Winds blowing
Windows rattling
Temp below 10
Shall I brave it?
Shall I stay it?
Warmth wins every time
Sleep in,
Have breakfast
Find a spot out of the wind
Sip my tea
While my body argues with itself
Sinus complaining ‘not happy Jan’.
Neck down feels good today
Must be the weather
Cold biting breezes
Warm sun
Not much inclination to venture far.
Your warmth, wraps,
Embraces me says
Don’t stray far my love
Snuggle into my breast
It’s a day for comfort
Set a spell, stay a while.
As I walked out this morning
With frost upon the ground
I thought I had mistaken
The temperature
As it was dark on my departure.
The frost I didn’t see
Until the sun revealed
A silvery world to me.
A frost is rare in my world
I once lived where they were daily
The tallest tree a silvery glow.
But this morning with my ears cold
My hands hidden in my sleeves
I braved the cold
Stepped briskly through our winter chill
Even marvelled at a lost kangaroo
As it hopped across the shopping centre car park.
Wondered why/how it had found its way to this place
Nothing for it to eat
Maybe it craved the company of men, but I doubt it.
Home I walked,
The frost crunching under my boots
My heart alive to the fact
I had made the effort to walk
On this morning in its winter wonder.
Image Gabriel Neffke
Ashen
Fractured
Ripped apart
Words describing
The impact of knowledge.
Why we asked?
What happened?
The little boy who grew into a monster
Feared
Reviled
Death considered too good for him.
You wondered where you went wrong?
Could you have been a better parent?
His angelic appearance
Belied his evil intent
A demon within him
Sent him spiralling, plummeting
Into an abyss of hopelessness
With those around him his nemesis
Constantly at him
Crowding his thinking
Where explosions occurred
With increasing monotony.
Society worried
Wondered
Speculated
Not the why but the when.
A mother looks on across a room
A man she no longer recognises
Stands before his people
His life laid bare
His fate now beyond any concern of hers.
Tears build
Within her heart a crack appears
From which no surgery will ever repair.
Her face pained in expression
Watches her boy, destroyed.
The gulf within her wrenches wider.
Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/07/08/photo-challenge-16-portrait/
My brother was once described in one of his school reports as nothing more than a scofflaw. The word sent my parents scurrying to the dictionary to find what derogative term was being used about him this time. To say they were unimpressed is to put it mildly. Though they did concede the reference was justified and better than his previous report in which his woodwork teacher had referred to the sawdust on the floor of the classroom as having more intelligence than my brother.
It would be fair to say that he took a circuitous path through life. One could never say he was a taciturn fellow in any way as one of the great obstacles he faced in life was the control of his tongue. He was forever willing to offer an opinion on most things whether or not he understood it or not and could be drawn by those who knew him to mouth his views in no uncertain way.
Despite all that and his wayward tongue he did have a clear sense of justice. He would readily castigate anyone he thought was ill treating animals or the unfortunate. He hated racism in any form and was often drawn into battle at the pub of a Friday night when his consumption led him to voice one too many opinions.
I always worried about what would happen to him, where he would end up in life. School as never really for him, he studied little and yet as fate would have it he somehow managed to turn out alright.
I know it had something to do with his wife. There was no doubt she was ravishing. A rare beauty indeed. But it was also the purity she possessed, she understood my brother and controlled him and at the same time saw him into a trade and helped him with his studies.
If ever there was a chalk and cheese couple it was my brother and his wife. They have been married over thirty years now and I still feel that frisson of excitement at the prospect of he and his wife coming to dinner. He is such a lively character even now in later middle age.
There was always one thing I could say about him and it’s that he was never given to artifice to achieve a victory over any opponent. He could argue and present his case forcefully. Admittedly his way of arguing especially in the pub on Friday nights led to his being excluded from most of the drinking holes around town but he accepted this as part of life.
There were many nights when I would go round to his house on Friday afternoon and find him moulding resin which he gathered from the trees around and made into small ornaments and often pieces of jewellery his eldest daughter sold at the Sunday markets.
He was in so many ways an enigma. Loud and boisterous, quick tempered and smart tongued but always was he ready to help me when I asked. The days of us playing together in the back yard had given us a platform to live by. As competitive as we were we always supported and encouraged each other.
A scofflaw he may have been in the eyes of many, but to me he will always be my brother.
Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/07/07/wordle-16/
I sat behind you every day
Our classroom was a stifling place in summer
Winters freezing, no heating in those days.
So we looked to you for entertainment.
And you delivered every day,
Over the years you became expert
In deception, lies, ridicule.
You broke the monotony of the humdrum
Tired teachers, overworked syllabi
No one ever believing algebra was useful.
Bits of paper in the air, a snide comment
A useless question to complement a useless lesson.
You never tired; you were a constant in my day.
We called you Heckle, you were good at that
Even though you copped your fair share of the cane
Delivered by frustrated teachers in a frustrating system.
It took me years to discover
You were the Wayne plastered across the news
The criminal, public enemy number one
Feared by one and all.
But I knew you, remembered you clearly
The day I found you crying
Stuck in the toilets, distraught
On learning from a teacher your mother had died.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/Sunday June 6
Today’s task is to use Mamihlapinatapei as the basis for a story:
“The wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start.”
It was Maryanne who first brought the matter to my attention. I’d been going about my daily routine, you know the kind, same old day in day out, when she casually mentioned to me that Jane the water gatherer had been staring at me as I walked across the courtyard earlier in the day.
I knew who Jane was, the daughter of old Seth the well digger, and she was a rare beauty around these parts. I considered her a woman to admire, a woman who really was in looks primarily, way above anyone such as myself.
I am no beauty, as my mother would say ‘James you are no oil painting so don’t be criticising anyone else’s looks.’ Though I did take it as a compliment that Jane would be checking me out, so to speak.
The following day I did run into her or rather she ran into me. There was an awkward moment as we both realised who it was we were facing.
She looked down as she immediately knew I was of a higher social status than her. That was one thing about our community we were very socially conscious.
It was one thing to joke about one person fancying another, it was another thing altogether for it to actually materialise.
Jane would have been well aware of who I was as I was of her. But it didn’t stop her saying hello, calling me James even, which further fuelled my interest in her.
It was Jane who initiated the first meeting. She suggested we both meet after our workday down by the river, where we could stroll and chat.
I found it flattering the attention she gave me. There was no arguing about her beauty. She was strikingly beautiful, with rich thick auburn hair that cascaded down her back and the bluest eyes that just grabbed my attention.
She was a very forthright woman and made it clear from the beginning of the social dangers we both faced if we pursued any sort of relationship.
I didn’t know there was one as it had been made clear to me over the years that I was to marry eventually within my own social circle. To look outside of that for both of us could result in ostracism from the community. Being shut out was not a good thing as you then belonged nowhere and I had seen it happen a few times over the years to very well meaning people.
I was reluctant for that reason to go much beyond banal pleasantries. I could see no point in us imagining there could be anything more to be achieved. I loved my family and I was sure Jane loved hers. What she was envisaging was simply foolhardy in my opinion.
But from the moment we met on the riverbank I knew from the way she looked at me, and from the feelings I had beginning to roll around within me, that there was far more to us than I was admitting to myself.
We had many awkward silences that afternoon. We both felt it; I felt her eyes looking into mine as if pleading for my attention. I knew I was well and truly mesmerised by her.
I fumbled my way through a stilted conversation before saying it was time to go. It was getting dark and the curfew was strictly enforced these days so there was no denying it was time to go.
I know we hesitated on saying our farewell. We hadn’t stopped looking at each other the whole time. There was I thought a safe distance between us the whole time, anyone who saw us could never say it was any more than two people talking.
Finally we did bid each other farewell, I mumbled something like I was glad to have met her and she smiled and laid her hand on my arm in passing.
It was like being hit by an electric bolt, lights flashed in my mind and tingles ran up and down my body. I watched her departing shape as she made her way back to the village.
In my heart there was both dread and terrifying exhilaration at the prospect of another meeting.
Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/07/06/prompt-62-mamihlapinatapei/
This week’s prompt word is “body.”
It was a body like no other. I was mesmerised, captivated, frozen in time almost.
I looked at you and thought is that really you?
I was fooled to believe you were not as I imagined at all.
Legs that went all the way to your bum and
I knew would carry you with an elegance I could only describe.
I have admired your arms, their strength is obvious to me, they will carry you safely thought life. I can see you will fend off all aggressors, all detractors. You will be ok.
The force of your voice tends to lead me to the conclusion you will be one who stands up for what you believe, you will make your intentions known to all and sundry around you.
The one thing that has stunned me most is your eyes.
From the moment of our meeting you fixed me with your gaze, you held me enthralled, I was drawn in I knew you were going to be a person of quality, a person of substance a person who will know her destiny and make every effort to achieve in ways I will be enchanted by.
Yes my newest darling grand daughter, I see you as growing into a woman of determination and courage.
I will watch as your tiny body grows into a woman we will all be so proud of.
Written for: http://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/07/04/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-july-514/
My Grandfather was an aloof man who kept himself in a shed out the back most of the time. It suited my Grandmother who said it was for the best as it kept him out from under her feet.
Grandfather’s shed was a museum in its own right. He was a collector of things, he’s go out on a Saturday mornings and collect what he could from garage sales around the town.
Most of it was your usual bric a brac, useless stuff that sat on the shelves year in and year out.
But he also collected books and one wall of his shed was lined with shelves upon which sat a range of volumes from the classics to more modern tomes.
I often found him sitting in his armchair head in a book reading away oblivious to the goings on around him which often included Grandmother calling him to with some household chore or other.
There was one book that Grandfather had which always captured my imagination. It had the fanciest cover and a metal clasp to secure the pages.
I remember asking him about it one day and he was his usual evasive self. I don’t think he liked the idea of me searching through his books or anything in his shed to be honest.
‘Just a old book I found,’ he said. ‘Don’t be touching now, it’s a bit fragile now days.’
He said this in the dismissive way he said most things to me. But the book held my curiosity. I looked at it and thought I am going to look inside and see why that clasp is there.
Two nights later I had a plan, I’d sneak out after everyone had gone to bed and knowing where Grandfather kept the key I’d go in and satisfy my curiosity.
Once inside the shed, I realised it had a very distinctive musky smell, one I’d always associated grandfather with. The book, the object of my midnight raid was there where it always was, sitting amongst the other books I knew Grandfather treasured.
I took it down and felt its weight. It was a heavy book as I suspected it might be. The thick cover was decorated with designs that made some parts stand out and I looked and traced the shape of the flower pattern with my finger.
The clasp was metal, a simple spring held its tension and I could easily loosen it and release the pages.
Inside was an inscription:
This book contains the magic of the Other People. Turn the pages at your peril should you not be of the Other People.
I had never heard of any Other People and so not to be deterred I turned the page.
Suddenly I felt a wind whip around my ankles, a flash of light and then darkness. The torch I had brought with me was out as well. I flicked the switch but nothing was working which was disappointing, as I’d put new batteries into it before embarking on the adventure to the shed.
Then a light came on. Then another.
In the light I saw people.
Many people. Standing. Staring. At me.
‘Who are you?’ a small man nearest me said.
‘Michael,’ I replied.
‘What do you want?’
‘I was just looking into the book.’
‘The Book Of Other People?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘Are you now.’
‘Yes.’
‘What have you found?’
‘Not sure. You people. Are you the Other People?’
‘Do we look like Other People?’
‘I’m not sure what Other People look like.’
‘Not all that clever are you?’
I now realised that the crowd had gathered around me and stood very close to me. I was beginning to feel hemmed in and there seemed no where else to go.
‘We are the Other People,’ he said. ‘ We Other People see things a little different to you and your Land People. We live within the book. Have always done so. And we are always up for welcoming a new person.’
‘Like me?’
‘Like you.’
‘But I have to get back. My grandparents will be missing me when they wake up.’
‘You see for those who enter through the book there is no going back.’
‘There isn’t?’
‘No. Afraid not.’
‘But what will happen to me?’
‘You’ll become one of us.’
‘And live here in the book?’
‘Yes.’
‘But my family, my grandparents, my friends, they’ll look for me.’
‘Yes they will but they wont find you. No one ever finds them who opens the book.’
‘But in the morning Grandfather will see the book open and know what I’ve done.’
‘Yes he will.’
‘And he’ll do something about it.’
‘Yes he will. You know your Grandfather is such a good man. He always puts the book back on the shelf.’
Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/07/04/fairytale-15/
Come to the office please, now!
Can you tell me what this says?
We can’t understand your writing.
You’ll have to write more clearly
Slow down a little
Were you away on handwriting lesson day?
It’s a scrawl I know
Never been anything less than that
Little character
Nothing geometrical
A jumble of swirls and strokes
Acute and ugly angles
Each with a mind of their own
All with the intention of articulation.
Don’t know why I write so poorly
Been a life long affliction
Plenty of wraps on knuckles when younger
From zealous teachers wanting more,
But legibility was not my forte
Constant questions: what does this say?
Thank goodness for word processors I say.
Written for: http://pookypoetry.wordpress.com/2014/07/04/poetry-prompt-65-handwriting/
This week we were asked to include these words in our story.
music, saxophone, curious, root, garbage
Our village had many curious customs. Its what marked us as different from most of the other mundane villages around.
They saw great merit in the harvest festival for after all I did concede that the harvest was important to us all, but year after year of harvest festivals with the queen of the harvest always going to some member of the landowners family wasn’t anything that after twenty years you began to look forward to.
Instead our village looked for other means to celebrate the harvest as so many others not only had queen of the harvest but also the award to the most productive farm and farmer. These awards were fiercely contested and often resulted in conflict in which blood would be shed. We in our village, who were very much peaceful folk, decided it was not our idea of a festival, as the funeral after the festival concluded tended to detract from the whole festival atmosphere.
It was at a village meeting that the elders decided to change the nature of the festival. Instead of the traditional style we would venture down a new path. The elders were well aware of the musical talent that existed amongst us and decided that the village talents had best be put to use in the form of a music festival to mark the harvest.
Ours was a unique village in that so many of us played a musical instrument and or sang well enough to say we could all hold a note well. The root of all this talent lay in our forebears, one in particular, Patrick O Gorman, a man of great foresight.
One day whilst salvaging in the village garbage dump he came across a discarded saxophone. He remembered the troupe who the week before had come through the village playing all manner of music to which the community had danced and sung along to the songs they taught them.
Patrick had been fascinated by the sounds the instruments produced and on finding the discarded saxophone had set about the task of trying to play it. He returned to the village and sat each night trying to make the instrument sound something like he’d heard the troupe produce.
A neighbour ventured by and asked if he could try his lips. This neighbour who later became known by the name Larry ‘Magic Lips’ Cook had the ability to make the saxophone talk.
Within weeks the saxophone became the centre of a beginning musical journey for the village as different villagers took up the challenge of music. Some invented instruments, some found singing voices of great quality and versatility that it wasn’t long and evenings were spent instructing and playing the music they loved.
Over the years their talents increased until in my time the festival became a wonderful celebration. Over the years the word of our festival spread and soon musicians from other villages made the journey to join us in our festival.
What started as an afternoon of music grew into a three-day festival, which of course had its share of economic advantages as well. Our landowner seeing the benefits of our festival to himself as much as to our village set aside a parcel of land for the festival to be held each year.
Last year he surprised us by turning up with his ukulele and joined in the playing and singing on the Sunday afternoon. It was a great afternoon and one in which he admitted he had had the best of times.
The music festival is one of the many curious celebrations we hold during the year. You must make an effort and come along to our Midsummer Toad in the Hole Festival, with real toads, our Spring Time Sprinkle the Love Dust Ball and don’t ever miss our Christmas Kissing Under the Holly Week, no telling whose lips you’ll meet.
Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/07/03/tale-weavers-prompt-15-wordle-style/
Morpethroad 