Scenes of Autumn

The darkness expands, consumes the day.

Cloud low on the hill, wraiths in the trees.

Aspens tremble in the piercing winds,

sycamore first to shed its leaves

Trees unbutton ready for storms.

Twigs let fly leaves into the wind to

a fiery death on the forest floor, or

slicking the wet road, skids on the line

Make much mulch with the mudding earth

The warmth awakens the early spring bulbs.

Catkins exposed on naked trees,

spring is ready, but winter comes first

Starlings flock in many murmurations.

They wheel and swoop through the sky,

await the signal to leave these shores.

Empty cold wires, swallows all flown.

Children in wellies and warm winter woolies

gambol in parks like early spring lambs.

Squadrons of parents cluster to chat,

coated and scarfed ‘gainst the westerly wind 

Puddles in gutters reflect the weather,

Nested in potholes, wets the walkers boots.

Cyclists pedal, their lives on the line

Buses hide people behind steamy windows

Frontier between summer and winter

Insulates summer’s warmth from winter’s cold.

Too cold for summer, too warm for winter

My favourite season, Autumn.

Council cuts

‘Dear Mr Scott, I 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 filbert - s

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’ve even sold 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.’

*

This news hit Gilbert very badly

He looked at his hazel bushes - sadly

He thought it unlikely, with no conviction,

Surely the council would not use eviction?

Where could he go, what could he grow

Hazel grows so very slow, you know.

Could he have another plot?

He asked the council, could they allot?

‘We have no land, no plots to spare

I know it isn’t very fair

But you should see our waiting list

You should have a lobbyist.’

Gilbert had to change his plan

he had an idea, he knew a man

At the zoo, just down the hill

They were always looking for his skill

The animals were counted every night

But the birds were difficult, when in flight

So that’s why Gilbert, a polymath

is counting parrots along the flight path.

The council is in private session

Alderman Smith had a confession.

‘We have to close the zoo,’ he said.

‘There, I’ve said it, I’ve made my bed.

Why should a council own a zoo?

It always loses money too.

Those pesky parrots make a noise

Though they are pretty, all turquoise.

We will save a hefty sum.’

He thought a bit and sucked his thumb…

‘Gilbert Scott will lose his job,

That will save us quite a few bob.

Why is Gilbert counting parrots?

What brought him in, what were the carrots?

Did he only need the money,

to live his life with milk and honey?

So they sacked poor Gilbert S.,

No more dreams of growing filbert - s

They sold the zoo, elephants and rats,

Now it’s just a block of flats.

Then Gilbert had a great insight

He would plant his trees at night

He collected all his nutty stocks

Planted them out, emptied his box

Now walk and see the hazel trees

Waving gently in the breeze

and marvel at the name they’ve got:

Gilbert Scott has got his plot.

This story was written as a submission for the Special LOVE edition publication on the WordBohemia web site.

http://wordbohemia.co.uk/            or             https://www.facebook.com/groups/wordbohemia/

The Flame

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.

I feel sad

I feel sad

I do not feel miserable, morose, melancholic, mournful or miserable.

I do not feel downhearted, depressed, despondent, downcast or doleful.

I do not feel unhappy, miserable, wretched, glum, gloomy, forelorn or heartbroken.

I feel sad.

that many are hungry in our world,

that there are too many people for our world

that soils and plants, insects and birds, seas and fish, and other animals, are dying for us

I feel sad

that education hasn’t yet rid us of the evil nonsense that is religion

that people die fighting, even with their imaginary friends in the sky on their side

that human intelligence hasn’t yet defeated superstition

I feel sad

that I did not educate myself earlier in life

that there are so many wonders that I do not have time to learn about

that I am not clever enough to understand the universe.

I feel sad

for the child born today that will die tomorrow

for the mother who watches her child die without food

for our greed in not sharing our plenty with those in need.

I feel sad

that women of the world do not control their lives

that women do not more run the world

that women do not have equality with men

I feel sad

that we still make war instead of talk

that we send our young people to kill and die

that they fight because our leaders always fail us

I feel sad

that clever people don’t know how to make things better

that we do not cherish our precious planet

that we will learn how, too late

I feel sad

that I am not leaving the world a better place

that I have been too selfish to help others

that I have not been what perhaps I could have been

I feel sad

that the world has not improved during my life time

that we are not better at cooperating

that the small gains I see are not enough

I feel sad

that the hope we saw in 1945 has been dimmed

that the ‘war to end all wars’ - didn’t

that we never learn from history

I feel hope

that education is improving

that religion and ignorance is retreating

that science is becoming better understood

I feel hope

that women of the world are demanding education

that all the male religions are in decline

that woment will refuse to give their children up to war

I feel hope

because the ‘starving millions’ are fewer each year

because there is food enough to feed us all, if we want it enough

because we are starting to share our riches

I feel hope

because my children are better educated than me

because my children have no time for religion

because my children are better people than me

I feel sad

for the past

I feel hope

for the future

A Sonnet

Ambrosia

Shall I compare thee to a can of rice                                            

Round of body but top and base conflate:                                              

Financial storms inflate the bogof price,                                      

Anne Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:   

                 

Sometime too hard the might of Tesco strike,                             

And oft his gold ramps up the price                                            

as every fair trade cost from far oft places spike:                        

By chance or corporate plans change to gneiss

                             

But thy internal dessert shall not decay,                                      

Nor lose possession of that fair trade thou must;                         

Nor shall Death erode and change day to day                             

When time advances, to sell by or change to rust                        

So long as men can breathe, or palate can taste                           

So long lives this, not set to fall to waste

Christmas poem

'Twas the night before Christmas when in the depths of the house,

A creature was stirring and it wasn't a mouse;

A burglar had climbed through the window with care,

and gently put down a first foot on the stair.

He transferred his weight to test for a squeak.

The stair took his weight and didn’t complain.

All going well so he stepped up again.

Butch licked his hand, no guard dog him!

He carried on up, found his way in the glim,

the pale moon highlighting his massive physique

Old missus Thered, her instinct aware,

Had thought that she heard a tread on the stair.

‘Perhaps rain on the tiles?’ ‘That’s no rain, I’m clear.

Randolph Thered knows rain, dear,’

said her spouse, quietly. ‘Just listen, don’t speak.’

‘Hark,’ she whispered, ‘that sound on the roof,

could it be, can it be, is that a click of a hoof?’

He pushed back the blanket, no duvet for them.

Foot caught in the sheet, snagged in the hem.

He fell out of bed, he looked such a freak.

He turned himself over, looked up from the floor,

Who is this slowly opening the door?

‘Don’t make a sound, the children will hear,

They are so excited now that Christmas is near’

Said Randolf, before the stranger could speak.

‘What’s going on, you’re using the staircase?

You’ll miss your sherry we put in the fireplace

With your load of presents in that big sack,

shouldn’t you  be climbing down the chimney stack?

The children might see and think you’ve a cheek.’

‘I arrived on my sleigh,’ the big Santa said.

‘And there was a bird, searching for a bed.

Tonight your neighbours are due a new baby

The stork is asleep on your chimney, a bird B and B.

She bunged up your flue in a scorched fit of pique.

Ho, Ho, Ho, Happy Christmas.

Shampooing my geranium

I’ve just got back from holiday in sunny Herculaneum.

cycled across Europe on my bike made of titanium.

First I tried to make it from a type of cheap uranium,

looked it up and found that it is called actinouranium.

The tubes turned out too heavy and changed into plutonium

So giving me a headache at the back of my pericranium

Had to change from aspirin to a big dose of succedaneum

This quickly cured the pain so I shampooed my geranium.

Rufus

It’s hot in the sun but cold on the ice

The water is wet but drier is nice

The wind it blows, sometimes high, often low

Rain is not common but we always have snow

Sometimes I eat penguin, other times seal,

penguin’s ok but seal is more real

I like the Ant’ but Arctic is wetter

South is too far so I like North better

I wanted another but one cub is fine,

easy to feed and then keep in line.

Spring is the time that we leave our lair

pause digging out, sniffing the air.

Often I’m good but sometimes I’m bad

Sometimes I’m happy, other times sad

Warm in my white fur that many call hair

Hi there, I’m Rufus, the bipolar bear

Going to war in 1917

In Felixstowe Camp, waiting to go

Here since the call-up, what do we know

of the war, how’s it all going?

Winning or losing, no way of knowing.

‘But I need to go, to do my bit.’

The war has been running for three long years

Rumours we’re leaving, I prick up my ears.

We train with the signal lamp, morse is our friend

as we trim the wick and learn how to send

signals ‘cross mountains, received in a blink

We travel through Europe by ship and by train

Sun in the valley, snow on the plain.

I list in my diary the places we pass,

more than four days just sat on my arse.

The flowers and vineyards are all new to us.

We’re getting so close, nearing the fighting

‘Will I be up to it, is it exciting?

Will I stand up, as strong as my mates?

Waiting and fearing, what is my fate?

What is to come, how bad will it be? 

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.

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.’

The chimney

The chimney

The first little pig built me from straw.

He realised me quickly, I soon felt tall.

The material was cheap, soon thatched together

Everyone was happy, I kept out the weather.

The second little pig built me from wood

He put me together with bright shiny nails

Wooden planks roamed all over the roof

Hammered down with the little pig’s hoof.

The third little pig built me from bricks

She built me strongly so I would stay

in place on the roof in spite of the wind,

that the wolf blew and could not rescind.

The moral of this story, children, has to be

When you want a strong chimney, always choose she.

What I ate when I was five.

Special treats allowed on Sunday afternoons.

     ‘What would you like children?’

     ‘Sugar sandwiches for tea please Mum.’

Thin bread, thin spread, bread and scrape – end of month.

Sprinkle sugar, press it in, add the lid slice, squeeze.

Cut in half, bring to mouth, inhale the smell of gritty

sugar granules against the teeth.

Salivared sweetness liquids through to the taste.

Sweet to child.

Cheap to Mum,

at the end of the month.

Soon no teeth at the ends of the mouth.

The incoming tide

It was quiet, dark, no flow, all calm

It started early with a trickle, the flow increased

Then it was a flood, many bores

 surge caught on snags and

channels became blocked, impatience rained.

Up the Portway, under the bridge, into the city

Different routes found, diversions abound

Slowly, the dams broke and cleared

Dry, empty pools filled, basements soon choked..

 The levels rose higher

The current lessened, it was high tide.

Bristolians now at work.