Poignant trees

By Robert Kingston 

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I study the buds opening upon these poignant trees

Like scrunched unfinished story balls expanding to the point where they cease

 

Reflecting on a creaking past, now vivid bolt holes with eerie shadows walking past

Gruesome images of living skeletons, wire barbed, forced tattoos, labelled stars, sunken hearts, empty faces, shaven hair, striped pyjamas, shapes and sizes stripped, aghast!

Empty chambers Uniforms standing orders cast...

 

My heart within a two-fisted grip

My stomach wrenched and twisted

My nostrils are burning a putrid stench

As reflections on blackened hearts are sent drifting

Ash settling upon a desperate crowd clueless to who is in the wind

 

Carriages on rails to a vivid picture sent

Heaps of threads laying as they went

Human beings, one evil man his delinquent vision spent

A legacy to last to see such past in present, 

in hope to stop us all being backward sent

 

Buttons of all colours and sizes

Stones and rocks reflect many guises

Remembered this day thanks to notes in a diary

Ann Frank her pureness and the wisdom of a sage who see sense to

preserve in history, the reflections of sobriety  

 

Remember these days through the season’s year on year

Reflect upon the planted trees, the leaves of many names

Watch as each life unfurls and lives in the wind as it whistles through

Reflect upon the many passing blues of loved ones,

For we live in hope that future brings peace to all

God please bless us all and stop the misery before more people fall.

 

© Robert Kingston     4.2.15

(All rights reserved)

 

Personal Well-being: 08

 Personal Well-being: 08 Music the mood changer.

   By Barefoot Medic

In my teens I recall being in buoyant mood one minute, only to be thrust into a sad melancholy mood the next, without any obvious cause.  Why?  I didn't realise then that it was a form of depression.

I recall times when depression hit me when all I wanted to do was curl up in the foetal position and sleep.  I learned at such times that music can be a powerful mood changer.

I play the guitar (badly) but know a few chords and can pick out or sing a tune that reflects that mood.  I learned that those sad songs could actually banish sadness.  So, Instead of falling asleep, I sing the blues and everything gets put into perspective.

The Germans have a word for it 'schadenfreude'; it means to delight in another person's misfortune.  Think of Charlie Chaplin, Norman Wisdom, and Mr Bean their failed antics caused uproarious laughter.  The worse their situation became the louder we laughed. 

The same is true of the blues singer, we listen to their sad tale and empathise with his/her plight and realise our condition is not so bad after all.  I find that singing sad words with feeling lightens my mood.  I can't say that singing happy tunes depresses me but why would I want them to?

Charlie Chaplin co-wrote a song that says it all (Smile):

Smile though your heart is aching

smile even though it's breaking

although a tear might be ever so near.

Just smile through your tears and sorrow

smile and maybe tomorrow

you'll find that life is still worthwhile

if you just smile.

I think that Charlie knew the secret of cheering people up.

Norman Wisdom wrote his signature tune (Don't laugh at me cause I'm a fool):

Don't laugh at me, cos I'm a fool.

I know it's true, that I'm a fool.

No one seems to care, I'd give the world to share

my life with someone who really loves me...

I see them all falling in love, but my luck star shines up above.

someday maybe, that star will shine on me.

Don't laugh at me, cos I'm a fool.

Norman also knew how to bring joy into the lives of others. 

If you are feeling down or depressed, sing or play a sad song and see how you react to it, what have you got to lose, (pills cost money), but 'schadenfreude'?

 

As always, you try my remedies at your own risk.  If in doubt consult a doctor.

 

 EVOLUTION V RELIGION 

By Peter Woodgate 

Strange, this theory, Darwinism,

repels God’s word, Creationism.

I wrestle with the word of God,

the miasma of Draconian laws,

dispensing with King James translation,

alternative thinking was the cause.,

Oddly though, and equally,

I find progression of the species,

difficult to understand.

We are, supposedly,

with the expansion of the brain,

to ensure a better future,

but, proceeding on this path,

of selfishness

is doom, and soon.

I struggle on,

for nature

so beautiful, yet severe

demands “survival of the fittest”

so unfair, I hear.

However, this short-sightedness

observes just day to day,

for “out of sight is out of mind”

as the wise would say.

I toss a coin, for it appears

There’s flaws in both beliefs,

just look at the virus Covid,

it mutates to give us grief.

The Universe is meaningless

whilst appearing infinite,

we cannot understand that word,

it is beyond our sight.

Our feeble minds won’t go beyond

a start, and then an end,

we have to see some logic

if we’re to comprehend.

So, which of these beliefs

is our guiding light?

Both, it seems,

are full of woe

as day will follow night.

And on that day

I will conceive

that it is all a dream,

there is no Heaven,

there is no Hell,

and nothing can be seen.  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate            

Abbalar Tales ~ 31

 Abbalar Tales ~ 31 Dreamers (Day 4)

By Len Morgan

Genna spent several months as house storyteller at the Pochette  Platzi.   Her popularity had grown steadily, in leaps and bounds, with both clients and her fellow workers.   Her natural leadership qualities and he organising skills caused other performers to warm towards her.   She was able to negotiate lucrative contracts on behalf of herself, and her fellows, mutually beneficial to performers and owners alike.   The owners were quick to recognise her potential.   So, when the Madame was summoned home to nurse her dying brother, Genna was promoted to take over her duties, to run the girls and administer the house finances.   She found herself increasingly involved in the day to day running of the house, and less with performing.   She dealt firmly but fairly with everyone and for six months they all prospered.   Then the Madame returned.   She was pleased to see the house had prospered in her absence, under Genna's management.   But, the owners, a consortium of local businessmen, were loath to give up a good thing.   Unbeknown to Genna, they purchased the old Madame's contract, but it was not an amicable settlement.   Angry words and ugly threats were exchanged.   As she left the premises, thinking Genna a party to her demise, she turned on her angrily.

"You had better not stray far from the protection of this house in the future," she said, "not if you value your life."

"I don't understand?"Genna looked at her in genuine surprise.

"There are people who would gladly take a contract on your life, carrying out any special requests, without blinking an eye.  You crafty scheming doxy!   You're as good as dead," she yelled contemptuously as she was dragged from the premises.

"I cannot understand why she is behaving so.   We were fast friends before she left to nurse her dying brother."   What have you done or told her that would make her hate me so?” she asked of the owners.   

.-…-. 

Three months Skaa worked the fields with his two elder brothers.   Picking the fruit, filling the barrels with new wine.   His estranged family had welcomed him back with open arms, rejoicing because he had found the courage to return to them.   Initially, he worked for food and shelter alone, asking for nothing more.   Then they offered him a share in the harvest, only a 1/50^th, but they hinted there might be more to come.

At the harvest home festival he drank and danced and flirted outrageously, he made a playful suggestion to his sister in law.  But, was not prepared for the immediate positive and ardent response he received.   He tried to rebuff her, gently but firmly, but she made a grab for him, she missed grabbing his belt instead, he tried to pull free - the belt buckle broke, and his trews fell down around his ankles.  At that very instant his eldest brother, her husband, turned in their direction.  

There was no reasoning with him, he saw what he saw, and Skaa had a history, of misbehaviour of this type, which was why he had been banished from the village in the first place.   In the eyes of his family, he was guilty before he opened his mouth and the woman refused to speak in his defence.   She flung her arms about his neck loudly professing her undying love for him.   Her husband wanted Skaa and his wife off the farm and as far away as possible he threw her unceremoniously out of their home with just the clothes she wore.

"As far as I'm concerned you can take the strumpet with you," he said, “however, the children stay with me.   You will be stoned to death on sight if either of you ever return."

Skaa took the unrepentant woman to her family in a neighbouring village, thinking they would show gratitude.   After short deliberation, they accused him of seducing her, in order to bring shame on their village.   They took him out and beat him unconscious, then chained him in the goat pens.   In the morning he was released into the hills and told that in two hours they would hunt him down with dogs and put him to death.   His only chance at survival would be if he escaped from the valley, they would not follow him beyond that point.

A two-hour start he thought looking around at the hard sullen faces of the villagers.   Then his eyes found hers, and he saw the look of hatred as they stared unwavering back at him, she smiled in triumph as recognition dawned in his eyes, how did he not see that it was Jazim face before him…

.-…-. 

Genna had been disturbed by the accusation that she might be responsible for the Madame's premature retirement.   But after a few weeks, everything settled into an established routine.   Life at the Pochette Platzi was business as usual.   The old Madame did not make any further contact with Genna, who assumed she had accepted her very generous payoff and left the city altogether to start a new life; mayhap even her own establishment.   

Then without warning, a fight broke out between two rival groups, five or six protagonists.   The Platzi prided itself on being able to clean up its own problems in-house, privately and discretely, without involving the militia.   So, six of her most trusted pacifiers hurried to the scene to bring the fracas swiftly under control.   At the height of the disturbance, a client behind her called for assistance, since all were otherwise engaged, she answered the call.   Before she realised what was happening a small fine-mesh flour sack was pulled over her head, a hand clamped over her mouth and her arms were pinned to her sides, by strong rope, and she was whisked off her feet and out of the building.   She was able to bite the silencing hand and yell for help, her reward was a sharp stinging blow to the head.   She regained consciousness in a dim dingy room smelling of tallow, animals, and herbs.

"Bring her here, I am going to teach her what it means to cross me, she will beg for my forgiveness before I am finished with her.   By then she will be begging to die.   Remove the blindfold," the voice commanded.

Genna had recognised the voice but, she was still groggy from the head blow.   She did not speak, reasoning that silence would encourage her captor to talk the more.   But, she recognised her captor immediately.   It was not the old Madame, but Jazim...

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 DEMOLITION

Peter Woodgate

I returned to the site

where bulldozers were dumping

my past into the future.

 

Each end of the terrace

had already been demolished,

with bits of rafter and tiles

protruding from the remaining buildings.

These now resembled the carcass

of half-eaten carrion.

 

I looked at it sadly,

the house stared back blankly,

like a man condemned

and resigned to the gallows.

 

Ground floor windows boarded up.

Did they keep the squatters out?

Or trap my spirit within?

 

First floor windows, black and grey,

shapes formed in each smashed pane

reminding me,

of a bygone geography lesson.

The soot black bricks

and peeling paintwork,

added to the air of despair.

 

Here was the foundation of my innocence,

my dreams, my aspirations.

Part of me was absorbed,

within that crumbling masonry.

Soon it would be destroyed,

along with my heart.

 

A steady drizzle had collected

within the leaking gutter

and, as I turned to leave,

it dripped, with a silent splash,

onto the weeds below.  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 John

By Rob Kingston

 Sometimes you will see him wispy hair dishevelled,

His coat and cane both features of a previous man now shelved

His stories of which are many, are seldom of this date

His often quirky outburst you hear be it morning noon or late 

His spinning cane a vision, Charlie Chaplin springs to mind

It is but a feature he does use, not a walking cane or stick for pain

 

A shout, a loud laugh combined is how his outburst is best explained

It makes some jump and others laugh at his unannounced display

He brings a smile from most who greet him, upon his happy half mile

Rain or shine you'll see him here 

Sitting on benches or searching, though a gifted meal he’ll find

 

Some people appear concerned, others they just stare

But those who care to talk to him will find his world austere

A man walks up and down our town, a happy soul is he,

He has no concerns but comes across as someone who is needy

Or perhaps just missing a little social care.

 

© Robert Kingston 19.10.14

A sunny day in Rayleigh?

By Len Morgan

Well, here we all are in sunny Rayleigh. The rain is pelting down, there are no clouds in the sky, just a uniform grey blanket, as usual.

I sit beside the window of the street side café eating pies, mash, & liquor, sipping strong hot sweet tea out of a large china mug.

I watch the shoppers rushing by in their heavy raincoats, waterproof fleeces and fashion jackets. Umbrella's catch the wind, dragging and pushing their owners this way and t'other. I smile as a bus drives by, spraying puddles from the gutter in all directions. Pedestrians scattering in all directions, in vain.

The waitress collects my empty plate and delivers my pudding: jam roly-poly and custard. I order a second mug of tea; hopefully, there will be a break in the weather by the time I've finished it.

I look down at my ‘T-shirt’, shorts and flip-flops; the weather was fine when I left home, but wait what's this? The rain seems to be easing. Yes, I spy a sunbeam peeking shyly from between the clouds. I gulp down my last malingering, mouthful of tea and ask for the bill.

As I leave the café I look around me at all the rain-soaked shoppers and smile. The clouds have drifted away now and I'm bathed in sunshine. Can I believe my luck?

It's a sunny day in Rayleigh, "YES!" So, what did I come into town for? Ah, I know... "A bottle of factor30 sunscreen."


They call me a cockeyed Octopus. (As my Granddaughter would sing Ah South Pacific.)