Mirrored

The lushness of summer seems forever long in the early days of May.

The autumn seems unlikely and an eternity away.

In my verdant days, I could never, myself, begin to conceive

That my own summer would have its fall and blow away the leaves.

My youthful adornments:  unextinguished energy and plump, glowing skin,

Blue-jewelled dewy eyes and thick brown hair - a hint of red within.

I’d chained together daisies, in a ring to make a crown

Then commanded clouds from the soft grass where I had chosen to lie down.

An old woman watched me.  I guessed her tired, lonely and frail.

She’d known the world in black and white, and knew the knights of tales.

She watched as I admired my mirror and its radiant youthfulness.

When I caught her eye, I saw her smile, jealousy I’d guessed.

She spoke to me and so I stopped and she warned me of the world

But me, an adventuress, knew how life would unfurl.

I’d travel the globe and be admired for my talents and my looks,

And be rewarded for my singing and how well I’d write my books.

I would marry a rich and handsome man – although assured of my own wealth -

And produce some loving children and enjoy abundant health.

I knew that I would die some day but far in the future, hazed;

Quietly, in my sleep, at home, a gentle smile upon my face.

It seemed that luck had favoured me, and therefore I was sure

I did not need the maxims of the self-styled wise of yore.

She’d had her days; in the distant and trivial past.

These days were mine, and soon the future would be firm within my grasp.

She faded away completely at some point, I don’t know when,

But through my life, she’d cross my mind every now and then.

Faded - the hair a flat white.  Wiry and dead.

And many decades since a daisy crown adorned that head.

Gravity’s battle with flesh won; the frame bent and thinned.

Behind the dull grey eyes, showing a spirit somewhat dimmed.

The skin around them, lined and fine, delicate, like crepe -

As round all the features of this face were gently draped.

These accents show a life of smiles, of tears and worries, defined.

But faded into obscurity, no-one reads between these lines.

As I watch my face in my mirror now, that arrogant youth’s somewhere

Her outer shell replaced by the old woman I'm seeing here.

Those eyes saw some parts of the world, and settled with a man,

But too late to bear him children – and those dreams never went as planned.

I watched a youthful girl today, unaware of what she had

In terms of time and beauty, and in a way I felt quite sad.

I thought I’d tell her not to waste opportunity or brain

But she just laughed it off as if this old woman was insane.

Dog

To walk free and feel the cool
dew beneath my toes.
To inhale where the new, clean, pure air
refreshes and fills my lungs.
To hear nothing, except the
distant rustle of a gentle breeze urged through trees.
Me
and
my Dog
and
nothing.

The Price of Conscience

He stared in disbelief. At some point it occurred to him that he had been standing there, in silence, for some time, but he had no idea how long.

Instinctively drawing in two full lungs-worth of air through his nostrils, he looked away and focused on the last shards of daylight fighting their way through the closed silver blinds on the other side of his bedroom.

Whatever was to happen next, Ben Wade knew his life had taken a turn. He had always expected to have a life of seeing the same grey faces, five days a week. The same zombies, in the same seats on the 0808 from Theydon Bois as the 1717 back from Liverpool Street. The same karaoke every other Friday down the Fox and Lamb, the same pilgrimage to the Neon Club every Saturday night and then fighting through the resulting hangover at Sunday league the next morning. At some point he’d meet a decent girl, get married and she’d drop a couple of kids to carry on his name. And it wouldn’t be one of those slappers from Neon – although at the moment, it was better to push one of these slappers out of bed on a Sunday morning than no-one, he supposed.

These thoughts ran through Ben’s mind, but his subconscious found it harder to avoid the matter in hand.

The worn Sainsbury’s bag on the bed caught his eye again. Finally he sat next to it, letting out a noisy sigh, the sound breaking the silence and grounding him. Without giving himself more time to digress, he grabbed the bottom of the bulging bag and emptied its contents – wads and wads of neatly packed fifty pound notes.

The only sound he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Possessed by his subconscious, he slowly spread the notes across the bed, his eyes and fingers dancing over the money. He estimated at least fifty grand there – maybe more – and his heart quickened.

With his breath increasing, Ben laid back and let out a long and gratifying, “Aaaaaaaargh!” The white ceiling was suddenly a cinema screen, fast-fowarding images of a flash car racing down a motorway, a Caribbean beach, a helicopter skimming the New York skyline at sunset. More images, and each one starring Ben Wade and a huge white smile!

Satiated with the snapshots of the playboy life to come, Ben put his hands behind his head with a confident laugh.

No more debt! The first thing he would do would be to replace that old stereo for one with a famous brand name and a tape deck that actually worked. Then some new threads – even better, that bespoke two-tone suit he’d wanted for over half of his 32 year long life! And finally, he’d have the spare cash and the motivation to learn to drive that flash car he was going to get. Actually, he was going to be sensible and get something like a VW Golf. A brand-new convertible one, with a 300-watt system, tinted windows and a personalised plate! Then he was going to slap down a cash deposit on one of those brand new flats they were building next to the tube station. The penthouse, of course!

Ben Wade relaxed with a long sigh into how he was going to work every last penny, his smile growing along with his shopping list.

So much so, that he found it easy to ignore, at first, the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Gnawing that increased from a mild stirring of acid to that feeling you get when you wish you’d declined that generous helping of chilli sauce on that large mixed kebab – “wiv’ everyfin’” – after a fifteen-pinter the night before. On the point of feeling like he was getting a hiatus hernia, Ben could no longer ignore the fact that his subconscious wasn’t ‘sub’ any more. Slowly his wide smile closed and the sparkle in his deep brown eyes diminished. The ceiling became a ceiling again and he stared blankly at it. It took the edge off the pain in his stomach. Slowly he sat up and toyed with the money again.

Picking up as many wads as he could, he closed his eyes - perhaps to hold on to his dream a bit longer, or like a clairvoyant, trying to sense something about the cash.

This money had come from somewhere. Someone was missing thousands of pounds that had been carefully counted and cautiously bound together with elastic bands.

Ben reasoned with himself. What kind of idiot would leave an old carrier-bag full of £50 notes, in a rubbish bin outside a train station?!

But someone did. Who? And more importantly – why?

“This is just typical of my life,” thought Ben, rolling his eyes, “Always so near and yet so bloody far!”

He reasoned again. No. He had found it, and there was no indication as to who it rightfully belonged to. Finders-keepers-losers-weepers! And it was probably accounted for by now anyway – insured somehow!

“Oh yeah?” asked Ben’s conscience, “Cash? In a Sainsbury’s bag? Insured? I don’t think so.”

He reasoned again. Maybe this person could afford to lose it. Maybe there’d been a bank robbery and the robber dumped it and hadn't come back for it yet. The bank could write it off. They’d gouged enough in charges out of people over the years anyway. In that case, didn’t he deserve it more?

His subconscious soon poured water on that theory. “Okay then – if you want to get far-fetched – how about this; some little kid has been kidnapped and is right now tied up in a cold, dark cellar, frightened and crying, and this is the ransom money that gets them back to their parents. When the kidnappers see no cash there…”

He didn’t want to progress down that route. He didn’t think it was realistic but maybe the bank robber story was a little bit ‘out there’ too. In either case, he had waited at least 45 agonising minutes after dropping his Metro into the bin and seeing the queen’s Mona Lisa smile peeking out between a Twix wrapper and an empty beer can. He’d looked around for film cameras, thinking it was a set-up. He’d looked into the eyes of every passer-by for a give-away sign. He’d endlessly prayed no-one else would glance into the bin, until, finally, coast clear and heart hammering against his chest cavity, he snatched the bag from its undeserving and stinking hiding-place and bolted, the wind biting his face and not even daring to look behind himself. It would have only ended up on the rubbish tip anyway (unless the bin man had spotted it, and Ben couldn’t bear the thought of seeing some nobody’s face on the cover the local rag, “Council Worker Finds Big Tip In Rubbish Bin”).

Whoever had lost it would have considered it gone and started the grieving process by now. It was logical and only reasonable that he should keep it. He decided it was a karmic gift. A God-given reward for the years of struggle through a crap upbringing, the scraping through university for a business degree (all for the daily grind of being an undervalued and underpaid pen-pusher at a City underwriters?!). This was for him, a glimmer of hope against no chance of ever owning his own home, or having a decent girlfriend and a nice car.

That was it. Decision made. The money was his. He knew his conscience didn’t like it, but it would have to shut up and lump it. The acid in his stomach bubbled again and he forced a belch in a vain attempt to calm it.

Needing a change of scenery, he went into the dark living room, dropped his behind on the settee and clicked the “on” button on the remote. He tapped out a king-size Rothmans’ from the half-empty pack on the coffee table, lit it and watched closely as the end burned orange. He slowly drew two long drags from it, and anticipated the nicotine rush circuiting his veins, ending with a slight high that took him, for a second or two, out of his own body.

It was concentrating on this that caused the story on the local TV news to filter through a little slower. It took him moment to recognise the tube station behind the reporter and make the connection. The reporter seemed to be speaking at double-speed and Ben only caught a few phrases, such as, “life savings”, “carrier bag”, “collapsed”, “hospital”, and “distraught”. The phrase, “one hundred and twenty five thousand pounds” was the one that really ricocheted though his mind.

Ben Wade figured himself the star of a different film now. After a moment’s pause without thought, he roughly stubbed the cigarette out and raced back to the bedroom, stopping at the door. He stared at the cash on the bed. It was still there, beckoning him like an irresistible stranger, sprawled naked on the bed, whilst his imaginary wife was innocently coming up the path.

Making his way over to the money, he dared to caress it again. His fingers ran across the red ink like Braille, sending tiny waves of electricity through each nerve ending. Yes. There could easily be double the amount of his original estimation.

He gulped and noticed how dry his mouth was. Funny, looking back on it, that this was the catalyst to the next scene in Ben Wade’s particular life story.

He went back to the living room and waited for the full story. It seems that the 87-year-old Mrs Ethel Solomon had collapsed at the station at lunchtime and had been taken to a hospital around three miles away. Police had checked through a trolley she had with her, stuffed with clothes, and some old photographs of who they assumed to be her husband and daughter, and some letters from her daughter postmarked Australia. A statement from the hospital said that Mrs Solomon had come round from her heart scare and was now “comfortable”. They anticipated a full recovery. She had confirmed that she had been pressured into selling her one-bedroom flat to developers and she had £125,000 from that sale. She had been scared of going into a home, or having nowhere to go and planned to go to Australia to find her only living relative, her daughter, who she had last heard from 17 years ago. Mrs Solomon had taken the money to the station with her but had been distraught find it gone and couldn’t remember anything after that. The police had scoured the CCTV footage from the station and there had been no trace of what had happened to it.

Ben clicked the television off at this point and sat in the dark silence of the room.

Okay. They know it’s missing. But the CCTV had caught nothing…yet. But how could he be sure? Maybe if they thought to look a bit later in the day they would see this man sitting outside the station for ages and then quickly take something out of the bin and run. If that wasn’t suspicious… Ah, but they hadn’t. And who was to say they would? But what if they did? His face would be on the news. But wasn’t that just a small risk for £125,000? If he just kept it in the house and spent it little by little, if he got found out he could give most of it back and just say he didn’t know about the little old lady collapsing. He didn’t even entertain thoughts of the other questions that might follow, such as, “Well, why didn’t you hand it in?” What would anyone who hadn't been in this position know about it anyway?

It was going to be hard but he would get over it. He stood up and switched the light on. He was back in reality, but a richer one. Uncomfortable for a while, yes, but he’d forget about Mrs Solomon. She’d be okay, wouldn’t she? No-one would see her helpless. She obviously needed to be in an old people’s home, with company and comfort until she probably died in a couple of years. He was sorted.

Ben purposely emptied his mind and relieved the fridge of a can of Stella. He took a big refreshing gulp that soothed the dryness in his mouth and awoke his senses. Walking back to the sofa he started to think about dinner. Boy, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. Somewhere between bending his knees and his backside touching the settee, his conscience intervened again. What about Mrs Solomon? Was she “sorted”? Was it right that after a lifetime of paying a mortgage, taking care of her late husband and raising her daughter that she should finish off her life with strangers and carers? And what if they were those nasty ones that you see on the news, bullying old people?

“What if…”, “What if…” No doubt the police would somehow trace her daughter and she would come over and collect her mother, and she’d get to know her grandkids, maybe great-grandkids and finish her life happy, loved and in the sun. No amount of money could compensate for that and they’d be so happy to be together again that they wouldn’t even care about the money. Everybody happy.

Unless they didn’t find her. Then poor old Ethel would be penniless and alone.

“Oh for GOD’S SAKE!!!” yelled Ben. All these thoughts were driving him nuts! He had to get out, get some air, get away from the money and make a decision, stick to it and not think about it any more! He downed another large gulp of Stella, grabbed his jacket and made for the street door. Picking up his keys he changed his mind and decided to take the money with him. He was scared to take it with him but he was more scared of coming back to it, knowing it was waiting there. If he chose to do the ‘right thing’ then seeing it still on the bed when he got back might cloud his judgement. He was also scared of not coming back to it – that he’d come back and find it gone. Without looking directly at the money, he scooped it into a sports bag, zipped it up and hit the outside world. He didn’t dare look behind him, lest he found the strength to go back indoors.

He walked determinedly, without pausing or looking anywhere but directly ahead. Not because he knew where he was going, he didn’t, but to try and escape the endless pros and cons, the theories, reasonings and scenarios of him being hailed the good Samaritan, the young playboy or the desperate man.

He only stopped when he realised that his feet, thankfully at the opposite end of his body from his brain, had taken him to the hospital where, in a bed somewhere, lay Mrs Ethel Solomon. He looked at the clock above reception in Casualty. It was 2.20am and it was typically busy for a late Friday night. It wasn’t difficult to convince the young receptionist that he was Mrs Solomon’s nephew and only living relative in the UK and had travelled from Bournemouth when he heard the news. He found out that she was in room 8 on Lewis Ward but she was resting and that he would have to come back at 8am for visiting hours.

Pretending to leave, he slipped, unnoticed, into the main building of the hospital and up to Lewis Ward.

Once the Ward Sister had left her post at the other end of the corridor, he crept in from the stairs, relieved to find that room 8 was the first one to his right. So this was Mrs Ethel Solomon. He stood at the door and watched her for a moment. She looked so fragile and helpless against the crisp white bedding. Ben noticed that the lines on her brow seemed subtly pronounced and he thought she looked uncomfortable. Right then he resigned himself on what he had to do. There was no going back, he was here, in this moment, now. He had asked himself enough now on what was worse – a life of struggle, yet having known he’d done the ‘right thing’, or taking swift action in order to take the opportunity of a lifetime?

He moved toward her and silently placed the bag on the bed. He gently lifted one of the pillows behind her and held it in his hands, thinking. She stirred as his body shadowed between her and the light of the corridor. He didn’t want her to wake and see him standing over her. He wanted to take care of the situation quickly and quietly and get hell out of there.

After placing the pillow at the end of the bed he turned and left, turning only to look at Mrs Ethel Solomon and take a mental picture of how peaceful and comfortable she now looked. He felt glad to have done this favour for her.

On the long walk home, Ben smiled at the thought of getting back to his crappy rented flat and to paying off his debts. In fact, he looked forward to the sobriety of them. He could only imagine the joy that Ethel would feel when she awoke to find a sport’s bag containing her life savings.

His conscience glowed through him and he was light on his feet.

Ben Wade felt – well – like £125,000.

Elegy for a Beautiful Soul

Cruel morning.
The breath of my life is gone.
I'm left to ride alone now,
Until my own passing comes.

Inevitable day;
Impossible to prepare for.
I care not now when happens,
Now you're here no more.

This would be a time I would bury my head and hold you;
Weep into you and you would silently wait.
But this is the only time, the worst time, and I can't...
And I don't know how I'm going to carry this weight

All I want is you my baby -
You,
All happy and well my baby.
You
Are the only reason I'm still here my baby.

Knowing I can't kiss your wonderful face...
I must somehow continue to inhale and exhale...

Who, now, will fill my arms with love
And fill my eyes with such unmatched beauty?

7am on Sunday and 29 Degrees, Next to a Fan

Summer Solstice
Heat surrounds and protects me
(like a soft blanket)
I close my eyes

Sweet waves of air
Lift, caress and transports me
(with big strong hands)
To the cradle

Safe, secure - feeling loved
Loving and tactile lullaby
(I haven't slept)
To sleep.... to sleep....

First rough draft

Insomniac

I envy you and your sleepy-sleep
Stillness and warmness
So helpless...

My body just won't shut down - gogogo!!
Open and searching
Eyes won't shut.

I watch you breathe, deep
I want to manipulate

Touch your sleep and see if it's catching
(until you wake and tell me to get off)

I envy your sleep.
Sleepy-sleep.
Brazen and shameless.
So tempting.


Rough first draft

The Dumb Princess & the Wicked Minstrel: A Scarytale in Seven Parts

PART ONE
Once upon a time, there was a very beautiful young princess, who lived by the river, in a fashionable and up-and-coming area of a Forest. Oh, let's call the area, "Camden".

One beautiful day, the Princess went for a walk along the river, and there, she saw a very handsome minstrel. In an instant she was hypnotized by his bewitching song, for little did she know, the Minstrel was wicked and possessed evil powers.

PART TWO
For some time, the Princess thought about the Minstrel but did not see him again. Time passed (about 365 days or so) so that she thought the minstrel had been a dream, as he regularly appeared to her in her sleep, singing the song that she could not forget.

Then, one day in the market, she saw a likeness of the Minstrel on a 12 inch disk! She realized now that the Minstrel had been real, and set upon a quest to find him. She still did not suspect that the minstrel had actually cast a spell over her and it wasn't long before she found him in another fashionable area of the Forest, called, "Fulham", by the river, standing among the Gunubuflower.

When the Minstrel saw the Princess he knew he was close to capturing her heart completely, as the possession of the hearts and souls of princesses fed his survival. She dared to speak to the Minstrel, who soon played the bewitching song again and then sealed the spell with two small, sweet kisses to her cheek. A spell that would take a fucking long time and some will to wear off.

And thus, she had been charmed by he that shall be known as the Wicked Minstrel.

For a year or so, the Wicked Minstrel regularly seduced the Princess with his song, through her dreams and by appearing at her window.

However, the spell wasn't strong enough for this bloody-minded Princess, who one day belittled his song and angered him. The spell broken, she escaped and swore never to fall under his spell again.

PART THREE
However, for over 10 moons he would follow her all over the Forest. She would spot him when she least suspected it. Each time he would try to charm the Princess, with songs and charms - but she was having none of it. She was dumb but she wasn't that dumb. She'd got herself a Protection Spell.

The Wicked Minstrel had a rethink. Perhaps if the Dumb Princess thought he had vanished, he could strike again. So he left the Forest for a couple of years, until he was sure that the Protection Spell wore off.

And I tell you now, children, that is exactly what happened.

PART FOUR
After another 100 moons the Princess foolishly believed that the Protection Spell was everlasting, and she largely forgot about the Wicked Minstrel. But the Wicked Minstrel, with his mysterious powers, was sensitive to this and sought to once again entire her consciousness.

Thus, the Wicked Minstrel did cast a spell that convinced the dumb Princess that she had the strength to seek the Minstrel out again and not succumb to him. Well, on this particular occasion, she was wrong, for the Wicked Minstrel’s absence had made him stronger. Cautiously, she approached him in another part of the Forest, called, "Finchley". She didn't properly reckon on the extent of his dark powers and, again, with a kiss, he sealed an even more wicked spell. By the time she saw the White Wand, hidden in his pocket, she was already under his power. Dumb bitch.

He had a twisted power over her and strengthened the spell with an intricately weaved enchanted dance around her. At great speed, he moved this way and that, close to her and then distant, at once, fire and ice.

This confused the Princess, who wondered now what was real and what was imagined, and feared for her sanity – believing it was all in her head, like a dream - but, oooooh no, everybody else in the Forest was confused about it as well. Many had realized that he had cast a controlling spell, although they could not imagine the depths to which his evil ran.

Many handsome princes, serfs, gentlemen, suitors and other minstrels tried to rescue her and break the spell - but nothing worked. This only served to anger the Wicked Minstrel. Those who underestimated his black soul (and frankly, those who knew of it) pitied the Princess, who, not quite in control of herself, just embarrassed herself, quite frankly.

And so, he would repeatedly summon her this way to the centre of the Forest so that he could control her and begin to possess her soul.

But the Wicked Minstrel was too confident, and busied himself by exerting his powers over other people, spreading his malice even beyond the Forest, in places like, I dunno, let's say, "Germany". He didn't notice that the spell was wearing off the strong-minded Princess and she began to pity him. Then, for amusement, she would deliberately anger the Wicked Minstrel, using suitors and male companions, to punish him for placing her under his spell for so long.

As soon as the spell had completely died, she banished him beyond the mountains.

PART FIVE
Years later, the Princess wanted to forgive the Wicked Minstrel, and armed herself with another spell, called, "The Wisdom of Experience". Yes, she was still dumb enough to be seduced by the bewitching song, but as soon as he started to cast a spell again, she escaped the centre of the Forest, vowing the never return

PART SIX
A half-decade passed and the paths of the Princess and the Wicked Minstrel failed to cross again. It was heard that he had taken by force a very leafy part of the Forest - so damaged and fucked up was his ego. It ends up getting all control freaks at some stage. In time, the Dumb Princess almost forgot that the Wicked Minstrel had even existed.

Almost.

Late one night, safe in her tower, a vision appeared very suddenly in front of the Princess, bearing the image of the Wicked Minstrel! His evil brown eyes bore out at her, as if to smugly tell her that he was gaining power and control all over the kingdom and beyond!

In sheer terror, she let out a blood-curdling scream that shook the forest.

PART SEVEN
It transpired that the Wicked Minstrel had traveled far to the other side of the Great Pond, where he wandered far and with great effort to seek strength in his quest to possess the soul of the divine princess. He had gained a reputation for being a talented and benevolent man. Naturally, the Princess was intrigued. Uh-oh.

The Princess thought long and hard. She knew she was strong but she also knew that within his realm, she was powerless. She did not doubt his talent and capacity for benevolence, but she also knew his capacity for deception and wickedness. She knew that she should not try to prove to herself that he would not capture her heart again, not to mention his attempts to possess her soul.

So, she thought, fuck it then.

After the Night

After the night comes the pain
Not washed away with morning rain.
The clouded hours before dawn
Are too clear and real as day draws on.
I dreamed you were here, in my life...
The mirror reminds me and twists the knife.
The harsh sun burns through the window,
Clearing my head from a state of limbo.

I've watched the hands move round the clock
Whilst escaping the truths I’ve tried to block.
The sky moved from black through hues of blue;
Another day wasted and nothing’s new.
I kid myself everything is all right,
But it’s harder to lie in the light after night.

Marmite Haiku

Love; timeless taste of comfort
A smile on the lips
And, Spring-like, tastebuds revive.


Hate! kick in the mouth with boot
Mud-black as cold copse.
Assaulted senses recoil.

Invisible

She walked around like a ball of night; her heavy frame covered from top to toe in black. That which wasn’t – her silver watch and jewellery - still emanated a cold, emotionless impression of a woman either too shy or too cold to reach. Either way, impenetrable.

For the undecided, for those who took time to notice her, the answer was in her eyes. They were the most expressive part of her largely motionless energy (not that she was always motionless of course, the slow rhythm of her walk alone exuded a silent grace. But of course, no-one ever noticed that.). She could go from a look of undiluted love in her eyes to one that could freeze the blood. She couldn’t understand just why that one was the strongest and the one that people felt represented what she was. It happened often. But she was made up of both of those emotions and a plethora of them in-between.

A Page in Time

Bless you –
Bless you –
An angel took her hand when her maker called
Too soon for the world
And the love held here.
God said, “Enough.”

Time stood still (not just once…).
Words refused to serve,
Tears refused to stop
Love refused to die.

My
Useless
Tears…

Young Traveller

Here your clock stopped and you were called.
Your brief journey.
Left behind on the road to wave.
But not forgotten.
I’ve taken my life for granted.
Hah…
The things you will never know…

So.
I’ll remember a brief, bright glow.
You are never to be forgotten.
You moved, unmoving, around the world.
Now may you do as you please.

Breathe

Almost complete silence.

Oh I love the hubbub and bustle of London; the fast-paced, quick-moving colours and shades of the capital, but... every so often... that great big breath you intake, which carries you through the veins of the city, needs to be exhaled - slowly.

This place is just one of a few little escapes away from mankind. It is a karmic massage.

A busy road runs right through it – but that’s okay because if I turn around to face the other way, the traffic it carries disappears into non-existence for a while.

I have seen this view in all seasons and all weathers; raindrops hanging like spherical crystals from the tips of emerald-green leaves until they can hold their delicate weight no more, the same branches hardened with the stark cold of winter and outlined in sifted white, and the sunbeam-carried wing of the bee at work, accompanied by the soft wind rustling through the dense, long grasses.

The Big Apple Bites

The sight of omnipresent stars and stripes peppered throughout JFK kick-starts the restlessness. Reassuring flags seen waving along the Van Wyck and Long Island Highway only intensify my anticipation. Approaching the Queens-Midtown tunnel I make out the iconic skyline. It is hard to contain myself now. A deep sigh of suppressed exultation forces itself from my chest as our cab crawls past the Empire State Building. Looking up at its deserved pretentiousness, lit up red and green to commemorate the season, I subconsciously pinch myself and smile. I am back in New York City.

I am with Paul, Toby and another friend, Amee, heading for an apartment block in the East Village run by Hare Krishnas. It is easy to find; it is right next door to the New York chapter of Hell’s Angels. They seem to get along – although we will not appreciate our 100-decibel Aerosmith alarm-call early each morning.

“Oh, that’s just Kevin”, laughs our host, Adi. “He’s a character.”

Kevin’s a character all right. We see him one day, outside our window, as high as a kite and shouting up something insulting about the English. We ignore him.

New Yorkers’ famous no-nonsense attitude is perhaps explained by its weather. The tormenting bitterness of this New Year’s Eve, out of doors, is not to be trifled with. It is a temperature that makes you practical and blunt. From A to B, from here to there - with no messing around in-between. The wind bites and chews your face. To expose any flesh is an act of defiance to the climate – “I dare you to make me cold!”

I have been here twice before. The first time was a bright but freezing March that saw some night rain. The second, an Indian Summer that made a stroll along the Coney Island boardwalk reminiscent of a 1970s summer in Margate. My souvenir, my first ever sunburn. I still have it.

Upon leaving the apartment to head out for the celebrations, it is hard to believe that anywhere on earth could be colder. It’s physical. We had got a cab from the airport and a plane to the airport from a pleasantly warm Orlando. We were prepared for a cooler temperature, but this is something like 20°C colder and below zero!

At ninety minutes to countdown, we are not going to get anywhere near Times Square for the traditional ball-drop. A pedicab driver, on a previous visit, had let me in on the fact that ‘real’ New Yorkers watch it from the relative comfort of the West Drive entrance to Central Park. Mind you, he was a fresh Polish immigrant that kept calling John Lennon “Jeff”, so I don’t know how reliable he really was. Thankfully though, it is not too crowded - probably because ‘real’ New Yorkers are actually watching from the comfort of their own homes. We can’t see anything happening from where we are, and, being over 3000 miles away from Big Ben, have to gauge the exact timing of the auspicious moment by the waves of whistles and noisemakers crescendoing towards us. It is not so much an exhilarating burst into a new January as a dispiriting tumble out of an old December. But we make the best of it by half-heartedly pretending not to notice.

Expecting the same kind of post-celebratory rush for public transport we usually see in London, we start walking. At Columbus Circle, a group of Hare Krishnas celebrate in their unique way. Either they have had a boom in recruitment tonight or people want to celebrate anything. I suspect the latter. We join in for a while before they move up Central Park West. We walk the opposite way, down Broadway.

A few blocks along, complaints begin rising up about the cold. It’s catchy. We each wail a few discordant verses of “I’m sick of walking”, “It’s freezing”, “I want to sit down” and “I need the loo” as we are diverted off the straight route by cordons. Okay, it’s mostly me. Nevertheless, we attune ourselves by the time we drift through the fallen confetti in Times Square, which is in the process of returning to normal itself. I am warmed at seeing the kaleidoscope of lights reflected in my friends’ faces.

In the subway, the heat is almost suffocating. I have found that underneath the city, no matter what the weather is like above, it can be like Hell’s furnace down there. And this is in December – sorry, January now.

On the three-block walk back to our temporary home we warm our bellies with cheap pizza. Even expensive pizzas I’ve had in Italy do not compare with the perfection of a New York pie. Numerous pizza places say it’s something to do with the water supplied by the Catskills.

As we reach our block, we hear the ‘cha-cha-ching, cha-cha-ching’ that we all identify as being the saffron monks from Columbus Circle. It turns out they are staying in the next apartment. Amee, a Hindu, considers them a karmic gift from Krishna.

Indoors for the night, I unwittingly lie down to sleep with bedbugs that will see in the New Year by dancing on my skin, inebriated on my blood - as lumpy wheals of itchy fire on my legs will testify tomorrow...

A Greek Odyssey

As usual, I am first up and about. I savour these few minutes of quiet solitude before the tornado of activity. Quietly, I open the balcony doors to release the stale air and ensure the room is fresh when the others awake. The soft warmth of the Mediterranean morning waft in along with the hotel’s cats, whom we have nicknamed Moochie and Moochie-Mama. They meow a hearty greeting as they brush against my legs in fake devotion. They only want our food. I murmur that Barry, my brother, will be in soon to spoil them. Despite being built like The Hulk (and just as temperamental) he is a sucker for animals. With this, the cats skulk over to my bed to eke out the fading degrees of its warmth.

Stepping outside, I am startled by a ghostly, transparent lizard, calmly watching me with black emotionless eyes. Disregarding him, I sit and gaze out at the olive orchards and mountains.

Alykes has been beautifully bright every day. However, today the morning temperature is deceptive; dark clouds heading this way threaten to spoil our trip to Tsilivi. We are told that the rains move into Zakynthos in September and tend not to vacate until December. And this is September.

Paul steps out onto the balcony, croaking out a garbled “Morning!” as he rubs his eyes and scratches his testicles.

“I think it’s going to rain,” I respond, gravely.
During breakfast we have a VIP view of one of the worst downpours any of us have ever seen. The olive trees bend in full submission to the Anemoi and the lightning dances a Leventikos along the mountain-tops, which are eventually grey-screened by the downpour. It is, somehow, a beautiful, reaffirming event; reminding us we are ultimately powerless before God, or Nature.

“Ah, it’s only rain,” I say to the boys, cheerily. I hope that Paul, Barry and Toby don’t wimp out on me to take cover here, with the cats. Thankfully, they don’t. We all intend to make full use of the hire car won in the hotel’s quiz night.

I dread having to cramming into this tiny, beaten-up little car. It’s like a metal cat-suit. I speculate on how well the single windscreen wiper might cope with this rain. Despite its best efforts I stop after about fifty yards because I cannot see past the blurry fat splats of rain pummelling the windscreen.

I have heard bad things about Greek drivers. What I discover is that if you don’t drive fast enough for those behind you on the, often, uneven, unpainted roads, they will overtake. No aggression, just a simple need to get from Alpha to Beta quicker than you.

Another four stops and twenty minutes later, we reach Alikanas, around two miles away before the deluge forces another stop. After another twenty minutes it improves enough to move on, and I promise to take it carefully. I keep that promise but snaking around one of the island’s many curved roads, I aquaplane onto the other side, towards another car.

It happens in slow motion. The other driver and I make eye contact as if in some kind of Mexican stand-off. We clip them but they continue on their way. We continue on to wherever fate is taking us – which is quickly towards a twenty foot trench.

Apparently, here on Zakynthos, crash barriers appear only where there has been a serious accident. Thank Zeus there is a barrier here, otherwise it would have been serious for us. We come to a stop against it.

After a silent, stretched second, I ask out, “Is everyone okay?”

I hear three versions of, “yes” - each characteristic of the personality of its speaker. Barry’s is understated and wry (typical of all my family); Toby’s is tinged with amusement, happy to be part of another adventure, and Paul’s, the most natural, duly serious and relieved.

A tour guide had told us that the locals get out chairs and tables at accidents and turn it into an occasion. With no houses nearby, I cannot confirm if this is a myth; however, traffic does seem to appear from nowhere to provide a slow-passing audience.

With help, we move the car to a muddy lay-by, opposite. The only damage seems to be a missing side light – although I’d be surprised if it was there to begin with.

As we finally park up in Tsilivi, the heavens open again. Barry and Paul sensibly seek refuge under a nearby canopy. Toby and I, always open to new experiences, brave the streaming streets to seek shelter with a hot chocolate in McDonalds, halfway down the strip. Lightning chases us as we walk briskly, terrified and giggling.

Sitting on the covered terrace at McDonalds, drenched and cold, there is a collective sense of exhilarated fear. After about an hour of watching this light show, a bright blue sky fights through the grey - denying any of this had ever happened.

We Made it in Hollywood!

My head still feels skewered. The flight from San Francisco was unpleasant; I’m sure the cabin pressure was wrong. My ears had popped as if the 1812 Overture was being played in my head, using blown-up paper bags. My boyfriend, Paul, and our friend, Toby, both complained of heads like burst balloons.

Now, waiting at the car rental place, the excitement of being in LA acts as an analgesic. Keen to fit into the California lifestyle, I rent a convertible. Later I remember that, for the sake of health (smog) and safety (carjacking), real Angelinos don’t ordinarily drive around with the top down. To cope with the heat, they use air-con – not that they are considering this December ‘hot’. The cool, ardent winds that had brought us in are reported on the news as being “a cold winter.”

I’ve never driven in another country, but I have driven an automatic. Once. On a film job a few years back. On a test track. When it was closed. At night. I nearly put the cameraman through the windscreen a few times. Here, it’s a right-hand drive and I’ll be on the other side of the road, observing different signs and different rules. But I feel positive.

I ask the boys to holler if I drift to the left, which, for the most part of our week’s stay, I won’t. There will, however, be one unfortunate incident. Coming down Laurel Canyon Boulevard at night, I will get confused by the road markings. Traffic will head straight at us. Paul will yell at me and I will snap at him. But we will be fine.

With Toby squished in the back with the luggage, we set off for West Hollywood. I take to the driving surprisingly well. After a few minutes on the freeway, we gasp in excited unison as nine 45-foot high letters proudly welcome us to “Hollywood.”

We are staying at the home of a journalist friend, Avik. He arrived from Palestine when he was eighteen, back in the era of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. He has interviewed just about everyone that has ever made a name in Hollywood and will happily spend hours telling tales that make most of today’s stars look like amateurs.

I park directly outside the house, on a road between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, twelve blocks from Graumann’s Chinese Theatre. Stepping out of the car, I feel a soft crunch underneath my feet. Looking down, I cannot immediately identify the dark red seeds stuck to my trainers. Looking up, I realise they have dropped from the regally waving branches of the giant palm trees above.

The house is a white picket-fenced, green-fronted Californian renovated bungalow. The front door is flanked by two plate-glass windows, through which is a darkened sitting room that I imagine is a cool refuge on warmer days. Our presence brings the living room to life by the way of two mongrels – Jimmy and Kasper. They will soon become familiar friends, often visiting our room to snooze on the balcony. One time, I worry that they have left something ‘unpleasant’ in the room. It will turn out to be crushed palm seeds, but I still worry because Avik is concerned about his new carpets. Understandable. Yet, on the last day, I catch Kasper peeing on Toby’s pillow. So that explains the pale orange stains on the bedding and floors...

Avik greets us as family. Elaine, his English wife, is away but her influence is everywhere. Framed pictures of London and a stack of differently-sized Marmite jars in the kitchen make us feel at home.

Keen to get out into the bright, hazy afternoon, we head back out and head towards the beach. Driving down Santa Monica Boulevard – shades on, top down and radio blaring; this is how to do Christmas Eve! We pass a silent movie theatre, Barney’s Beanery (where Janis Joplin had her final meal) , the pristine Rodeo Drive and a man walking a Chihuahua in his pyjamas (the man, not the dog).

I expect parking to be expensive, but it isn’t - compared to London. It’s a quarter of the price to park on the pier here for ten hours than to park for five hours at my local shopping centre.

We amble past buskers, vendors and artists to the pier-end to get a prime view of the approaching sunset. Couples and families stroll, relaxed and smiling. One woman pushes cats in a buggy. “Only in America...”

It takes less than three minutes for the sun to fall below the horizon. It is unforgettable. The crowd around us cheer and applaud as if this is a special effect crafted in a nearby film studio. When they leave, we stay behind, to contemplatively watch the sky and sea merge through the entire colour palate to an oily black. As the stars materialise, the wind picks up, causing my hair to gently lash at my face.

Toby, usually a smiling and jolly soul, looks pensive. He has never been away from home at Christmas before and misses his family. To cheer him up, we drop into the In'n'Out Burger on Sunset, where we spot Peter Fonda slowly chewing on a burger whilst looking into blank space. Perhaps he needs a Christmas Eve treat too.

Back outside Avik’s house, bits of palm tree are scattered everywhere. Looking up, I notice that the branches now are not so much ‘regally waving’ as ‘frantically gesturing’.

I stay up alone for a while, to email home and wish everyone a Happy Christmas. Toby’s gentle snoring, rising from the floor (where he chooses to sleep) has a lullaby effect, so I join Paul, already far into dreamland, in the high four-poster bed. Sinking into its soft, cradling mattress, I close my eyes and look forward to getting presents in the morning.

Just above the whispering television, I hear the singing wind gently stir the windchimes on the balcony. The grapefruit trees in the garden scratch the windows as if someone is out there.

Or...could it be...? Santa Claus..?

Adventures on the Waterloo to Reading

pdm-pdm... pdm-pdm...
metallic snakes to the escape!
exhaling out, we’re one and all
beyond the grey and past Vauxhall

pdm-pdm... pdm-pdm...
ra-tuddly-tum, ra-tuddly-tum
Through billions of windows, the London Eye
Peeps at me and bids bye-bye
We’re westward home, but we’ll be back
Tired. A yawn. And I see black.

ra-tuddly-tum, ra-tuddly-tum
“tss-tss-tsstsssss, tss-tss-tsstsssss”
Beep-beep: “It’s me....I’m on the train”
Eyes open once again...
Tall flats high start to whizz right by
Wondering I, if they reach the sky
Lucky old things, to live up there
Watching the weaving and worming down here
Pah-duhm, pah-duhm, paa-darm, par-daah...

“This is Clapham Junction”

A rush of cold as night fights commuters to a seat
Unmusical chairs and quick! Pick a place to rest feet!
Some disappointed air-apparent bums.
A disembodied voice above booms -
(Forcing people out of reading and crosswords)
“This train is going to...” - a list of names in the surburbs
An urgent, manic beep-beep-beep-beep-beep
Squishing in like ssh-ssh-ssh-ssh-sheep
Wisssst! A snort and giddy-up blue horsey....
Don’t stop now, till you’ve finished this course
And -
Pdm-pdm, pdm-pdm - off and away!
We’re going fast! We’ll be okay...

Over the river, over the Thames
Leaving behind all London’s gems
Oh what a day! I-saw-so-much!
Biddlybiddly, biddlybiddly
Nelson’s Column, Buckingham Palace, big Big-Ben
Biggily-Ben, Biggily-Ben, Biggily-wiggly-Ben
The fun and noise, the shops and toys
Interesting facts
Covent Garden - clowns and acts, Oxford Street was really packed
Beep-beep traffic, taxis, tourists, buskers, pedi-cabs and lights
Bridges, barges, barging, beggars, bendy buses, bikes
Buildings fly past and London’s gone
racing, racing, chasing the sun!
Moving fast, moving fast
Passing Putney, Putney’s passed
Off and on, down and up,
Plastic coffee cup

Roaming robots, fight my gaze
Fluttering print of news today
“frruffle-frruffle, sniff and cough”
In a bubble, then they’re off.

Passengers pushed have shushed, there’s peace in the air
Train sways the standing, but I’m in a rocking chair –
Rocking
Lulling
Groaning
Close my eyes...
Surprise!
I’m on a big, wooden pirate ship!
Creaking
Killing
Drowning?

We’ve stopped in Feltham, adventure at an end
Onto the platform, by big strong hand
Voice asks if I enjoyed the day I had
I yaaaaawn and smile – “I did, thanks Dad.”
We watch the train shrink into the faraway
I ask Dad, “Can we go to London again, another day?”

Urban Oasis

She looks at her watch. She will have to go home soon, but wants to avoid the rush hour. She decides to continue eavesdropping on bitchy office-workers and other regulars. She mumbles a gratitude to the Algerian waiter as he delivers one last cappuccino to her table before she braves the West End streets.

Underneath a myriad of theatre posters, actors and stagehands energise the air with tall tales and egotistical ranting. She watches as the waiter - dressed like a sailor, in whites with burgundy epaulettes - murmurs something to them. A lanky serious-type responds by raising a dainty glass cup from its saucer, as if to ask for another cappuccino. The waiter dutifully scribbles in his little notebook, walks over to the counter and places the tiny page on the huge pink coffee machine that proudly states the name: W PICCADILLY in gold lettering. The woman wonders how long ago it was that the beginning N and E fell off and whether they lay somewhere behind the counter, still waiting to be reaffixed.

A man behind the counter peers at the note through the spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He announces grandly, “Uno cappuccino!”

This is Lorenzo. He wears a burgundy cravat neatly tucked into his white shirt. The white hair crowning his high forehead hints at his age. He arrived from Sicily just after the war and was soon put to work here, aged just seven and unable to speak English, whilst his parents waited on customers. Soon after, he had accidentally smashed a plate on the floor. His dread of the owner’s wrath was soon abated when she handed him a KitKat and rubbed his head – then covered in dark, thick hair. It was at that perplexing moment young Lorenzo decided that he liked England. Sixty years (or so) on, all children dining at the cafe are habitually given KitKats from a box on the counter.

Little has changed here since that time - although the decor has aged along with Lorenzo. It is reassuring and a relief from the present-day. Memories older than the woman ooze from the peeling yellow walls to soothe and comfort. This, along with the location (just off the beaten track), the decor and cheap prices give the place cult status. And there never seem to be tourists here.

She splashes a sugar-cube into her frothy coffee and stirs it in, taking care to avoid disturbing the creamy glob of foam and chocolate on top. As she gently places the spoon back onto the table of yellow Formica with its vermicelli design, she revels in the New Piccadilly’s uniqueness. It stands out distinctively against its drab, homogenised surroundings of cloned shops and chain eateries with their temporary, undedicated staff and safe, uncaring menus. Their service is inarguably quick, but somewhat impersonal - and each meal is identical to the ones preceeding and succeeding it.

Here, the menu is a laminated original from the 1950s. The handwritten “special” is paper-clipped onto the top. Defunct and forgotten dishes are merely covered with stickers, their replacements written in bright felt-tipped pen. If you want to deviate from the menu, they are happy to oblige but seem bemused about it.

The woman has enjoyed the “tunny-fish salad” today . She decides against dessert. Usually, for her, this is two scoops of vivid yellow vanilla ice-cream, lovingly punctured with a slightly stale wafer.

She takes a sip from the cup. The soft froth kisses her top lip as she takes in the coffee underneath. A satisfying sigh and she gently clacks the cup back onto its mate. The Algerian waiter smiles familiarly at her, which she returns with a nod of recognition.

She remembers first walking into the cafe fifteen years ago. The Algerian (whose baby-face has not aged by a single day) welcomed her in and ushered her to a booth, armed with a menu. There were fewer posters up back then; instead, just the row of framed cigarette card collections and mirrored advertisements for Coca-Cola. Overseeing all was a stuffed peacock in a glass tank up high on the wall; its final, decorative resting-place.

Another sip; the woman recalls that first cappuccino, long before the stylised likes of Starbucks and their “dry-skinny-mocha-no-whip” nonsense. Cappuccino here comes one way only. Fizzy drinks come sugar-loaded, or, if you don't want the calories you are grateful for a pint glass of tap water (provided for free!).

She smiles to herself. The joys and pains of her real life are punctuated by time spent here thinking, watching, laughing and chatting over many a cappuccino. She had even broken up with someone here. As hard as it had been, when the lover walked away, onto the grey street and into her past, she had felt that she could be in no better company. The Algerian waiter had instinctively brought over a cappuccino and silently smiled. She supposed that, like the all-seeing peacock, the staff had seen it all before.

Finishing the present cappuccino, she winces slightly at the sweet, partially-dissolved sugar, sludging its way from the bottom of the cup and onto her tongue. The theatre-folk cough out the door and head up the street towards the backstage entrance. Their audience would arrive for a pre-show meal soon, bringing a different vibe with them. And when they scuttle out for curtain-up, they will leave an empty hush that remains until closing-time.

The pink neon sign in the window screams “EATS” into the street. It’s now dark and the woman decides that she is ready to leave and head home. The tenseness she had carried in with her earlier is now soothed; every sense has been permeated and nurtured.

She retrieves her coat from the coat-stand near the counter. To her, it is a symbol of faith in human nature and a monument to the kind of people who frequent this place - trusting and trusted.

Seeing her, the Algerian waiter rushes over and hands the bill to the smiling bespectacled lady sat behind the huge till. Effortlessly, she strikes the stiff metal keys with strong fingers and the items are totalled.

Meanwhile, the woman takes an opportunity to drink in the vista behind the counter. The wall is completely covered with postcards of Sicily from every possible angle. She imagines they were sent from family, friends and customers wanting to remind them of the old country.

Cash is exchanged and the change falls into a nearby tip-saucer. Smiles and courtesies are exchanged as the woman leaves. Just outside, she looks back to see the scene continue, framed by the plate-glass windows. Steeling herself for the hustle homeward train journey, the first of the over-dressed, squealing theatre fans bustle past and tumble into the cafe.

The Nigerian Eye

Oh my GOD! It’s such beauty! These city buildings seem to disappear into the clouds and I have never felt so far away from Lagos! Everything here is so cold and grey, not the warmth and colour we get back home – but... eh! This is exciting!

Around me are faces of every colour and every shape, and it is wonderful! But eh, what is wrong with these people, none of them smile. They all wear suits – like uniforms – man and woman, young or old. They look smart, but so uncomfortable, they are like robots! Do they not see the beauty that surrounds them?

In my country, natural beauty is everywhere; things that God created. But God also created man. And man created these beautiful buildings, this great history of Britain!

You know, the Tower of London was built by hand one thousand years ago – eh! I bet its walls could tell many stories about what it has seen!

Five hundred years later, Christopher Wren built the delightful St Paul’s Cathedral -like an oasis of spirituality in a grand desert of business. London’s businessmen and cars and buildings are like grains of sand!

As I walk on Waterloo Bridge, over the famous river Thames, I can see London’s beauty everywhere! Canary Wharf, The Gherkin, The Savoy Hotel, St Paul’s Cathedral, Oxo, The National Theatre, Cleopatra’s Needle, Royal Festival Hall, the magnificent London Eye and the glorious, proud Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

Eh! These people should stop racing - and look at these wonderful sights! I know they would come to appreciate it!

I have wanted to visit London since mama-mama-mí gave me an guidebook forty years ago! I am very excited now to sit down and have a tasty English Tea and plan my expeditions for tomorrow!

Battersea and Beyond

I live in the sky. From here, I have an almost panoramic view of the multi-coloured, maggoting mortals below. I am not part of that world any more.

The night below twinkles whites, reds, oranges and greens. Occasionally there’s a flashing blue, presumably accompanied by a screaming siren. The Crystal Palace transmitter blinks to my right, the London Eye’s lights ahead slow to static. Ribbons of car lights stream through the veins of Battersea and beyond.

It doesn’t seem like eighty years since I played in these streets. Eleven of us lived in a three-bedroomed terraced house with no bathroom or inside toilet and in the winter icicles stranded along the inside of the sash windows.

Nowadays, I’ve double glazing. It silences the world outside, hushing Battersea’s voices to deafness. The sounds of my youth disappeared with the fogs long ago - tugboat horns on the river, steam engines shunting at Clapham Junction and, sometimes, the humming of a factory all the way from Southfields. Factory smells assaulted your nostrils - Garton’s Glucose, Booth’s Gin or Young’s Brewery - depending on the time of day and which way the wind blew. These senses are numbed now.

The terraced slums into which I was born were weeded out soon after a V2 bomb evicted our little community in 1943. Most of my family moved out to Wellingborough, lured by the promise of indoor ‘amenities’. I went to the other end of Battersea to live with my old nan. Here, the 15-acre brick dead elephant called Battersea Power Station bombarded her clean washing with daily smuts. Gawd, how she would Lord-Mayor about that! Ernie the newspaperman walked the streets over there; broadcasting the six o’clock news with cries of, “Paper! Star! News and Standard!”

From here I can just make out the junction of Cedars Road and Lavender Hill, where my beloved Irene worked at Hemming’s Bakery. She was killed by the number 34 tram that overshot the corner and ploughed into it. The trams have gone now. I hear they have ‘bendy’ buses now. I haven’t seen any from where I sit, on the 22nd floor.

After Irene, I began to notice things changing. The old Batterseaites were mostly gone and increasingly replaced by immigrants, yuppies, then gangs. I once had dozens of friends and relatives around here. But the tar-covered wood roads I played on have a new skin now. These people are strangers.

The power station’s death rattle sounded in the 1970s and lies silent,a derelict shell, whilst new buildings rise around it like tombstones.

I once felt the heartbeat of Battersea under my worn soles. I was part of its blood. These days, the only heartbeat I feel is my own. I don’t walk around nowadays.

No, I am not part of this world any more.

The Villanelle

A villanelle I’ll try to write
Apparently they’re tough to get, but
I hope I finish for tonight

The form itself is pretty tight
A quatrain after five tercets, but
A villanelle I’ll try to write

It’s the first one that I’ve ever tried
It will be, I’m sure, one to forget, but
I hope I finish for tonight

I’ve got a reason and some rhyme
And not long before I go to bed, but
A villanelle I’ll try to write

Can’t spend all day – I don’t have time
I’ll worry I won’t finish, I bet, but?
I hope I’ll finish for tonight

So here I go, I am all set
I hope it’s not something to forget
A villanelle I’ll try to write
I hope I finish for tonight

Scratch the Surface

Standing on the bridge and looking at the sky
I think I’m lucky living in this city
I look at the ground and see a big brown rat
And his beady black eyes looking back at me – so what do I see?

I hide and watch The City’s animals
Running to their urban cages, each alone
I linger at the edge as they stampede past
And I ponder on this place I call my home – minding my own

And scratching the surface

A gentle wind down from the river blows
Last week’s local headlines, tumbling to my knees
Scandals and murders and muggings and more
Just remind me that the city’s full of sleaze – this city bleeds

Sometimes I wonder, “should I get away?”
To escape and find a space where I can breathe
Deep down I know I guess I’ll never go
‘Cos I belong right here just as it belongs in me... it’s my city


Part of the rat race
Part of the fast pace
Part of the displaced
Part of the point lace

Lower Him Gently

Lower him gently, do not disturb his sleep.
Silence your voice in all that you say.
Let rain fall softly as the elements weep,
He’s the most important person of the day.

Tender souls commune today to send him on
And ache for all the things that they will miss,
For they are left behind, not going where he’s gone;
No more to hear his voice, feel his touch, or kiss…

Do not think that we leave him here alone -
Though not with him, he is with us everywhere.
He remains in more ways that can ever be shown
And resides in our hearts with memories there.

Lower him gently, for he only slumbers deep.
Though our souls yearn for some support,
He has journeyed on for an appointment to keep -
It’s why his time with us, though valued, was so short.

Then & Now/Anger & Ambivalence

Part One
You stole my fucking life from me
Selfish bitch! Grow old and die alone!
For those twenty odd years of misery
You stole my fucking life from me.
It took some time but I finally broke free.
After giving me life to have as my own
You stole my fucking life from me.
Selfish bitch! Grow old and die alone!


Part Two
To all who rejected and abandoned me -
The best revenge is living well.
This is the message I have come to tell
To all who rejected and abandoned me.
My conscience is clear and that is the key.
I carry no baggage, here’s my formal farewell
To all who rejected and abandoned me.
The best revenge is living well.

Note to the Unconscious Charmer

don't apologise
be who you are

you are loved
you are admired
you are one

who many people wish to be
who cannot remember how

fragile
friendly
funny
pleasing
beautiful
little soul

you are blessed
but then
we are blessed
to know you

Questions Pondered on a Bench

An old wooden bench bearing somebody’s name.
Someone like me, who used to frequent this place
One hundred years ago.

Did they sit and watch the life here too;
The frolicking in and over and under and by
The clear river?

Did they sit and notice the subtle changes
In the sounds, scenery and sky
With each season?

Did they silently curse the boastful boat-owners –
Or wave from their bench
On the bank?

Did they admire the whispering willow tree,
Washing its branch-ends
In the Thames?

I close my eyes…
And listen.

Did they sit and listen
To the whirr of bicycle chains and the conversations
Of all life?

Or to the music of the water?

Did they, too, come here for solace?
To rebalance, unwind, de-stress -
Escape?

Bedivere's Promise

At Camlann, where King Arthur fell, his last request he spake:
“Take Excalibur and throw it deep into the lake…”
(This duty being taken by the trusted Bedivere)
“…and once it’s done, what happens next return to tell me here.”

“Take Excalibur and throw it deep into the lake…”
But Bedivere, at water’s side, paused long for his king’s sake.
“…and once it’s done, what happens next return to tell me here.”
He hid the sword, for England’s heir, then back to Arthur’s ear.

But Bedivere, at water’s side, paused long for his king’s sake;
The sword should yet survive for a worthy successor to take.
He hid the sword, for England’s heir, then back to Arthur’s ear.
“Did you do as I have asked?” quizzed Arthur as he drew near.

The sword should yet survive for a worthy successor to take -
So Bedivere’s promise to his dying king did break.
“Did you do as I have asked?” quizzed Arthur as he drew near.
He lied - “Aye, Lord, and crying birds is all that I did hear.”

So Bedivere’s promise to his dying king did break,
But thought he’d done so for the best, although his heart did ache.
He lied - “Aye, Lord, and crying birds is all that I did hear.”
Then angry Arthur accused his friend of being insincere.

He thought he’d done so for the best, although his heart did ache -
Regretting he had broken on the promise he did make.
When angry Arthur accused his friend of being insincere,
Once again down to the water’s side went Bedivere.

Regretting he had broken on the promise he did make,
The king commanded that the sword be given to the lake.
Once again down to the water’s side went Bedivere -
But could not throw the royal blade into the waters clear.

The king commanded that the sword be given to the lake,
Once more the trusted Bedivere’s conscience took a shake.
He could not throw the royal blade into the waters clear -
“I saw the sun bright on the waves” heard King and friend so dear.

Once more the trusted Bedivere’s conscience took a shake
When this, his second lie caused King Arthur’s voice to quake.
“I saw the sun bright on the waves” heard King and friend so dear.
Replied the king, “If you love me you’ll do this task you fear.”

When this, his second lie caused King Arthur’s voice to quake,
Bedivere resolved himself, as their friendship was at stake.
Replied the king, “If you love me you’ll do this task you fear”
And once again at water’s edge this trusted friend appear'd.

Bedivere resolved himself, as their friendship was at stake
He took Excalibur to throw into the waiting lake.
So once again at water’s edge this trusted friend appear'd
And this time hurled away the blade so loyally revered.

He took Excalibur to throw into the waiting lake
And with a prayer, the sword held high, something did awake.
When this time hurled away the blade so loyally revered,
Out of the lake and catching fast a woman’s hand appear'd.

“And with a prayer, the sword held high, something did awake…”
(This did Bedivere report when to the king he spake)
“Out of the lake, and catching fast a woman’s hand appeared.
Three times saluted then was gone to leave the surface cleared.”

This duty being taken by the trusted Bedivere,
The knight had proved to Arthur he had faithfully adhered.
At Camlann, where King Arthur fell (his last request he spake),
The thankful monarch closed his eyes, ne’er to re-awake.

Four Haiku on a Cherry Blossom Tree

New life commences,
Shy buds peek to promise hope
To the grey faces.

Embellished in red,
The baubles bloom to pinkness –
Which it soon disrobes.

On the ground, peeled gold.
The scent of cold on the air.
Now cloaked in darkness.

Bare branches, lifeless,
Awaiting reawakening
Whilst covered in white.

Obsession and Arachnophobia

Its silent prowl around kills peace of mind.
It sits… obscene and taunting while I wait
Til violent howl resounds as panic blinds.

My eyes scan down the walls in case to find.
My wits too keen, I’m haunted by my fate.
Its silent prowl around kills peace of mind.

It’s wily now; will not let me unwind.
It sits… unclean, just vaunting at my hate
Till violent howl resounds as panic blinds

I sigh and frown, to Hell I am confined.
I serve routine, I’m daunted by my state.
Its silent prowl around kills peace of mind.

This fear surrounds me. Filled with shame. Resigned.
It sits… unseen, I’m stunted and prostrate –
Till violent howl resounds as panic blinds.

It’s wired for the time to undermine.
It flits around and flaunts its legs of eight.
Its silent prowl around kills peace of mind
Till violent howl resounds as panic blinds.

Senses

I’ve seen the grain-filled dunes of the desert
I’ve seen sequoias reach up to the sky
I’ve seen the snow-covered ice of Greenland
I’ll see the Lord in each thing by and by

I’ve heard the grateful applause of a crowd
I’ve heard the silence when someone has died
I’ve heard the rolling thunder of a storm on its way
I’ll hear the Lord in each thing by and by

I’ve smelled the crisp, clean air in the mountains
I’ve smelled sleeping babies, just washed and dried
I’ve smelled calming rose gardens in summer
I’ll smell success with the Lord by and by

I’ve felt the need of strength and protection
I’ve felt the new sting of tears in my eyes
I’ve felt the dew beneath my naked feet
I’ll feel the love that my Lord does supply

I’ve tasted the salt of seawater
I’ve tasted bittersweet memories and cried
I’ve tasted the sourness of jealousy
I’ll taste the sweet Heavens, Lord, when I die

The Empty House

A clock winds down in the empty house.
A spider weaves at the moonlit door.
The temperature sheds another degree -
Nobody lives here anymore.

The kitchen sink sees another drip
And dust lies still, undisturbed, on the floor.
Unmoving shadows move with the hours, and
Nobody lives here anymore.

These walls were once filled with laughter
And tears and terror and toys
But there was love from the floor to the rafter
And there was music in every voice…

The beds lie made for the very last time
And leaded silence embeds to the core.
There are smiles in the photos that nobody sees
Because nobody lives here anymore.

Block

Armed with sword and shield,
Motivated with fight but no purpose to yield
And it is the eve of battle:

An unconventional truth...
Something witty, poignant - to raise the roof
Waiting... but my head rattles

Ideas presented as pretty metaphor...
I feel like Coalemus' whore.
I've words aplenty - but it's prattle.

Gone For Now

The Leaking Pen is on creative hiatus - probably until the Summer 2009!

The Hunted and the Huntsman

This is my first attempt at a sonnet - so don't expect much - they're much harder than I thought! I would appreciate constructive criticism. Personally I realise that the ending might be seen to be ambiguous. Maybe I'll work on it at some point.

I wanted to explain what the sonnet is about but perhaps you could give me your interpretation..!

Thanks - The Leaking Pen

Seduced by the huntsman’s call, she draws close.
Transfixed, aware of danger, stands static.
Escorts him, blindly, wherever he goes -
Bewitched - although his whim be erratic.
Others may try to entice her away;
He draws her near, she is his (he is hers?).
Long is the journey to where she will lay
In the snare where his betrayal occurs.
Hypnotized, yearning, she only follows -
Naïve, ignoring her fate, she remains.
She sees only him: this, the huntsman knows
And she does not see that he holds the reins.
At last, he stops and turns. The bow is raised.
Her poor heart bleeding and still yet is chased.

Invisible

She walked around like a ball of night; her heavy frame covered from top to toe in black. That which wasn’t – her silver watch and hematite bracelet – still emanated a cold and emotionless impression of a woman either too cold or too shy to reach; either way, impenetrable.

For the undecided (those who actually noticed her and took the time), some truth to who she was lay in her eyes, for they were the most expressive part of her. She could switch from a look of sincere warmth to one of undiluted evil before your blood knew it had frozen. She was aware of it, but didn’t understand just why that particular one remained with people, and was the one that she believed people felt represented who she was. Although bemused, she was slightly insulted by this, for she possessed both of these personality traits - essentially warm but with a mischievous streak – and a plethora of differently shaded facets in between.

Her mannerisms and silent energy only impressed to those who knew her intimately – and they were few. The slow rhythm of her walk was largely unnoticeable, but noticeable by the fact that it was not what one would expect and subtly different from those that busied around her. It could be mistaken for lazy, but her stillness – and when she wasn’t still, her light, yet slow, lucidity exuded understated grace was impressive.

She spoke usually only when she had something to say. This gave her an air of confidence, but her natural confidence had died a long time ago. When she spoke she tended to know what she was talking about – she was certainly intelligent and worldy-wise. She knew how to talk in whatever company, but was generally afraid to do so because she knew that she didn’t fit in whatever company. Those from a, “better” background would think her as common, and those from a similar background to her – a working class Londoner – would think she thought she was better than them. Either way they would think she was above herself.

The Magical Bunny Rabbit (Part One)

Unedited, written by 9 year old new writer

Once there was a girl called Rebecca who brought a rabbit called Starsky but she did not know that the rabbit had magical powers.

One night she came downstairs for a drink of water and she looked into the rabbit cage to see if the rabbit was alright so she looked into Starsky’s bowl to see if he had any food.

“That was funny” said Rebecca “I fed Starsky before I went up to bed”

so Rebecca went to get the rabbit food but when she went back to the rabbit hutch again but when Rebecca got there the bowl was completely full to the ridge of the bowl when it was all gone. Rebecca thought and thought until she said to herself maybe Starsky had magical powers.

Then Rebecca said "no it can’t be true I must be dreaming" so Rebecca went back upstairs to go to sleep.

When she got into bed it made a big creak on the top bunk so when Starsky heard the noise of the bed he unlocked the cage at night and rang all of his rabbit friends to come round and have a party at the driver family’s house and there was a really good game that the rabbits played most was called bouncing bunny’s it’s like jumping and you have to reach food from the cupboard like Doritos with salsa or crisps and what a rabbit likes sweets and chocolate.

That night Daniella heard the music that the rabbits were making. Just then Starsky’s best friend Patchy had a feeling that someone was coming down the stairs so all of the rabbits jumped out of the window and Starsky got back into his hutch as fast as he could but when Daniella got of the last step Starsky was faster than Daniella going down the stairs so Daniella called Rebecca from upstairs.

"Why are you calling me downstairs at one o clock in the morning?"

Then Daniella showed Rebecca what the matter was - the whole living room was full of carrots and all sorts of rabbit food on the floor.

Rebecca said "I will tidy all of the mess up on the floor until there is not even a little bit of dust."

When Rebecca went into the kitchen to get the dust pan and brush and when Rebecca got back to clean up the mess it was all gone!

Then Rebecca said to Starsky, "did you just clean all that up while I was in the kitchen?"

Then you won’t believe what happened Starsky actually spoke to Rebecca. That very moment Rebecca felt quite scared to be in a room with a talking rabbit. But she could not be afraid of her own rabbit and that she was bigger than Starsky so Rebecca sat down on the sofa and was talking to Starsky at last.

Copyright: RND, 2006

The Tell-Tale Heart

by Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men—but the noise steadily increased.

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But any thing was better than this agony! Any thing was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!—

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Copyright Unknown