked it up; useless, dead.
Thoughts and anxieties swirled through my head.

The lights flickered and dimmed; a candle blew out.
I started, jumped up, looked all about,
but all seemed so normal, the outside was fine:
the turmoil that battered could only be mine.
Unable to sit, I paced over the floor
from sofa to window, from table to door.

Nothing could calm me, my terror had swept
all reason and order right out of my head.
I flung the door open, ran out down the path
Above the wind was the sound of a laugh.
I found him out there, collapsed on his side.
I knew that something had happened. I cried.

Disappearance on Christmas Eve

2009-12-08T03:58:00.000-08:00

The day had drawn on when my Mama announced
She had to go out: and so off out she flounced,
Leaving us children to fend for ourselves
My mama went off with a party of elves.

And how do I know? Well, I’ll tell you the tale:
I know, when you hear it, I’ll see your face pale
When you hear of the horrors my mama endured
To ensure that our table was laden with food.

It was Christmas: outside all were merry and jolly
as they chattered off home with their fir trees and holly.
But our pitiful house was filled only with fear
of starvation and cold and a miserable year.

Mama had just fed us our small bowls of gruel
when, stripping her apron, she said, “what a fool
I have been! Just stay here and wait for the morn:
be sure that at Christmas you won’t be forlorn.”

Then stepping outside, she waved once, and again
and out of the darkness, the cold and the rain
there appeared an old farmcart, filled right to the brim
with elves: wearing green, and with face-splitting grins.

“You’re welcome!” they cried as Mama stepped on board
“We’re needing a meal.” Then, grabbing a cord
they tied her up tight, as trussed as a hen
and laughing quite evilly, vanished again.

We wondered, we worried, but what could we do?
‘Our Mama knows best’ is but all that we knew.
We slept as we huddled together that night:
the next morn we awoke: but oh - what a sight!

The table was laden with meat, cheese and cakes,
puddings and pasties – all manner of bakes.
I never did hear of the horrors endured
to ensure that our table was laden with food.

Winter arrives! Or, War in Winter

2009-11-22T04:28:00.000-08:00

So autumn was over: the leaves were all done,
The weather was chill and my little face glum.
The wet and the wind had announced they’d arrived
When my fingers and toes said they’d lief stay inside.

The choice was not theirs: I just knew they were wrong
When my tongue and my lips began to break out in song.
‘It’s Christmas acomin’, we’re striving to sing
Those beautiful carols – when can we begin?’

My shoulders were aching from hefting a load
Of presents for all of my friends down the road.
My feet and my ankles were terribly sore.
What was I to do, with my body at war?

My fingers and toes all refused to attend:
Cold frozen and stiff, they followed no trend.
And while I was trying to prise them apart
My nose, hereto quiet, awoke with a start.

It decided it just had to join in the fun,
So without a delay it then started to run.
I looked for a tissue, without any success:
I really was in such a terrible mess.

My hero arrived, with roast chestnuts, mulled wine
I instantly knew that he had to be mine.
He cajoled to obedience all of those parts
Which were frozen: above all, he melted my heart.

This is Guernsey...

2009-11-08T01:10:00.001-08:00

‘Picturesque' is the word for the little island of Guernsey. Arriving by ferry, the town of St Peter Port opens up to view. Pastel coloured buildings climb away from the sea, jostling together in narrow cobbled streets. Boats fill the harbour; the fish market sells fish. Castle Cornet, in the main a creation of Henry VIII, stands sentinel on a tiny island: once a bastion of Royalist support in the face of Parliamentarian Guernsey, it is now reached by a long granite pier, haunt of small boys and amateur fishermen.

This is Guernsey, English speaking, yet some people still speak Guernsiaise, a patois based on the French spoken in the Middle Ages.

A short climb up a quiet street devoid of traffic leads to Hauteville House, Victor Hugo's sanctuary for 15 years after he fled France. The walls and ceilings are covered with carpets; furniture of dark, intricately carved wood is integral with the building. One ceiling is lined with ceramics; another room with tiles. The darkroom is hidden in a cupboard. The winter garden is a conservatory with inspirational views of the islands. A glass eyrie at the top is where this literary giant wrote, standing at a writing desk.

It was here that he wrote several of his most famous works: notably ‘Les Miserables' and the work he devoted to the people of Guernsey, ‘The Toilers of the Sea': "I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality, to this corner of old Norman land where resides the noble little people of the sea, to the Island of Guernsey, severe and yet gentle...".

Guernsey's harsh, rugged cliffs, combined with gentle inland scenery; hidden coves and sandy beaches; a profusion of plant life growing abundantly in a mild climate; gentle, friendly people. Inspirational. Picturesque. Inviting.

Why?

2009-10-29T06:34:00.000-07:00

Why is it
That I hurt another, when my deepest desire is for healing?
That I sorrow, when I long for joy?
That I smile, though I feel like weeping?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

Why is it
That when I am young, I wish to be older
That when I have enough, I long for more?
That when I have achieved my goal, it becomes meaningless?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

To deny my nature would be to contradict my own self.
To admit to faults and failings weakens them, takes away their power.
To bring into the light negates the darkness, lessens significance.

I do not have to give in to my nature.
I do not have to submit to strength.
I do not have to live up to my name.

I do not have to.
Yet I know I will.
Why?

A contradiction in terms

2009-10-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

Why is it that, when we’re at school
There seems to be a change of rules?
If you’re a teacher, days are short;
If a child, and you are caught
Yawning, bored out of your skin
Time will never let you win.
The days are dull, the lessons long
The minutes just drag on and on.
“The bell already?” Teacher says
“I’m always short of time these days.”

But then the end of term arrives:
Christmas, the best time of our lives.
Art, singing carols, parties, fun,
No work – it’s great for everyone.
Laughter, shrieks and happiness
Mixed into one glorious mess.
Oh, how time flies: before we know
It’s Christmas: holly, mince pies, snow!
Meanwhile, the teachers, grey and old
Surviving countless hours untold
As days drag on and on and on
Until the final bell has gone.

Why is it that time changes rules
Depending on who we are at school?

It's never too late to start...

2009-10-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

“Do you want to come surfing with me?”

I didn’t think I’d heard properly. I’ve never surfed, nor thought I could ever do it. I’ve always been a reasonably good swimmer, but never very strong. I’m small (ish – five feet four, actually, which is around average so I am told), suffer from asthma (controlled well), have one leg ever so slightly shorter than the other (a legacy from being born with club foot) and I am not blonde. Nor do I have straight hair. Oh, all right, I might as well say it. Mouse brown and the definition of unruliness. Neither am I particularly slim. (I used to be quite thin, but that is another story.) And the clincher: so short-sighted I don’t even dare walk to the corner shop without my glasses – I’d never get there.

Stereotypes, of course. Not all surfers have to be blonde, slim, long-haired, lissom teenagers, but you still have to fit the mould somehow. Questions jumbled through my mind as I struggled to control the jeering answers. How would I fit into a wetsuit? (With difficulty.) How would I find my way up and down the beach? (He’d have to hold your hand? Hmm, that might not be so bad after all.) Surely I’m too old? (No one is too old to make a fool of themselves.) And, the worst of all: Just how terrible WILL I look with soaking wet hair? (Worse than you can imagine.)

The embarrassment factors seemed overwhelming, the questions relentless.

It’s all right for men. Yes, I’ve lived through the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties and the rest, equal rights for women and all that… but there is still a lot of ‘in-crowd’ snobbery when it comes to surfing and, anyway, I was born in the fifties. It’s sad, but right at my core, (formed when I was a toddler and my mother stayed at home to run the house and bring up the children) is a belief that all my education hasn’t completely shifted. The belief that, when it comes to ‘men’s sports’, girls just can’t do it as well.

The real truth is that I’m not sporty, never have been.

Remember the game of ‘ladders’ at school? Where you sat down in two rows facing each other, legs stretched out so that feet met in the middle, and then you had to race your partner by running ‘up the ladder’ over all those outstretched legs. I was SO popular with the boys for that game – I was always first to be picked, usually by the most athletic (and good-looking) ones.

Those boys weren’t the best sportmen, in the real sense of the word. I’ll never forget how I felt the day I understood why they picked me first. I’d loved that game until then.

It made me realize that not everyone was ‘nice’. And that I was a good sport, even though they weren’t.

So, back to the question. Did I want to go surfing with him? Old experiences always stay with you. I eyed him suspiciously as I wondered why he was asking me. He smiled.

“Come on, it’s good fun. You’re a good sport – you’ll have a ball.”

Well, it’s all right for him, isn’t it? Tall, athletic. Impossibly good-looking.

“I don’t know how,” I replied, finally.

“I’ll teach you. It’s easy to get the hang of it. I’d really like you to come.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s fun. And it’ll be more fun with you. Remember how I taught you to waterski? It was the only way I could think of to get close to you.”

I blushed. “That was a long time ago.”

“So what? I know we’ve been married for 25 years, but I still think you’re the most gorgeous thing on the beach.”

What could I say? Struggling into my daughter’s wetsuit, with my husband’s help, was, surprisingly, the most romantic thing I’d done for a long time.

Getting out of it, with my husband’s help, after an exhilarating time in the sea, was even more so.

This was first runner-up in the last quarterly 2009 Writelink competition. How exciting!!

My Home

2009-10-29T06:25:00.001-07:00

Here,
Fishermen, hardened by cold seas, haul baskets of fish, crabs, lobsters
onto unforgiving stones.
Bankers, softened by the warmth of buildings, take out a cool hundred from the cash machine
for a few drinks after work.

Here,
Children at the private school revel in tales of snorkeling, waterskiing and surfing
in the Caribbean.
Toddlers and pre-schoolers sit in a black-painted, darkened room, watching television.
For hours.

Here,
Bright young things, fuelled by alcohol, giggle and dance the night away,
remembering nothing by morning.
The elderly sit in residential homes, staring at walls, surrounded by too many people,
Keeping company only with their memories.

Here,
Those who have travelled the world, experiencing exotica, safaris, sunshine,
mingle on the High Street with
the young and old who have never travelled off the Island
save, perhaps, for the unhappiness and stress of a hospital visit.

Here,
contradictions in wealth, education, politics,
concern for family, neighbours, the community -
Threaten to overwhelm our future.

This was second runner-up in the last quarterly Writelink competition. What fun!

PS: it appears as 'Problem' on the website

Down my way...Herm

2009-10-29T05:52:00.001-07:00

Azure and turquoise waters lap a golden beach under a cerulean blue sky. A description that is cheesy, corny, and completely accurate. Yet this place is not Mediterranean, nor Caribbean or indeed anywhere exotic, even though the sun burns our skins.

The island of Herm. Miniature, carless, perfect. One of the Channel Islands, barely one and a half miles long and half a mile wide, separated from Guernsey by a narrow channel down which the tides swirl ferociously. Boats make the crossing with ease when the weather is fair, yet at times during the winter, when gales devour the islands, nothing puts out from St Peter Port harbour for days at a time.

On Herm, there is nothing but a tiny village, a handful of granite holiday cottages, each converted from a former use: a fisherman’s retreat, a baker’s, a widow who eked out a living with handcrafts. A campsite on the hill. Pleasure boats in the harbour. St Tugual’s chapel, older than we can even dream, glows with care: polished wood, stunning flower arrangements, a sense of tranquility and ease.

The courtyard of the pub hums. It is half an hour before the last boat of the day. Tired, sandy, sunbronzed children – skin cancer a disregarded concern – eat ice creams, their parents deep in conversation over a cream tea, chatting to strangers. Some of these acquaintances will develop into life-long friendships.
After an hour, the courtyard is empty. Later, folk will, like us, drift down from the cottages and campsite for a meal or a pint of Guernsey cider. Food tastes better here, but in any case, Herm and Guernsey pride themselves on their fresh local produce – not least, the Guernsey milk, butter and tomatoes which have made the islands famous.

Herm. Simplicity, luxury, solitude, friendliness. Addictive.

Children's short stories

2009-10-10T13:39:00.001-07:00

All’s well that ends well…

It was possibly the worst day of my life. Forgot my lunch box, so Mum brought it into school. I wish she was more like other mums. It’s so humiliating when she bangs the classroom door open, marches in and dumps it on my desk, right there in the middle of a lesson. Other mums don’t do that.
No one laughed, which made it worse. Mrs Jenkins, my teacher, just looked cross, but she didn’t say anything.
After that, I just couldn’t concentrate. Copied the wrong thing off the board, started the maths on the wrong page, turned over two pages at once in my exercise book and didn’t notice… And in games, Sir said he was dropping me from the footie team because I wasn’t concentrating.
At lunchtime, everyone DID laugh. Mum had given me my little sister’s lunchbox. Barbie yogurt and fairy cake. I couldn’t even go and swap it – she’s in the infant’s and has lunch earlier than me.
Even my best friend, Rob, was doubled up laughing. I stuck my tongue out at him and Mrs Jenkins thought I did it to her.
So I lost the rest of my lunchbreak.
And THEN I got stuck in the toilet. The lock jammed. I had to wait for the caretaker to come along and unscrew it. I was late for register.
It was while Mrs Jenkins was ranting at me for being late that I noticed. Ludo was sitting there, right next to her handbag, scrubbing his nose with his paws. Then he suddenly dashed across Mrs Jenkins’ shoes, heading for the door.
Ignoring Mrs Jenkins’ screams, I threw myself on the floor, grabbing the hamster in my hand. I’d caught the cleverest escapee our class had ever known. I was a hero.

The Puppy

“WHY can’t we keep him?” cried Jodie, cuddling the whimpering pup in her arms. It squirmed, its little body twisting and turning as it tried to escape.

“We can’t have a dog. You know Grandad doesn’t like them,” sighed her mother. “You should have asked me first. You’ll just have to take him back to the shop.”

“But they GAVE him to me,” she cried. “Please, please, please can we keep him? I’ll look after him, I promise.”

“I’ve just told you,” repeated Jodie’s mother. “Now, that’s the end of it. He can stay tonight as it’s too late now, but you’ll have to take him back in the morning.”

Jodie’s eyes filled. It wasn’t fair. Why did Grandad have to spoil it? Why did he even have to live with them, anyway? He had his own house. She just didn’t get it.

Jodie was still furious as she went up to bed, leaving the puppy in a box in the kitchen. All her pleading to have him in her bedroom had been useless. Her mother had been adamant.

“He’ll be fine in the kitchen. He might make a mess upstairs and anyway, he’s not staying.”

Anger gave way to tears again. It had been a long time since she’d cried herself to sleep.

Jodie woke with a start. The dog was barking, scratching furiously at the kitchen door. She ran onto the landing to see her mother bending over her grandfather, who was sitting on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Jodie’s mother looked up. “Grandad’s had a fall, Jodie, but he’ll be all right now. I only woke up when your puppy started creating that noise. Grandad’s decided he does like dogs after all. What are you going to call him?”

Jodie smiled. “Mr Barker.”

Rainbow Warriors

2009-09-15T12:37:00.001-07:00

The Mission
“All ready,men?” Glum faces nodded in assent. No one was up for the challenge, but they had no choice. Their very livelihood was threatened, so something had to be done.
“Off on a fool’s errand, if ye ask me,” muttered Merfi, falling into step alongside Ohraygan as they marched off.
“You think so?” Ohraygan glanced at her uniform. The fine green corduroy was pressed smartly, the buttons polished so brightly that she had half expected to be told to blacken them. She looked around at her comrades: none of them looked particularly thrilled but then, she had always been the one to enjoy dressing up.
“Yeah, of course. We’d have found it by now if it was there for the finding. No, it’s long gone.”
“Where to? I thought there had been rumours that it was still in the Mother Country – isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Bejaysus, surely on me ma’s grave will some rascal have smuggled it out by now, Some smart city boy will have got an export licence and sent it across to the other side of the Union. Probably even got a cash incentive for new trade, I’ll be sure.”
“Silence in the ranks!” The column halted, so suddenly that Ohraygan was startled into taking an extra step, scuffing her shoes on the heels of the recruit in front. “Disperse!”
The soldiers silently scattered to either side of the metalled track they had been marching along. Ohraygan winced as she slid into the ditch, trying to avoid the mud. The rain had stopped long since, but there was still water lying on the bog, puddles glinting here and there. The country had been sodden for weeks, with no respite from the relentless downpours. Drainage ditches had been dug, taking all the water they could, but still it came. The sun had vanished: it was hard to believe that it had ever shone at all. Without it, there was no chance of the water drying up. This mission was a last desperate attempt to restore the natural order and bring the country back to normality.
From where she lay, Ohraygan could hear nothing. Then it began. Merfi gripped his spade, tensing at the approaching noise. It was unlike anything Ohraygan had ever heard before, but it completely beguiled her.
The tinkling was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. It was as if thousands of tiny bells were all ringing at once, creating a melody which rose and soared into the air, free from the mud and the damp. Peeping up, Ohraygan blinked, rubbed her eyes, blinked again. Dancing down the track, barely seeming to touch the ground, were hundreds of fairies. Dressed in gossamer, the pastel hues of their dresses moved and merged as one. They looked like nothing as much as an ethereal, shimmering rainbow.
There was a sharp intake of breath beside her. “Look – there it is!” Merfi pointed, his hand shaking, his face so pale it was positively green. Following his sharp little finger, Ohraygan saw it. In hundreds of tiny hands, a rainbow swooshed and whirled in streamers over the fairies heads. The wind seemed to be trying to snatch it, but it was held fast, tangling and twisting until the colours blurred into a white that had become grey.
Ohraygan waited. Surely it would come into sight soon. Then, as a knot of fairies drew nearer, her pulse quickened. This must be it.
At the signal, the leprechaun army erupted from the sides of the track like lava spilling over the side of the volcano. Within seconds, the fairies were surrounded. Fury was written over many of the soldiers’ faces, but discipline held them in check. The King, mounted on a huge toad, spurred up to the head of the fairy column.
“Bring forth your leader!” he commanded. The fairy crowd shivered, colours mingling, then flashing brighter as a gap appeared and the Queen stepped forward. The gold crown on her head was impressive, but even without it she would have been the most beautiful being ever seen.
“Madam.” The King bowed. “You know what we have come for. Please return it to us, then we can let you go on your way.”
“Return it?” The Queen’s voice, silvery soft, echoed her amazement. “It does not belong to you, so how can we return what is not yours? In any case, how can creatures as ugly and careless as you be responsible for our treasure?”
“You are right,” replied the King, “we are not worthy of it. Yet we have been given the guardianship. See for yourself what happens when it is out of our hands. The country is flooded. The crops will soon lie ruined in the fields. And, once the world hears what has happened, the economy will collapse. No longer will adventurers come here to try their luck. No longer will tourists flock in amazement, spending their time and then their money in the gift shops on lucky charms, lucky bracelets and so on. Even our exports, what is left of them, will lie on the world market, unsold. The rainbow has to return and so, with it, the Promise.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” the Queen smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We only wanted to borrow it for our millennium party anyway.” She clicked her fingers. Immediately, a rustling in the fairy ranks began as the fairies started pulling the rainbow into coils, reducing it to a shimmering heap. “But I can’t give it to any of your soldiers,” she added, casting a stern eye over the Rainbow Warriors. To a man, their faces were blackened and their camouflage gear was covered in mud. Then she caught sight of Ohraygan. “Come here, Private.”
Ohraygan stepped hesitantly forward. Her uniform was still neatly pressed, the buttons still shiny.
The Queen beckoned, and Ohraygan found herself clutching it in her arms, wrapped in all the colours of the rainbow. The Pot of Gold.

Wild times

2009-09-15T12:33:00.000-07:00

Causing chaos

I’ve worked hard at school for most of my life:
done all my work, avoided the strife.
But now it’s too much, I just can’t take any more
of the slog and the grind and of being so bored.

So I’ve given out sweets to all of the class:
enormous gobstoppers: they can’t even laugh.
There’s glue on the seats and bugs on the desks:
the mayhem I’m causing has everyone stressed.

Soon there’ll be music: the unpleasant kind
as the Head will be shouting, “She’s out of her mind!”
It’s too late: I really don’t care what they say -
‘cos no-one can sack me; I’m 60 today!

A wild one

When young, I was a good girl
who never broke the rules.
I always did my homework
Was never late for school.

But when I went to uni
I learnt to be a rebel
Eschewed both job and pension:
Never learnt to settle.

So now I live a wild life
Adventure is the Game:
I don’t regret a single thing –
Who’d want a life that’s tame?

So now I live a wild life
I know no other way
So come on now and join me –
Take a chance today.

So now I live a wild life
of carefree times and fun.
I don’t regret the choice I made
Or all the things I’ve done.

So now I live a wild life
I know no other way
Not for me the staid and dull -
It’s adventure every day.

Monkeying around

I’m fed up with sitting here all on my own:
Expected to leap up and put on a show.
Oh, I long to escape, I so long to be free
Of the drudge and the grind and the serving of tea.

So I’m making a break, gonna get out of here
No longer will I be a victim of fear.
I’ll scatter the tea cups, throw cake and toss buns,
I’ll leap over any dumb keeper who comes.

But as I get out of my uncomfortable cage
I see that the visitors have started to rage.
They’re heading my way and they’re after me, too –
Perhaps I might stay here: it’s safe in the zoo.

In Quietness is Strength

2009-08-18T14:54:00.001-07:00

The silence of an empty heart.
The silence of an unkind word.
The silence of a lonely friend.
The silence of a broken world.

The whisper of a gentle touch.
The whisper of a caring smile.
The whisper of a mother’s love.
The whisper of the extra mile.

The murmur of encouragement.
The murmur of approval.
The murmur of a truth once known.
The murmur of a love for all.

The shout of joyful songs of praise.
The shout of battles won.
The shout of blissful happiness.
The shout of struggles overcome.

The silence of pure calm and rest.
The silence in a heart at ease.
The silence between two loving minds
The silence from a sense of peace.

Compassion

2009-08-10T23:53:00.001-07:00

You are not empty.
You are full of tears.
These are the water of life
To those who need it.
Rejoice that
You are full of tears.

His best jump ever

2009-08-03T01:50:00.000-07:00

"Hey Dwayne, surprised to see you here." Joe shrugged off his leather jacket, dropping it next to his friend's. Dwayne's was singed, the heavy gloves charred at the edges.

"Yeah, well, no problem," Dwayne replied. "I'm the best at ring of fire. Didn't know you were so good, though."

"You didn't? I was never a bad boy like you. I was the best, man. That's how I got here. Still don't know how YOU made it."

Dwayne looked back at the pearly gates. "Easy. Me and Old Betsy just soared right over them darn flames down there, straight into heaven."

No trouble

"I'll clear that, no trouble," boasted Sam.

Joe looked doubtfully at the hedge, then at Sam's bike. It had seen better days: someone had let down the tyres and removed the brake pads while they were in the pub. A quick trip to the garage, then Sam was set to go.

"All right then." Sam kicked off, pedalling at top speed down the bare slope. Just as he reached the bottom, he pulled back on the handlebars, sending the bike flying into the air.

It landed successfully on the other side. On Sam's arm.

A clean break, no trouble.

Good companions

2009-08-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

Smile on a train

Stranger sitting opposite to me,
you did not know how deeply I despaired.

Maybe you guessed something was wrong
from the solitary way I kept my eyes upon my feet.

Could you have known the sodden sadness of my heart
from drooping shoulders?

Or was it that deeply hidden sob
erupting , unwanted, at a vicious memory?

Self-absorbed in misery I did not realise
my life lay open, a tabloid for all to read.

Yet you were not content with prurient curiosity,
instead you gave a gift of warmth.

Your smile lit up your face. Mine, responding,
Warmed me too.

From somewhere deep inside, small flickers of hope
crawled up my belly.

Self-belief and trust, long lost and forgotten,
crept out from hiding places.

Desolation gave up its grip
as I found my smile again.

Your unknown hearer

I can’t say that we ever met: and yet I remain in your debt.
I think you would have been amused, to think that your words lit a fuse
in me so many years ago. I wonder if you’ll ever know
the change resulting from that day when you had come to have your say.

It was a usual day at school when we were taken to the hall.
You stood alone upon the stage looking at us girls, encaged
in expectations, thoughts, desires. Your words, designed to light up fires
fell flat upon our sullen ears. Who cared to hear about your years
in Africa? Dark continent indeed. Slow of pace, when we craved speed.
Excitement, glamour filled our minds: I did not then expect to find
interest in teaching far from home, a wish to venture out alone.

Yet as I looked upon your slides a little voice echoed inside:
‘That all looks like tremendous fun!’ So with those words, your job was done.
I qualified, went off to teach just minutes from a Kenyan beach.
Two years of volunteering, then I met a man there, married him
and lived another twenty years with monkeys, lions, exotic birds.
And so it was you changed my life: as happy teacher, mother, wife,
I thank that day we did not meet: and yet you made my life complete.

Two are better than one

2009-04-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

“Jontan, I loves you,” said the small girl, busily arranging lego pieces into a tank trap at the bedroom door.
“Cattin, I loves you too,” replied the small boy as he stirred up a paste of mud and water in the washbasin.
“Us don’ mind if we’re naughty, do we?”

And so it began.

Rearranging the kitchen, putting groceries to the back of the saucepan cupboard, bread in the rubbish bin, hiding milk under the table.
Putting salt in the sugar bowl.
Daubing naked bodies with mud and paint, then dancing in the garden as neighbours arrived home from work.
Draping furniture with sheets and blankets to make a refugee camp: removing all light bulbs in the room to make it authentic. Leaving it for their father to stumble into when he arrived home from the pub.
Walking along the top of the neighbour’s wall, trying to see through bathroom and bedroom windows. Choosing their time carefully.
Climbing through hedges, blacked up commando-style, after dark, to retrieve errant footballs.
Hiding in trees, then suddenly dangling upside down to swing above the head of an unsuspecting passer-by.
Pretending, until Jonathan’s voice broke, to be the other twin speaking on the phone. Agreeing to requests on the twin’s behalf.

Enjoying the ensuing chaos.

There was nothing I could do about it all. Two are better than one – and boy, did they get the better of me.

I never had any more children.

Twin Terror

2009-04-03T12:59:00.000-07:00

The Heavenly Twins or the Adorable Angels? Angels was the best name for them. Fallen ones.

How could innocent children be so wicked? Theirs was a world of total security - nothing could shake it. Whatever they chose to do together, they accomplished. They were fearless of the outcome, even when everything went wrong.

Like the time they got stuck in the hedge.

It was, to be fair, quite tall - Cypress leylandii, thick and lush. A determined child could climb up inside it, popping out like a cork from a bottle at the top. Once there, they used it like a living trampoline. So far, so good. Until one of them hit a thin spot, plummeting to the ground with bits of twigs sticking out of limbs and body.
The other was stuck on top. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t get back down again – not even down the hole left by his twin.
One ladder, two adults and several remonstrances later, both twins were back on the ground. Covered in bright red rashes, an allergic reaction to the leaves.

They boasted about it for weeks.

Innocent devilment progressed to calculated wickedness. By the time they arrived at secondary school they were a force to be reckoned with. The sister ran a protection racket, supported by her brother. He did the same for her. Even the teachers became wary.

After becoming Head Boy and Girl, they headed for university and careers in banking.

I brought them up well.

Chausiku says: Well-written and hilarious,Mpira!
Wordmate says: Really funny. Loved the punchline
nicolacleasby says: This was well written and I think the banks and the twins deserve each other.
susanjones says: Very funny, and appropriate for the times we are living in. Liked it very much.

One is more than enough

2009-04-03T12:58:00.000-07:00

The room was quiet now, save for the murmuring of the visitors standing under the trees outside, the panting breath of the woman on the bed and the squalling of the child.
“A beautiful baby girl,” the midwife pronounced. Her brown face, shiny with effort, beamed at the young mother.
“Ah, wonderful,” came the tired reply. “Just what I wanted.” Smiles echoed around the hospital delivery room. The air was still and warm, hung with the heavy scent of frangipani wafting in through the open window.
“Just a minute.” The atmosphere changed with the alarm in the voice. “I think there’s another one.”
“ANOTHER?”
“Yes, there seems to be another baby here.”
“You said I had a girl. That’s fine. That’s what I wanted. Stop right there.”
“Sorry, mama, but there IS another baby coming. You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Another beautiful baby girl.”
The mother turned her head, weeping. This was not how it should be. The midwife sighed. “Be thankful, mother, that you are of the right tribe. Twins are a blessing for you, not a bad omen. Be thankful that you do not belong to a people where, fifty years ago, you would have had to leave one child out for the hyenas, or your family would have been cursed. Be thankful that your girls are healthy: you are doubly blessed.”
Yes, thought the young woman, tired beyond thinking. I must be thankful. I suppose I AM blessed. But will they be?

Medlycott says: I liked that, a lot. A nice, different angle. Very good. David
Chausiku says: Mpira, this is an excellent piece. On reading the brief, my mind was blank as to what I could possibly come up with that would be interesting, but you have succeeded. As with much of your writing, rafiki, you bring me right back to my childhood days in East Africa!
tesslin says: Well done for being the first, I have looked at this since the competiton was set and have thought of nothing. This is a good and interesting piece, the only thing I am not sure about is the : after healthy.
jer364 says: Athought provoking piece that set the standard. It was a tricky brief but this was beautifully handled.
j2write says: I can't really add to the other comments - they have captured what I would have written. A well worked piece. The thought of the hyena - made me cringe. Well done.

Literary journeys

2009-03-06T23:52:00.000-08:00

Scilly

How can I write about Scilly? This is Sam Llewellyn’s world, a world of sea and ships, of longings and laughter, of boats and beginnings. For everyone who comes here is beguiled into dreams of starting a new life.

Arrive on Tresco, the second largest island: it has an area, almost, of a massive 3 square km. Sam’s childhood home. Home to the sub-tropical Tresco Abbey Gardens, inspiration for Sam’s ‘The Sea Garden’. It is also the setting for his book ‘Hell Bay’, although the book begins in Hell Bay on Bryher, the poor cousin lying a few hundred yards across the channel. Walk across at low tide on a calm day. Even then, Hell Bay’s waters will be boiling furiously on the jagged rocks which surround it.

Read just one of Sam’s books and you are drawn into a nautical world where weather directs lives. Is his best book ‘The Shadow in the Sands’, his ‘sequel’ to Erskine Childers’ classic ‘The Riddle of the Sands’? I don’t know. You need to read all his novels before you dare make that decision. ‘Swallows and Amazons’ for adults.

Scilly is also the home for Michael Morpurgo’s ‘Why the Whales Came’ and ‘The Wreck of the Zanzibar’. Weep for the characters struggling to stay alive during the storms which lash the islands in winter. In the nineteenth century, life in Scilly was a hand to mouth existence; hardship the usual bedfellow.

Now, the islands throng with the tourists which provide the vast part of the islanders’ income. The air is clear and mild; in spring, daffodils bloom earlier than anywhere else. Strolling around the islands – there are virtually no cars – evidence of other industries can be seen. Fishing, shipbuilding, flower farming…

The islands are unique; the ambience is almost tangible. Dive into Llewellyn and Morpurgo’s books: you are almost there.

The Rock
I arrive from the sea. As the ferry eases down the Little Russell between Guernsey and Herm, the town of St Peter Port opens up to view. It has changed little since Victor Hugo landed here 150 years ago: despite some modern additions, pastel coloured buildings still jostle together in narrow cobbled streets. Boats fill the harbour; the fish market sells fish; Castle Cornet stands sentinel.

A short climb up a quiet street devoid of traffic leads to Hauteville House, Victor Hugo’s sanctuary for 15 years. A monument to his art, its walls and ceilings are covered with carpets; furniture of dark, intricately carved wood is integral with the building. One ceiling is lined with ceramics; another room with tiles. The darkroom is hidden in a cupboard. The winter garden is a conservatory with inspirational views of the islands. A glass eyrie at the top is where this literary giant wrote, standing at a writing desk.

Fiercely opposed to Napoleon, Victor Hugo sought refuge in Guernsey after he had to flee France. The island inspired him: its harsh, rugged cliffs combined with its gentle inland scenery, the hidden coves, a profusion of plant life growing abundantly in a mild climate. It was here that he wrote several of his most famous works: notably ‘Les Miserables’ and the work he devoted to the people of Guernsey, ‘The Toilers of the Sea’: “I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality, to this corner of old Norman land where resides the noble little people of the sea, to the Island of Guernsey, severe and yet gentle…”.

Walking the streets, discovering the beaches mirrored in his paintings, surrounded by descendants of those he knew, it is easy to follow in the footsteps of this great man. He seems to be here still.

From Out of Africa
“I had a farm in Africa…” Karen Blixen’s house still stands, gazing out towards the grey green Ngong Hills. Even in her day there were cars, as now, yet I walk with Kenyans who have no other means. I trudge through the suburb, once a coffee plantation, now lined with gracious mansions and high-walled gardens. Then there were red-earth dusty tracks, no gates, no barriers; now, tarmac, steel gates, electric fences.

The house reeks with memories: of a simpler lifestyle horribly complicated by relationships, by disease, by death. How did she live with the recollection of a husband who deliberately infected her with syphilis; a lover who betrayed with other women and, ultimately, with death? I wander from room to empty room, footsteps echoing hollowly on the bare wooden floors. Sadness and melancholy, unhappiness and gloom amidst the vibrancy of Africa.

I have accompanied Karen on many of her journeys. Just as she flew over the dusty landscape with Denys Finch-Hatton, so have I; just as she struggled into the centre of Nairobi in an unreliable car, so have I; just as she walked among the coffee bushes, picking the ripe berries, so have I. Just as she bore the life of Africa in her body, so do I. Her memories were so vivid that she recreated her fascination from distant Denmark. Seas, continents and loneliness could not rob her of her love.

The memories are bitter-sweet, yet the joy, the abundant life, the anticipation and the hope that is Africa journeys on.

Going past Giants
My travels did not take me very far. Just a short walk to school, a dive back of a hundred years or more. Two hundred yards from home took me to my first remembered pain: the War Memorial, standing proud for fourscore years and ten, now accuses my neglect of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen whose words have seared my soul.

I hurried on; that insignificant Edwardian house I passed now bears a bright blue plaque: I wish it were a happier memory. How brief, how rich in poetry was the life of Rupert Brooke. Another sensitive, senseless victim of a horrid war. Did he, I wonder, realise how futile his death was? We were robbed of much delight. My treasured volume of his collected poems endured moves between continents.

Then, turning a corner, I passed by The Close. The hallowed grass of Rugby School trodden upon by many authors, not least Thomas Hughes of Tom Brown’s Schooldays fame. Matthew Arnold, whose poems I have always loved; Arthur Ransome, whose nephew was a great friend of my father’s:I treasure his books still; Salman Rushdie; D Watkins-Pitchford – ‘BB’- who enchanted me with stories of the miniature Little Grey Men and their adventures on the tiny stream I fished for minnows; Anthony Horowitz, teacher’s friend – who else excites young boys as much as Alex Rider Secret Agent?

Rushdie I did not know; Horowitz was my age; yet the others were as much a part of my growing up in Rugby as my own family. As I grew older, the walk to school became a walk to the hospital; a dog walk; a short cut to town: yet, whatever my purpose or my destination, the words still whispered to me from the buildings I passed. I remember them still.

Death:no cure for selfishness

2009-02-09T04:32:00.000-08:00

He claimed he had not known. Could not admit
He’d chosen to ignore the good advice given by a holy God.
Now he lies in torment, longing for relief.
“Send Lazarus to help me,” cries this once wealthy man, now poor, held fast
In Satan’s clutches.
“I am indeed a most important man and Lazarus is but a lazy beggar.
Let him bestir himself from heaven’s porch
to venture down below a little while to quench my thirst in this accursed heat.”
Lazarus the Good is willing, but God smiles in sorrow. Were it but so easy.
It is impossible. Death's boundaries are set.
He had his chance whilst yet he lived in luxury, uncaring of the poor.
Now, too late.

Insane revenge

2009-02-08T06:56:00.000-08:00

‘Twas last year I lost my lover, she who left me for another.
Tho at first I dwelt in sorrow, baring all my soul to borrow
Strength from friends and family, still none came to rescue me.
Sleepless nights became my friends, hours and hours without end
Accompanied by fevered plans of revenge taken by my hands
Until at last the ideal plot occurred to me: my soul grew hot.

How I rejoiced in jubilation at my perfect calculation.
How all would see and all would wonder at revenge taken on the Other.
No comeback would he ever dare for none could ever reach me there.
That place of refuge, sanctuary would surely enough protection be.
Without delay I carried out my scheme without a care or doubt.
Straightway with her I was united; troth for eternity was plighted.
But still my plans had gone all wrong: for Death had had her all along.

Angels and Demons

2009-02-08T06:55:00.001-08:00

The sky darkened. With a roar
of earth-deafening proportions,
an incandescent sphere
exploded, scattering limbs, claws and teeth in all directions.
Lights flickered, lapsed
Into darkness.
Then silence.
A luminous shape stirred at the point of impact.
Nearby, dull black body parts picked themselves up and reformed.
Grotesque shapes advanced, menacing, towards the glowing figure.
Fingers reached out, lips snarled, teeth were bared.
The angel was surrounded.

Grave matters

2009-02-08T06:54:00.000-08:00

Solitary in the graveyard
stands the building, a chapel
of unease amid the peace and silence.
With captive menace, a door ajar invites me in.
An empty space of dark and cold
holds fears and dread.
Inside the darkness
fears take solid form.
Unyielding, they seize my heart
in relentless grip.
The black possesses me.
I am buried alive.

Haunted

2009-02-08T06:53:00.000-08:00

Pebbles left outside my door. Twigs crossed on tracks.
Dead birds. Skeletons of fish.
Silent curses shriek in ragged tatters
As wind howls around the house.

I did not mean to kill him. It was not at all my fault.
Why then does he haunt me in such relentless fashion?
In solitary misery I walk the dog along the beach.
Sand squeaks beside me: no one there.

Yet as I step along a muddied shore I see
My footprints are not alone.
The marks left from my own two feet are sunk below a heavier tread.
I try to run.

Here are the adjudicator’s comments:

HAUNTED SUCCESS FOR MPIRA IN PITS & CRYPTS
As is becoming usual, we had another huge entry for our monthly Arena competition with over 60 entries posted to the site. Plenty of hair curling entries, but the eventual winner was the subtle spinetingler, Haunted by mpira.

Adjudicator's Report - Magdalena Ball

Certainly these are haunting poems. Set in their chilling, death ridden, crypts and underworld, they cast a cold fear through the reader in a way that is appropriate for a “Pits & Crypts” contest.

Many of the poems here do take their cue from Poe’s work, and that’s fine: Poe is a wonderful source of inspiration. But Poe was also a strong critic of the cliché and the obvious, famously stating that that meaning in literature should be an undercurrent just beneath the surface.

Works with obvious meanings, he wrote, cease to be art. So too, do works where rhyme, even clever rhyme, becomes an end in itself, overwhelming the meaning of the work. The rhyme and rhythm needs to support and drive the overall purpose of the poem and not the other way around.

Many of the poems were too overt, with the horror explicit, or where both meaning and originality were sacrificed in order to get the rhyme. Instead of focusing on the singsong line ending, the poetry would have done better to focus on strong imagery, original metaphor, and the intensity of the emotion and the meaningful twist of the denouement.

Where subtlety, horror, and skill combined however, the poems became universal, tapping into the deepest fears of the human psyche and creating a breath-holding moment. Unfortunately that was rare, which isn’t surprising, as creating good horror in verse is no easy task.

One poem that succeeded wonderfully in doing this was mpira’s “Haunted”, which featured an internal haunting: the pain of a guilty conscience. Imagery here was strong, as the reader follows footsteps along the beach past dead birds and fish skeletons. The shock of an unrhymed and inexplicit ending works well, and allows the reader the freedom of imagining a conclusion far scarier than any spelled out one could be.

An inconsequential curse

2009-02-08T06:52:00.000-08:00

“Curse you!” From nowhere came the screech of crazy woman on the beach.
The staring eyes, the ugly face of one who thought we’d stole her space.
Wide-eyed, my child spoke not a word as overhead a scream of birds
Added to the evil wish: on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We hurried off; all fun had gone. Deserted sand now left alone
We scurried homewards hand in hand, wishing not our ground to stand
For right to play as we would wish; for on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We’d left the shore to cross the road when suddenly a stock car towed
From a racetrack near at hand veered off the street towards the strand.
My child was there. I tried to snatch his hand - too late. I could not catch
His life to keep it safe and sound. Yet still I hear his voice around.

Tears: the water of life

2009-02-08T06:13:00.000-08:00

You are not empty.
You are full of tears.
These are the water of life
To those who need it.
Rejoice that
You are full of tears.

The dreamer

2008-12-29T03:34:00.001-08:00

Joseph
like your namesake in Egypt,
more Egyptian than Hebrew,
yet of your blood,
did you always dream?

Joseph
as a small boy
learning your carpentry trade
at your father's side
did you dream then?

Did you dream of creating

something beautiful from wood

with hands that had learned to be clever:

a bowl, a table, a simple bed

a dream of creation?

Did you dream of crafting

sturdy doors so strong

they would withstand

an onslaught from Roman soldiers
a dream of protection?

Did you dream of hearing
God's voice, that inner knowing
of being told where to go
and what to do:
dreams of directions?

Did you in your wildest dreams then ever think
that God would indeed speak to your soul in your dreams?
Dreams of creation of a tiny baby
Dreams of protection of a mother and child
Dreams of direction for your lives?

Joseph, you were a wonderful dreamer

Christmas past

2008-12-23T13:55:00.000-08:00

1982 Patersons in Kenya: German traditions on Christmas Eve, sharing presents, fun and laughter in the kitchen with Anna.
1983 Ivory Coast, with my brother Matthew
1984 With Richard's sister Sarah at Naro Moru
1985 And again at Naro Moru, in a rainstorm, camping in a tent in the garden. Not great.
1986 With Stan and Tami, Byron and Lisa, sharing secret Santa presents and the Christmas story.
1987 In Nyeri: Christmas Eve at Jim and Janet Dillards, Christmas Day at Ann and Clyde Berkeleys' house. Jim and Danyce Gustafson came to stay too.
1988 In Nyeri again: Christmas Eve at Jim and Janet Dillards, Christmas Day at Debbie and Rusty Pughs.
1989 Nyeri again, with all our friends.
1990 Nyeri again.
1991 In Loita Hills at Byron and Lisa's, with Peter and Tammy Russell and Lisa's parents
1992 In Nairobi with Joe and Evelyn Rinella, and their daughter Adrienne
1993 In Nairobi with Chris and Dan Henrich and their children Caren, Sam, Mike and Andrew
1994 In Nairobi with Robyn and David Watkins, Elissa, Michael and Christopher
1995 In Nairobi with Martin and Amanda Geake and family
1996 In Nairobi with Peter and Tammy, Skyler and Chase Russell
1997 In Nairobi by ourselves
1998 In Nairobi with Ken and Jane Wathome
1999 In Nairobi with Max and Hanna Collison, Tim, Katrin and John, and Dr Maurice
2000 In Rugby with Angie's parents, brother Matthew and sister Isabel
2001 In Rugby with Angie's parents, brother Matthew and sister Isabel again
2002 In Rugby again
2003 In Guernsey, by ourselves at Valerie Fox's rented barn cottage.
2004 In Guernsey, at Renee's, with her grandson Duncan and son Glen, Martin and Sarah Thornton
2005 In Guernsey, with Renee at Bryan and Tricia Pill's house
2006 In Guernsey, at our house with Renee, the Pills, and Martin, Sarah and Matt Thornton
2007 In Guernsey, at our house with Ian and Jane, Tom, Josh and Lyddy Langlois
2008 In Guernsey, at Ian and Jane Langlois' house.

On the hillside

2008-12-02T11:16:00.001-08:00

Shepherds huddle with their flocks of sheep upon the hills,
The air is cold, the night is dark; this is not the time for thrills.
This is no time for gluttony, for feasting till they burst
This is a time of longing, of craving and of thirst.

Long have these folk awaited a saviour for them all
‘Tis in the long night watches that they listen for the call
To hear the news they yearn for, a sounding of the trumpet horn
Instead an angel tells them that a baby boy is born.

This is no kingly coming, with noise and pomp and power
Whose arrival is announced from every mountainside and tower.
A king who would deliver them from their occupiers’ hands:
Instead it is a baby before whom they cannot stand.

For into tiny Bethlehem those shepherds hurried then
To see that little babe who is the Rescuer of Men.
As they kneel before that manger wherein the Christ child lies
A wondering world can see Him through those humble shepherds’ eyes.

It's Christmas

2008-12-02T11:15:00.000-08:00

Tinsel and glitter, razzle and sparkle
Lighting our lives in the midst of the dark.
Silver and gold of the fairies and angels
Moonlight that glints on the snow in the park.

Cinnamon and cloves with the smell of spiced fruit
Warming our bodies with promised delights
Mulled wine and mince pies, nutmeg and ginger
Sing to our souls of the coming of Light.

Mysterious parcels in brightly wrapped paper
Colourful cards come from near and from far.
Stockings hung next to a cosy warm fireplace
Eager eyes hoping to glimpse that bright Star.

It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, we’re impatient with waiting
It’s hope, love and joy all mixed up in one.
We love all the feasting, the giving, celebrating,
Enjoying this time when we have so much fun!

Christmas Wishes

2008-12-02T11:14:00.000-08:00

We wish for all kinds of things at Christmas: these wishes are somewhat different…

I wish I’d been a friend to her, that humble teenage mother
We’d share our laughter and our joy, our fears with one another.
I would have given all I owned to help her make that journey
As she obeyed the word of God , which fulfilled all her yearnings.

I wish I’d been a shepherd boy upon those hills so cold
I’d huddle close up to my sheep and guard them in the fold.
I wouldn’t be so terrified if angels then appeared
I’d laugh and shout and dance with joy: I wouldn’t think it weird.

I wish I’d been a learned man who lived in foreign lands
Who used his brain to study stars, not fight in mighty bands.
I’d pack my bags, gather my friends and make that journey far.
I’d keep my gaze through all those days upon that travelling star.

I wish I’d lived in Bethlehem just near that lowly stable.
I would have rushed on over there as fast as I was able.
I know I would have marvelled at the wonder I would find
The tiny babe a mighty King: the Saviour of mankind.

New Life at Christmas

2008-12-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

The nights are dark, the days are dim,
The hearts grow ever weary
And so we turn to gaze at Him
Who holds us all so dearly.

How could this tiny baby boy
Have come to mean so much?
It was not just His mother’s joy
It is His gentle touch.

He came to set us all quite free
From guilt and shame and harm
If our blind eyes could only see
The love and peace and calm.

This is my prayer at Christmas tide
For all of us on earth
That we kneel at that manger’s side
And know that wondrous mirth.

Psalm 23: a paraphrase

2008-03-24T02:30:00.000-07:00

I will have just what I need
'Cos the Lord is taking care of me.
When I'm tired He lets me rest
When I'm thirsty I'll be refreshed.
He helps me know just what is right
Since His names mean Mercy, Truth and Light.
When life turns out to be quite hard
And Satan comes with His calling card
I won't be afraid that I'll go wrong
For You, O lord, are with me all along.
You'll give me a push when I don't know
Or can't decide the way to go.
When I've been wronged, you'll put it right
In front of everyone in sight
You'll show them that I'm an okay gal
You give me riches 'cos I'm your pal
There won't be anything else I need
As long as there's room in your house for me.

A cautionary tale: Don't Mess With Your Mother

2008-03-21T01:57:00.000-07:00

There was a boy whose name was Chris
I'd like you to remember this:
That from the very earliest age
He used to fly into a rage
When his poor mother combed his hair
He used to shout: "You'll make it bare!"
His mother laughed, and said: "I won't -
Just look at how much hair you've got.
It's thick and bushy through and through.
The wind has tangled it, so you
Must keep it tidy, as you know
Because Mr Morris likes it so."
(Mr Morris was Chris's teacher
Who knew that hair is a boy's best feature
And should be washed and combed at least
Lest a boy be taken for a beast.
And as you are quite well aware
A chap must take good care of hair.)
So Chris's mother pulled and tugged.
Chris wept and screamed, yet still she lugged
The comb right through his luscious curls
As beautiful as any girl's.
Chris had enough: and with a shout
He grabbed the comb and tore it out
His mother's hand, but with it came
A chunk of his amazing mane.
She snatched it back, but with a yank
He grabbed again: this time a hank
of long black hair stuck to the comb
And war began in Chris's home.
So tit for tat they grabbed and pulled
until at last there came a lull
in the hostilities: peace reigned.
Chris and his mother stared, amazed
At Chris' head. There was no hair
To be seen still growing there.
They were both indeed appalled
To see that he was almost bald.
So let this be a careful warning:
Don't fight your mother in the morning!

Exam fever

2008-03-01T11:50:00.001-08:00

Impossibility

Read the question
Do the question
Turn the paper over.
Read that question
Check that question
Check your answer over.

The question says…
‘It takes 2 men to dig a hole 4 feet deep.’
I don’t read any more.
2 men.
Why 2 men? Why not 1 man on his own? Or a gang of labourers? And why does it have to be men anyway?
Maybe it’s boys.
Digging a pond or looking
For buried treasure
Or
Just for fun.
In which case it certainly wouldn’t be 2 of them.
There’d be at least 4, because that’s how boys hang around together.
In groups.
Big ones.
I’m a girl. Most girls wouldn’t dig a hole.
Not one four feet deep anyway.
We might dig a small hole, and turn it into an ornamental lake, with miniature trees and houses around it made out of twigs and moss and flowers and pretty little pebbles. And then make up stories about it, with handsome princes and pretty princesses begging to be rescued.
So I just don’t understand why two men would dig a hole four feet deep. What would be the point?
Sir, I can’t do this question.

Exam fever

Oh no! It’s that time of the year again
I’d much rather stay here in bed.
My stomach’s all wobbly, my eyes are in pain
And my arms feel as heavy as lead.

My stomach’s all wobbly, my eyes are in pain
And my arms feel as heavy as lead.
My throat is on fire, my tongue tastes like a drain
There’s a sledgehammer pounding my head.

My throat is on fire, my tongue tastes like a drain
There’s a sledgehammer pounding my head.
Who is it who’s stuffed cotton wool in my brain?
Is this what it’s like to be dead?

Who is it who’s stuffed cotton wool in my brain?
Is this what it’s like to be dead?
Oh no! It’s that time of the year again
I think I’ll just stay here in bed.

Exam fever

Oh no! It’s that time of the year again
I’d much rather stay here in bed.
My stomach’s all wobbly, my eyes are in pain
And my arms feel as heavy as lead.

My throat is on fire, my tongue tastes like a drain
There’s a sledgehammer pounding my head.
Who is it who’s stuffed cotton wool in my brain?
Is this what it’s like to be dead?

The thought of the sitting, the standing, the waiting -
The walking around in the gloom,
The watching, the listening, the prospect of marking
Just fills me with feelings of doom.

The pens and the pencils, the numerous papers
Piled high on my desk with a scowl
The squinting, the marking of young expectations
Are turning me into an owl.

Which means I’m not sleeping, and hardly am eating
There just seems no end to the task
Of checking, correcting, trying to be understanding
With no other adult to ask.

For being an examiner is lonely, destroying
It’s only me and the papers and all
My desperate existence is just filled with marking
With backbreaking, eye watering toil.

The thought of all this has now filled me with pain
And my eyes are already quite red
Oh no! It’s that time of the year again
I think I’ll just stay here in bed.

Staff room rant

2008-03-01T11:45:00.000-08:00

Rescue Remedy?

Musings in the staffroom. A pantoum, for Nicola.

This day has been dreadfully long
My head hurts, I'm tired as can be
There are so many things going wrong
I wonder, can YOU rescue me?

My head hurts, I'm tired as can be
I've had such a horrible week
I wonder, can you rescue me?
Dear choc'lates, let me take a peek!

I've had such a horrible week
There's only one thing that will work
Dear choc'lates, let me take a peek
I promise you that I won't smirk

There's only one thing that will work
It's choc'late and truffles and fudge
I promise you that I will smirk
If I spot any candy or nuts.

It's choc'late and truffles and fudge
Vanilla and ginger and mint
If I spot any candy or nuts
I'll scoff them as fast as you blink.

Vanilla and ginger and mint
The answer to so many ills
I'll scoff them as fast as you blink
Instead of those potions and pills.

The answer to so many ills
'Cos this day has been dreadfully long
Instead of those potions and pills
It’s chocolate stops things going wrong.

Staff meeting

2008-03-01T11:44:00.000-08:00

Meetings that go on, on and on
Are dreadfully boring you know.
It’s amazing how awfully long
They can go on and cause endless woe.

I’m so bored as I sit here and fret
I’d so like to up sticks and go
Please, isn’t it time to go yet?
Won’t someone say, so I may know?

The sun’s shining down on the grass
The flowers smell exquisitely sweet.
Oh how slowly the time’s going past
I’m dying for something to eat.

I could rush out and jump on my bike
And whizz down the hill fast and quick
I could put on my shoes for a hike
And find an ice lolly to lick.

I could go out for a coffee with friends
I could go for a swim at the beach
I’ve got quite a few letters to send
I’d really just much rather teach.

I could even get on with my marking;
Assessment for learning and stuff
Put energy into preparing:
My lessons should not be too tough.

Cause I’m really just thrilled to be teaching
I get such a buzz from class
There’s nothing to beat that great feeling
You get from the questions they ask…

The pleasure you have when they ‘get it’
The laughter, the jokes and the fun
Seeing them smart in P.E. kit
When all of the written work’s done.

So am I just wasting my life
In a meeting that won’t ever end?
I’m all for good constructive work
Not have to go right round the bend!

School poems

2008-03-01T11:42:00.000-08:00

Staff room poetry

Longings
Sit down in hope
Avoid the grope
For the sweets and chocolate which lurk in hidden corners of my handbag.

Something Wrong
The cups are on the bookshelf
The coffee’s in the sink
The milk is in the oven
There’s something wrong, I think.

The spoons are in the rubbish bin
The sugar’s on the floor
I really feel there’s something wrong
Oh, who can tell me more?

It’s appearing pretty simple
It’s obviously quite plain
The solution’s just so obvious
I’ve lost my marbles once again.

Dreams
My thoughts are in the marketplace
My attention in the fields
My dreams have hit the ceiling
My spirit sorely yields.

Wandering
I left the room
Fully intending
To go outside
But
Forgot my mission
And
Ended up
Wandering the corridors in silence.

Time to go home
Isn’t it time to go home yet?
Isn’t it time to be off?
Isn't it time to go out in the wet
And pick up a cold and a cough?

Isn’t it time to finish?
Isn’t it time to end?
Isn’t it time to pick up my bag
And leave to go off round the bend?

Isn’t it time to be sensible?
Isn’t it time to be calm?
Isn’t it time to completely cool down
Before I can do any harm?

Isn’t it time to just stop, now?
Isn’t it time to leave?
Isn’t it time to chuck it all in
And give this malarkey a heave?