Saturday afternoon

 Sitting in the silent classroom

I am not alone.

Each empty desk speaks

of the child it harbours

on normal days.

Today, I am accompanied

by a myriad of scribbled thoughts, ideas, feelings;

each story shouts its author’s personality.

I read. I smile. I frown.

I scribble my thoughts.

This Saturday afternoon

I give each child my undivided attention, as if

they are the only one in front of me.

Ah, teaching.

#notyourusualMondaytoFridayjob

 

 

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Occupation, Liberation

Seventy-five years ago we lived

in fear. Menfolk absent or obeisant:
we women uncertain, scared
yet brave.
What courage it took to live a daily life
cheerfully for children.
Liberation brought
the freedom
to live our lives unfettered
once again.
Be thankful.

Such jubilation – free at last
from German domination.
For five long years our every move
under scrutiny, our lives stolen.
Yet liberation did not come to all.
We grieved
for those still imprisoned in a foreign land.
Even more
For those lives
snatched early.

Freedom lifts our spirits.
Memories of loss
remain.
Our present
still haunted by our past.
Never forget those sacrifices.

Advent

In the long waiting
Time seems to stretch around us.
Seemingly no end.

Joy lasts forever
but waiting drags dirty feet
Beyond the present.

Guernsey. 1945.

Cold morning dawned over the mirrored sea. There had been no end

to gazing out at blackness, no moon to light the coming

of invaders, no warmth of light to break away the chill.

Eyes searched, bored, from our concrete fortresses.

Secure the islands, we were told. Churchill wants them back,

so buttress, shore up all defences, reinforce the

reinforcement, coerce this once-gentle shoreline to

brace against all comers.  Be ready.

They never came. Instead we, night after week after month,

yearned for our homeland, for beer and sausage; the smiles

of frauleins. Five long years we occupied those ‘dear’ islands,

rocky outcrops adrift mid-Channel.

Morning dawned over the mirrored sea. Soon

our occupation would be over. Starved of all

we needed, liberation would be welcome. Even

for us:  Germans.

Stitches in time

The door yielded gently, catching on the ruffled rug. Memories flew up, dust

dancing in a beam of sun streak.  A patchworked quilt of recollections lay

crumpled on the bed, hues faded. Soft curtains barred the light, muffling thought:

the air, cloaked in kindness, hung soft.

Worn fingers had woven stories in stitches, darns of in and out

throughout the turnaround of time. Creases in her skin spoke of a weft of adventures

athwart the warp of years. Holes in the heft of life, cobbled together by

the innocence of children, made beautiful in gentleness.

Air breathed, dry papery with age. Needles, thread, scissors

Beckoned on the dresser. Neglected rag bag nestled next to embroidery silks

spilling joyously from their box. An invitation: past to present, skill to artist’s

heart.

Silence smiled, remembering.

School games

I hurtle, unwilling ball hit with the racquet of contempt. Flying helplessly

towards the past, overtaken by small unkindnesses

I am again a seven year old. Outcast by the playground wall, eying up

confidence with curiosity. Perfect pigtails take wing

in rounds of merriment,

jeers and joking, laughter and lies, merry misery of games without fun

and I play alone. Who talks of the ‘innocence of children’?

Such who do suffer false memory, yet I KNOW.  Set up for mockery,

 humiliation of a tender heart;

wishing invisibility, edging slowly towards cold haven classroom,

I am halted by the sound of my name. She tosses dark hair from honest eyes.

“Would you like one?” Cautiously, I accept a lifetime of friendship.

Memories

Unlocking the treasure chest of yesteryear,
Initially, distance creates fondness, the patchwork lying below
indistinct, colours blending happily. Landscape of the mind breathes
with the contentment of time, viewed hazily through a cheerful heart. But then, the Jump
back into the past. Emotions plummet, skydiving towards the mess of memories.

The door yielded gently, catching on the ruffled rug of memory. A
patchworked quilt of recollections lay crumpled on the bed,
hues faded with time. Soft curtains barred the light, muffling thought:
the air, cloaked in kindness, hung soft.

Yet something seemed to stir. Some awful thing lay unmoving,
maleficent, a lacerated fur of innocent creation. Shrieks sparked at dust,
a howling heart left alone among dark conifers. Innocence wept in loss.

“Hush, child of my heart,” came the whisper, “you were not deserted.
Rescue has come: do you not perceive it?” Time had trickled onwards,
tender oil healing mercifully, pouring into wounds and healing scars.

But not enough. That cruel cloak still lurked within the closet, waiting
to be used once more in dreadful daylight. What I longed for
was annihilation of those destructive memories. No awakening. Ever.

False dismay

There are tiny acts of unconscious unkindness
which pierce the sensitive self.
The unwitting exclusions
the snide remarks
the obvious put-downs
all these are noted, absorbed, built into
the corrupt decaying false image
of who I really am.

Such an edifice
can only be taken down
by the Living Water.
The unrelenting love
which may fiercely flood
washing away flimsy defences
or sometimes trickles gently,
eroding the foundations.
as long as I do not build dams or moats to withstand it.

JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW
BECAUSE THE BIBLE TELLS ME SO.

Departure. Again. August 2014. July 2015. December 2015. July 2016

My face aches with tears
shed in sorrow
unshed in bravery, keeping courage up.

My skin is sore with melancholy
tingling with misery
at the very thought of loss of loved ones.

My eyes are gritty with grief
stinging in a wash of tears
bottled up and stored.

My heart.
My heart is rent, pierced, breaking.

Teachers' Christmas carols...

Away in a classroom, no time for a rest,
A teacher, so weary, still tried her hardest.

The head in her office looked down from her perch

to see her poor staff member left in the lurch.

The teacher is crying, the children run riot

but the head does not notice the distinct lack of quiet.

We love thee, dear headteacher, look down from above

and give us some respite for the sake of our love.

Be near us at breaktime and beg us to stay

working hard in the classroom until the end of the day.

Bless all the dear children in our tender care

by giving us a workload which all will deem fair.

Hark! the little angels sing

"Did we hear the break bell ring?

A piece of cake, and some crisps too

Will keep us going all day through."

Joyful, all you children, rise

Join the queue to eat mince pies;

With the teachers all proclaim:

"Break will never be the same."

Hark! the little angels sing

"We're sure we heard the break bell ring."

Our head, by all the school adored

In her lessons, never bored.

Late she comes, to teach us last:

the afternoon is almost past.

Dressed in her best, a sight to see

she lets us see she is Queen Bee.

Hark! the little angels sing

"We want to see her diamond ring."

Hail! Inspector Ofsted comes

to see if we can do our sums.
Work and strife is all he brings
Flying on discouragement's wings.
Stern he lays his laptop by
Stern he frowns up at the sky
Stern he judges all our work:
"It's plain to see that all have shirked."
Hark! the little angels sing
"We're so glad that you're going."

Overwhelmed

When the heart is too full,
drops of inspiration
huddle together dully,
subsumed into a deluge,
drowning imagination..

When the heart is too full,
daily decisions are
so onerous, so weighty,
so joy-dragging downwards,
crushing creativity.

When the heart is too full,
a certain way forwards
eludes my understanding;
thinking straight is clouded,
confusing ingenuity.

When the heart is too full,
I wait impatiently
for the time when clouds will clear,
paths will become apparent,
redeeming inspiration.

Entries for a competition

In praise of Guernsey fishermen 

In winter, when Guernsey looks for snow 

We get instead a hefty blow 

of hail and sleet and endless rain: 

and suffer fiercest storms again. 

The waves are whipped above the towers 

a church clock chimes the worried hours 

as boats are battling in the storm 

the rest of us are snug and warm. 

So spare a thought for all who toil: 

sailors and fishermen so loyal 

who labour many hours at sea 

to bring us fish (with chips) for tea. 

Guernsey summer 

Seashells and sandcastles, sandwiches and sea 

Crisps and cakes and biscuits and ice-cream cones for tea. 

Beach cricket, volleyball and a football or two 

Lots of time to have some fun under the sky so blue.

Bicycling and walking, strolling through the lanes, 

staying out till late at night: summer's come again. 

Concerts in the open air; films and plays and more 

Barbeques aplenty right here on the sea shore. 

Kayaking or surfing, jumping in the sea: 

Guernsey in the summer: that's the best for me! 

Fire 

In the glowing  

dreams which once flew smokily away 

sizzle alive again,  

imprints on unwary hearts. 

Visions writhing, 

calling, siren-like, to reach and grasp 

these burning wishes,  

branding my very being. 

I lose myself 

in red-gold embers deeply beckoning 

abstracted reason. 

A moment seized - then gone. 

I wake. 

Seasoning 

Summer water beckons mint-green cool 

to feverish hot skin. 

Shimmering air gently coaxes ripples of contentment. 

Autumn trees entice the walker in 

kaleidoscope of colour. 

Careering leaves crisply stir up expectations. 

Winter storms rage angry in the wind 

whipping souls in deep sadness 

and the Christ child brings rejoicing. 

Spring newness waiting to burst 

upon an unsuspecting world. 

Seasons rumble, turning without pause into the future. 

Late at night 

I sit alone in the darkness of an empty kitchen; 

a strident moon shouts silver through the glass. 

The dishwasher grumbles efficiently, 

lights winking, other appliances whisper attention 

while the house sleeps. 

But I do not. As I ready my body for bedtime quiet  

my mind starts its sprint to worry. Beginning with a jog 

past landmarks of disquiet, I agitate to reach  

that which is most distressing, running full tilt arms outstretched  

to embrace my deepest fears. 

Sympathy 

When you were small, your mother loved 

to wipe away your tears. 

Now you are grown, your mother left 

for you to mourn the years. 

Yet life and love she gladly gave 

as you continue through; 

And while you mourn, remember this: 

Her life lives on: in you.