Tuesday Morning Madness

Tuesday Morning Madness

Close, your sweet smell invades the senses.

Your presence mouth-watering, skin blushed,

anticipating.

Finger feathers trace your dimpled skin

noting, identifying, each bruise, each scar

squeezing, flesh yielding to the touch,

Until

Slow, piece by piece, you are unveiled,

exposed. Juices spurt, coating fingers,

your smell sharper, pungent, urging onwards.

Until at last, ungarmented

you sit lace creamed, hinting,

caressed once more

before

splitting open for

delight.

Resistance

futile.

Longing,

yearning,

Your body unlocked juice filled flesh.

Pulled apart, snapped open seen

Myriads of sweet teardrops ready

explosions for my tongue.

Consuming, biting, sucking, wanting, wanting.

Sweetness.

Bursting fireworks inside.

Fulfilled.

Forever

                                       My Orange

ChildHoods End

This continues to evolve :)

ChildHood’s End

Rubber Duck, Rubber Duck to Big Blue Bear

Check the mirrors, Look behind on the stair.

Flying in formation, rumbling along the road

‘Support your friends’, tannoyed our Mr Toad.

From empty headed Barbie Doll, and Bo-Peep too,

they cheered and shouted, van horns blew.

Tasked, mounting on the crest, waiting in a line,

feet stamping heartbeats, one at a time.

Standing firm Eyeore, Bouncing Tigger too.

Waiting for the final, deep down, they knew.

The chattering started, noises begun

Ravens flock diving, the Crows set to stun.

Pitching forward, merging, spectators on side,

Redbreasts surround the muster, no place to hide.

Some collected, stony-face silence lurched beside.

Some mended, patched and plastered, mothers cried.

Broken, twisted, snapped apart, one is laid to rest.

Cowed, stained, stumbling forward, one is left to attest.

Handkerchiefs damp, wiped dirt from clean faces,

While Hens clucked, Cocks twanged their patterned braces.

Rupert walked gaily talking of the past.

Paddington sat heavily, declared no fast.

Soo smiling, looked around serving sweet pies,

while Pooh ate hunny, mad swatting at flies.

Red and blue chequered cloths placed on the grass,

wasps encircled sandwiches, such a farce.

Rubber Duck, Rubber Duck, Big Blue Bear

Rubber Duck, Rubber Duck, Big Blue Bear 

Summer fucking

Summer fucking

Summer fucking had me a blast

Summer fucking had me at last.

Knew a boy, desperate for me.

Knew a boy, just a kiss, oh gee!

We got friendly down in the sand.

We got friendly hearing the band.

He was good, you know what I mean?

Nothing was hiding within those jeans!

Hindsight says we were miscast.

Hindsight says it would not last.

In the heat of summer you will agree,

Time was perfect to lose Virginity.

He was heaven, nearly eighteen.

I was hot,

then sixteen.

Lost Youth

My theme for the poems I write this term. Many meanings: youth that has passed, a lost youth (person), a youth who is lost within themselves.

First entries into this are ChildHoods End, Summer Fucking, Sunday Bandstand.

We shall see the reaction from Helen K.

ChildHoods End will be read out at the open mic on friday along with Our Heads Hurt and possibly if I am brave enough Summer Fucking. If I am not brave enough then it will be Sunday Bandstand or some free verse I have in my back pocket not related to Lost Youth.

Jan 21 2010

It is interesting, to me at least. Sunday Bandstand and Summer Clothes were taken from the same stream of consciousness work and are very different outcomes.
They both relate to the summertime, Summer Clothes is a moment of sounds and smells and sights near the sea. Sunday Bandstand is a park on a Sunday afternoon or evening with a brass band playing.

The music I listened to was Black Dyke Mills Band, the brass band playing becomes more apparent when this is known. It is music I listened to a lot as a teenager and young adult.

Summer clothes

The task, take five lines from the stream of concsiousness done as an exercise to music, add a title chosen by class-mates, write a poem.

Summer clothes

Smells of heat, heavy silence hanging squashing

flowers and the perfume of hot tarmac

echos, floating on sound, waves singing, breaking,

pulling pebbles, sand to and fro.

Listen!

a shadow noise reverberates children playing

Laughter Laughter Laughter

Look!

sunlight dappled, movement melodious,

the glint of light bouncing in time.

The promenade, parapeted, punctures the view.

Statued She stands silently suspended.

polka dotted sun dressed, sandaled feet.

Fogged

Upon seeing the snow falling and with the onset of a migraine:

Fogged

Thick chunky wet flakes of snow are falling outside my window. 
Suppressing repressing expressing my minds flow.
Squashed to the size of a gnats toe.
I need to grow.
Stretching
changing position standing fetching
my mind from the distant place vocals sing
a thread is caught I twist unwind the string
no longer bound my mind sounds and sees beyond nothing

Sunday Bandstand

 The task to listen to music that had not been heard for a long time and write down anything that came to mind. From those thoughts I created this poem.

Sunday Bandstand

Sundays before I grew old, consisted of

Sound. The carillon of Cornets, crescendoing,

trilling, supported by Trombone, Flugel horn and Baritone.

Sundays before I grew old, convected air

kept me buoyant, floating on ringing melodies,

drifting amongst the perfume of mown grass and tarmac.

Sundays before I grew old, crooned the band

with echoes of summer snores accompanied by

the natter of needles, harmonising with insects humming.

Sundays before I grew old, clouds of sound

picked me up, caressed me, comforted me.

Rich silence intoned amongst the brilliant light.

Laughter, sandwich teas, melting ice-cream, soft green loam,

burbles of happiness, The Brass Band calls, taking me home.

Back in College

I am now back in College. My apprenticeship continues :) I have now posted the work I did in my first term and I will post my new college work as it is created.

Stranger

Stranger

It was a grey damp morning. My back was killing me; it hated the rain. I couldn’t call a sickie, we needed the money. I emptied wheelie bins into dustbin trucks. In the summer I loved it, in the winter less so. But I have some good mates and one of them was with me that day.

‘What you been up to John?’

‘We went to the pictures; saw ... Watch out, mate!’ As I answered Phil, a man with a rucksack nearly walked into me. He looked very damp and was hunched from the drizzle. He glanced around as if unsure of where he was. This guy walked up some steps on the side of a nearby Victorian building and tapped numbers onto the security pad. He seemed to be having a problem though.

He picked up his phone and made a call. ‘The door won’t let me in .... Yes of course! 2001..... Sod it Janet! Just come and let me in before I’m seen.’

I smiled to myself as the truck turned the corner. His problems should be over.

We were going down The High St, when I saw him again. This time he had the phone to his ear and was marching through the rain. ‘Phil, that’s the guy who nearly crashed into me a few minutes ago. What do you think he’s up to?’

‘John, if I knew that I wouldn’t be doing this job, I’d be a Private Investigator.’ Phil was rather fond of his Marlow books.

We reached Turn St. I had to do a double take. There was this woman walking away from us in a scanty dressing gown and slippers. She glanced over her shoulder at us her cheeks reddening and shot into a building.

I shook my head, we were getting them today. That incessant wet rain, the type that penetrates, seemed to be bringing all sorts to the streets. I shrugged and turned to the next bin. I glanced up again at the building and saw the same women in a window. She had a phone in her hand, her face crinkled as if concentrating, her eyes darting up and down the street. It was seven in the morning and my curiosity was getting the better of me.

It was then that I saw him for the third time. He was soaked with his hood up but I know it was the same guy. He walked to the entrance. I stopped what I was doing for a moment and just watched. The woman moved from the window and a few seconds later a jogging suited woman burst out of the door ‘1887?’ she called at the guy. ‘2001.’ I heard a feminine chuckle as the man went to walk into the building.  Next thing, this other guy appeared grabbed Rucksack Man and spun him round punching him on the nose yelling ‘that’s for thinking you can fuck my wife! And as for you ... your’e not my wife!’ I didn’t hear the rest. Phil shouted ‘wake up!’  I shook, groaned, stretched and went back to my bins.

Dockside 1

Dockside 1

‘Ger off ‘ere you stupid lout’ boomed the bald man pointing away. He is blurred in front of me. My head is pounding, groggy, my mouth dry as if I have been eating cream crackers. There is dry spittle on my chin. My trousers are damp. I can feel the heat in my face, glad of the gloom of the dockside, straining to think, to listen. I am sitting on something hard. Rough. My brain is fazed, I can see images and hear sound and nothing is registering. The world is grey, spots of light at the corners of my eyes. I work to frame my mouth, to speak and try ‘sorry sir. Where am I?’ My ears hear ‘sry sir, ‘eramey?’

The bald man is glaring at me. I struggle to stand, my hands flailing, trying to find support, I grasp cold metallic chains unthinkingly, the world is moving and seems out of balance. I almost succeed. I slump back to the floor. The man moves towards me, his hands outstretched, his face screwed up, as if there were a foul smell. ‘Drunks’ I hear him growl, ‘do I ‘ave to do everything?’ I twist my head, straining to see the Drunks, the movement too much, bile filling my throat, burning. The man’s hands move towards me then, stop, distracted by something, reaches towards my neck, I try to move away. My head collides with metal, the world swaying. Something tightened, cuts my skin, the man is pulling me, something towards him. He is squinting, twisting to look closer.

Released, I can’t stop falling backwards and watch as the man fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out a phone. I can hear him talking ‘Guy Mitchell. Avonmouth Docks, Quay 20.... a lad ill... Geoff Roberts it says on his necklace ... 18 years old.... can’t stand or speak.... Epileptic.... yes seems to be breathing ok ... don’t know... I’ll watch ‘im.... ok ....’ the talking, the rumble, seems to go on for ages. ‘Why do docks have keys? For the doors I suppose’ the thought drifts through my head. I breathe slowly close my eyes, my head fuzzy, the man is now squatted in the opposite corner, silent.

I open my eyes. The world shining with a flickering blue light. A new person, a woman, is squatted in front of me. ‘Can you hear me Geoff?’ I nod thinking, ‘how does she know my name?’ ‘I think you’ve had a seizure. Can I check you over?’ I can feel her hands move over my body, pausing at my wrist, my throat, a light flickering in my eyes. All the while she talks softly and slowly. ‘Where is the bald man?’ I wonder, trying to move to see him and swaying, light headed. Another man quickly appears, places a blanket around me. He asks quietly ‘Would you like to sit in the ambulance?’

Dockside 2

Oh God, that was a bad night. I had agreed to meet my mates for a drink near the docks and I remember leaving. That was the last thing I remembered until:

‘Ger off ‘ere you stupid lout’ a bald man boomed pointing in the general direction of not here. He was blurred in front of me. My head pounded, I felt groggy, my mouth dry as if I had been eating crackers. Dry spittle on my chin, my trousers damp, I felt hot, flushed, I was glad of the gloom, and strained to think, to listen. I could see images, hear sound, nothing registered, a grey world with spots of light at the corners of my eyes. I worked to frame my mouth, to say ‘sorry sir. Where am I?’ My ears heard ‘sry sir, ‘eramey?’

The bald man glared at me, I struggled to stand, my hands flailed, tried to find support, I grasped cold metallic chains unknowingly, the world moved seeming out of balance. I almost succeeded before slumping back to the floor. The man dressed in the dockside uniform of donkey jacket and denims moved towards me, his hands outstretched, his face screwed up, as if there were a foul smell. ‘Drunks’ I heard him growl, ‘do I ‘ave to do everything?’ I twisted my head, straining to see the Drunks, the movement too much, bile filled my throat, burning. The man’s hands moved towards me then, stopped, distracted by something, reached towards my neck, instinctively I moved away. My head collided with metal, the world swayed. Something tightened, cut my skin, the man pulled me, something towards him. He squinted, twisted to look closer.

Released, I couldn’t stop falling backwards and watched as the man fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a phone. I heard him talking ‘Guy Mitchell. Avonmouth Docks, Quay 20.... a lad ill... Geoff Roberts it says on his necklace ... 18 years old.... can’t stand or speak.... Epileptic.... yes seems to be breathing ok ... don’t know... I’ll watch ‘im.... ok ....’ the talking, the rumble, seemed to go on for ages. I remember thinking ‘Why do docks have keys? For the doors I suppose’. I breathed slowly closed my eyes, my head fuzzy, the man now squatted in the opposite corner, silent, watched me.

I opened my eyes. The world shone with a flickering blue light. A new person, a woman, was squatted in front of me. ‘Can you hear me Geoff?’ I nodded. ‘I think you’ve had a seizure. Can I check you over?’ I felt her hands move over my body, pausing at my wrist, my throat, a light flickered in my eyes. All the while she talked softly and slowly. I searched for the bald man, tried to move to see him and swayed, light headed. Another man quickly appeared, placed a blanket around me. He asked me quietly ‘Would you like to sit in the ambulance?’

The Swimmer

The Swimmer

I walk to the side of the pool. The cold of the dimpled tiles forcing its way upwards through my feet. I shake my arms, my legs, ripple my body, to release the tension. Around me others are my shadows. We all pull our goggles down, one last strong arm movement before as one, we stand, knees bent, hands grasped in front of us, waiting. We wait. The chattering ceases, the silence echoes and proceeds the explosion. Together we all push off, launch ourselves seamlessly into the water.

The cool water surrounds me, rushing past my body as my arms pull scooping the liquid as if it were sand sending me forward with every stroke. My legs flick acting as stabilisers, rudders, allowing my arms and shoulders to do the work. I pace myself, using my age old friend to calm and soothe. There are no arguments here. No debates. Two friends working together for a common aim. My heart beats steadily, my eyes watch the tiles beneath me, the walls of the pool, as I take a breath. One, two, three and breath in, One, two, three and breathe out.

The fluid and the body are one now. Warmth extends through every capillary, skin flushed with effort. Shoulders flex and rotate the arms, moving faster now. Hands shape themselves to catch the water. They smack the wall, the body folds, twists, the arms bend and fly followed swiftly by the legs and feet bending and pushing against the side. Flip flip feet propel the body, dolphin like it their eagerness to stay beneath the surface, using the impetus of that push to move down the pool. Arms pull back and glide forward, legs fold together symmetrically completing the stroke. My head breaks the water, I breathe in and the stroke begins again, this time on the surface of the water.

Life becomes concentrated on that one task, breathing at the correct time, getting to the end of the pool, turning and getting back again. Over and over. Steadily killing the demons in the mind, removing the self doubts, replacing them all with a single mindedness, a determination to get to the finish line, to ensure every stroke is included, to stretch those muscles. Pounding the water is the centre of life. Nothing else matters. Except winning, doing better than last time.

For the final time, my hands hit that wall. I stop with a speed that wrenches the shoulders. It is only then that I look up, look around. It is only then that I wonder ‘have I done it?’ I lift my goggles and smile. My arms lift and I sink under the water, cool once more on my body. I move under the rope and hug the girl next to me. No I did not win the race. I reach the steps, hold onto the bars and lift myself onto the step. Water cascades from my body, the sound shus behind me. Once more the tiles are beneath my feet. A towel is placed around my shoulders. I sink to the chair, tired, happy, third.

each holiday will pass

each holiday will pass, each birthday too.

[22:31:12] Karen: nothing happens that I will rue.

[22:31:27] Karen: even on days such as this

[22:31:37] Karen: something can happen which will be bliss.

[22:32:11] Karen: a word, a touch, a blown kiss

[22:32:42] Karen: will make me forget what it is I miss.

[22:33:05] Karen: for a while at least, a moment maybe

[22:33:24] Karen: everything will clear, and we both will see.

Our Heads Hurt

Our heads hurt

For Tom

Words shoot from the fingers onto the page

They care not what is said in far off days.

Blacksmithing, hammering, forging their shape,

They are moulded and sculpted, forced to escape.

Why they were written is lost to time,

No-one now knows why they must rhyme.

Teachers sit their students down, ask questions,

Wait for the answers, making suggestions.

Similes, and Metaphors, Deictic too,

Personae and Metonymy all ensue.

Structure is important, how does it look?

Dramatic? Sonnet? No, no, not a book.

Enjambment is present, A rhyming scheme.

Couplets sound good. A smile, they beam.

Pastiche, Parody, don’t be Absurd;

Understanding verses, our heads hurt.

My Mother Never

My Mother never

My Mother never learnt to ski. The joy of sliding down a slope, hearing the sound of crisp snow beneath her, feeling the wind on her face, the mix of hot and cold – cosy inside the suit, the iciness where the skin was exposed – were never experienced by my Mother. Nor the joys of après-ski: that warming drink drunk with others who have also spent the day on the slopes. And, of course, she has not experienced the hot tub, the hot bubbling water, sitting on the veranda, enticing her to sink in, her shoulders hunched beneath the surface, that feeling of luxury and decadence.

If my Mother had experienced a skiing holiday her life might have been transformed. She would have grown in confidence, become the woman maybe she could have been. Her working days spent in a Managerial post, directing others in their required tasks. She would come home to a detached house, comfortably furnished in crisp creams. She would have spent weekends dancing and being the Belle of the Ball.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

If my Mother had learnt to ski, she could have spent her holidays in Cyprus or Tunisia. She would have got suntans and seen sites of great antiquity in Turkey and Greece and Rome. She would have extolled the virtues of travel and how it broadens the mind.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

If she had, my Mother could have become Chairperson of the local WI: organising others to learn and do good deeds. She would have driven her children to school in a grand car and pottered in her garden. She would have painted pictures or read to the children in the local school.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

If she had skied she could have glowed and blossomed, a liberated woman with a loving husband. She would have taken her grandchildren to the Alps or maybe the Rockies and watched with pride as they too learnt the joys of flying over the snow. She would smile at the potential she was about to release on the world.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

What a life she has missed. Dancing and travel. A successful career. A leading light of the local community. A Grandmother unleashing her grandchildren on the world.

MY MOTHER NEVER LEARNT TO SKI.

A Meal to Remember

A Meal to Remember

Egg Cress Sandwiches and Crisps served with Strawberries and Champagne.

London in the summer. The heat was sticky, oppressive. The hotel had no air conditioning and the windows were flung open. In the background the noise of homeward bound traffic and people chattering in the street below. The nets moved slightly in the breeze. We were sat on a sofa beneath the window, David’s arm around me as he kissed the top of my head. He reached across to the table next to him. On it sat a packet of Egg Cress Sandwiches and a packet of ready salted crisps. He picked up the sandwiches and opened the packaging. The rasping sound as the film was peeled back released that unique smell that is a warm egg sandwich; slightly sulphuric, reminiscent of a volcano. Only the British could concoct such a delicacy.

David passed me a triangle of wholemeal bread, the soft texture slightly rough to the fingers, containing the creamy yellow white of a scrunched boiled egg and mayonnaise interwoven with the flecks of green cress. The sort of sandwich I had taken on school trips. I sank my teeth into the soft, warm, bread that he held before me, taking a mouthful of egg and cress. Chewing slowly, moving the food around my mouth, savouring the tastes and textures, the bread, the egg, the mayonnaise, the stringy cress. My tongue caressed the food, adoring it, savouring every mouthful. The egg and mayonnaise coated my tongue and mouth before elegantly, deliciously, slipping down my throat. My taste buds counted the mix of sweet and savoury and salty particles. My tongue and mouth and teeth worked together as I chewed and swallowed the sandwich. Each mouthful offered to me to eat as I finished the last. All surrounded by the soft conversation of Lovers.

With the sandwich eaten, David walked to the bathroom. He had a surprise. He walked back with a punnet of strawberries and a bottle shrouded in a towel. It had been kept cool in the bath.  The bottle, green, that special shape, slightly conical, of a sparkling wine, a bottle of Mumm. The film was removed from the strawberries with a seesh. The smell that wonderful sweet aroma that only a strawberry can offer overlaid the smell of egg, making the taste buds salivate in anticipation. Each berry was scarlet, dotted with tiny black seeds and topped with its crown of green leaves, the stalk. This was a meal of all the senses, David standing before me. The foil was removed from the bottle, crinkling its way off the cork, exposing the wire cage restraining the energy of those bubbles. The cage untwisted leaving the brown mushroom shaped cork naked, proud.

His fingers, long, firm, slowly prised the cork from the bottle with a gentle twist and a plop. As the gas hissed its escape and the wine rose he expertly poured a little into each glass, pausing to let the pale golden liquid settle before topping up the phials. There is no rushing good champagne.

Bringing both glasses to the sofa, David sat, our entwining arms holding the glasses. He picked up a strawberry by its green crown and dipped it into the straw coloured fizzing liquid, before offering it to my mouth.

‘To us, may this be the first of many evenings like this’ he said softly as I bit into the red black seed flecked berry.

Whispering ‘to us’ I opened my mouth and accepted his offering. I bit into the fruit. The taste exploded in my mouth. No strawberry had ever tasted like this. Sweet, warm, alcoholic. The soft fruit was silk in my mouth ensuring every taste bud was awake and screaming for more. The champagne was sipped. It was superlative. Alternating between feeding, being fed and sipping nectar, this food of the gods was consumed. The pleasure in myself only measured by the pleasure seen in David as each mouthful slid down the throat. Caressed, gently stroked, licked, nibbled, tasted. Ambrosia.

The packet of crisps? Oh that sat on the table and was left for the maid the next day. It was never opened. 

In the Begining

At the age of fifty I made a momentous decision. I wanted a career change. Not only a career change but a complete change of direction. I used to be a Project Manager, a job I enjoyed yet a career I fell into rather than chose. I now wanted to do something I chose. I looked at my life and concluded that I had spent my life writing and rather enjoyed it. I also wrote stories and poems to entertain men friends, and biased as they might be, they enjoyed them.

I applied to Ruskin College to take their English Studies course. This career change included an apprenticeship; learning the technical aspects of writing as well as the creative ones. They accepted me and I am now a student there: my writing has already improved!

Today, at the beginning of 2010 I have decided to start writing this blog. It will include my progress as a writer and some pieces I have written for you to judge my progress. I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I am.