A Pen for all Seasons

THE TREE
by Susie Mehmed

So strong, so firm, I stand with pride.
I spread my branches far and wide
To drink the warmth of the sun.
This old oak tree, so wise and vast
Watched many successive seasons pass.
— now new life’s just begun.

Winter’s dormant days I’ve seen
And now, my branches turning green
Burst wide to greet the spring.
Little robins with red breasts
Collecting twigs to build their nests
Always have time to sing.

Nature’s hand is kind to me
Squirrels keep me company
My friends are flowers and hedges.
I’ve watched the lovers through the years,
Witnessed laughter, even tears
And heard their secret pledges.

Birds, squirrels, play on me today,
Come children, climb my branches, play
Play while you are able
For the hand of man will come to me
And just like all my family
I’ll end up as a chair or a table.

UNDERGROUND
by Valerie Goble

If you stop and listen to the sound
-underground
You’ll find movement everywhere around
-underground
Many living creatures all abound
-underground
Different shapes and sizes to be found
-underground

Velvet coated blind moles
Families of mice and voles
Shrews and slowworms in holes
Hedgehogs under leafy knolls
A red fox is hiding from a hound
-underground

A rabbit vanishes with a bound
-underground
Old badger’s heart begins to pound
-underground
A ferret silently curls around
-underground

Ants in a complicated maze
Slugs just slop around and laze
Centipedes chasing in a craze
Worms wriggling all different ways
An assortment to amaze and astound
—In the universe -underground.

AFTER READING THE SECRET GARDEN BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
by Ethel Akhurst

The little girl lay under the tree, her hat by her side. The book she was trying to read had slipped from her hand as the warm summer sun teased her softly so that her eyes gradually closed until she slept. Sometime later she stirred and sat up and was surprised to see a young boy sitting in a wheelchair gazing down at her.

“Who are you?” he asked smiling, “and how did you get here?”

“I don’t know”, she replied, “Where am I?”

“In my garden”, said the boy gently, “It’s my secret garden, would you like to see it? Only you will have to push my chair, I can’t walk, you see.”

“Oh, I’d love to see it”, she said excitedly, “and I don’t mind pushing your chair a bit.”

“Come along then, “he said, “it’s this way.”

Suddenly a rustle in the leaves above made her look up and she saw two bright black eyes twinkling down at her. A tail flipped and the next moment a lovely red dragon was sitting near her. She put out her hand to stroke him but he moved gently away. Then she could see his tail waving to and fro and his wings spread wide on each side, and there was, she felt sure, a wide smile on his face.

Following his gaze she could see in the distance a small group of pixies. They wore green coats and red pointed hats and little boots. They were playing a sort of leap frog, tumbling over each other in turn. Across the grass she could see a large pond shining in the sun. The surface was partly covered with pink and white lotus flowers and here and there were flashes of gold as the fish played among the reeds. Overhead big dragonflies hovered, the sun making a transparency of colours through their wings on to the water. Nearby, a group of frogs were rehearsing, in harsh croaks, their evening song while their leader, a large, stern looking toad, glared at the young froglets who were trying to slip quietly into the water, not bothering to join in the evening serenade.

Over this lovely scene were clouds of bright butterflies and along the path slender-billed humming birds probed deep into the throats of exotic flowers, seeking the nectar. She looked up to a low bank where young leverets played hide and seek among the bushes. The silver stream chuckled its way over the white, water-washed pebbles and from the distance came the lazy drone of the bees and the distant chime of a bell.

The little girl was enchanted and wanted to explore further delights but she could see that the little boy was getting weary so she pushed the chair up the path and under the leafy tree and sank down on the grass. She picked up her book and showed it to the boy. It was ‘The Secret Garden’ by Frances Hodgson Burnett. He smiled at her very sweetly and said,

“Yes, this is the secret garden; you will never forget it.”

She lay back, still enchanted by it all. Slowly and gently the boy passed his hand across her face lingering a little over the eyes, and the little girl slept.

Still later she stretched and roused herself. The sun had left the trees now and was going down in colours of orange and gold. The pixies, dragon and the little boy had vanished and she was left hugging her dream.

A dream of a secret garden.

WORKING IN A SHOE SHOP
by Marge Batchelor

It is a lovely summer’s day, the sun is shining and I long to be on the beach or in the country sipping cool drinks with my feet up. But this is not to be, we are in this small shoe-shop, just two of us and the manageress. We greet each other in the usual way, Pat the manageress goes to the store room and tiny office while Peggy and I flick around with a feather duster and rearrange some of the shoes.

“Too hot for work, Peg,” I say. “You’re right there,” she replies.

Pat calls from her office. “Come here a minute you two girls, I’ve made a list of some lines we want to get rid of, so see what you can do will you?” “OK”, we say and with a last dab of make-up and a flick though our hair with a comb, we are ready to greet our customers.

It’s quiet at first with a few people coming in and looking round so we take turns to tidy the stockroom and bring to the front the shoes to be got rid of. Then I get my first customer, a lady of uncertain age, who flops down into the nearest chair.

“Good morning madam, what would you like to see?” I say. “I don’t really know,” she replies.

So I say, “Well would you like to see high heels, low heels, sandals, strap shoes or lace-ups?”

“Oh bring me some of each”, she says.

I go into the store room and say to Pat, “I’ve got a right one here”. She smiles sympathetically and I take a selection, which the customer insists are too tight or not comfortable so I get a pair of those we are trying to get rid of and tell her they’ve been reduced considerably. A little white lie of course, but then she says, “These are fine, you should have shown me them at first.”

“Yes madam”, I say smilingly as I take her money. Then I box up several other pairs she’s tried on. By then it is my coffee time and I can relax for a few minutes! The rest of the morning pusses quite busily with some pleasant customers, except for one unkempt man, who bustles into the shop carrying a bottle and sits down poised to drink out of it.

Pat acts quickly, calling us to grab an arm each, while she picks up the phone and threatens to call the police. Muttering, he decides to go. We close the door for a few minutes. Luckily, we have no customers at this time.

After that we all go on lunch breaks at different times to fortify us for the afternoon. Now, morning shoppers minds are mostly on food and meals for the family, what to get for dinner etc. for the next two or three days, but in the afternoon that being settled, their thoughts are on more personal things. So they drift from shop to shop browsing and by the time they get to a shoe shop, they sink thankfully into a chair, just glad to put their feet up and not really knowing what they want.

Such a one is my first customer, who starts off with a smart court shoe. “Very nice”, she says, “but have you something more casual?”

“Certainly, what colour?” I say. “Oh, bring me all the different colours.”

She tries them all on, then notices someone else trying on a pair of coloured plimsolls. “‘They look nice”, she says, “I’ll try those.” She decides to buy them. I almost wish we haven’t got her size I think, as I pack up and clear the many boxes around me.

Then in comes a harassed looking young mother with a baby in a buggy and a boy of about three, who soon makes his presence felt. In a flash, he has rearranged the display of shoes on the lower shelves. “Stop it”, his mother says.

“Shan’t”, he cries, so she grabs his arm and sits him on a chair, kicking and screaming.

“Shut up”, she says, “and try on these shoes”.

Thankfully, they fit and he likes them. Then he snatches one from me and rushes to the buggy to show the baby and wakes her up and she promptly starts crying.

“Come on you little brat”, says the mother and with that departs. Peace reigns once more. Next, two men come in who might have been father and son, but we soon realize they aren’t. I think the relationship is obviously close. They are very friendly towards us.

“Good morning darling”, one says to me, “my friend would like some shoes wouldn’t you, pet?” After a deep discussion, I manage to find out roughly what he wants and bring out a selection and the trying process starts and everyone in the shop becomes involved.

The conversation goes something like this.

“How about these?”

“Oh my dear, you can’t wear those”.

“Why not?” he says.

“They won’t do, lovey, try some more”.

Eventually they buy two pairs of each and depart all smiles saying , “This is a lovely shop and thank you all for your help”.

By this time everybody is smiling and the whole atmosphere has lightened. We are busy and the time passes quickly. Soon it is time to close. Feeling very satisfied with the day’s work we each make our way home.

HIAWATHA
by Marge Batchelor

A few days ago, I re-read a poem by an American poet Longfellow. It was a great favourite of our school when we had poetry sessions and this inspired me to try and make it into a little play. It was called Hiawatha, who was a red Indian, brave and the chief of his tribe. Some of us girls got so interested we decided to act it out one Saturday. We tried to enlist some boys. But they said it was too “sissy” and didn’t want to know. However, they did say they would help us fix up a wigwam.

The next few weeks we badgered parents and friends for all the appropriate articles we needed and soon had a collection of coloured scarves and blankets. We went out and picked up feathers the pigeons had dropped and one of the mothers dyed them in different colours for us. By this time, they were taking quite an interest in our project and laughingly suggested they should all be invited when it took place. We agreed and of course that made us re-double our efforts. At last we persuaded one boy to be Hiawatha and another one to read the story. In the meantime we collected all the heads we could and sewed them to garments and made necklaces and earrings of others. We used well-stewed tea to darken skins and scourged various coloured crayons and chalks to make lines on our faces.

We all lived in Brighton near the Dyke Road and soon found a copse which we thought would be suitable. One of the boys whose father was a “Totter”, drove a small horse and cart around the streets collecting unwanted goods. He said we could borrow it for the afternoon as his son often went out on Saturday mornings with him and was sometimes allowed to drive and take care of the horse. This was a bonus, for it could be used to collect all the goods we had collected and transport it with us to Dyke Road.

At last the day came and we spent the morning getting our production into gear. It was very hectic and chaoti but the weather was kind and it was a bright sunny day. By this time, one or two of the teachers had decided to look in and it seemed there might be quite an audience. The boys had collected tree branches and with a blanket had fixed up a wigwam and the father’s son sat on the horse looking quite splendid.

The play started with the opening lines, “Then the little Hiawatha learned of every bird language.”

This was accompanied by some weird noises, which sent the poor birds into the trees flying in terror. Next came Hiawatha with Minnehaha his wife. He was now a great hunter and after going out into the forest for a few days we heard,

“And then he bore the Red Deer homeward”.

This was done by a boy carrying his docile Red Setter dog on his back. Minnehaha dies when she is very young of a fever. So she is laid on the cart covered by a white sheet and is driven slowly away until the horse, having stood for so long broke into a trot and was reluctant to return. Then Hiawatha, on one of his travels found out about the growing of wheat. For this, a few cornflakes were crunched up and spread over the ground. For the grand finale Hiawatha says,

“I am going O my people on a long and distant journey.” He walks slowly away to where we have to imagine a birch-bark canoe awaits him by the river.

The teachers congratulated us on our efforts and parents and friends provided lemonade and some sticky buns, which we all enjoyed and agreed the day was well spent.

THE TALENT CONTEST
by Stevie English

Back stage we are all of a flutter
The talent show has come to our town
Our songs we sing in a mutter
Our lines we rehearse with a frown.
Fishnet tights are inspected and smoothed
From dress suits the dandruff is brushed
The clown in the corner is sitting there boozed
And the rest of us are harassed and rushed.
“First act, take the stage now”, said the compere
“Please be ready to be on next.
You’ll know by the start of the fanfare
We don’t want the judge to be vexed.”
A girl and her snakes take the stage first
With boas and pythons galore
They dance and gyrate and sway fit to bust
She trips and lands on the floor.
“Next”, calls the man in the D.J.
A singer swings merrily on
Her song is of love and is really quite gay
She sings of her boyfriend called Ron.
A juggler now is centre of stage
He juggles his balls at great speed
His hand and his eye with precision are gauged
But a dog on his brass rings has peed.
“From the magic circle our next act”,
Calls a voice from the back of the hall
Please all of these items in the box will you pack
While the magic words I will recall.
“Abracadabra, Kalamazoo”
He waves his wand with a flourish
On opening the box he reveals with a grin
A rabbit who’s very well nourished.
The clown staggers down the steps at the back
His act the result of the gin
He falls and rolls and like a duck quacks
Then lands upside down in a bin.
A poet recites yards of great verse
Odd odes would’ve been preferred
He renders his rhyme in a voice very tense
His demeanour is really absurd.
A chorus of splendid, meaty-thighed girls
Kicking high, lurch across the bare stage
Two kicks and a twirl, a stagger and a whirl
They are all of desirable age
The end of the show now – it’s over
Applause, curtain calls and cheers
We all had great fun, now the magic is done
Let’s nip out the back for some beers.

MEMORIES OF THE WEST PIER
by Dave Huggins

In a few weeks I will be meeting again one of the loves of my life. Time will have altered her as it has me. I recall her beauty and elegance remembering my youth and the magic of love at first sight.

Born and brought up in Brighton I loved the sea and spent many happy hours roaming the beaches. Swimming, fishing, sailing on home made rafts, baking potatoes on a drift wood fire, with the shingle beneath exploding like shrapnel, only added to the pleasure. What else could a young boy want?

Us local kids bitterly resented the summer influx of thousands of day trippers. London by the sea they called our beloved town. The trippers used to swarm into Queens Road from the trains, so many at times they nearly stopped the trams. Past the Clock Tower into West Street, then onto the Seafront. Like lemmings the majority would turn left. Easily explainable, before them the panorama of countless pubs, cafes and ice cream parlours.

Along the lower promenade all the joys of holiday makers with their accompanying delicious odours. Stalls and shops selling Brighton Rock in all shapes and sizes, toothache by the yard. Candy floss, jellied eels, cockles and whelks, fish and chips smothered in onion vinegar, what Ambrosia. More silly hats of “KISS ME QUICK” and many very saucy postcards.

The jingling sound of little donkeys plodding along, sometimes carrying too heavy a load. The cries of the boatmen, “Anymore for the skylark – halfway to China for a bob”.

Then dead ahead the Palace Pier, with Aladdin’s Caves stretching along beneath the upper promenade. The Ghost Train, Hall of Mirrors and slot machines by the thousands. The trippers needed to go no further. The beaches round the Palace Pier and along back to West Street were crowded with them.

We locals used to turn right at the bottom of West Street. A parade of small shops and the Palladium Cinema, then the swish hotels. The Grand, Metropole and others.

Over to the other side and even the lower promenade was more refined, less shops and most of the small arches under the pavement were used as beach huts. Just before the war a beautiful paddling pool was built. How that lovely strip of warm blue water used to attract us. Sadly the age limit denied us the pleasure.

The beaches here were cleaner and less crowded, and above all, there was my ‘Goddess’. Elegant and beautiful, gleaming in her pristine white paint, with eastern type minarets on her brow and the white foam of waves breaking round her feet – The West pier- and I fell in love. Thinking back I realise it wasn’t only the architecture that attracted me, it was also possible to get to the first slot machine arcade without paying.

When in funds, we would spend hours on the pier for a low admission price. Haunting the slot machines for the chance of a free go, annoying the serious fishermen at the southern end, and watching the rich go aboard the paddle steamer for a trip in the Channel.

Never got bored, then in my thirteenth year, War was declared.

It didn’t seem to make a lot of difference until suddenly the B.E.F. was in full retreat and falling back on the French town of Dunkirk. Everything on Brighton beach that could float, and a few that couldn’t, left to assist in one of the greatest seaborne rescues of an army that will ever be recorded. But worst of all for me, they blew a bloody great hole in my darling.

The powers that be said it was required to prevent the German Army using it as a landing stage, if they invaded. Imagine a hole in the pier holding up the seemingly invincible Wermacht for long. What nonsense, all they needed was to leave the normal bloke in the ticket booth. If the Germans hadn’t got the right money, they would never have got by him. We tried for years and failed.

Through the long years of the war she stood lonely and neglected. White paint peeling and supports rusting. As I left England early one morning in 1945, the small troopship I was on instead of crossing direct to Dieppe first of all steamed up the Channel past Brighton. One of the last glimpses I had was the West Pier.

In 1948 I returned and took a walk along the seafront to see her. From a distance everything looked good. The hole had been repaired and white paint glistened again. Closer inspection revealed the further maintenance and renovation required.

As years passed her condition got worse. I was now married and we were raising a family. I was in the Fire Brigade working a 24 hr on 24 off system, I did a spare time job on my days off to raise more money. On my Sundays off I had plenty to do. No time for an old love.

I walked past her once with the family while the film “Oh, What A Lovely War” was being made. We couldn’t get on so didn’t stop.

In 1970 the south end of the pier was closed to the public, followed by complete closure in 1975. I often drove past her noticing the further damage and neglect.

When the hurricane struck I thought it would be her end, but her strong heart and the genius of her designer and builder Eugenius Birch, saw her through.

Her condition worsened and I, along with the majority of Brighton and Hove residents, was guilty of that neglect through indifference.

Thank goodness some brave hearts fought on and as a reward received some help from the National Lottery. This is being spent making the Pier safe for the big fight back.

A telephone number in the Argus brought me back into the picture. The paper ran an article saying trips round the Pier were being arranged by the West Pier Trust. Anyone interested would, on the payment of £15 be fitted with a hard hat and a life jacket and led round the Pier on a fixed route.

I rang constantly, was the number always going to be engaged?

Finally I got through.

I will be meeting my old love again on the 20th of February at 3 pm. I am in my 70th year and so excited I can hardly wait, feeling like that gobsmacked boy of the 1930s. I hope she will forgive my neglect.

SUMMER
by Susie Mehmed

I lie still. The yellow sun relaxes my body and soothes my mind. I feel that I want to capture the rays for ever: the rays that pierce my very soul, destroying my worries, my cares. I shut my eyes to enable me to listen more closely to the familiar sound of the seagulls’ cries. They sound as if they are laughing at me and this makes me giggle.

As I breathe in deeply I can smell the sea. I always remembered that particular smell, even when I lived abroad. The aroma of fish and chips tantalises my taste buds and makes my greedy stomach rumble. “No”, I tell myself “you are not having greasy chips, they are not healthy”.

After a while I get bored with lying still so I sit up and face the shore. The sun shines down casting a beautiful silver sheen on the calm, inviting sea. I see sailing ships of all different colours, and swimmers far out of reach. A large black dog enjoys the coolness of the water, chasing a hull thrown in by his little owner. I guess that she is only about 4 years old yet she can swim better than I can.

I marvel at the way children can go into freezing cold water without fuss, when it takes me so long to paddle my feet, screaming inwardly at the coldness of the water. Children paddle happily their laughter filling the air, mingling with the smell of freshly cooked doughnuts. Some are building sand castles and making mud pies while others (all boys, I notice) are jumping on them, and thoroughly enjoying ruining the masterpieces, built with chubby little hands.

The breeze blows my hair into disarray and I can taste the salt on my lips. I look around me. Everyone seems relaxed and happy. A toddler enjoys what he can of his ice cream, most of it being on his face and chin, running down his chest he tries to wipe it off with his sticky little fingers but only makes it worse. He is really contented, an ice cream, a bottle of Ribena and a bucket and spade is all he wants. I envy the simplicity of his needs, and wish that life could stay that uncomplicated. Suddenly the black dog shakes himself dry, showering me with sea water and bits of seaweed. The little owner laughs and apologises to me and proudly tells me that today is her fourth birthday. Her little blonde curls blow into her fresh, pretty face. As she speaks to me, I secretly envy her beautifully smooth skin, no blemishes, no wrinkles. Her large, friendly brown eyes smile at me as she leaves me to join her parents for a picnic.

I decide to get myself fish and chips after all. I sit up.

The heat is unbearable, I turn down the radiator and draw the curtains to block out the falling snow. I cannot wait for the yellow days of summer to arrive.

TOM
by Bob Miles

The coroner’s verdict was death by misadventure. There was no autopsy because there wasn’t any body found. All they found was his shirt, washed up from the sea further down the coast. It was thought that he must have slipped and fallen from the cliff onto the rocks and lay there until the tide washed his body out to sea. They didn’t think he would have drowned while swimming because the day he went missing was sunny and warm, and the sea was as calm as a mill pond. Tom was a good swimmer anyway. His parents couldn’t understand, they were devastated, he was only nineteen. No one knew exactly what happened to him, except me.

You see I knew Tom. I was a teacher at the town school he went to. A quiet introverted boy. There was nothing wrong with him, quite tall, well built and strong! He’d never catch a bus to school. Always used to walk along the cliff top all the way. Five miles there, five miles back, summer and winter, rain or shine and never be late. But it was his brain you see. It was slow. When it came to using it he just couldn’t cope. Consequently he missed out on his education. He was never able to keep up with the rest of the class. Some people would have described him as being thick.

When Tom left school he worked with his dad on his farm. It seemed the natural thing to do. You see, his dad was getting on a bit and would soon need someone to take over. It was what Tom could do, he had no thoughts in his mind about the outside world. They got most of their income from sheep farming, but also kept a few cows, a couple of goats and dabbled in pigs in a small way. Grew all their own vegetables too. They were almost self-sufficient. However, Tom did feel the need for some sort of social life. Not that there was much in that isolated part of the Cornish coast. I was in the local village pub one evening when he came in. I watched him try his hand at darts. He had a good straight eye but couldn’t score – didn’t have much patience with himself. He tried skittles too, and caused a great laugh when his wood went down the alley with such force missing all the skittles but knocking over the board at the end. Tom took it too personally and left embarrassed.

The one thing that Tom did love to do, when he wasn’t busy on the farm, was to walk along the cliffs. I was on the headland one day. It was not long before Tom went missing in fact. I’d gone to watch a pair of Peregrine Falcons that were nesting there, when Tom came along and stopped for a chat. I pointed out the birds to him. He was fascinated by them and when he saw the young birds in the nest on the cliff face through my telescope, he wanted to know all about them. He was opening up a little and started to tell me how much he liked walking here and finding ways down the cliffs to the sand. He loved watching the big breakers rolling in from the Atlantic ocean, and how he loved the flight of the big birds. He didn’t know what sort they were but loved to watch them soaring and diving over the sea. ‘I could watch them for hours” he said. He then started to clam up again, he’d had enough of socializing for the day. Said ‘goodbye’ nervously ‘I’ve got some cows to milk’, and was gone.

Now I must get back to the story of what happened to Tom. He was up on the cliff one sunny warm day. He started down a path towards an isolated cove he’d not been to before on account of the steepness, you see. After a short way the path ran out, leaving only small steps cut into the almost sheer rock face of the cliff. This didn’t bother Tom now, but he did climb down carefully until he reached the sand at the bottom. He was walking across the sand towards the sea, when suddenly he was startled by the face of a girl that appeared from behind a rock just in front of him. As she rose, she was covered only by her long golden hair, (as gold as the sand he was on) that hung down to her waist. Tom was spellbound by the sensuous female form she revealed. Never in his whole life had he seen anything as beautiful. In an instant Tom was irretrievably in love. Tom had yet more hair-raising shocks awaiting him. For when she revealed her full self to him, she had no legs but a fish’s tail. Poor Tom was by now in deep shock and too far gone to resist anything she wanted. She beckoned to him and he followed, as she gracefully moved over the sand towards the sea on her slim but immensely strong tail. Nothing was said but he got the message.

She wanted him to swim with her. He took off his shirt and she took his hand and they swam out into the calm bay. As a swimmer he was good, but no match for her, he didn’t stand a chance She swam all around him, brushing against him tantalisingly, then slipping away. There was a tug from behind and his trousers were gone. She came up from underneath, took him in her arms and embraced him with her whole body, and Tom experienced the sensation men live for and die for as well. With one flip of her tail she dived deep, down to the bottom taking him with her. He tried to break free but she was too strong, she squeezed him with her long arms and he lost his breath. She then placed her lips over his and kissed him, and sucked the last breath of life from his lungs and spat it out. The bubbles flouted gently to the surface.

You are probably wondering by now how it is I know all this? Well, I’ll tell you. You see, not long after Tom had gone missing, I was out in my boat. I row out to sea occasionally when it’s calm and do a bit of fishing. I was out there absorbed in thought, when all of a sudden two hands grubbed the side of the boat. It did make me jump, and then up popped Tom’s head.

“Tom”, I gasped, “Where have you been? Your mum and dad are worried sick.”

It was then I noticed he’d changed. It was still Tom but his nose seemed somehow smaller and him eyes had a fishy glaze about them.”Listen,” he said “I haven’t got long. I’m sorry about mum and dad”. He then told me about his lovely Pandora and how he’d drowned and been changed and bought back to life by her, how happy he was and how much he loved his Pandora. He said they were going on a long journey to a place she knew, where the water was warm and food was plentiful. He’d meet others like Pandora. In a flash he rose up out of the water, turned over, dived like a fish and was gone. I saw he’d grown a tail.

I watched the ripples on the water dancing in the sun for a long time. I saw the fire in the sky as the sun slipped into the sea. I thought I’d have to keep all this to myself. You see, who’d believe me?

WHAT IS IT?
by Ethel Akhurst

What is this thing tomorrow
Can anyone really say
It creeps on us so slowly
Then turns into our today.

What is this thing tomorrow
That looms so very near
Some think of it with wonder
While others think with fear.

So what is it about tomorrow
You cannot touch or feel it
It’s there, unknown, mysterious
And nothing will ever change it.

So do we think too much of tomorrow
And not enough of today
For tomorrow never comes they say
But today is here to stay.

TRADE WINDS
by Stevie English

Trade winds are blowing
Out to the East
Taking the tall ships
To conquer the beast
Spray and strong winds
Whip up the wild sea
Treasures are waiting
For you and for me.
Tea cutters sail to India’s shore
Spices are laid in the sun on the floor
Cinnamon bark is shaved from the trees
Lentils and nutmeg and chunky chick peas
Cloves and cardamon, Turmeric and mace
Its pale golden fingers are structured like lace
Strange looking vegetables laid out on mats
Coconut milk and ghee in round vats
Sari clad ladies with gleaming black hair
On copper and brass are displayed all their wares.
Next stop is China with its temples and monks
Fast flows the Yangtse with its numerous junks
Strange fruits are waiting to tempt you to try
Men in the gutters are cooking stir fry
Hibiscus and Jasmine are made into tea
Scented clear honey a treat from the bee
Merchants show rolls of gossamer silk
Pictures of bamboo and cheese of goat’s milk
Fat little Buddhas and jade figurines
Fans and Kimonos and black lacquered screens
Load all the bounty onto the ship
A long time has passed since we started our trip
Farewell to the strange and exciting new world
Blow winds, blow homeward our sails are unfurled.

BUTTERFLIES
by Bob Miles

Excuse me please
I wish to speak
Did you know that
It’s National Butterfly Week.

In meadows and cornfields
And woodlands they’ll be
In gardens and hedgerows
And down by the sea.

There’s white ones and black ones,
Red ones and blue.
Green ones and yellow ones
All out there to view.

There’s Coppers and Hairstreaks,
And Chalkhill Blue.
Ringlets and Admirals
To name but a few.

They’re flittering and fluttering,
A scene very nice.
Not uttering or muttering,
Quieter than mice.

So come out and see some,
On warm sunny days.
When everything is blooming
One of nature’s most beautiful displays.

BONFIRE NIGHT
An acrostic by Marge Batchelor

Bonfires glowing in the darkness
Over gardens in the land
Now, the fireworks shooting skywards
Frantic children clap their hands
In the firelight faces glowing
Rosy cheeks from fires aglow
Excitement in the children’s faces
Now the embers slowly dying
In the smoke it’s hard to see
Going round we look at others
Hoping we shall see some more
Then one last look as we close the door.

THE URGE
by Ethel Akhurst

I do it in the morning
I do it in the night
And if at first I don’t succeed
I keep on ’til it’s right
I don’t know why I do it
I really cannot say
I only know it’s like a drug
I need to do each day
Now I know you all will wonder
Just what I do each day
So not to have you guessing
I’ll tell you right away
It’s nothing very thrilling
As very soon you’ll find
It’s just a simple crossword
That makes me use my mind.

SEASONAL COLOUR
by Valerie Goble

There is no better reason
Than the start of a season
To awaken from your dreams
With new buds all emerging
On banks of rivers and streams
The rebirth of Nature urging
The appearance of new life seen
And the colour of Spring is green
– fresh green!

There is no better reason
Than the start of a season
To stir yourself from your rest
With sunshine so hot and bright
And birds singing in the nest
The world is a wonderful sight
With flowers of various hue
And the colour of Summer is blue
– bright blue!

There is no better reason
Than the start of a season
To waken from your slumber
When the leaves are crisp and glowing
In orange russet and umber
Falling drifting underfoot flowing
In a merry wind-chasing game
And the colour of Autumn is flame
– vivid flame!

There is no better reason
Than the start of a season
To rouse yourself from sleep
Dress warm for the wind is blowing
And go to the window to peep
To see that it has been snowing
A clean soft carpet overnight
And the colour of Winter is white
– pure white!

FIREWORKS
by Valerie Goble

November 5th kids out to play,
They found a guy that had gone astray.
Loading it in a barrow they took it –
Onto their huge bonfire they shook it –
They propped it up on a broken chair
In it’s ragged clothes it looked good there.
What good luck – they were so delighted!
Waiting for darkness – all excited.
A crowd of friends gathered all around
To see them ignite the guy they’d found
They struck a match to start the bonfire
Then all cheered as the flames rose higher.

Joe Tramp roused from his drunken slumber
To find himself on red-hot lumber
He thought he had woken up in hell
With flames – thick smoke and a burning smell!
Though hung-over – he didn’t hang about
Leapt from the blaze with an awful shout.
Ran into the night with yells of pain
Vanished from sight – never seen again!

CHANGE
by Bob Miles

Rich russet red
Pale dappled yellow.
Leaves from trees falling
Summers had its day
Harvest laid in storage
Sunny days a shortening
Time of year is calling
Swallows to fly south.
Sun through woodland casting
Shadows long and lasting
Morning mist persisting
Late into the day.
Warm log fires burning
Smoke from chimneys curling
A time of contemplation
Autumn’s on its way.

BIRTHDAYS
An acrostic by Marge Batchelor

Bearing reminders we would rather forget
In come the birthday cards each year
Reminding us of the passing of time
Too quickly it is going we fear
However we celebrate all the same
Doing the best we can
And I say as you can’t stop them
You might as well enjoy them as much as you can.

FRIVOLITY
by Bob Miles

Forever I’ll never forget the day.
When the wind made leaves to dance away
And all the trees did swing and sway
In the forest of frivolity.

A frivolous dance to the winds’ design.
The leaves they did not seem to mind.
While the trees they rustled with accompaniment.
In the forest of frivolity.

But the wind took on a sterner face
And the trees their sinuses they did brace
But alas some did break
In the forest of frivolity.

They struggled and strived to survive
While the wind did cut like a sweeping scythe.
All the trees, they were left bare
And winter was upon us.

MARY
by Sylvia Calvert

Old Mary pulled her shabby, ancient coat close to her thin emaciated body. She was thinking that this must surely be the coldest night of the year and the damp chill night air ate into her bones.

She could not control the shaking of her body which trembled in the icy winds. She was sitting in her usual spot in the shelter on the sea front, watching the world go by. It was early evening, a few days before Christmas and people were busy bustling about getting last minute presents and an extra loaf or two, just in case.

Mary could never understand why anyone could need that much food, after all Christmas only lasts a few days. She would have been happy with a bowl of soup and a crust of bread. People passed her and either pretended she wasn’t there or looked at her with disgust, because of her appearance. There were folk that took pity on her and gave her a few coins, although she never begged from anyone, others were embarrassed of course.

It hadn’t always been like this, for Mary had come from a good family. Her downfall had come about when she fell in love with Joe. In those days she was a trusting soul and believed Joe when he told her he suffered with severe back trouble, he never kept a job for long and eventually gave up working altogether.

It meant that Mary was the one who had to work long hours, but she never complained because she loved Joe and he was after all, in great pain, or so she believed. When she got her pay packet she would give it to Joe to pay the bills, as and when they came in, little did she know that he was gambling and drinking the money away. They lost their home, Mary eventually left him, for by now she had lost all respect and love for him. Desperate for somewhere to live, she moved into a hostel for the homeless, finally taking to the road. She liked living by the sea, the air was certainly cleaner than in some of the towns she had passed through. When all the shops had closed, Mary would wander over to the litter bins looking for scraps of food.

A few flakes of snow started to fall, she looked up at the sky and flakes fell onto her face. The painful cough stopped her in her tracks once again. Mary shuffled into the arcade and sat on a bench fighting for every breath she took. After a while when her coughing had subsided, she opened her eyes and saw a brightly lit window. It was a toy shop.

In the centre was a doll’s house, it took up most of the window. The front of the house was open, so that one could see each of the rooms, all brightly lit. She was fascinated, every piece of furniture was perfectly proportioned. Best of all she liked the sitting room, for inside there was a family. It reminded her of when she was a girl with a family of her own. There was father sitting in his armchair smoking his pipe by the open fire place. which glowed with warmth. Mother was holding baby in her arms, another child a boy, was playing with his train set and watching as it charged around on the carpet. Another child a girl, was rocking her doll in its cot. A black cat lay in front of the fire whilst a small white dog was spread out at father’s feet.

Mary could almost imagine they were real. It must be lovely to be such a complete and contented family she thought sadly.

Shuffling back to the wooden bench she found a bin stuffed with newspapers, she lifted them out, they were going to be her bed covers for the night. She was so tired and lay down on the bench, arranging the newspapers around her, tucking them in. Falling into a hungry sleep, Mary had a dream.

She was in a house where there was an open fire which glowed warmly, she could almost feel the warmth coming from it. There were children laughing and playing happily. Father was pulling on his pipe while mother was feeding the baby. Somehow Mary was included in that family, she was sipping a hot cup of tea and eating buttered toast, the black cat sat purring on her lap. It all felt so right. It was what she had always wanted, now she was part of a happy loving group, she smiled with contentment.

Morning came, it had been snowing steadily all night. A couple of policemen were walking around the arcade checking doors and making sure everything was secure. One of them noticed what appeared to be a bundle of old rags and newspapers on the bench. He prodded the crumpled shape and exclaimed to his mate,

“Heaven’s above, there’s a body under all that lot”.

Lifting off the newspaper, they saw Mary who appeared to be asleep but she was quite cold. The policemen were shocked, for they were familiar with Mary and now felt guilty at not finding her sooner and getting her into a warm place, at least for over the Christmas period.

Whilst they were waiting for an ambulance, one of them wandered over to the toy shop window, attracted by the brightly lit doll’s house. There was father pipe in mouth, with the white dog at his feet, mother nursing her baby, the little boy was playing with his train set and the young girl was rocking her doll in the cot.

There was another figure in the room now, she was sitting in a comfortable chair on the other side of the fire place, with the black cat contentedly dozing in her lap. She was an elderly lady, with a face that was familiar to the policeman. Now she was well scrubbed, her cheeks glowed with the warmth from the fire, the clothes she wore were clean and warm. Gone were the rags and the cold and the loneliness.

The policeman scratched his head and thought how much the old girl in the doll’s house reminded him of Mary.

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AS VIEWED BY A MAN
by Stevie English

Babs my wife – 45 years old – mother of our two children.

This year I’ll get her something really nice, last year I got her a new iron and she was a bit cool I thought, when she thanked me.

This year I’ll remind her of her youth and get one of those sexy red and black underwear things that the barmaids wear in the westerns. I think she’ll look really tasty in that, mind you, with my back I have to be a bit careful nowadays. I’ll have to think about it.

Perfume – saw the cost of it in the large shop in town. I wonder if the stuff in the market is a lot different? Belgian chocs are nice but she always says she’s on a diet. Still, it’s Christmas and she can always hand them round. I did think of flowers but fair doos there’s plenty in the garden. I’m not giving her slippers, last time I gave her some she wore them up the garden and they never looked the same after that.

Her woman’s magazine said, “Get your lady some bubbly” but she couldn’t drink a whole bottle by herself and I can’t stand the stuff – just like gnats pee. Give me a brown ale any time!

Books! Yes plenty of scope there, but perhaps she will have read the one I choose and she can get it from the library anyway.

D.I.Y.? She likes to be handy round the house. Mind you she still hasn’t put a plug on the new toaster.

What shall I get the kids? I wonder if Bas is too old for a train set? I know he wants a drum set, I could teach him, I was rather good in my day.

He might play them late at night and I couldn’t stand that, need my beauty sleep nowadays.

Better let Babs sort it out.

Next Thelma, never know what teenage girls want, better let Babs see to her too. My parents? Her parent? I expect Babs has got that all sewn up by now, she usually has, better remind her just in case, got to do my bit.

Now, my brother Peter, he’s an awkward one, better tell Babs not to get socks this year, she could get a party 7. He’ll be round for Christmas dinner and he likes a drink like me.

Still haven’t solved Babs present, think what I’d better do is give her a fiver and she can get exactly what she wants, then she can’t complain.

There! Christmas presents no problem!

THE NATIVITY PLAY
by Valerie Goble

Now that’s right Johnny, pick up the toy lamb
No Mary dear, we won’t need dolly’s pram
Come along Davy, I’d like you to LOOK!
No dear, that’s not what we do with our crook.
Oh dear! Now you’ve knocked off Jack’s crown
Now please Cecilia, don’t sit down
That’s right James- hold on to your Myrrh
Yes, the cow has got lovely fur.
No, NO! Johnny – don’t throw the lamb
Now you’ve broken June’s wings. Oh Damn!
Yes that was naughty for me to say,
Thomas, stop trying to eat the hay.
That’s enough don’t all keep saying that word
Let’s all just pretend we never heard.
Now children let’s all gather round the crib.
Melanie I don’t think he’ll need the bib!
Don’t pick your nose dear – that’s not very nice!
Be careful Darren you’re dropping your spice!
Let’s all look good for daddy and mummy-
Chrissie we don’t want to see your tummy
Yes dears, that’s quite right Today is the day
When we’re doing the “Nativity Play”.
What have I done? – I feel like a relic,
How do the kiddies look so Angelic?
They all look so sweet, with innocent eyes,
There’s a hush the curtain’s about to rise.
Well this isn’t the perfect time you know!
But – is there any more that have to go?

DAUGHTER’S DEBT
by Valerie Goble

When one is born – above any other
You come to rely on your own mother
Take it for granted that she’s always there
To nurture and protect – to love and cure.
Lucky she’s there at each stage of your life
As infant, toddler, and schoolgirl, then wife.
With every event – she’s the first you tell
If things have gone wrong – or you have done well
Or if something happens that was not planned
She’s always the one who will understand –
Laugh when you’re happy or mop up your tears
Remain ever steadfast throughout the years.
She will see your worth through maternal eyes
For always and ever through time that flies
The day will dawn when you will discover
She has become a frail little mother.
Where once it was you that was fed and nursed
All of a sudden the role is reversed
She seeks your reassurance every day
So now it’s your turn and you can repay
And if you can, that is just what you do
Returning the love that she lent to you.

BRUCE
by Sylvia Calvert

He lies there, head resting on his paws
His soft brown eyes sadly watching the doors
Hoping today they will take him home
So that once more familiar fields he can roam

He fondly remembers the time with his folks
They would never leave him, this must be a hoax
The sad thing is they have left the country
They will not be back for him you see

Had they a choice he would be with them
It just wasn’t possible, he was too old at ten
So now he lies on this cold damp floor
Waiting for someone to open the door

To take him home to his warm cosy bed
Where he dreams his dreams and lays his head
Dogs barking around him most needing homes
Kennel maids feed them, throw them bones

Occasionally people come looking for a pet
No one has shown any interest in him yet
Puppies are chosen, always the favourites
Older dogs might just have developed bad habits

Then he hears footsteps in the stone corridor
He lifts his head eyes glance to the door
A kind faced lady stops by his cage
She loves him immediately despite his age
He is just what she has been looking for
Someone to give her companionship for sure
At last Bruce is out in the free fresh air
With his new lady owner he hasn’t a care

She will love and cherish him all his days
He’ll belong to her forever and always
Now running joyfully through the meadow
Thoughts of the old days they come and go

Fond memories he had are fading fast
Bruce is here and now and the past is past
He loves his new owner that is clear
She is kind and fair and an absolute dear

With luck they’ll be together many more years
Bruce closes his eyes now – no more tears.

THE MAD MARCH HARE
An acrostic by Stevie English

“Twisting and turning
Here and then there
Ever decreasing circles runs
the mad march hare.

Madness and exuberance
Alternates with stillness
Dances, jumps and pauses
does the mad march hare.

Muscles under tension
Aerobics exalted
Ricocheting off hummocks
Chasing round in circles
Hears the vibrant music
does the mad march hare.

Hell for leather running
All around the meadow
Race against the dandelion clocks
Every mad march hare.

A TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION
by Stevie English

In an inky black night
Pin pricks of light
Tiny and dancing
Bobbing and weaving
Slowly getting brighter
Making the scene lighter
Low voices humming
Distant drums drumming
Long robes swishing
The dusty ground kissing
Flares now are glowing
Throws shadows all knowing
Hot pitch splutters
A rough voice utters
The drums now are louder
Heads are held prouder
Singing and chanting
Male voices enhancing
The power unfolding
The spirit upholding
Druids are passing
Each one of them clasping
A bright fiery torch
Bobbing and weaving
Tiny and dancing
Pin pricks of light
In an inky black night.

THE SECOND COMING
by Dave Huggins

Another scoop by the Daily Snort! Our leading columnist is investigating a report that claims a “Virgin Birth” at a squat in North London on the 25th December.

The young mother, Mary Smith, declared she had been visited by some strange blokes who flew in the window, and told her she was going to be the mother of an infant “King of Kings” at his second coming.

Our reporter has been unable to obtain any reports of U.F.O.s during the week leading up to Xmas.

A local Jehovah Witness denied the possibility of any such occurrence stating quite categorically “She is not one of ours and obviously God would not look at anyone else to bear his son, he knows all others are false”.

Mary’s live-in boy friend sees it as a slur on his manhood and said he thought someone had it in for him for a long time. A former friend of Mary’s said she always knew she was a bit weird as she went to church every Sunday and sometimes twice. “Quite a little religious maniac”.

A neighbour said “I’m sure its all drugs and sex parties, the other night some Arab looking men took sheep into the squat garden, probably for a ritual sacrifice involving blood and young virgins. “Mind you,” she added “That’s if they could find one round here”.

“Tonight we saw three elderly men in funny robes and head-dresses hanging round, some sort of bondage orgy I suppose”.

Mary is reported to be an 18 year old single girl, with probably a history of drug and alcohol abuse. Social Services are dealing with the young mother, to date she is undergoing psychiatric investigation and H.I.V. tests. The baby has been taken into care.

The Police told our reporter, “The three elderly gentlemen are of Middle Eastern extraction, we are keeping a low profile bearing in mind recent race riots in this area. “We were said at the time to be too unsympathetic in our handling of non whites”. One young officer ventured, “They seemed like nice old geezers who just wanted to give the kid a Xmas present”.

The gifts are being tested by the drug squad. A local R.C. Priest said the whole thing is blasphemy, such claims by the young mother would endanger her immortal soul. A representative of the Church of England was more tolerant, but said the whole thing was in poor taste at Xmas.

LAID ACROSS MY PILLOW
by Ethel Akhurst

I remember all those years ago
When we were young and silly
When only books and toys and things
Were laid across my pillow

Then later on in teenage years
When romance reigned supreme
Then all my plans and secret dreams
Were laid across my pillow.

I remember too when days were
Full of sunshine and of laughter
Then suddenly it all went wrong
And tears lay on my pillow

I remember too as time went by
And smiles came after tears
And life grew into golden years
And dreams lay on my pillow.

Remembering now is all that’s left
Of happiness and sorrow
Instead of dreams only memories
Now lie across my pillow.

MEMORY OF A DREAM
by Ethel Akhurst

It lies on the path of a moonbeam
Misty, mysterious, cool as a mountain stream
It comes with the sunlight. glistening, gloaming
Fragile as a web in a breeze
The memory of a dream.

It comes with the perfume of flowers, fragrant, sweet.
Lingering like an unfinished melody
It comes with the evening sky
Sprinkled with stars it comes with the dusk
Dark shadows on a darker hue
The memory of a dream.

It comes on the breeze, twisting, teasing,
Whispering, promising, nostalgic
Back from the mists of time it’s just a memory
The memory of a dream.

THE POET’S PEN
by Valerie Goble

The poet’s pen seeks the words to find
That paint the pictures of the mind
But some scenes that could bring pleasure
Often remain a hidden treasure
As the stubborn pen refuses to write
A clear impression of the secret sight
And for all the poet’s best endeavour
The captive word is lost forever.

WHAT DO YOU SEE?
by Susie Mehmed

What do you see when you look at me,
A body so painfully thin,
Small, twisted wrists and legs so stiff?
Yet I am quite normal within.

What do you see when you look at me,
A wheelchair before you see me?
Leg muscles so taut, at my age I aught
To stand up, but this will never be.

What do you see when you look at me,
Eyes that can’t look into yours?
Even at my will I can’t keep them still,
Yet they see you, that is for sure.

Hey, look at me I am here can’t you see?
Trapped like a chick in a shell.
I peck and I peck but I cannot break free.
I’m trapped in this body of hell.

“Now what do you think, would he like a drink,
Can this boy hear, can he see?”
I’ve a mind of my own and I can make it known
If I’m thirsty or hungry – ask ME

Hey, look at me, it’s ME that you see,
And all that’s been said, I have heard.
I keep hearing your voices making my choices
Yet I understand every word.

AUTUMN
by Susie Mehmed

Trees are slowly shedding autumn’s leaves
Making carpets coloured red and gold.
Long, dark nights are slowly creeping in
Mornings, evenings noticeably cold.

The sea in which I bathed and loved so much
Is angry now, waves gushing to the shore.
The sand, once hot, so cold now to the touch.
Happy shrieks of playing children heard no more.

I watch the squawking sea gulls soaring high,
Just following the gift of freedom’s trail
Underneath the sun-forgotten sky
Unperturbed by autumn’s wind and hail.

I stand upon a hill of sodden ground,
Look down, see empty fields once filled with grain,
And I know that when life’s circle turns around
Those lonely fields will fill with wheat again.

My garden shows what once were summer flowers,
Long gone colours turned to brown once more.
It’s cold now where I used to bask for hours.
I go in, turn on the heating, lock the door.

No matter what we do we cannot alter
The seasons – one by one they will appear.
And when the cold, cruel winter days are over,
We all know that spring, at last will soon be here.