Nuts & The Stranger

 

NUTS

by Rosemary Clarke

Nuts are good for you so I am told.
They're sweet and they're crunchy and never grow old.
We've put them in cakes or have eaten them raw
They come out at Christmas, and then we want more.
We don't eat enough of them
Of that it is true.
I can't see why, when nuts are so good for you.
P.S. and raisins.

 

THE STRANGER

by Rosemary Clarke

Spiders webs with spiders all over the place
Tangling my hair, covering my face
The room is darkened and covered in gore
I didn't know, now I won't live here no more.
Go out in the sunlight, live once again
No matter the trouble, no matter the pain.
Just keep forging onward that's all I can see
Then finally I'll find the stranger called 'ME'.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

WHY?

Peter Woodgate 

He looked around at life

that stuttered meaningless,

from day today.

 

He watched the news on TV

saw inhumanities

and heard what politicians had to say.

 

He looked at mighty mountains

at wooded valleys

and seas that ebbed and flowed.

 

At natural disasters

unhappiness within the world

and points of light that glowed.

 

He witnessed birth

experienced death

saw arms raised to the sky.

 

He read the mighty word of God

the contradictions raised

and wondered WHY?  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate  

 

A Hard Life

by Janet Baldey

“Between Tesco’s and the station, that’s where you’ll find me. Riding the pavement from dawn till dusk.  It’s a good pitch, the best. You get a steady stream of shoppers raiding Tesco’s and later there's party goers back from an evening in Town.  But it’s a hard being me.  I thought of getting meself a dog, for company as well as the sympathy vote, but I wouldn’t wish my life on any animal. For starters, it’d have to put up with the verbal abuse. Not that it bothers me, I’m used to it.  It was my lullaby when I was a kid. There’s nothing folk can say to me that I haven’t heard before.

 Have you ever been lonely?   I don’t mean like if your family are away for a bit, or you’re on your tod in a strange town -  I mean really lonely.  Like when you know no-one in this world gives a toss about you.  You could die in your sleep and no-one would care, or even notice, except they would because the pavements have to be kept clear of dead bodies, ‘cos it would never do to have commuters tripping over them.  

Sometimes I watch little kids going in and out of the supermarket, clutching their Mum’s hand or swaying on their Dad’s shoulders and feel I could kill for a childhood like that.  My mum never loved me. Not in the slightest.  I often wonder why she never got some pills and flushed me down the toilet when she first realised she was up the duff.   Too stoned, I suppose, or drunk, and eventually I popped out of her fanny. 

         My gran took care of me.   She loved me – when I was little she used to take me to the park to feed the ducks, only I didn’t understand and ate the bread meself.    

‘No, lovie, that’s for them fellas over there, the ones with the feathers.’   Then, she’d roar with laughter and give me a hug.

 Sometimes we made gingerbread together. I mixed the ginger in with the flour and when she’d rolled out the mixture, I cut out shapes of little men.  Lovely, they were. We ate them straight out of the oven, warm and crumbly they melted in yer mouth. I remember their taste and me mouth fills with water.  Yeah.   My gran loved me.   Although sometimes she’d cry and stroke my hair and call me her ‘poor little lamb’, but she’d never say why although, looking back, I think she knew. Then, she died and left me all alone.

 I lived with Mum afterwards.  At first, I didn’t understand why Gran wasn’t there and kept crying for her. Mum use to yell at me, said I was getting on her nerves.  She’d throw me in a bedroom and lock the door.

There was a constant stream of men coming in and out but I never knew their names.  I reckon Mum didn’t know either ‘cuz she told me to call them all ‘Uncle’.  When there was a special ‘Uncle’ expected, Mum didn’t want to let on she had a kid so she shut me in the cellar.  It was pitch black and I was terrified at first.  Later though, I got used to it, at least no-one screamed or hit me down there.

         I was always hungry but it was easy to scavenge in our house.  There was always bits of pizza lying around and occasionally an ‘Uncle’ would send me to the chippy.

         ‘Don’t bother hurrying back.’  He’d add.  So now I reckon I know every nook and cranny of this shitty town. That’s come in handy now.

         At school, no-one wanted to sit next to me.   ‘He smells, Miss….’    I reckon they’d smell if their Mum didn’t bother to wash them or change their clothes.  But I always wanted a friend.  I hated break times when I had to hang around alone and look as if I didn’t care.   Then I noticed that all the kids were on about their latest ‘designer’ trainers so I thought if I  got some then maybe I’d fit in.  That’s how I first learned to steal.  I’d tag onto a family in a shoe-shop, follow them around, then when no-one was looking, I’d sneak some trainers and scarper.   The trainers didn’t always fit and anyway, they didn’t make any difference - I still had no friends.   Later, I graduated to nicking jeans and that’s when I got caught.  From then on it was Remand Home, Children’s Home and now the streets.  Story of my life.  

         It was about a month ago, I first noticed her. A little girl of around five, standing looking at me.  Normally, I hate kids. They pinch my money or kick my tin over. Others will cling onto their Mum’s arm and pretend to be frightened.  But this kid wasn’t like that and when I looked at her, I recognised the signs - fading bruises, stained, too-short dress and no coat.   She smiled, whispered ‘Hello’, then scuttled back to where her Mum was yakking on her mobile.  Sometimes she seemed to be completely on her own and she’d sit down beside me and we’d talk.  Not much, but enough to realise I’d found a friend.  She’d show me stones she’d found and I’d say they were pretty. Eventually, her Mum’d show up and yell at her.  It used to make me so sad to see the cowed way she’d slink back.

         One day she turned up with a fresh bruise on her face.  

         ‘What’s that?’  I said.

         ‘I was naughty,’ she whispered, and that was when I made up my mind.

It’s nearly dark and the first stars are out.  In the surrounding fields, pinpricks of light jitter in mad circles and above the sky is full of the machine gun rattle of helicopter blades.  They’re searching hard but  I grin, ‘cuz they’re way off course.   As I said, I know all the rat runs in this town and they’ll never guess where I’ve hidden her.  She’s mine now and I’ll never be lonely again.”

    Copyright Janet Baldey

 

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