Death of an iceberg

I am an ice child of the Arctic North,

calved from my mother into alien waters.

A sibling procession down the Polar Stream.

We are Leviathan, Behemoth, Titanic and Growler.

Sweat trickles down my icy flanks as I heat in the sun.

My bottom is licked away by warm ripples

until I topple to reveal old tidemarks

as I shrink to a melted

death

.         

We lost Jock

Under the flight deck F40 warship                                                    

routed Bahamas, cross the Atlantic.

The aft mess was quiet, the gear all secured,

our heaving stomachs stoically endured.                                                                   

Winds to force thirteen, waves over the mast,                                  

hove-to East Bermuda for three days past.                                       

                                                                                                                                               

Jock’s bid was two hearts when all heard the crash,                         

we rolled back to starboard, another smash.              

‘The port dan buoy's come free, I'll have to go.’                               

It was his job as duty C.P.O..                                                                        

He threw down his cards and said ‘I'll be back,                                

it’ll not take long, we’ll soon take up the slack.’       

                                                                                                           

The trip started well, the ship coming clean,                                     

She shook off the land dirt, started to gleam.                       

Water got softer, the further from land,                                            

needed less soap to clean dirt from each hand.

                                               

We passed the Wolf Rock, the sea turning dark.                              

The waves grew bigger, the message was stark.        

These were not ripples that splash on the beach,                               

but had raw power that would leave marks on each.

The wind grew stronger, the sea state higher,                                               

barometer dropped - the reading a liar?

The pitching was bad but rolling was worse,                         

duties carried out with many a curse.

                                                           

A pound of boots on the flight deck above,                                      

the mad rushes timed to push and to shove

the gear back in place, all lashed down and tied.                                          

A seventh wave snatched Jock over the side.

                                                 

The ship could not turn, the danger too great                                    

of rolling, drowning, all hundred and eight.                                      

Jock was deserted in that vast ocean,

Jack of hearts still showed zero emotion.

I am born

I am born

I am dead for a billion years

Until one day I come alive

Pink all over, even my ears

A good year for me was ‘forty five

The end of the war

Dad coming home

from afar to adore

His first y chromosome

I could not realise on my first day

That I had an older sister

Or, as Dad was wont to say,

‘This is Anne, your skin and blister’

Life is short, just a blink

A very few years before

time is up so back I sink

Dead for many billions more

The Drop

The drop.

Rain stopped, sun started,

the silken web survived

the rain, in the hedge. The sun hits

the drop, on the web, in the hedge.

This tiny drop breaks the mighty

 sun beam into magic.

Colours stream to the eye, but many

eye cannot see.

Too infra, too ultra, too

far from spectrum centre.

Colour changes, the spider dances

cross the web sending signals

to my eye see the spider,

eat the  fly,

 Light of life from the sun, through

the drop, on the web, in the hedge.

Water of life for the garden in

the drop, on the web, in the hedge.

Tremor of death for the fly from

the drop, on the web, in the hedge.

A Nother Limerick

The story of the Tay Bridge disaster

Was documented well by the master

It may be too long

And the language so strong

But it just makes you read it all faster

A Limerick

A poet once searched for a rhyme

to use in a poem and climb

away from free verse

‘cos he thought it perverse

To rhyme slime and crime with thyme.

It

It

It is in my heart, at the centre of my knowing and being.

It loves, therefore it is.

It is at the now of every day

It is the first at the waking and the last at the sleeping.

It casts a true light without shadows and changes what I am

It has no knowing of the how of itself

It has a spirit that needs neither fuel nor air.

It will abide in my heart as long as there is breath in me.

It cannot be quenched by words or deeds,

It has a knowing of the spirit that transcends talking and doing.

It wants nothing but your love.

It is the flame that is my love for you.

Tales from the Cafe - volume 2

The second anthology of stories from Cafe Three zero will be published on 1st April.
The theme of this collection is RED.

A day out in Puerto Rico

We four walk down the gangway, away from the cool, calm grey organisation of the ship. We wander through the naval base looking for a way out into the unknown exoticness of Puerto Rico. We have no sun glasses so squint against the early morning tropical glinting sun.

      We wave to the american marine guarding the gate, we are free – for a day at least. We are determined to explore and see as much as we can of the island.

      ‘You wan a taxi man.’ It is a statement, not a question. ‘You hire me all day, fixed price, I tak youse anywhere you wanna go.’ He is very wrinkled with nearly white hair. He looks like someone’s grandfather so we trust him.

      Sid negotiates a price, we follow ‘Call me Hosef’ to his prized car. It is a very old, very rusty Austin Cambridge, black of course. It is air conditioned against the heat by none of the windows closing but no matter.

      We set off through the town that sounds like a song ‘Old San Juan’. Sunday morning, roads quiet, children in chattering groups walking to church, white shirts and blouses, very smart.

      ‘I take you to jungle rain forest, OK?’

      ‘OK Hosef .’we agree in chorus.’

      We ask him about his family.

      ‘I have seven children, four are still alive. Many, many grandchildren.’

      ‘How many?’

      ‘Don know man, don keep track.’

The car sets at the hill, second gear grinding up the hair pins, breeze drops, very hot. Gets cloudy, headlights on, trees close in, still very hot but now wet as well, raining in the mist. Josef tells us about recent rebel attacks around here – guerillas in the mist. We stop and decide to go for a walk in the rain forest.

      ‘Watch for snakes man!’ Josef laughs, ‘I be here wit de car, don get lost.’

      Snakes are no problem, we are young, we’ll live forever. We walk into the jungle, everything drips, even the air. It is hot and wet, like opening a just-finished dishwasher. It smells of life and death, there are supicious movements in the leaf litter. I fondle the foetid fecund fern fronds from the forest while I set about looking for the fever trees – I haven’t been Kipled for a while. We wander for an hour or so, squelching unthinkables in the wet mush under our flip flops and releasing the rotting sulphide smells of many deaths.

       Digger breaks first.‘Come on guys, lets go back to the car and get Josef to take us to a beach.’ It still rains and smells and sweats and drips and rustles so we agree.

      ‘I tak you best beach in P R,’ says Josef.

      ‘OK.’

The cambridge slithers easily down the hill away from the clinging cloud, reluctant to slow for the hairpins, leaving El Yunque and the snakes behind in their hot, wet home. We drive for half an hour on back roads that are mainly metalled. We stop at a roadside stall and eat Josef’s reccommendation, curry meat rotis all round, not sure what meat.

      ‘Don ask,’ suggests Josef. We suspect goat, many grazing at side of road, tastes good, who cares? Later, back on the ship, apochryphal tales of rat rotis – alliteration makes them attractive but we insist on goat – we prefer the half rhyme to the alliteration, literary snobs.

      We arrive at Luquillo beach, a cliché on speed.

      Palm trees lean over a wide sweep of sand while white breakers march in serried ranks across the wide cerulean bay… ( well, I did say it was a cliché – sorry, received phrase. )

      The sun is too hot, it is nearly midday so we leave our tee shirts on and rush down to the water, drop our flip flops at the edge for the return trip, the sand too hot to walk on. We dive in through the first wave into a delicious warm wetness then strike out through the cooler breakers which have picked up the sand and turned it into an underwater sandstorm. It blasts the work and confinement off our skin and takes it back to a clean undercoat ready for the red finish from the afternoon sun.

      We body surf back to the beach. This place is paradise on sea, just like Clacton. A goffer wallah trudges along the beach carrying his ice box. He comes over to offer a goffer. We honoured his offer - you know the rest. Pete pays, we sit under a palm in the shade and the heat drinking ice cold coke that fights the dry hotness in our throats. We try to persuade Josef to come and swim.

      ‘No man, I have bath at home. I watch de car, bad people round this way.’

The sun droops towards the sea, we pack up – one last swim to wash off the sand and sweat from our seared bodies. Back to the ship, work tomorrow. Give Josef a good tip, he has been good to us.

      An oasis of a day in the monotony of ship-board routine, a page to write in the memory of life.

Writing challenge 9th March - Overspend

Council cuts

‘Dear Mr Scott, we have some news

that will not accord with your views.

Gardening is a low priority

within this urban local authority.’

This was written in the letter

that triggered off a bitter vendetta

between the council and Gilbert S,

who spent his spare time growing filberts

His allotment is in the city centre,

he doesn’t own it, just a renter.

It’s full of catkins, leafs and nuts

surrounding two green water butts

Hazel bushes are all very well

but don’t give very much to sell.

‘Gilbert isn’t economic,

merely mildly gastronomic.

Times are hard,’ the letter said.

‘All our books are in the red.

We badly need to save some money,

we have no cash for milk and honey.

Children’s services have been cut

We had to sell the scouting hut,

Stop filling potholes in the road,

Cannot afford the high workload.

We had to sell the old folk’s homes.

The library has lost many tomes,

every youth club has been closed,

we voted for it unopposed

Everyone has to do their bit,

so now’s the time to take your hit.

We’re very sorry Gilbert Scott,

to have to say you’ve lost the plot.’

Writing challenge 29th February 2012

The rain, the worm and the kitchen.

If it hadn’t rained that Sunday morning none of this would have happened, thought  Detective Chief Inspector O’Hagan to himself.

He was a bit of a fan of the theory of unintended consequences so he had been determined to find the root cause of it all. After all, isn’t that what detectives are supposed to do? He had been appointed to investigate the crime, if it was a crime, but what else could it be? He had investigated for three long weeks and was sure he was right but when he was hauled before his Chief Super and invited to account for the delay in winding up the case and the somewhat excessive overtime bill, he found it difficult to justify his theory.

‘So tell me O’Hagan, if you have a theory, explain to me the Means, Motive and Opportunity of the perp.’ The Chief  Super had been watching too many late night American cop thrillers, thought O’Hagan. He wisely kept this theory to himself.

‘Well it’s like this, Sir,’ he waffled, trying to find a way out of the trap he could see looming.

‘No, son,’ interrupted his boss, rather rudely. I’ll ask the questions and you give me the answers, OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK then, Means?’

‘Well, err, I suppose you could say that the worm was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Motive?’

‘None really.’

Opportunity?’

‘Again, I think it was in the wrong…’

‘Shall I summarise for you sunshine?’ Joe O’Hagan assumed this was one of those rhetorical questions so he said nothing.

‘Detective Chief Inspector O’Hagan has solved the crime. The perp was a worm who had no motive, no means and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Have you thought how that will sound when you tell the story in court and what will the jury make of it? I can see the headlines now, ‘Police charge the worm that turned up’ – I don’t think so sunshine. You get out there and find the real culprit and I’ll give you just one more week to do it.’

‘Yes sir.’ He said miserably as he left with his boss’s final words ringing in his ears.

‘Don’t come back here with any insects in hand cuffs either, son.’

It started to rain and as is the way of worms, one came up to the surface to avoid being drowned in his tunnel. He – well I think it was a ‘he’ but I read somewhere that worms are hermaphrodites but, well they can be vegetarians for all I care. I digress, sorry – lay on the mud enjoying the cool rain as it washed his long body. This was a worm that liked rain.

Unfortunately, so did the blackbird that swooped down, grabbed the worm and swallowed it in a couple of gulps – do birds gulp? Now that could be a Nobel prize going there if someone could solve that conundrum – never mind.

The cat next door had been watching the blackbird for some time and now saw an opportunity. While the blackbird was gulping the worm down – did you note the verb there – the cat crept nearer and manage to catch the blackbird unawares in her sharp teeth.

The dog was outraged, this was his territory so he scampered after the cat, forgetting he was a very small dog, smaller than the cat in fact. This turned into a real fracas as they were evenly matched. They ended up fighting like cat and dog – unsurprisingly.

Henry had just put the kettle on in the kitchen to make a cup of tea when he heard the fracas outside – I like that word, so I’ve used it twice, I wonder if I can squeeze it in again – he rushed out and tried to separate the fighting animals, completely forgetting the kettle which used the opportunity to boil dry, overheat and go into melt-down so burning a neat round hole in the ‘granite’ work surface.

Mrs Henry came rushing down the stairs into the smoke filled kitchen to see her ‘granite’ work top with a new round hole, a burnt out kettle and three assorted mammals fighting it out in the garden. A bucket of water soon sorted out all the problems except the hole in the ‘granite’ work top. With unassailable logic, Mrs Henry decided that this disaster required a complete new kitchen.

‘And while we are about it I’ll have the sink moved to under the window so I can keep an eye out for any more interspecial fisticuffs in the garden.’

’ Yes dear,’ said Mr Henry who knew a lost cause when he saw one.

The work started two Wickes later when the new kitchen arrived from weeks. The first job was to measure up for the new sink drain pipe. It was complicated because the  house dated from 1873 and had been built with a full size cellar. Henry measured the length of the house, repeated the measurement in the cellar and so marked the centre of the drain pipe. He drilled down through the kitchen floor, put a piece of wire down through the hole and went to check its position down in the cellar – no wire in sight!

He then checked the front to back measurements of the house and the cellar – this time they were different – the cellar was shorter than the kitchen by nine feet. He suddenly realised what he had done. He had measured the house length in metres, because the kitchen units came in mm but had reverted to his comfort zone of yards when measuring the cellar. They both came to 32 but in different units, making the difference of 9 feet.

Henry tapped the back wall of the cellar gently with his hammer. It sounded hollow, unusual for a hammer. He had to get access in there to install the drain pipe for the sink and he was also curious what was in the space so he carefully knocked out one brick. He shone his torch through into a space that smelt musty, old and…what was that other smell? He knocked out another brick and when he shone the torch through this time he could see the skelton laying on the floor with a knife resting between the fourth and fifth rib.

He quickly left and called the police. Joe O’Hagan was soon on the scene and confirmed that it looked like murder, suicide was unlikely and he hadn’t come across many accidental walling-ups recently.

So, there we have it, a murder had been discovered, all caused by the worm that turned (up) because it rained.

The case was never solved. There was no way of even identifying the body and the perp had probably died years ago. The police were very short of manpower, in fact Joe was working with a skeleton staff so the case was put on the back burner, in Mrs Henry’s new kitchen where it caught fire and…well the good thing was that the worm was innocent this time. He had a secure alibi as he had been eaten by the blackbird.

I wondered about that cat though and I think the dog felt the same because I saw him with a tin of antifreeze soon after the fire.

Oh, and Joe O’Hagan? He’s on school crossing patrol duty in Grosvener Street – looks very smart in his Hi Vis gear.