Followers

Saturday, 18 April 2020

Should we let Bullies win?


Do we let Bullies win?

by Rosemary Clarke

Disease has spread across this plane
but for some lives, it’s just the same
No playground, then Facebook will do
To send the taunts, that undo you
that shred and hurt and cut and tear
And they're not bothered They don't care
It gives them all a sense of power
To rip you apart hour by hour.
And hours go on for days and days
and bullies are with us always.
When this disease has come and gone
will we still let this linger on?
Or will we start to feel, to care,
for EVERYONE who is out there.
Will we then start to make a stand
making England a better land?

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Friday, 17 April 2020

THE SPIDER’S WEB Ch 1


THE SPIDER’S WEB


By Bob French

CHAPTER ONE


    Adrien Benoit stood with the sound engineer in the gods of the conference hall of Le Richemond Hotel, probably the best hotel in Switzerland.  He was dressed in a grubby set of overalls and carried a toolbox which he had borrowed from one of the engineers, now sleeping in a cupboard deep in the basement of the hotel.  Up until five years ago Benoit had been a Sergeant Major in the 2nd Paratroop Regiment of the French Foreign Legion, and with months to go before his discharge, his Commandant had arranged an interview for him. 
     
    Within a few days he had been flown to Lyon in France and been interviewed by the director of the DGSE, the French equivalent of the British MI6.  Benoit felt that he didn’t trust the Director, a man who had Moroccan features.  Since then he had undergone a little training and undertaken several secret missions and was now considered a capable DGSE agent.

    The conference hall started to fill up and he began to recognize several of the dignitaries who made their way to the top table.  His mind went back to the briefing he’d received from Le Director before he was assigned.
   ‘We are informed that certain political parties throughout the world had purchased the services of the Cyber Intelligence Section of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, to fix their voting mechanisms so that during 2019 and 20, those parties who favoured taking direct action to remedy the Climate Change were voted into power.  London and Langley tell us that there is going to be a meeting in Switzerland of some of the leaders who now form the power base behind this new Climate Change Initiative.  The President is very concerned.  I want you to infiltrate the meeting, find out what they are up to and report back to me, and try not to kill anyone.’
    
   The sound engineer sat back as the first speaker started.  He caught Benoit’s eye and nodded towards a set of earphones, then ignored him as he took out a cigarette and stared at his instruments.  Benoit listened as those present began making suggestions at what steps should be taken.  There were a number of suggestions surrounding culling; doctors terminating those over eighty who had any form of illness, or the elimination of all residents in care homes.  No one mentioned the Russian Cyber section’s involvement in their rise to fame.
  Suddenly the sound engineer stood and looked at Benoit, then nodded towards the clock on the wall; it was lunchtime.  Benoit moved to the glass window to watch the exodus of the delegates.  His attention was drawn to two men who, instead of making a rush for the food, had remained seated and were deep in conversation. The bald-headed man seemed to be on edge as he accepted a note from the other man.  He recognised them both as being of a far eastern origin and decided to follow the bald-headed man.

   As Benoit rushed down the back stairs he saw the bald man making for the bank of phones in the foyer. Without looking around, the man slipped into the end booth. Benoit quietly stepped into the next booth.  His grasp of Chinese, from his days in Vietnam, was fair to poor but he recognised Flamenco Restaurant and eight of the clock. Before the man had finished his conversation, Benoit had vanished into the crowd.
  He spent the next three hours studying the restaurant, looking at access and escape points, front and back. When he glanced through the restaurant window, the place looked fairly empty.

  His taxi dropped him off outside the restaurant at seven forty-five and he waited in the shadows for the bald man to arrive.  Whilst he waited he became aware that he was being watched.  He had acquired the feeling before and his senses had never let him down.  He waited in the Shadows until a minute before eight when a taxi pulling up outside the restaurant.  The bald man quickly stepped out and marched into the restaurant without looking back.  Benoit casually walked across the road, glanced in the window, then strolled into the restaurant.  He had seen where the bald man had sat, so when he was asked where he wanted to sit, Benoit told him he would like to sit by the window.  This put him next to the bald man’s table.
   He ordered a drink and waited.  Ten minutes later a squat looking man came in wearing the North Korean lapel badge and made a bee-line for the bald man’s table.  Benoit guessed that the two were not going to speak English so had discretely set up the listening device Philippe, from Q Branch, had given him; A small and very sensitive tape machine that snugly fit into a used packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes that he left discarded on his table.
            He was just finishing his Schnitzel when there was a loud crash; the lights went out; the room quickly filled with a cloud of smoke that stung his eyes.  In the dim light from the street lamps he saw the figure of a very attractive woman quickly step forward, shoot the bald man in the head, lean across, pick up his packet of Lucky Strike, and vanish into the panic of the restaurant.

(To be continued)

Copyright Bob French

rolling haiku day


Earthrise rolling haiku day 17th April 2020.

By Rob Kingston

You may want to offer this up on the blog.

Today is Earthrise rolling haiku day.
The subject is Nurses

The event happens each year around the same date. It’s a collaborative poem. Last year a thousand contributions were made. Not all contributions make the editors cut
The Haiku Foundation is a living blog, created by an American guy named John Stevenson.

The link will take you to the site. Much more exists on the site.
Enjoy.


Hope you are all keeping safe.

Thursday, 16 April 2020

Innocence of Learning


THE INNOCENCE OF LEARNING

by Bob French

Bill Frobisher came through the front door after an exhausting day at the office, reached down to his wife and kissed her lightly on the lips.
               “How was it today darling?”  The expression on his face told her everything. “Won’t be long.  Go and sit down a minute.”
               He put down his briefcase and threw his suit jacket over the banisters; went into the lounge and collapsed onto the sofa and casually thumbed through the day’s post.
               The noise of someone rushing down the stairs brought a smile to his tired face.  Frances rushed into the room, climbed up next to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
               “Hi Daddy, I had a great day at school today.”  He looked up from the bill for the gas and smiled at her.
               “And on your second day at Downhall Primary School, did you meet any new friends?”
               “Of course I did.  There was Mark and James and Amanda.  She is nice and lives down at the end of our street.  Mummy and I walked home with them.”
               “And what did you learn today?”  Showing an interest in his young daughter’s education.
               “Lots of things Daddy.”  She was about to launch into what she had learnt when a voice called from the kitchen.
                “Be ready in a few minutes.”  Without another work they both lept off the sofa and rushed toward the downstairs bathroom together, pushing, shoving and laughing at each other.  Hands washed they sat down to dinner.
               Frances started to talk about some of the things she had done in school that day, then suddenly stopped.   “Daddy, where does poo come from?”
               There was a pause as the question sunk in and her parents exchanged a wide-eyed look of disbelief.
               “Well dear. Um, who told you about poo?”
               “My teacher.”
               “Well you know when you eat something, the food goes into your tummy.  Well your tummy acts like a machine.  It takes all the goodness out of the food, then what is left over comes out of your bottom when you go to the toilet.”
               His wife looked at her daughter’s face seeing that she was struggling with the explanation.
               “The stuff that goes into the toilet we call poo.”
               Frances sat there wide-eyed and shocked. She stared at them both for about a minute or two, then turned to her father and asked.
               “So what about Piglet and Tigger?”


Copyright Bob French

Can't escape your age


There’s no Escaping Age.

By Sis Unsworth

Why is it when they say my age, it makes me feel so mad?
For I am independent, you think they would be glad.
My families so protective, they never let me be,
I wish I could escape from them and just have one day free.

They always talk about me, like I wasn’t there,
they also start to panic if I go near to a stair.
I know my legs are not that strong they wobble now and then,
But if I do fall over, they pick me up again.

However, I am kept with them because I’m of an age,
I really want to venture out and make the world my stage.
I’d love to go out on my own, and wander for a bit,
the other day I did escape and they near had a fit!

When they treat me like a baby, it puts me in a rage,
One day I hope they realise and appreciate my age.
It makes me so impatient but there’s nothing I can do,
They even tuck me in at night and take me to the loo.

When I go in the garden they watch that I don’t fall
but I know there’s a step out there, just by a hard brick wall.
They even think that I can’t wipe my own food off my face.
I find it so embarrassing it is a real disgrace.

The other day they told me off and said I shouldn’t moan
But they can turn the telly on, and they’re always on the phone.
The way they often treat me, I hear some children laugh,
I’m not a little baby, I’m almost two & a half!

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Bat out of Hell


Bat out of Hell

By Janet Baldey

‘You was such a lovely baby.   Ever’one said so.  Wasn’t just me.’
He stood on the threshold, his hand tightening on the doorknob.   His heart sank as he clocked the empty gin bottle by the side of her chair.   Behind, the night beckoned; escape was still possible but he shook his head and sighed clawing his stringy hair away from his eyes.   It was too late for that and besides, he was hungry.   His stomach growled in agreement.
‘Hi Ma’.
‘So purty’.   His mother stroked the picture, its surface dulled after many such caresses.   She looked up and pointed a finger, yellow-tipped with thickened nail. ‘What went wrong boy?’   Her voice shrilled and there was a mean look in her eyes that shrivelled his core and the huddle of cats in her lap stirred.
Life, he thought, life is what went wrong. 
‘Kids grow up Ma.  They don’t stay rosy-cheeked babes forever’.   He was mumbling but it made no odds, she wasn’t listening – always deaf to stuff she didn’t want to hear.   He lumbered towards the kitchen.   Looked like he’d be getting his own supper tonight.
         He reached for the skillet and cracked in eggs, one by one staring down at them until the yolks hardened and their whites shrivelled to a lacy brown frill.    His appetite had vanished and he scraped the leathery mess into the swill bucket.
         Shoulders hunched, he stood thinking of the good times, vanished forever now.  His mother’s kiss as she tucked him into bed.   Velvet, like a moth’s wing, it brushed his cheek just as he was spiralling into sleep.   When mornin’ came his Ma’d hum softly, combing his hair, holding up one shining strand after another.   ‘Jus like gold….pure gold’.   They had so many photos took.   Just them two, him staring wide-eyed into the lens and her layin’ her cheek against his head.
She’d such plans, he remembered that.   ‘My Jake – he’s going to be a doctor, for sure.   Or a lawyer, maybe.   He’s so sharp.’
         But book larnin’ didn’t come easyand no matter how he tried he was most always bottom of the class.   She took it well at first.   ‘Never mind boy, you keep at it, you’ll get there’.   Later, she swore his teacher had a down on him.   ‘She’s so jealous boy.   It’s ‘cause you’re so beautiful.’
         When he hit puberty the light finally went out of her eyes.  His soft hair dulled to a coarse brown and scarlet zits popped out of his skin.    Worst of all, he stopped growin’.  Kids who’d been smaller sprouted and on the way up they took delight in taunting him.   Soon ‘shorty’ was the kindest thing he was called and he started to eat far too much even though his Ma was no cook.   ‘Lardass’ soon took the place of ‘shorty’ as the insult of choice.
         It was then, his mother got her first cat.   Black as ink, she called it Satan and just as she had Jake’s hair, she brushed its fur morning and evening.   She took down pictures of him and put up pictures of Satan instead. When Jake failed his third interview, she jus’ gave him a look and got another cat. She had six now.   The house smelled but his Ma paid no mind.  Cats didn’t grow fat and ugly. 
         At last he got lucky.    Him and office work didn’t get on but he liked tinkering with cars and got a job, cleaning em. While valeting, he watched the mechanics work and when one quit, he spoke out.  
‘Ah kin do that, Mister Brady.’
         ‘You sure, son?’
 The garage owner barked a laugh and trialled him one week.
 Jake laboured happy as a hog in muck, arriving home black as Ma’s cat.   Of course, she hollered but stopped when he slapped money on the table.
Soon after, he met the love of his life.  Shrouded under a tarpaulin, she sat abandoned but peering underneath, he realized what she was despite her peeling paint and pitted chrome.  A vintage Harley.   Wow! A few dollars and she was his.
 After months of work, her chrome gleamed and her fuselage stole the red from the setting sun.  When he turned the key, her engine growled her power although he never let her have full rein.   Riding her, he felt seven-foot-tall, loving the feel of wind on his cheeks.
Suddenly his dejection vanished; he’d take Lady out for a spin. He turned and strode across the room.  Immediately his mother rose, a black hole appearing in the middle of her face.
‘Useless, lazy good fer nothing.  Why did I bother?  You ruined ma life.   Ah, could have been a singer.’ 
The usual heard so often.   Then, something else.
‘You even killed your Daddy, you piece of shit’.
He froze.   Had he?  She’d voiced his worst nightmare.  He’d loved his Daddy.  A boy of eight rising nine, he’d been kicking a ball in the yard.   The sound of shattered glass and his Daddy came running, face bright red, deepening to purple as he clutched his chest and keeled over.
Hot tears blinded him as he ran through the door and out to the shed where he hurled himself onto Lady and roared into the night onto frostbitten roads shining under a canopy of stars.    Pitting his voice against the wind and the blatting engine, he bawled out the words of his favourite song.
‘The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling way down in the valley tonight……’
He felt bad.  So bad.  He hadn’t meant to kill his Daddy and Lady didn’t deserve what was coming but there was no other way.   Jamming his hands hard on the throttle, like bats out of Hell they screamed down the icy hill.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Wednesday, 15 April 2020

Santorini 2018


Connection 


(Santorini 2018)
                                          
By Dawn Van Win



With shining souls and heartfelt joy
A group of girls and just one boy
Did meet in fairest Santorini
To practice with two wise yogini


Exploring Truths and wisdom deep
With nourishing food and restorative sleep
All simple, natural pleasures these
Beneath the fig and olive trees


With breath of Joy and Lion and Fire
Our practice moving ever higher
Asanas, Pranayama too
Brought growthful insights rising through


The kinship of these lovely folk
With heartfelt words and gentle jokes
All adding to a week sublime
Connecting souls to the Divine


Copyright Dawn Van Win