THE CHALLENGE

Peter Woodgate 

It stands before me

A challenge to end all challenges.

Where do I begin?

How do I tackle the immense task ahead?

I see several openings

Each leading to a fresh challenge.

A steep slope spirals upward

And I glimpse yet other openings.

I see a well but my throat remains dry,

The task is daunting,

Energy sapping,

Soul destroying,

Time consuming

And costly.

 

I slump down and close my eyes

And let my mind wander.

I need to breakthrough

The walls of resistance,

Open the doors of expectancy,

Climb the stairway of fulfilment

In order to reach my goal.

 

I clear my mind

Of negative distractions

And see it framed

In all its glory.

Magnificent colours edged with white

Rising from the lush ground underneath

To a sumptuous sky

Where twinkling lights burst forth

From beautiful roses.

 

I sigh with satisfaction

The task complete

 

Then recognize the sound of heavy feet

A voice booms out and I hear it bawl

Wake up you’ve got to decorate the hall.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

Followin’ Bird

By Janet Baldey

The older I get the more the past overshadows the present, particularly when I sleep. Then my dreams, a cinema-show of memories, are so clear and vivid they exhaust me which is probably why I nap during the day. True to form, suddenly tired I close my eyes only to wake and find my bed swaying underneath me. I see a ripple of reflected, water flickering on polished wood and remember where I am. I’m back in the past again but not in London facing a draining tube journey as I battle my way to work;  I’m in Leigh on Sea on the barge my father built, ‘Followin’ Bird,’ affectionately known as ‘Bird’.

         This is his second and most loved home. Not luxurious, just one big room divided into compartments but my father knows how to make things comfortable and we have all we need. A small galley, living space with a wood-burning stove, bathroom and two bedrooms. A cosy retreat for all seasons. After the madness that is London it promises peace; although perhaps not today.  I look at the calendar, August Bank Holiday and last nights’ forecast promised a high summers’ day with temperatures in the early 30’s.  It’s quiet at the moment but very soon a steady stream of trains from Fenchurch Street will slide into Leigh Station and disgorge load after load of day trippers all anxious to escape the heat of London and make the most of the sea breeze. But we don’t mind.  In old Leigh the High Street and Strand Wharf will be a moving river of bodies and the local pubs will be packed but we’ll lunch on board and raise our mugs in a silent toast to ‘Bird’, glad to have a refuge from the crowd.

         My favourite month to be in Leigh is October with its clinging early mists that often herald fine days. October in Leigh is when a magical thing happens.  The Brent geese arrive, and I shall always remember one very special morning when there was no mist and the air was already warm.   I decided to drink my morning cuppa on deck and as I sipped my tea and thought of nothing, I stared into the distance, past the yachts, with their masts at odd angles, lying at anchor on the mud, towards the horizon where a black line separated the sky from the sea. As I watched, the line thickened and very soon a dark stain was spreading towards us.  I felt my heart beat faster.  Dad must see this.  I turned towards the hatchway.

         “Dad,” I called. “The geese are coming.”

         I heard the scramble of movement from inside the barge and a few seconds later up he popped like a genie out of a bottle. He raised his glasses towards the moving cloud and I knew that he was smiling although most of his face was obscured by binoculars and beard.

         “Here, they come.” He announced. “I thought it might be today.  You can almost set your watch by them.”

         We stood and watched the weary flock gliding towards the water. At last, after flying over 2,500 miles, all the way from Siberia deep within the Arctic Circle, braving icy storms and wild seas on their way, they had reached their overwintering grounds. Here, at Leigh on Sea, they would spend the next few months fattening up on Eelgrass before heading off again around February time, after stripping the estuary bare of their favourite food.  Small (about the size of a large mallard) brown and tough was how my father described them, and though they certainly needed to be.

         After a while we descended for breakfast knowing that as the sea filled the estuary, the tide would bring them in by the hundreds. By nightfall, our barge would be surrounded by sturdy feathered bodies bobbing on the waves and we’d retire lulled by the sound of their contented chuckling.  In fact, that sound, the gossip of the geese, turned out to be one of my fondest memories and when they deserted us in early spring, they left behind an eerie silence.

         Of course, Followin Bird has long gone now and I haven’t visited Leigh for years.  I’m told that the numbers of Brent geese visiting our shores has drastically reduced. The effects of global warming, loss of habitat, the incursion of man – the sad litany of life these days - is taking its toll. It saddens me to think that the best years are passed and I wish it wasn’t so. Although my memory only stretches from early this century, back then in good years, the flocks were so big they seemed like froth on the water. But even then their numbers fluctuated. We were told, by a member of the RSPB, that if the lemming harvest failed, for reasons unknown, the Arctic foxes and owls would turn to goslings to supplement their diet, with catastrophic results for the flock.  I know next to nothing about lemmings, no doubt they are nice enough little animals, but each year I used to hope they’d sacrifice their lives for the sake of the Brent geese.

         I awake with a start, into the real world this time; someone is knocking at my door. It can only be my carer, coming to check that I‘m still alive. One day I won’t be and although my head tells me it’s impossible, there is an insistent whisper coming from the region of my heart. What if, it murmurs; when your soul leaves your body you are transported to the place where you were happiest? If that were the case, I’d go to Leigh.  I’d take flight with the geese to the Siberian tundra and spend its brief summer surrounded by wildflowers and glistening pools of water. My father would also be there and once more we’d stand side by side and listen to the burble of the geese.

Copyright Janet Baldey

          I am told that over the past twelve years their numbers have been steadily declining, but certainly when we were there, in the early 2,000’s, the sea would froth with them.

 

Changes

by Rosemary Clarke

You cannot move, you have to stay
all the rest is bleak and grey.
You paint it up, you sand the doors
always knowing it isn't yours.
You cut the grass, spruce up the place,
for someone else to take your place.

You dare not love, you dare not feel
because you know it isn't real.
I'll never be happy, I'll never be free,
So life is really over for me.

My neighbour said 'Now don't lose heart’
and she is right, I'll make a start.
Paint the walls purple, doors in cream;
a lovely vibrant colour scheme.

Bleach the floors, the windows too
This place is really coming through!
Seems bigger now more room, more space
Yet nothings really left the place.

I've room to breathe and room to care
for the first time I feel 'I'm there'.
And all it took some paint, some soap
I've really acted quite the dope.
Believing all is bleak and then
with care, the place is alive again!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 A Life in Balance

By Len Morgan

With a delicate push, he launched the model glider into a gentle breeze, aiming it towards the far corner of the field.   He watched as it looped then stopped in mid-air.   Its nose dropped and it began to fall.  Then as it picked up speed it started to soar once more.   It looped three times before landing undamaged in the tall grass.

“It’s stalling; we need to add more weight to the nose,” said Papa.

Moments later James tried again.   This time the glider nose-dived into the ground crashing harmlessly into the long grass stalks. 

“Always do your test flights over long grass, it cushions the landing,” said Papa.

James smiled and ran twenty yards to gather up his glider, a sixth birthday gift from Papa.  He returned proudly clasping it to his chest.

“If you hold it too tightly you will crush it,” Papa warned.

He adjusted his hold on the balsa, doped tissue, and string construction.

“Maybe we added too much weight at the nose.  Possibly the angle of incidence between the wings and fuselage needs adjusting, then there’s a third alternative, we could add a little more weight at the tail to put it in balance.   Should we try that first?” Papa asked.

James smiled and nodded.

Moments later his heart soared as he watched it glide fifty yards, over and beyond the boundary fence and continue on straight and true into the next field. When he turned Papa was kneeling, at his level, and beckoning him. He threw his arms about Papa’s neck and squeezed.

“When I was your age, your Grandpa gave me this medallion.”

 James looked at the disc his father was holding.  It had a cross on one side and a man with a stave, carrying a child on the other.

“It’s St Christopher he is the patron saint of traveller’s.”    He placed it around James’s neck, “It will keep you safe,” he said.

.-…-.

Papa had been a commercial pilot.  Twenty years later James was following in his footsteps...

“Wake up Captain, there’s a storm front heading our way.”

James fingered his St Christopher, remembering that six months after giving it to him Papa had died in a plane crash, and a spark had been extinguished in his heart, that had never been rekindled.   James often wondered, If he'd refused the medallion, would Papa still be alive?

His co-pilot shook him gently. "Captain?"   
James opened his eyes, “I'm with you Simon,” he gratefully accepted a wake-up mug of tea. 

“Drink it fast, I've climbed to twenty-nine thousand feet but we can’t get above it, and it’s too wide to go around.   So, were going to have to fly through it, unless you’d prefer to head back?”

 James tapped a gauge.  “Not enough fuel for that, guess we go on.”  He put down the empty mug and took over the controls.   “Tell the passengers to fasten their seat belts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

.-…-.

He peered through the heavy rain clouds as the turbulence increased.  Half an hour later they were in the throes of a full-blown storm.   Forked lightning, torrential rain, and winds over seventy miles an hour buffeted the small 8 seater twin turbojet.  It was never built to withstand such punishment.  Multiple lightning strikes took out the port engine and twenty minutes later the starboard engine caught fire and had to be feathered.  The only light now was from the instrument panel and battery-powered lights 

His St Christopher hung in front of his face and he realised despite the darkness that they were going down.   They were losing height rapidly; they were already below ten thousand feet.  

“We’re going to die, Captain,” Simon whispered in a calm matter of fact voice.

“Maybe,” said James.  “Get the passengers to the rear; this crate is a tad nose heavy.   Do it, Simon!”   The urgency in his voice galvanized his co-pilot into action.   The plane was still falling but its dive levelled off with the redistribution of weight.   At four thousand feet they dipped beneath the storm.

“Is there anything else I can do,” Simon asked?

“Yes, get to the rear and make sure they are as far back as they can go.”

  The aircraft had become a glider.  He levelled off at two thousand feet and set the craft into a shallow glide.   He looked down, there was water below, but their speed was still 200mph.   There was land on the starboard.   He thought quickly, hitting the water at over 100 mph would be like hitting a brick wall; they had to go inland find a landing strip or a road.   He edged the craft towards land, trying to recall the area.   Radio communication had been their first casualty, no help there, he thought.

Just five minutes later they were down to five hundred feet but there was land below.   He activated the landing gear.  Nothing happened, all the electrics were out.

“Simon?  He yelled.   “Do you recall which crops were growing along this strip of coast on our trip down?”

“Mostly maize Captain, It’s early September, so it will be near to harvesting,” Simon yelled from the rear of the craft. 

 He waggled gently to one side and saw the rolling maize fields below.

“Thank you for showing me the way Papa,” he whispered.   “We’re going down, roll into a ball and cover your heads.”

Moments later, he heard scraping on the undercarriage and they slid forever before coming to rest.   I'm alive, he thought, “We made it!   Is anybody hurt?”

"A few bruises, and a suspected broken arm, but nothing serious, thank God,” said the co-pilot.

Suddenly he knew, it wasn't a medallion that had saved their lives, it was knowledge.  He knew then without a doubt, that Papa would be here now if his crash had been avoidable.  James had not been responsible for his death.  He felt all the guilt and uncertainty in his heart-lifting, blown away by the storm.  For the first time in ten years, he felt his conscience was clear and his life was in balance.

Copyright Len Morgan

 

SHADES OF FABRICATION

By Peter Woodgate 

Business colours

disguised as team shirts

worn by players

who, with one swift kick

of the Nike boot, earn

the equivalent

of one year’s labour.

 

Brain cells educated,

by the advertisements,

having us believing

costly is excellence.

 

Side by side,

on the rail,

in the charity shop,

Versace and Winfield

are equal in the eyes

as they pass through the fingers

of the one who relies,

on simple tog value.  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 THE TABLE

 by Richard Banks                                                  

We bought it in Willards, the big furniture shop that used to be in Walthamstow High Street. We were only window shopping. Our wedding wasn't for another three months, too early to be getting stuff now but the salesman was persuasive, as salesmen often are, and when he offered us a discount and delivery two weeks after the big day how could we say no. It was solid pine, he said, would last a lifetime, and so it did. To tell you the truth we should never have bought it; it was too big. We should have settled for the fold-down, occasional table that Aunty Bess was going to give us. However, the deal was struck and two days after the honeymoon we took delivery of a six-seater kitchen table that, for some reason, or maybe no reason at all, came with seven chairs.

         How all this was to be fitted into the kitchen diner of our small flat became the first challenge of our married life. It was also the cause of our first quarrel. How was a table, seven chairs, plus two armchairs, a settee, cupboard and TV to fit into a room eleven foot by nine? The answer, according to Jenny, was that they couldn't, something had to go, and as usual, she was right. The next day we donated the armchairs back to the charity shop from whence they came and offloaded three of the chairs into the safekeeping of my parents. With the table shifted back against the wall an uninterrupted corridor of floor space opened up allowing us to make the necessary journeys about our flat while at all times maintaining contact with the carpet.        

         Problem over we now established a modus operandi which made full and frequent use of the table. In addition to being the place where we ate our meals, it became, with the addition of a blanket, an ironing board and, without said blanket, a card table, a writing desk and the 'seat of learning' at which I studied for my accountancy exams. In a moment of passion, we even made love on it, an erotic, if bruising, experience that may have resulted in the birth of our first child. The addition of a cot and pram into our limited living space finally persuaded me to commit to a mortgage and we moved into a seven-room semi which not only had a separate kitchen but lounge and dining rooms too. Our table could now stand centre stage, as intended, with all seven chairs around it.

         Over the next three years, two more children were born and their increasingly mobile explorations of the house became an ever-present danger both to themselves and the many floor-standing objects in their way. The solid wood construction of the table presented them with a particular challenge and when Johnny found that head butting its yellow legs was an unequal contest causing damaging to his forehead he enacted his revenge with a metal Matchbox toy that removed a narrow sliver of wood. Not to be outdone, brother Michael inflicted two dents of his own while, four years later, Lizzie first expressed her artistic talents by daubing the tabletop with white paint from an unattended tin of emulsion.

         But at last, the table became what it was intended to be, a place where a family ate together, talked, laughed and occasionally fell out. Other families ate their meals around the TV, not us. Jenny's restaurant extended no further than the table and no one was going to miss out on her cooking. The table also became the place where, at breakfast, letters were opened and the news within, when suitable for inquisitive ears, was shared and discussed. The news was invariably good: invitations to parties, birthday cards, a letter from ERNIE, news of examinations passed and a few that weren't. The kids were clever. Throughout their school days, they worked hard, did well. It was in the genes, I said; with a Mum and Dad like us how could they go wrong, and up to now they haven't.

         Johnny passed his A levels and went to Durham University. He was the first of our brood to venture from home, to be followed by Michael who opted for teacher training at Durham. With Johnny graduated and back at home it was now time for Lizzie to leave for art college. Thank goodness for the summer holidays and the chance to reunite around the table.

         On an August evening with the five of us sipping coffee at the end of dinner, Jenny told us her bad news. It was cancer she said, but so what, they [the hospital] had caught it early, at least early enough. After chemo she would be fine, no one was to fuss. Twelve months later she was in remission and we celebrated with another family meal at which champagne was drunk and never more enjoyed.

         But the times they were a-changing and this was the last time that all five of us would be together. Johnny married and moved to the States, Michael fed up with commuting into London rented a flat in Deptford while Lizzie, on the completion of her course, was offered and accepted a job with the Manchester Arts' Council. It was hard not to be sad but a worse sadness was to come. Jenny's cancer was back and this time there was no stopping it. On the day before the funeral, I had her coffin brought from the undertakers and placed on the table that had been an ever-present
witness to our life together.

         The memories it now stirs are mainly happy ones but no one shouldn't live on memories. Life is about the here and now, which is why I'm giving the table to the young couple down the road. They have memories of their own to make, and good memories require a good table.   

 

 Copyright Richard Banks

Books I’ve Read No. 05

 

Books I’ve Read No. 5

By Len Morgan

I randomly picked up a book in Waterstones.  I let it fall open and started reading.  Five minutes later I was £8.99 poorer but the book was mine!

Natalie Goldberg – Wild Mind 

The small piece I read described perfectly how I feel about writing but haven’t been able to put into words.  This I will attempt to describe.

 

Her first chapter gave her rules for writing and, it seems, for life:-

 

1. Keep your hand moving.
2. Be Specific.
3. Lose control.
4. Don’t think.
5. Secondary thoughts:

• Forget about spelling, grammar & punctuation.
• Write the worst junk in the world.
• Go for the jugular.

 

 

From chapter two on, she has a section (short section) – called Try this:

Followed by simple exercises for would-be writers:

Try this:

Write for ten minutes on each of the following:-

1. (a) I remember.  (b) I don’t remember.
2. (a) I know.         (b) I don’t know.
3. (a) Thinking of.   (b) Not thinking of.
4. (a) I want.          (b) I don’t want.
5. (a) I feel.            (b) I don’t feel

Warming up your mind, stretching your mind, opening up hidden places.

The rest of the book was not disappointing, it made me aware of ‘Monkey mind’  ‘The critical Mind’  &  ‘self-censorship’ that little voice in the back of your mind that says: You can't write that!  ~  Well, you can & will!

 I will say no more; don’t want to spoil the experience for you. 

If you like the idea I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. I highly recommend it.

Len Morgan