Kleptomaniac
Nut hiding
Hoarder
Nut hiding
Hoarder
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Oh smile, Mr Fletcher, just smile
the young student says on seeing my brow so furrowed with care for she is but young in her days happy awhile in her little world this youthful soul open and kind as yet unaware of the dark clouds on the horizon or within my mind. Once I spoke to the old busker,
I believe it concerned the weather. He was famous for a shiny grey suit and ditties from decades gone by: "Hound Dog," "Shakin' all Over," "CC Rider," and other rock and roll classics, a music machine to supply the beat, he sang in the cold and sang in the heat. I saw his photograph in the local paper, it told of his demise his friend claiming he was a sad old man who came alive singing his tunes, another character disappeared from the streets with their soulless shops and muzak. He no longer plays to the passing crowds yet perhaps plies his trade...beyond the clouds. Christmas Eve in the city:
a legion of lost lone men stumble dazed and confused from one shop to another as a homeless man huddled in a doorway strokes his dog. I wonder what unseen scars lie inside, he's invisible to shoppers who stride as he watches children skip, their eyes such a contrast to his own. A seagull picks scraps outside Burger King under a sky as grey as the castle walls, the reindeers not yet illuminated, St John's Church a reminder of the birth of the greatest figure who walked the earth. I observe from inside Caffe Nero's, many passers-by are glued to their mobiles, some laden with presents. I reflect on all those who've strolled these city streets who wander no more, people who are the ghosts of Christmas past for life is precious...but nothing can last. New Year, new me:
all those petty faults those peccadilloes will be consigned to the dustbin of history! Alas, it is too late to change these flaws which are ingrained within my character like the deep roots of an old beech tree. I stroll on a clear winter's night
to the sound of owls and the ugly roar of cars from the motorway which sliced the land leaving a scar. My gaze leads to the white-freckled heavens remembering I'm peering back in time and through a telescope a view sublime: Andromeda but 2 million years ago. As I stare at the crescent moon and stars I lay my own problems aside. How much more wonderful is this vista than flimsy material possessions and feel the presence of a higher power invigorated...at this lonely hour. Back when I was a kid I
my dad always told me I still remember the time I there was this teacher who that was the very last time I I’ll never forget Freshers’ week the drunkest I’ve ever been was I was dating this cute blond girl the first joint I smoked was when we decided our wedding would the worst job I ever had was now that reminds me of when I something similar happened to me I was having a pint in the Lion the best holiday I ever had was back when I was a kid I In the Glamorgan Archives
I studied a book of records, a time machine from 1905. Photographs of forgotten inmates stared at me with sightless eyes with handwritten headings saying "Imbecile" and it was quite impossible not to feel a sadness viewing these lost souls, female photographs in black and white afflicted with "Acute Melancholia" and "Mania", the notes denoting their progress (or lack of it) and not the language which the doctors now speak so no unpronounceable words in Greek. One thought she had known a doctor for over 60 years although a teenager and another convinced she was Napoleon, some even incarcerated for epilepsy. Oh, there were so many tragic tales but all their problems have drifted away, I close the book...but memories will stay. Ah, that Christmas Eve
of so many years ago when my brother and me stared at our presents wrapped under the tree when our world was whole. It’s Christmas time again some fifty years hence yet I think not of now nor of things to come for Heaven lies in the past on that Christmas Eve of so many years ago when my brother and me stared at our presents wrapped under the tree when the world was whole. On the cold condensation of the bus shelter
he writes her name and a love message. The swept golden leaves by his side are now coated with a hard frost. He shivers but it's not just the cold sadly remembering the times of old and when he later returns the message has disappeared. Letters would have dripped with tears as the sun rose, for everything is transient and nature does not care about his lost eyes...and total despair. How fine that Cardiff has the grace
to keep one of its historic pubs unlike the Vulcan delivered screaming to St Fagan's museum. The Golden Cross abounded with characters: "Irish Meg," "Billy Shortlegs," "Plymouth Eliza," and I wonder what these punters would say if they were to wander around today with high-rise buildings scarring the horizon and The Golden Cross an island of the past. There was many a fight on a Saturday night, it stood near the notorious brothels at Charlotte Street and Whitmore Lane. Yet now it's far more sedate, staring defiantly at passers-by for this is the pub...that would not die. The morning sun illuminates the Graig
enhancing the hues of golden trees where a rainbow seems to originate: a colourful bridge in the blue ether, mountain clouds framing the horizon. This alluring view from the autumn hill relaxes my soul more than any pill, breath disappearing ghost-like in the air as raindrops drip as if a tap, glistening jewels in the sunshine. Then the rainbow weakens, vanishing as dark clouds menace the sky once more. The show's over but I'll remember this beautiful sight...deep in November. Stars on a summer night
when I held your hand on the moon-kissed sand and all problems took flight. Now I watch an angry tide roaring on the same coast longing for your ghost to drift by my side. Stars on a summer night but Paradise is lost yes I long for your ghost to come into sight but alas it seems you'll forever...haunt my dreams. In Autumn shadows surround
Dolores González her husband’s outstretched hand father on his knees, pleading. Her boy drawn out to manhood by glooms. Whispers seep into her heart Mama, I'm here, I'm cold. She sips water eating seems wrong in this sepulchre of the disappeared. Sifting grainy soil she searches for fragments of loved ones. Overhead, observatories chart boundaries of our world track the death and rebirth of stars. The restless sea violently explodes
over the re-constructed sea wall, a watery November sun painting a silver corridor as a lone swimmer emerges, just in bathers, from the cold swaying sea quite invigorated, his soul set free. The unseen moon pulls back the tide, breakers as white as frost as we are pushed by the autumn gale towards dramatic, red Langstone Rock with holes in the limestone. Tourists have gone yet I like it this way but wish that the quaint Elephant Cafe was open so I could cradle a hot drink. The ocean retreats leaving seaweed strewn on menacing rocks as seagulls are forced back by the wind as the sea roars on this melancholy day. I pause for a while admiring the view for wild stormy days...have their beauty too. Let not your thoughts betray you while you bow your head
How can we remember when none of us was there? At best we stand in silence and contemplate the dead; At some point though, our minds drift like as not elsewhere – These days a minute, perhaps two, can seem like hours Not to check mobile phones for news we might have missed, A text from a friend, or the latest football scores. School kids might know that Dulce et decorum est Is not ice cream, but gas – GAS?? Is that your biggest threat? Aren't nuclear missiles or cluster bombs now the story, Or napalm, or even a hijacked passenger jet Crashed into a tower block pro deo mori? We're no further forward, let's not try to pretend – The war to start all wars is yet to reach an end. "Their name liveth for evermore." – Artillery Wood Cemetery
The mist drifts over Flanders Fields as if the ghosts of those who lie in this foreign land across the sea. A century has passed since the shelling ceased yet conflicts still cast dark shadows. I read the poem Rhyfel, Welsh for war by Hedd Wyn whose grave I'm standing before. There are no screams of the doomed today only the gentle sound of cows and birds as people plant flowers by the tombs of young lads with dreams unfulfilled. It is so peaceful now but I picture terrified soldiers with dying breath and the laughter...of the Angel of Death. She peers out of the window
of the care home on the hill: she can see the spire of a church and beyond the sea where she swam many decades ago but now only in her dreams when she is young again. She knows that in this place she will remain but on this glorious Dali-blue October day her eyes gaze at red leaves on the maple tree illuminated by the afternoon sun and birch trees painted gold. She views a robin on the maple's bough, it satisfies her soul...it is enough Your country needs YOU!
If the cap fits you join. Come lad slip across and. It’ll all be over by. The whistle sounds to go. The stomach wounds are the. In no man’s land screaming. Third light, the trigger is. Chlorine gas damages tissue in. 19,240 fatalities on the first. The barrage could be heard. Effects of shell shock are. They dreaded the postman because. The telegram says your son. It is my painful duty. By His Majesty’s command I. November 11th 1918 they signed. All quiet on the Western. The cenotaph in the village. Dulce et decorum est pro. My weary eyes fell upon
an autumn sunrise, magical moments in an often dreary world as if an enormous fire had spread from the horizon: pillow clouds and thin ones smoking along, birds on golden trees sang their morning song but the vibrant colours were eclipsed by God's painting held in the sky. Yet everything is transient, clouds returned to their native grey although some people ignored the scene failing to view with wonder in their eyes the sheer beauty...of the autumn sunrise. "She's not worth it!" exclaims
the young woman as she sensually rubs a weeping man's shaking hand. His emotions have oozed like pus, alcohol letting the demons roam as I watch with schadenfreude, alone. But then I view a self-portrait and my malice melts like ice under the rising spring sun. The mirth from other tables might make torment even harder to bear but perhaps the poor soul...is unaware. Hail to ye, O’ Gods of Call
by Your whim, we survive You choose to work us to our bones or let us sleep for five Hail to ye, O’ Gods of Call, by Your whim, we live Those who show up at midnight, help us to forgive Let not the angry visit the bar give not a knife to the crazy, Hide from the drunk the key to the car we’re tired, not lazy The drunks will drink and punch and stab, gangs will surely fight Shooters will shoot, bleeders will bleed, but keep them home tonight A story inspired by Rhyme Zone. One summer day
at her café a divorcée (a famed gourmet whose sobriquet was Dixie Mae) made a purée and a parfait with a soufflé for the entrée. She played reggae, drank Beaujolais, and with a “bray” her dziggetai took her away to Paraguay where on the quay near her chalet from March to May she pays her way with a plié and grand jeté in a ballet by G. Fauré. This story may be mere hearsay but anyway that’s all I’ll say (ou bien je vais continuerai pour l’eternité). The manic wind whistled across the bay
with the primeval roar of the sea and torrential rain angrily hissing. Airborne seagulls were forced to veer off course, their screeches part of the symphony of the seaside on this most stormy day with the dark clouds coloured a depression grey. A woman's umbrella was wrenched from her grasp, turned inside out and a plastic bag danced to nature's music as ruined boats lay weather-tortured. Waves crashed over the harbour walls, I stood in awe in the autumnal gale feeling so insignificant and frail. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox. Archives
March 2019
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