December Flash Poem

It's 4pm and already the sun is setting
the pale blue of the sky streaked with pink
like layers of watercolour washes.
The trees cast no shadows.

Soon it is completely dark
and only a few pinpricks of light are visible
from a house in the distance.

I witness this from my desk by the window
layers of clothing keep me warm.
The hum of the computer the only sound.

I am trying to write
but the words won't come.

A Blog About An Art Gallery

I spent an hour or so the other day (Friday actually if you must know) chatting to an ex work colleague and all round good egg Lucy Hook-Child, she of the double barrelled surname and 100% Essex blood running through her veins. Well where else would you expect her blood to run? I ask you.
Lucy has recently opened a new gallery and I was keen to find out a bit more about it. So I paid her a visit and demanded some answers. Well what else is an intrepid blogger, aka nosey bugger, supposed to do?
The gallery in question is called  Hazel Gallery, named after her Nana, a keen artist herself who, coincidentally, was also called Hazel (Not Gallery). Lucy used to spend summer holidays at Nana Hazel's house and was encouraged to take part in her various artistic interests, painting and crafts. Her love of art began here. This inspired her to study for her GNVQ in Art and Design and then a degree at Colchester Institute graduating in 2000. Lucy then worked at Colchester Library where I first knew her (and also knew her Mum and younger sister as they used to visit the mobile library), and a new age shop The Cusp. After a spell of teacher training in Bristol Lucy returned in 2007 to teach on the GNVQ art course back at Colchester Institute until early in 2013 when, faced with reapplying for the job she was already doing saw it as an opportunity to follow her heart and made   the courageous decision to say thanks all the same but no thanks.                                                             
She spent the summer, and her redundancy money, setting up Hazel Gallery in an old newspaper kiosk that used to form part of the also redundant bus station in Colchester, right next to the old waiting room/café. I used to wait for my bus there, many years ago. And more than likely bought a paper or two and some sweets from the kiosk itself  (and probably the odd packet of fags, but don't tell anyone).
It's now a new community initiative designed to regenerate the area from the ground up, by involving the local community, under the banner of St Botolph's Waiting Room or just the Waiting Room, if you want to be informal. And I know you do. It's all very exciting. And there is a magnificent view of the new firstsite gallery and a big red London bus.
She has added a complete new open frontage and inside is a feast of art, Cards, paintings, handmade gifts, bound journals and some of her own work. Well you would, wouldn't you.
Lucy also has her own studio at Cuckoo Farm where her lovely artworks are born. Lucy is a mixed media artist inspired by nature, the environment and music. All stemming from growing up in the countryside and long hours spent admiring trees and the moon.
Oh, and bye the bye, not content with all the above for talent, commitment and general all round clever clogginess (I made that word up),  Lucy also happens to have her Level 1 BSL, that's British Sign Language to you and me. Crikey!
You need to get yourselves down there don't you, for a good look and to do some Christmas shopping. Hazel gallery is open Tuesdays to Saturdays 10am - 6pm. And for good measure this Saturday is the Christmas Art Fair with 'art, craft, vintage and acoustic music all day'. So it's telly off and shopping bags on.

And when you're there, as I know you will be, say hi from me.

Nuff said.

Another Morning Poem

Nature

Today
Nature reminds us
she is Queen
and King
And Lord and Mistress
And all that falls between.
She IS creation
us her children.

All gods look to her Majesty

and know their place.

And we must too
Or else perish in our ignorance
and ingratitude.

Today

Our one true Queen reminds us
that she rules
and I in awe
am at her feet.
And mercy too.

A Morning Poem

A Eulogy

With thanks to Clive....

 

It was a solemn occasion.
The sound of your wind, breaking,
was not welcome
and brought some disapproving glances.
But it made the children laugh.

It was a fitting send off,
a kind of blessing,
an honest summary of a life well lived.
Far better than those hollow platitudes,
said for sayings sake.

To be frank, about Frank,

he broke enough wind of his own,
enough to move a sailing ship stilled on a windless ocean,
or to blow the gargoyles off the church roof,
as his mother used to say.

I admired your courage.

It was impressive as it rose in volume,
like a Herald trumpeting his presence,
drowning out the distant birdsong
and the workman's drill.

Magnificent in its pitch

even Pavarotti  could not have held a note
so constant for so long.
Deserving of its own place in the order of service.

And now

consigned to family folklore,
a story to be told and retold
as it is handed down through future generations.

It was a solemn occasion.

 

 

 

As Easy As A to Z

Written at Write Night on 23 September 2013, in a lovely room at Firstsite gallery. The exercise was to create a two person script, each sentence having to begin with the letters of the alphabet working through in order from A to Z. We had about half an hour. With a bit of creative licence I seemed to manage. What do you think.

1.   Albert I was wondering about that fish.

2.   Bugger me woman will you stop going on about it.

1.   Clare down the road said she saw it flapping about in your pocket and you had a big silly grin on your face.

2.   Don't you go believing  everything that Clare woman says, woman. Even you said that yourself.

1.   Flippin hell Albert - of all people - you're the one with the tendency to bend the truth.

2.   Get away with you woman, she's been imagining things.

1.   How many times am I going to have to ask you Albert about that fish?

2.   I really don't know - until you get fed up I s'pose.

1.   Just let me ask you one last time then Albert.

2.   Knowing your last times woman this could go on all night.

1.   Laugh as much as you like Albert, we both know you took it  down the pub.

2.   Merciful angels woman why would I want to go and do a thing like that?

1.   Not for the first time in this relationship Albert I have no idea why you do most of the things you do.

2.   Oh I see that's how it is, is it?

1.   Perhaps it is Albert but you are still avoiding answering my question.

2.   Questions, questions, that's all I ever get is questions. Ridiculous questions.

1.   So why not try answering them then Albert. Tell me about that fish. Unless you just want to keep avoiding the issue.

2.   Very well then, but you won't believe me.

1.   Well it's about time, what did you do with it then?

2.   Xander wanted to add it to his collection so I said he could have it.

1.   You didn't give it to that old fart Xander, of all people.

2.   Zoo was shut, what else was I s'posed to do with it.

A walk Down The Lane

A fresh September Sunday morning and we set off down the lane. You have changed from your skirt into jeans and boots, wisely as it turns out, and I have my coat and hat on.

Either side of us the verdant hedgerow is lush with leaves and hawthorn berries, the last of the blackberries, and those delicate purple pink and white flowers that remind me of sweet peas but aren't.
At the metal gate we stop to feed the two horses the carrots and courgettes we have for them. One of them, the young playful black one, tries to take the bag with the food in but I am wise to him now and keep it out of his reach. The older white one nibbles at your sleeve as we stroke their long faces.
Then we continue to the boarded up cottage at the end of the lane, the witches cottage we call it, and as usual fantasise about what it must be like to live there, and who the witch was.
To your delight the overgrown path beyond has been cleared and so we carry on, into the marshland alongside the river. We have to lift our legs higher than usual to walk through but it is worth the effort. We both agree it is better than the gym and I say it is like the army yomping on some training exercise.
High up on the horizon to the right a white house stands like a lone sentinel, surrounded by trees, and there are more horses in the field. Too far away for the few carrots I have left in my pocket and they don't seem to notice us anyway. We have seen deer in this field, but none today though.
We follow the river as it bends round sharply to the left, the cows on the opposite bank watching us closely, and keep walking as is straightens out, the cows now behind us and more green stretching out ahead. I make my usual silly jokes and you laugh anyway. You always do.
By now it has started raining, making little splashes on the river, and the grass is slippery underfoot. But we don't let it stop us.

  
 

 

 

 

I Borrowed A Person

'Gosh that's the most interesting and intriguing blog title I have ever seen and I can't wait to read more', I can hear you thinking and saying to your friends in excited raised voices whilst you gather round your laptops/tablets/smart phones in eager anticipation.

I'd better get on with it then. Can you move back a bit while I type? Thanks.

So. Borrowed a person! What's all that about. Has he gone completely conkers?
No I haven't. I did it. It's true. Honest Gov.

I was at The Minories yesterday in Colchester for their TACMEP  festival. A lovely day. Colourful. Vibrant. Lot's of lovely people about. The most gorgeous smell of Eastern food that literally forced me to have some onion bhajis with a tomato sauce. Delicious. There was a delightful display of Bollywood dancing that got the crowd joining in. And coffee and conversation. And much more.

Anways. People borrowing. I'm getting there. Crikey.

Upstairs at the above festival I discovered A Human Library.
Exclamation marks. A what? As I had my library books with me from my visit to Colchester Central Library I just had to find out more. I am a lover of libraries.

Well the Human Library is a library of people that you 'borrow' for 10 minutes or so and listen and talk to about their story. There are some 'book' profiles that you read through, on a board, and then you 'borrow' the one that interests you and you want to read more about. Just like any other library.

I borrowed True North. The story of a lovely lady (who's name I never got to know), who was reading her local paper in New Zealand one morning and came across a job advert, from Essex County Council, for Social Workers. Yes you read that right. Essex County Council advertising for social workers in New Zealand (and apparently Australia).

She had just finished a social work degree. In her forties. Lived in New Zealand all her life. Looking for a new direction.So she applied for, and got, the job. And moved to Essex. This was in 2009. We also talked about her Christian faith and how this had underpinned, and still does, this remarkable move and the good work she now does. I was very enthralled by her as a person and her courage. A truly lovely story. A wonderful book to borrow. In spite of my own spiritual shortcomings I love to hear how someone's faith can inspire and move them to positive, life changing, actions.

What a truly remarkable initiative the Human Library is. I would love to see more of it at various events. maybe even at a library, Where the staff themselves could be human books for a while. I wonder what the overdue fine would be though for not returning a human book on time?

Well that's a little about a lovely day at a lovely venue. If you are ever Colchester way do pop in to The Minories, view some lovely art and have tea/coffee and cake. Go on. You can be assured of a warm welcome.

Also, while I'm here and feeling mischievous, I notice I have started some sentences with So and Anyways. In fact not even sentences. Just the words on their own. And I'm sure I have mis-used, or even not used, an apostrophe and, horror of horrors, put their instead of there. Joy! I hope I have sent any grammar police reading into incandescent rage, splurting (that's not even a word) their Sunday roast across the table and wishing me several lifetimes in hell, proclaiming my misspent yoof as the cause of all the ills in the world.

Nuff said.

Special Friends

Just heard on the radio that concern is being expressed that our 'special relationship' with America could be under threat as France may now be joining them going to war in Syria. Poor old call me Dave. Lost the vote now he might be getting a divorce from Barack Obama. Bless.

And that nice Mr Gove shouted at his colleagues who voted against war. You're a disgrace he called them. And he pointed his finger. He must have been cross. Pot. Kettle. Takes one to know one as they say.

Poor old Tories. Mrs T had a war. Why can't they? Even that 'nice' Mr Blair had one. Heart breaking. How are we realistically going to send in an army that has been slashed to the bone financially. How many active service personnel are being made redundant? Does it not make any sense or is it just me? Probably. It usually is.

Do you know what I think about the 'special' relationship? No/yes/couldn't care less? Well here's what I think anyway.

F*** the special relationship and good riddance to it. That's what I say.

Who was it ever special for anyway? Only the Americans, or the American congress. Never us. Our PM's used it to foster their own careers while we all sniggered at them for being so totally sucked in. Their capacity for self deception. The Americans completely used us to get their own way. And still want to now. Obama is NO different to Bush or Reagan. It was/is never reciprocal. This is the same special relationship that obliged us (when we were virtually bankrupt) to pay back every dollar the second world war cost. It took us 50 years. Nice. Thanks.

And this is the same America 'outraged' at Syria's use of chemical weapons (which is, of course, totally, unspeakably outrageous) but happily sprayed napalm over villages in Vietnam. Or dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese. And has been arming the Middle East for decades. I smell an extra large portion of hypocrisy. So please. Have your war if you want. Fat lot of good it will do except maim and kill even more innocent women and men and children. Not the real monsters. And just to satisfy America's Imperialism and bloodlust. Not that we are any better in that respect. Maybe like attracts like? Just not this time. Thankfully. Whatever the reasons parliament have done the right thing.

Maybe, now we are not going to war, and now we are no longer special friends (or blood brothers?)  we can use that money, money we apparently don't have, to feed and provide employment for some of our own citizens here. Hark at me.

Morning Lines

Just a few lines that were in my head when I woke this morning. I wrote them in my notebook where they would usually stay. Unseen. Waiting. Then I had the thought why not blog them, quickly followed by the thought they're rubbish. People will pour scorn. The sky will fall in. The writing gods will smite me down with their sharp pens and pour ink over me. Etc.
But then I had another thought. Why not just do it anyway. Yes it's hardly Shakespeare but then what is. Well, apart from Shakespeare. So here they are. Lines written down this morning. Unedited. Not perfect. Just some words arranged into lines. Not even a title. Get me.....


We just keep going
Even though we're dead inside
We just keep going
Let's stay till the end of the ride....


Have a great day. Would love to read some of your own morning lines......

Why I Am Supporting #twittersilence

Hello.
It is indeed a glorious morning. I am going to keep this very brief. And it's probably not even very well written. But I am posting it anyway.

Today I am supporting the twitter silence. I am staying away from twitter for the day. I am doing this deliberately and consciously to bring awareness to and in support of those women who have received the most vile and appalling violence, rape and bomb threats, via twitter, from men.

The ensuing 'response' from twitter itself (headed in the UK by a man) and the 'authorities' (mostly men) has been, quite frankly, alarmingly underwhelming. And worrying. The so called debate about freedom of speech has been pathetic. Since when did freedom to speak mean allowing this kind of behaviour. How much speaking do we need until we start doing what we know to be the right thing in the first place?

What summed the whole thing up for me was when one of the women contributing to the debate said, quite rightly, that this issue was not about freedom of speech or silencing freedom of speech, it was about an attempt to silence women.

There are so many arguments about today and whether to take part or not. 'Silence solves nothing.' 'It is giving in to the online trolls.' 'We need to be part of the debate not apart from it.'
All are valid. All have their place. I am not going to start arguing with those who are on the same side. Or join a team against others. I am taking a stand in support of.  It is a positive action. Silence can be a very powerful and effective weapon. We all know this. Sadly most of us experience the negative side of it. The heavy emotional blackmailing silence.

This is, in my opinion, a positive organised one. And I have CHOSEN to take part. Just as anyone with a differing opinion can choose not too.

So for me, it's not about doing the best thing, the most effective thing, or even the right thing. It's purely and simply about doing SOMETHING.

NUFF SAID.

Have a great day folks.

Prose Poem #1

I just found this in draft form on my flash drive, along with several other 'work in progress' pieces. Hard to believe that only a few months ago there was snow on the ground and we were all saying where is that sun. Anyways, enjoy. Or not. It's up to you.



Back from a long walk by the sea, making the most of the January sunshine, I make myself a sandwich. I can hear the lady next door talking but I can't make out the words just the sound of her voice. I wonder what she is saying and to whom.

From my window I can see a black cat asleep on the roof below, oblivious to the world and to me looking. At the end of the garden another cat is in the tree attempting to climb that bit further to find a better spot.

Back in my front room the sun lights up the white walls of the house across the road, the snow on the roof the only clue that it's winter. A lady walks down the alley beside the house, long woolly boots and coat and hat to keep her warm. She looks happy and I wonder if she is meeting anyone. My mind wanders to a fantasy about her and goes off down an alleyway all of its own.

On the table are two canvasses I have been working on for some time now. At least twice I have completely painted over one and started again. I wonder if I will ever be satisfied with how it looks. It's a bit of an experiment anyway. The other is for my daughter. Really I am frightened to touch either of them in case I make another mistake, but then nothing is ever accomplished. I feel stuck, and it occurs to me that this is also exactly how my life is at the moment, and has been for some time now.

Temple

Lines written during a visit to The Minories Gallery, Colchester on 11/6/13. Exhibition entitled Pattern and Belief by Keith Albarn.

 

 

The Temple

 

I entered the temple.

it was the sound of the bell ringing
that drew me in.
No
No
I was attracted by the temple
and then I heard the bell
or was it bells?
 

I was aware of shapes around me

and of silence
The silence of the bell - or bells - ringing
ringing

I realised my heart was racing

racing
But I was not fearful.

Then the temple entered me

and the bell - or bells - were ringing
singing
and my blood was flowing
flowing.

In the temple inside me

the temple bell - or bells- are ringing
ringing
and my heart is beating
beating
to the rhythm of the chiming
of the bell - or bells.

Inside the temple that was inside me

I had to sit and listen
listen
and the shapes began to merge
forming patterns is if dancing
dancing

and white was black and

black was white and
night was day and
day was night and
I became the temple and
the temple became me
and
all the while the bell - or bells
were ringing
ringing.

The Usual Script (well almost)

We regret to inform you

on this occasion
you have been unsuccessful
in your application

We will keep your details

on file in case
another suitable vacancy arises

We hope that makes you feel

a little better
even though we both know
nothing will ever come of it
and you won't hear from us again

At least we didn't keep you waiting

on hold for half an hour
while we tried to transfer you
to the correct department

or got you pressing
lots of buttons
until you thought you were finally through
and then we cut you off anyway

We have to have some way

to amuse ourselves
and we did reply
unlike most employers nowadays

Small comfort we know

because you didn't get the job
but we're only trying to make the most
of a bad situation

We wish you well

for your future success
even though you're thinking that
it seems we couldn't care less...

 

Carry On Biting

So lets have a think about this. Not for too long because really no thought is needed. Imagine biting someone at work and still having a job afterwards.
No?
Bit too far to stretch the imagination isn't it. For most of us the thought would be ridiculous. Apparently though there are exceptions to this rule. The good old world of professional premiershit (notice my deliberate misspelling there) football being one.

If your name is Luis Suarez the message is, from the top down, go ahead and behave however you like. We will fine and ban you from a few games but carry on regardless. His team will keep him on and the police won't prosecute. He is to be offered 'anger management classes' though.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
Can you tell how cynical I am about that. Bit like offering the Yorkshire ripper classes in how to handle his issues towards women.

So green light to carry on. Carry on biting. They could make that into a film. Mike Tyson could play him (can you see what I did there?).

What's truly disgraceful is that his team management have basically said he is too valuable to lose. Meaning of course that as premiershit (oops I did it again) football is all about money now and there are no professional standards, they simply can't afford to lose him. So morals, sport, sportsmanship, basic good decent human conduct count for nothing anymore. Not where sport and money are concerned. Much the same as big business everywhere then.

Suarez has 'apologised' to Ivanovic, the Chelsea defender he very kindly introduced to his teeth, and asked the Football Association to donate his fine to the Hillsborough Family Support Group. What's the word I am looking for?
Yet he has also previously been fined for racial abuse, and already had one ban for biting another player whilst at Ajax (I thought that was a scouring powder?) I see a pattern emerging here.

Mark Lawrenson, Football Analyst said...

"What Luis Suarez did has absolutely no place in football and he is going to get - and deserves - an extremely lengthy ban.

"You cannot bite people anywhere, let alone on a football field. It is the type of thing you do when you are a baby. He's a world-class player but he gives you world-class trouble."

I agree with most of what mark Lawrenson says apart from one fundamental thing. He (Suarez) does not deserve a lengthy ban at all. What he deserves is to be sacked and banned from playing again. Ever. And prosecuted for this criminal offence. Maybe he could, as part of his sentence, be made to do something useful for once, like helping out at a soup kitchen or sweeping the streets.
Perhaps he could visit offenders in prison who have been sentenced for assault or racial abuse and try to explain to them the differing standards in society and why he has no criminal record and enjoys a luxury lifestyle, whilst they are spending their time at her Majesty's pleasure.
Maybe he could, eventually, get a normal job (if there are any left) somewhere and then, during an 'angry' moment, bite a co worker and see how much 'support' he gets from his management.

But he won't. And he won't be either punished or disciplined in any meaningful way either. He will go on playing and setting the most appalling example, assisted by the management of his team, his fellow players, the football association and the police...

Same old eh, same old....

Patricia's Had Enough

This is 'what I wrote' at Mondays (8 April 2013) gathering of Write Night. We split into pairs and discussed our work environment, then wrote for thirty minutes about a fictitious situation set in that environment where the person was dissatisfied with the job. Patricia is a fictitious person too

 

Surveying the empty classroom at the end of the day, when all of the children had gone home, Patricia was struck by one inescapable fact. How much she hated it. Immediately her mind went into its teacher mode, 'Hate is a very strong word Pat'. She had to admit to herself that whatever the word was, and plenty were now coming into her mind, she just didn't want to be there. At all.
There were the dreams she was having about driving a busload of children over the edge of a cliff, that was on the nights when she could sleep, when the fear of another Ofsted inspection or complaint or grievance wasn't keeping her awake.
Patricia remembered all those years she had trained and fantasised about being a teacher, the nobility of the profession and the good she was doing for people and their lives, worn away by the day to day reality of doing the job.
The classroom she had tried so hard to personalise and make into a creative learning environment with the examples of students work, past and present, some interesting quotes and art, the Blob Tree that she used so often to encourage some self awareness in her students. None of it seemed to matter. The room was cold. The paint was peeling. It smelt of the large numbers of bodies that had been there that day, most of them against their will and boy didn't they let her know it. Repeatedly. Loudly. Aggressively.
It struck her how much it felt like a prison. Ok not the typical one with a bed and a toilet, but nonetheless she felt trapped by it. Confined. Controlled. She was in urgent need of an escape plan. In that moment Patricia was seriously considering setting fire to it and burning it to the ground.  Imagining what, if anything, she would keep (answer nothing) and could picture clearly the headlines in tomorrow's paper. The scandal. The shame. But mostly the sheer joy she would feel. The release. The service she would be doing to humanity.
It was time to look for another job.

King in a Car Park

Warning. Some of the following may not be true....

Is it, isn't it. Oh yes it is. No longer are we discontent (sorry bout that). The skeleton found buried under a car park in Leicester IS King Richard III. Phew! The wait was unbearable (smiley face). It was the DNA that confirmed it. Cue much excitement amongst the Richard 111 society. They've even reconstructed his face, bless them.

Much is being made of how maligned and misrepresented by history he was. How could they? That naughty old Mr Shakespeare playing his part, making him a villain.
Turns out he was a lovely chap, a hero. Killed in the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, at the age of 32 and after just two years on the throne, having been challenged by the forces of Henry Tudor, the future Henry VII. Seems he met a bloody end too (can I say bloody on my blog?). Note head wounds and arrow in the back (I thought it was the eye, or was that a different King?).

And what thanks did he get for all his hard work? They buried him under a car park! The ungrateful swines. How undignified.

And it seems he didn't even have a hump. Or did he?  It's scoliosis I hear you cry.

Notwithstanding the importance of any of the above, and all that I have left out, for me his most valid and significant contribution to history, and the one that everyone has overlooked, or ignored, whilst they are busy arguing over where his remains should be inturd, stands gallantly alongside that of Sir Thomas Titt, admired and knighted by Queen Victoria for his contribution to the sewerage system, and the much loved Gypsy's Kiss, is as one of most used and more memorable pieces of modern rhyming slang.

I thank you.


He was a handsome bugger..





What hump?...

Woman Walking

Here's a new one for you....

 

She walked with a confident stride,

her long legs spaced quite far apart with each step,
for a woman I thought.
That's what caught my attention.

I watched from the bus stop across the road

the large shop windows seemed to frame each step,
like those slow motion camera stills we used to see.

She had long legs and was obviously tall

slim legs but not skinny - blue jeans -
and long brown boots that came to just below her knees.

She walked with a confident stride

and there was strength in her legs,
those long legs,
long slim legs ending in long brown leather boots.

I watched her from across the road

as her long legs took her confidently forward
to wherever she was going,
her long slim legs walking,
marching almost,
framed by the shop windows as she passed them.

She walked with a confident stride

carried along by her long legs,
her long slim legs.

There was power in her legs,

her long, slim legs,
and I liked her....

Ed

Right then, Happy New year and all that. Lets get blogging. Here's something 'what I wrote' some time ago now but has only just surfaced, making its first appearance at Colchester poetry open mic. Who is Ed? Well, now there's a question. Maybe someone we know or, perhaps there could just be a bit of Ed in all of us? Enjoy..........


Pills in a packet pink and red
drown out the voices in my head                                                                 

I keep a gun beside my bed

sneak in at night and you'll be dead 

 

Two boys from my school just got wed

one was Derek and one was Fred

 

Lots of spiders in my shed

long hairy legs fill me with dread

 

My bruvs a DJ with street cred

we went on holiday to the Med

 

My car tyre has got no tread

the number plate ends in a zed

 

A vampires coffin is lined with lead

one bit my neck until it bled 

 

When it snows I ride my sled 

at night I cuddle my furry Ted 

 

I like butter on my bread

I like rhymes that end in ed