Blog Spot

So one would think that being off work for nearly 4 weeks would result in at least some semblance of productivity. Alas not. I have in fact spent many hours doing nothing much on Facebook, and a lot more watching 24. Somehow this seemed like a good option. No course work has been done either, despite the fantastic opportunity to get ahead of myself, especially considering that I'm doing two courses this year, the result of which determines my final degree grade. Oh well. Maybe next week.

Red Rhododendrons

Entrance to Ardtornish Gardens; long
gravel driveway flanked on either side by red
rhododendrons guarding the house, a trickle of unease.

Tall turrets, watching windows, reminiscent of
another house, forgotten tale from years ago, my
foreboding as vivid as the red rhododendrons.

Distant images; red rages, eyes raw from crying, a gunshot –
blood spilt in the boathouse. Looming danger flames
in my mind, and fear licks my spine as I pass through the
red rhododendrons.

Girl Trouble

Blondes have more fun and red-heads are trouble.
Fat girls are easy to pull: they’re grateful.
Thin girls are anorexic, footballers’
wives or Posh Spice wanabees. Gold diggers.
Ugly girls have no personality.
Beautiful girls are empty-headed.
Dumb blondes, fiery red-heads, fat slags, stick thin,
hit with the ugly stick, beautiful bimbo.

People aren’t so sexist now, chauvinism
is being brought down, stereotypes are
dying out. We’re not sexist, or ageist,
Women just don’t age as well. Judging by
Appearance? Never! Those days are dead -
when have you heard these passing comments said?

Something Missing

Walking down the street, watching.
Looking in strangers’ eyes, searching
for something familiar in the face of another,
unspoken connection, glimmering recognition.
Day after day, watching, looking, searching.

Lying sleepless, taught and tense,
ears waiting to hear the telephone ring.
Listening in darkness to silence. Sleeping, to
dream that dreams can be real.
Night after night, waiting, listening, dreaming.

Waking with sick hope and dread,
praying as parcels fall on the floor. Seeking
distant postmarks or unknown writing;
blind faith in believing it might be this time.
Year after year, praying, seeking, believing.

Wondering if fate will cross our paths,
if you’re out there, looking for me.
If, some day, my prince will arrive. Until then,
day after day, night after night, year after year,
I’m searching, dreaming, seeking a father.

Blog Spot

Ah ha! I have discovered some other poems that I wrote at the beginning of the year, so I can now add them and save myself the trouble of composing anything new!

Blog Spot

Some lovely people have sent me emails and facebook posts, commenting on my blog - thank you! One recommendation was to add some information about why I decided to write the pieces, which I think is a good idea as it gives some context, so that is what I shall do! I've also been looking at The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook which is quite inspiring, so I will hopefully be writing more now!

I am looking forward to starting my two final Open University courses soon - 20th Century Literature: texts and debates, and Advanced Creative Writing...next step is to apply to do teacher training for my sins. So, primary or secondary - any ideas???????

Blog Spot

Unfortunately, I seem to have uploaded all the not-too-personal bits of work from my course (Creative Writing, The Open University) and now have to actually write some new stuff! It becomes easy to see how people can have one hit - musical, literary or otherwise, and then not bother to do anymore, and just cruise on the back of it. I wish. Anyway, resolution made to try and find some inspiration to continue to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and produce some WORK.

One Of The Girls

I’m at this party right, and it’s banging,
Everyone’s plastered. I’m drinking cider
and Rosie and Kate bought Twenty-Twenty,
strawberry flavour, gets you pissed well quick.
Anyway, I know I’m looking good right,
borrowed Tara’s mini-skirt, and Jolene
did my make-up. The girls say it’s my turn,
say the boys say I’m tight. Tonight’s the night.

So Zach brings me a beer right, starts getting
frisky. Takes me to the upstairs toilet,
downstairs got blocked, Sarah’s mum’ll go mad,
says ‘lie down’, so I do, sort of, there’s not
much room. Then he does it. The girls never
said it hurt. But I’m one of them now, right?

Loss

She smiles, stifling the stinging sorrow,
swallowing bitter tears that spring un-bid
from a well of regret with flimsy lid
covering a childless tomorrow.
The tiny shoes and matching baby-grow
priceless, paid with the currency of pain,
hope ever stirring, to be lost again.
She gives her gift, and what no-one can know

is her secret. She has never let go
of her dreams, and still, in her rocking chair,
at night, all alone at home, when the air’s
grown chill, at eighty, she rocks to and fro
and weeps for the babies she’d never seen,
and sleeping, she dreams of what could have been.

Daddy's Girl

Go get ‘em Tiger, give ‘em all you got,
you’re as good as any boy, don’t let no
one tell you different. Keep your chin held high,
always go down fighting, it’s a man’s world
Tiger, you gotta be tough, be fearless,
never cry, show no weakness, remember,
you’re as good as ‘em but you gotta fight
harder. Gotta sacrifice. Make choices.

Right now. You decide. You gonna be a
girl, a wimp, or a fighter, a winner,
and make your old man proud? Come on Tiger,
get back in that ring, give ‘em hell, keep your
hands up, quick jabs, light on your feet, come on
Tiger, give ‘em hell, do your old man proud.

Blog Spot

What to do on a Saturday afternoon when it's been raining all day, was the question. Possible answers consisted of housework, TV, reading or university coursework. None particularly appealed so I decided to stop procrastinating and set up a blog, an idea that I'd considered intermittently over the last year or so. That now done, I shall attempt to post various pieces of writing that I have already done, and would also appreciate any ideas that people think would be interesting for further stories/poetry/musings!

A Summer Past

I am lying flat on my back, outstretched under the tree. The ground beneath me is warm and hard, the grass having turned to prickly stalks of straw in the summer heat. My heart beats steadily as if I too am part of the earth, joined to the organic, pulsing of nature. This is the place where time ceases, where troubles fade, and all noise echoes faintly as if it happens in some other era, some other land. The distant chewing of a lawnmower heightens the silence around me. As I listen closely the silence gradually becomes filled. Grass stems crackle and rustle as insects carry on with the season’s labour. I can just hear a far off drone, as miles overhead the paper-chain billowing white ribbon charts an aircraft’s passage across the sky. The bright summer blue of oceans and white crests of cloud dazzle me, and I blink, turning my gaze to a familiar friend. It’s pink cherry blossoms are full and fragrant, the sweet scent falling onto my face with occasional lost petals that flutter down in welcome slithers of breeze. I watch carefree bees flit from bloom to bloom, seeking nectar, busy wings purring merrily. Despite the heat, the tree’s leaves are still strong and green, whispering ‘shh, shh’ to me as the warm dry air caresses them. I am still, enraptured by the magic of the tree, knowing that its ancient roots live below me, under the grass and the soil, stretching down to reach for the water that flows gently at the bottom of the slope.

The sun warms my face in patches where the leaves have parted, and my eyelids droop, my limbs become heavy and my breathing slows. It seems like only seconds before I hear something lumbering closer, cracking through branches in its path. The sun in my face darkens to shadow and my nose wrinkles as hot dog breath blasts a meaty odour close at hand. I open my eyes and stare into the expectant, drooling muzzle of Gordan.

‘Off, dog’ I grumble, giving the Boxer a half-hearted push in the chest. He grunts and flops heavily onto the ground beside me, his sloppy jowls landing on my bare arm. I screech in objection and sit up, my happy daze broken unromantically by a slimy wet trail on my skin, complete with what seems to be bits of dog biscuit and twigs floating in the goo. Unimpressed, I glare resentfully at my best friend Holly who has appeared, towels over her shoulder, and a bulging bag swinging from her hand. She grins at me.

‘You know he only dribbles on people he loves’ she reassures me. ‘Look, I raided the cupboard and got us some munchies.’ Peace offering accepted, we sit side by side, our towels rolled up as cushions, leaning against the hard bark of the tree. My stomach rumbles appreciatively as Holly displays the unhealthy fare that comprises the teenage diet. Condensation runs down the green plastic sides of the 7Up bottle, and we share a giant sized ‘grab bag’ of salt and vinegar crisps. A slab of Dairy Milk and two half-melted strawberry Cornettos serve as desert. Gordan eyes the spread hopefully, soggy strands of anticipation dangling from his chin. He sighs mournfully and looks away as he catches Holly’s warning death stare. We eat in contented silence, the midday June temperature causing little beads of moisture to appear along our lips and run in slow rivulets down our spines. As the cosy apathy of food and sunshine begins to take effect, my head begins to nod.

‘Lets do something before we fall asleep in the sun,’ Holly says, scrambling to her feet. Gordan leaps up, looking frantically around to see what squirrels he may have missed. ‘You’ve spent enough time dozing today already!’ she adds slyly.

‘I was not dozing,’ I retort, ‘I was meditating. Getting in tune with nature. Being still.’

‘Whatever.’ Holly remains unconvinced. ‘So what shall we do?’

‘Make a swing,’ I state firmly, although it had only just occurred to me. ‘A swing from our tree so we can jump into the stream.’

‘Yeah,’ Holly nods approval, ‘we need to find something for a seat though. We’ll probably find something in Old McGuinty’s yard, and I’m sure I saw some old rope there the other day that we can use too.’

Abandoning any hopes of a restful afternoon, I follow Holly and Gordan down the footpath that leads past Old McGuinty’s place and out across fields to Brightwell. It only takes us ten minutes to walk to the yard, but if feels like hours in the sticky afternoon, even Gordan has slowed to a weary trot in front of us, checking over his shoulder every now and then to make sure we’re still with him. Our feet scuff through mud baked by the sun, raising whirls of dust that settles on our trainers, while tired grass attempts to cling to our legs as we pass.

‘Pooh, it’s so much worse in the summer,’ Holly complains, scrunching her nose as we come in sight of the yard. ‘We’ll have to be quick before I gag!’ The smell is bad today, it’s true. His compost heap sits like a huge ugly cake in the centre of the yard, complete with a moving, buzzing layer of flies fighting over the rotting vegetables. We open the gate and dart quickly inside, past the fermenting pile, which radiates a putrid heat even at a distance, and head for the tangle of old bicycle wheels, prams, broken chairs, and various unidentifiable rejects. No one was quite sure where he got all these things, or if people just came in the night and dumped them there. Legend had it that McGuinty collected everything the gypsies left behind after the September fair, and then tried to sell it all back to them the following year.

‘Look,’ Holly whispers. She digs her elbow sharply in my ribs, and points to an old car tyre. We go over and try to lift it.

‘You must be joking,’ I whisper, straining to lift one side of it, ‘it’s really heavy, we’ll never get it back.’

‘You think of something then,’ Holly retorts.

‘Shh, keep your voice down, I think that’s him moving around in the shed over there.’

'Well, quick then,’ Holly urges, a note of panic creeping in, ‘you find a better seat and I’ll get some rope or something.’ And she’s off, clambering over twisted metal and old furniture. I cast a worried glance toward the shed at the back of the yard, I can definitely see someone in there moving around. Vowing to be quick, I scan the piles of discarded junk. I spot a thick chunk of wood under a rusty barbeque and give it a pull. It doesn’t move. Getting a tighter grip, I wedge my foot against the offending grill and tug as hard as I can. The wood is released and I fly backwards, desperately trying to keep my balance, but to no avail as I land with a clatter amongst the debris.

‘Oy!’ I hear an angry voice shout and the shed door is flung open. Holly’s startled head appears from behind an old fridge freezer. ‘Run!’ She yells as she flashes past me, cowardly Gordan fast on her heels. I grab my prize and sprint for the gate. In haste, all three of us leap it, fall over in a tangle of legs and tails and shrieks of pain, jump up and run back down the footpath to safety. When our legs are burning and our chests exploding, we slow to a walk.

‘Cool,’ Holly gasps, eyeing my sturdy piece of wood, ‘look what I got.’ She brandishes a curled length of thick blue twine. ‘Perfect, don’t you think?’

‘Yep!’ I grin at her. ‘Perfect!’

That summer was perfect. Holly and I made a swing that launched us screaming and laughing into the cool water of the stream. We felt free as we soared through the sky, and spent most of our days swinging and swimming. Gordan enjoyed sleeping and spectating, with the occasional paddle when the warm sunshine became too much for him. Everyday we took our lunch and a blanket, and ate under the friendly boughs of the old cherry blossom tree, talking about boys, our parents and our future. Decades later, summertime can still find me lying under a somehow familiar tree, looking up at the same sky through different blooms, and sometimes I imagine for a while, that I am back there, with Holly trying to catch fish in her net, and Gordan snoring gently beside me.

Interlude

The kerb is grey and gritty, so shitty,
Down by the garages behind our house,
Better than school and double English though.
We lie on our backs, practicing smoke rings,
Chewing gum and watching our little puffs
Drift up free ‘til they dissolve in the sun.
Birds chirp, we doze, on our concrete pillows,
Content, ‘til in the distance, the bell screams.

The sun clouds over, ominous darkness,
Our feet slap the pavement, now soaked with rain.
I stamp on worms that cross my path; vengeance,
On anything, doesn’t matter, my breath
Comes fast as we race for the gate through the
Corridors and enter. ‘Sorry we’re late.’

The Rites and Wrongs of Passage

The unfriendly paper touches my lips,
Orange, mild danger, encases the tip.
Smoke stings my eyes and sneaks up my nostrils,
I blink fast, furtive glance checking nobody noticed,
While tiny tremors tell tales on my inexpert fingers.
Ready. And. Inhale.
Hot razor blades slice and slide down my throat,
Smoke clogs my brain and cloys to my tongue –
Swallowing hard, I puff through my nose
As two tendrils slowly escape, avoiding the fatal cough.
The fight over, breathing returns to normal
And I glow, like the butt that I pass on to Kate.
All eyes on her.
We wait to see if she has what it takes
To smoke with us outside the school gate.

Wierd and Wonderful Horses

The strange thing that I find about horses, is that they all have completely different personalities. Working on a yard of 60 horses for nearly three years, you get to know them pretty well. You can’t just say ‘the orange one’, because there may be eight orange ones. You can’t say ‘the orange one with a white stripe down its nose, because there may be four that fit that description. You need to know them by name. We had Donya, Twiglet, Nuz, Mattie (a girl), Mikey, Princess, and the two Georges. The two Georges were both tall and orange, and although one had a white stripe down his face and was rather bigger boned, a casual observer would probably not know which George was being referred to. Which is why we ended up with Normal George and Chicken George.

The owners of the two Georges got fed up with the ‘which George?’ question, and trying to find detailed enough descriptions within their vocabularies to specify the George concerned, so they came up with differentiation by personality. And it worked a treat. So we had Normal George, and Chicken George. Now Normal George was a nice horse, fairly relaxed, prone to skittishness and silliness if the wind excused it, but otherwise a fairly sensible and nicely mannered creature. Chicken George however, was another story. As legend has it, when God was handing out bravery, some (including Chicken George), were at the back of the queue. Chicken George was not so brave. He was scared of the farm cat, and would quiver with his rump well and truly flattened against the back of his stable when she would deign to come down from her snug perch and wander around the yard, mingling with us mere mortals. Chicken George would wait for another horse (however small) to go ahead of him when walking down to the field, despite the fact that he went there every day. He would shake if he was out in the rain, and would leap at any loud or unexpected noise, making himself look as large as possible, nostrils flaring, poised on his haunches to run away at the first sign of things looking suspicious. And suspicious covered many things, from genuine unpleasantries such as being clipped, wormed, injected or visited by the horse dentist, to imaginarily harmful events such as being tacked up before being ridden, rugged up warmly before going off to the field, and being fed. Yes, this too was suspicious. Who knew what poisons had been added and needed a thorough sniffing out, who knew what could be discovered if the food was tipped all over the floor and trodden on to check for… suspicious things.

Now these two Georges, both of whom I have a great fondness for, led me to consider God. Because we are all human, we all look the same in that we have bones and skin, we have a certain statue and way of behaving. We all also have means of being distinguished from others ; brown hair, blonde hair, red hair, grey hair, blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, spots, freckles, tall, short, fat, etc, the list goes on. But is any of that who we are? Who we really are? Is it those things that mean our parent or partner or friend could pick our description out of many people’s? Or is it something more? I love nature; thunderstorms, lightning, sunsets, silver stars in a dark indigo night, butterflies in bright colours, and lizards that blend in with the sand. I love happy music that I can sing along to, I love descriptive books where I feel like I’m part of someone else’s life; I love fantasies where I am involved in searches to the death for treasure and honour, and salvation of others. I love kids and their honesty, and how they can tell you that you look knackered, or fatter, or have a big spot, with no malice, just a disarming sense of thinking that you’ll be glad they told you. And so many other things that set me apart from you. And there are so many things about you, so many dimensions to you, that I could never hope to really know you, be like you, impersonate you or replace you.

You are unique. You are special. You are made, painted, composed, invented, put together, hand stitched, woven, lovingly made by our creator God. Normal George is lovely. He is a character, he is a friend to many, he is a favourite of many. And so is Chicken George. Utterly different, but equally loved. The same as you, and me, and everyone else. How are you different? How are you set apart from others? You are God’s workmanship. And so am I.