This blog is now mothballed

All the content now at http://scribbleanddiversions.blogspot.com/ where new writing and poem posts will now go.

On winter in Abergavenny

The monkey,
big eyed and nervous,
is clutched hard
for comfort,
its fur warming a cold hand
as market shouts fade.

The cold stayed.
I felt it today
in a kiss
that struggled
to comfort when words shrivel
into silent pain.

But the child,
in the photograph,
has some hope
as he pleads
for a gentle wordless love
as the cold seeps in.

when summer leaves

On cold days
I miss the warm touch
of her eyes
on my face
as I struggle to awake
without forgetting

Clay Love

He was buried in a potter’s field
where once I was the lover of his dreams
when silence could be appealed
and faith was strong in his many schemes.

The nights were raw and dirty fun
so I ignored the warnings to run
as hands fired my flesh tender white
and he moulded me to his appetite.

But I awoke
and found my mould
as youth lost its blindfold
to leave you broke.

So stay buried in a potter’s field
and let my love rest healed.

Love Unknown by the Hour

The neon signage flashed its wares
in shadows on wall and chair
as she alone sits on the bed
for him to stand and stare.

With downward glance she slides her hand
to pull at lacy tights
that slither silky sun kissed legs
with a virtue that excites.

Yet each button becomes a lie
to keep his eyes aswim
on juicy fruits he’d taste so soon
from orchards cut for him.

For her husband sits alone at home
uncaring now of games
like kiss and tell he once did play
to make their love as flames.

She’d tell with breathless scant regard
of every harvest scope
so worthless masks became the love
that numbed the pain of hope.

Now unpeeled, she stands and looks at last
to plead in mellow tones
that ripen flesh is left unbruised
and waits for naked groans.

And binding with briars our joys and desires.

If you want to hear a reading of the poem. click here

She was a garden
that avoided straight lines,
her gentle curves,
kissed by dappled light,
shaken from a canopy of silver birch trees, 
embraced  by  honeysuckle,
thimble foxgloves,
and the dark green feathered fern.

I was yellowing grass,
clumped over rusty bowls,
and broken back chairs,
cut by a lost path,
of abandoned  roses.

But the gardens we play in
to learn what are weeds
and what are flowers
must be dug and planted
anew if we are to love.

So our first child
was an ash
not planned
but delivered by the wind
to give shelter to wild grass,
soft as silk sheet love.

The garden offered its gifts,
of bluebell mist at spring,
or a tapestry of autumn leaves,
to tell the world
of tender care and love.

But weeds
from other gardens
came and grew
to stop us planting.
so we failed to notice
that we sat indoors.

But seeds, once sown,
bloom from drops of rain
if the sun can peep through
and warm what is cold.
So one day we’ll dig
and find a place to sit
in gentle breeze
to smell again the rose
and honeysuckle.

Posted on One Shot Wednesday

In the community, shall you find me

if you want to hear a reading, click here

I saw God today
he was a doctor
and the medicine
or was it the nurse
but I know until
everyone is healed
it must be God
as what can I do?

The pain of thirst
and the emptiness
of hunger
needs God
with loaves and fishes
until famine is starved
as what can I do?

The lonely know God
as a bridge
and ship
so I don’t
have to wait
and sail
as what can I do?

But I wasn’t hearing
when they said
love the life
in me
until I pass
from pain
and you’ll know
what to do

Posted on One Shot Wednesday

How happy I was if I could forget

if you want to hear a reading, click here

a drab echo of a room
that greys the laughs of children
as those in quiet thought
pray that aches
are not a prelude to silence

they hold on to
washed out smiles
waiting
waiting
for the laying on of hands

as I walk into autumn gold
of twirling leaves
with no winter fear
for the tomb is left
for others to find empty

Posted on Poetry Pot Luck, ABC Wednesday where I is for Introspection and on One Shot Wednesday

Childhood Memories of Libraries

Up to the age of 11 I lived in an ex mining community of about 600 people 7-8 miles away from Leicester. It was part of the bigger and long established mining area that stretched through Coalville to Derbyshire. Yet I can’t seem to find any history of where the local mine was or when it closed. We did have a mining institute in the main street as I went once a week to see a film before the mass arrival of TV in the early 60′s. The village was famous for its granite quarry which was news to me as was the fact that mining was still common in the area to the 1980′s. Makes you wonder how much of your past is real.

What was real was that my Grandfather ran away with the daily help(a whole other story) when we ran lodging’s for the labourers who built the M1. This was a key factor( building the M1 not my Grandfather running away) in transforming the village into the 7000 strong commuter satellite that it is now. But apart from the first crop of houses built on the meadow opposite the Red Lion I had long moved away as this unfolded over the 70′s and 80′s.

But what about libraries? Well that’s another shattered illusion. My earliest memory is of the mobile library that parked on the Green by the school and church. Given that I was the only member of the family that read,( er books that is…all the men could read at least the football scores) so I have no idea how I had managed to blag a library ticket. I walked the mile to it fortnightly by myself and have memories being 8 or 9 rooting around in the adult section for a decent book on Roman History(I have no idea why but I still remember some of the covers!).

My illusion is that I always understood that this was pioneering service, a first step in bringing libraries to the masses but it wasn’t that simple. Mobile libraries as urban services had been around since 1859 when the Manchester’s Working Men’s Institute ran a horse drawn one. And they remained urban until the 50′s when they were developed for the countryside with Leicestershire at the vanguard of the new wave. Meaning that a rural poor boy like me had fortnightly access to books in a world where my family had no fridge, phone, TV, car, washing machine, indoor loo and clothes were from jumble sales(claiming we are doing our bit for the planet was some 20 years in the future).

Holiday from Hell and Books from Heaven

To listen to a reading, click here

This is an account of a camping holiday two years ago and  may explain why we haven’t camped since.

Early Morning

Dog woke me up deciding I’m the last best hope for dogdom demanding its playtime. With grace and goodwill to all dogs, (you’d think) I took her outside to the will-definitively-be-finished-in-June patio building site. (Will not mention that still working on patio two years later because reader will think this is a bad thing). On the way greeted by Son’s spare best friend who is sitting in the kitchen on Facebook even though its not even 6am and was last seen rolling in at nearly 1am to have sing-in with Son.  Friends and Son had spent the entire day at the Bristol Harbour Festival listening to music and looking at boats. They then decided to have a sing in while Wife and I magic up four extra beds and bedding with chicken salad, pizza and a choice of Italian beers for them. Reminded Son again, that he was lucky to have such liberal parents and got a kiss and a hug saying I was the best Dad ever. Made clearing up the puke five minutes later worthwhile. Anyway, decided not to try to work out why (Son’s spare best friend on laptop not sing-in) except as adolescent boy assume default motive is unrequited love.

Went back to bed for an hour and read more of Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl, which I’m thoroughly enjoying for its wonderful use of language and mad dash story telling.

Yesterday

It was holiday time, and we have been planning and discussing the August camp month in Cornwall under the famous open sky by the roaring sea camp-site for a year.  So naturally it came as a complete shock to Wife and Son that it was August already and so yesterday after days of meticulous planning by Wife camping equipment was scattered throughout the house and garden. The crisis was such that Wife’s Best Friend arrived to help sort the tents, cooking stove, serving table, inflatable bed and pump, table, chairs, lamps, heater, cool-box etc into working order. To help in the task a preparatory hour or so was coffee, cakes, and all-men-are-bastards discussions on Wife’s Best Friend non existent love life. I would have helped but you have to let the ladies have there own way. So ignored when Wife shouted up from the garden, ‘ THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD PACK UP A GROUNDSHEET.’ Apparently, scrunching it into a ball and stuffing it into a shopping bag wasn’t good enough.

Seeing they needed my help, I went down to give some helpful advice to Wife and Wife’s Best Friend as they had wandered off from sorting camping equipment to wondering if bricks in the corner of the patio steps should be recycled or new in terms of the overall colour ambience. My helpful comment of, ‘Stick to the task and who gives a flying flamingo ( or words to that effect) about brick colours were ignored. Honestly, what can a man do.(Will not mention that still working on patio two years later etc. etc)

Later Morning

Son’s spare best friend and others deposited at station – as 10 minute walk far too arduous and then back to pack. We drove off in glorious sunshine in two cars as for some deeply unknown reason a camping trip for three needs two very full cars. Commenting that them at no 42 take family tent, child tents, assorted equipment, two adults and four kids in a single mini is ignored by all, as is my helpful pointing to examples of whole houses stuffed in single cars as we drive in convoy down the motorway. Crossed into Cornwall, greeted by Armageddon storms, gloom, etc so felt need to put a brave, Dunkirk spirit face on as thoughts turned to famous open sky by the roaring sea camp-site.

Afternoon and early evening

Once arrived we have two field choices: the glorious open flat field with prairie like sky and views of Atlantic rollers or the camel like hill overspill site with views of main road and farm buildings. Naturally, each year we bribe, bluster and steal to get on the main site. The cunning plan B this year was to have a 3-man throw up in the air tent so could camp anywhere while bribing, blustering or stealing a prime main site. But on arrival we found a prime space immediately( vague worry of why ignored) so plan A went into action, the ground sheet down in seconds, etc for the mansion like tent. But, Days of Meticulous Planning meant that we had arrived with no tent frame rods or spikes to hold down tent ties down. The throw up in the air tent plan floundered on fact that may have fitted three 10 year olds but once Wife, dog and me in, Son had no chance so he threw a tantrum.

Wife then had tantrum that no one listens to her ( she didn’t want to be next to friend of a friend of a neighbour in case things got back) and Son had second tantrum (discovering that Wife’s just-the-one-glass friend was coming down with her son the week Son’s girlfriend was coming) and so I had a  TANTRUM as this was meant to be my break as well and I work two jobs and this is the thanks I get etc. etc,

We all took deep breaths and thought of Plan C. This was to buy 2nd emergency throw-up tent for Son so mad dash to local store for tent and supplies (due to Days of Meticulous Planning, we had managed to arrive with no cooking equipment or plates, or cutlery.) Friend of a friend of a neighbour wondered why we hadn’t used our inventory-planning list. We didn’t bother to reply.

Back from the dash, we managed to rustle up food under a blue sky as the sun sank into the sea creating golden clouds so bliss and harmony were restored. So much so, that new throw-up tent being 5 foot 5 inches, blow-up bed being 5 foot 6 inches and son being 5 foot 10 inches were cheerfully glossed over. As was the fact that Days of Meticulous Planning had resulted in one paraffin-lamp with no wick, two battery lamps with no batteries, and three gas lamps with no gas or matches.

Late evening and night-time

Son played guitar, Wife found new camp-site best friend to chat to and I managed to finish off Connie Willis’s To Say Nothing of the Dog (review pending as it is not the most hilarious etc as claimed ) as the darkness fall and the gentle noises of children playing we retire to bed to fall into innocent sleep…for all of 10 minutes before the tent next door opened up the competition of who can make the longest and shrillest girly conversation/ giggle. We decided that after two and a half hours of this that Lucy had won hands down( as part of the competition was to tell the others by name to shut up). Drifting off to sleep, at midnight, we were woken 10 minutes later  again by lads and lasses of  the next-door caravan having a drunkard roll in the mud and let us find Leroy game (Why Leroy was lost we never discovered but from their voices we would guess he was sleeping off 10 pints in some ditch somewhere). All too tired to have a Tantrum and as we are English didn’t go out to complain – don’t like to make a fuss (Foreigners, read Alan Bennett’s Writing at Home to make sense of our behaviour) So we put pillows over ears and fall back into an exhausted sleep.

Second day morning

The next day, it was decided that I would do the 10 hour round trip to bring back, tent frame rods, tent spikes, cooking and eating equipment, gas bottles, matches etc that previous Days of Meticulous Planning had overlooked whilst Son and Wife went surfing on sun kissed beaches. Wife had managed to charm way on better prime pitch with new neighbours at end of field with prairie like sky and views of Atlantic rollers.

Arrived back after previous two hours of  regular 15 minute rolling telephone check-ins saying when my ETA was and what needed to be done, to make sure they would be ready for putting the tent up. Only to find that my arrival was a complete surprise to Wife and Son as I had been unclear!

Second day late evening and night-time

Wife’s request that we leave it up all to the nice ex-boy scout next door was overruled by Son and me. Son then had a logic tantrum as the instructions were not clear so I took charge and ignored Wife’s helpful requests that we ask the nice ex-scout and we got the tent up…with the advice of the nice ex-scout. Just in time for the wannabe tropical storm so its down to Padstow for a gentle stroll around the harbour and a pub meal so much joy and bliss and back to a night’s sleep rocked by the sea breaking on the beach.

Third day

The next day, Wife and Son went off surfing and I got down to reading( after unloading the cars, setting up the kitchen, putting the clothes in the changing room partition, the stores in the stores partition, the why-did-we-bring-this in the now spare throw me up tent store (are you still wondering why we needed two cars!). Then a cup of tea to read An Utterly Impartial history of Britain ,which so impressed me that it was swapped before I even got home.

Later as night fall, wearing woollen Tibetan ear flap hat, two jumpers, jeans with thick socks and wellies read to a dim gas flame as Son plays Guitar and Wife moans that none of us will play board-game. We can barely hear each other as the Atlantic falls on tent. My helpful comments that you don’t come to Cornwall for an Mediterranean Holiday is ignored.

Fourth day

Blissful morning for me as managed to read and complete 52 ways of looking at a poem by Ruth Pedal. And even write a 50 word poem based on what I had learned so far. ( Now two years later very sniffy about its construction etc) The only distraction were three teenage boys marching in step around the field with one of them bare-chested except for his sister’s (one assumes) white bra.  At each tent he would pull it away from his chest and leer. Kept them amused for hours.

Wife, Son and falling Atlantic came back so drove in hours of shower force rain so we could walk around in grey towns, in grey rain with lots of lost grey people. We did buy rainbow umbrella’s guaranteed by the shop that they don’t blow out but lost receipt as they blew out and away on opening up. So back to the tent for more layers of clothes and now hot water bottles. My still helpful remarks that you don’t come to Cornwall for a Mediterranean Holiday resulted in some forceful words from Wife and Son.

Fifth day

Spent most of the night trying to sleep through the punk rock drum rolls of the rain, and woke to find inner room floor flooded. Long discussion with Wife and Son why they won’t go to the beach and surf as  ‘You don’t come to Cornwall etc’’  And they had the nerve to accuse me that I wanted peace and quiet to read. I mean really.

So yet more driving in grey rain etc except it picked up and we got a wood burning patio stove to keep us warm and came back to have a vegan barbie in the blue skies and warm sunshine. As a car passenger managed read and finished off  The Sound of Laughter by Peter Kay,  a popular northern working class comic. Funny but why does one man experiencing the shitty working class life he does become a comic whilst another becomes a political radical? I also managed to start It’s Superman by Tom De Haven which proved to be a great read.  As arrived, wonder with Son and Wife why the field and campsite is so empty.

Sixth day morning

Discovered why field was empty at 5am when tent rods broke under the strain of the 60 miles a hour gale and we had to pack the tents etc away in the midst of waterfall rain and high winds. Ex boy scout was surprised that we didn’t have spare tent rods. Pointed out did we look like a family that packed spare tent rods – he agreed as they were a family that did Days of Meticulous Planning. We then discovered that easy throw in the air tents are not easy put away tents- those of the camp-site not chasing their tent and goods helped us sit on and push the bloody things into the appropriate case Then soaked, hungry we crawled home as fast as the rain and wind would allow us.  Kept mind occupied on how best to sell camping equipment as tantrums when ever helpfully mentioned, ‘You don’t come to Cornwall for an Mediterranean Holiday.’