tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-346192312024-03-23T18:37:43.646+00:00janzjottingsNot quite in my dotage I have always enjoyed writing and think there is a novel in me somewhere. However it hasn't come to the surface yet so for now I'll stick to short stories and poems. I hope you enjoy them, and please leave a comment, even if you don't.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-67117374018511063252007-03-04T11:37:00.000+00:002007-03-04T11:49:41.799+00:00With Apologies<span style="font-size:85%;">Blame a friend called Maggie. She gave a challenge - "To be or not to be - Global Warming". I think she meant write about whether it was happening or not, but with a title like that, what's a girl to do? </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My profound apologies to the Bard and all who love him. I really am very, very sorry.</span><br /><br /> A SOLILIQUY<br /><br />To heed or not to heed; that is the question.<br />Whether it is foolish in a man to trust the threats and<br />Sound bites of uncertain future<br />Or close ears against a sea of warnings<br />And by ignoring, cause it.<br />Our cars, our planes, no more? And by a ban to say<br />We end the pleasure of a thousand long haul flights<br />That man is heir to?<br />‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be spurned!<br />But stay! The Earth could end, no chance to thrive;<br />Ay, there’s the rub, for in our selfish wish what<br />Nightmares come as we keep jetting off to pastures<br />New must give us pause.<br />It’s negligence that makes calamity of future life.<br />Who will bear the whips and scorns of unknown<br />Generation’s wrongs, the unborn’s contumely?<br />Their hate of ruined lands, action’s delay,<br />The insolence of pride that spurned<br />The patient merit of conservation taken,<br />And a quietus made of global damage?<br />Who will guilt accept?<br />But why the dread of something after death,<br />The undiscovered facts about which proof<br />No thinking man can know, puzzles the will.<br />So better let us do the things we wish<br />Than stop for others we know not of,<br />And conscience need not make cowards of us all.<br />Let enterprises of great pith and moment<br />Be cast awry by hedonistic pleasure,<br />And we can lose the thought of action.<br /><br /><em>But hark you now, the future weeps,<br />And by those sad orisons<br />Be all our sins remembered.<br /></em>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-59288229143309735572007-02-20T22:40:00.000+00:002007-02-20T22:49:47.502+00:00Inventions<span style="font-size:85%;">I've not been here for a while, busy with this and that and not much time for writing, so nothing to add to the blog. However, at a meeting of ScribesRus, the writing group I belong to, the talk got round to inventions, and we were all asked to write a piece on what we wished we had invented. I thought of the usual suspects, you know the sort of thing, the wheel, the telephone, the internal cumbustion engine, but the more I thought about it the more I realised that, apart from the wheel, the world would be a better place without most of those things, especially the last one. No, it's the little things that really make life better so here's what I came up with -<br /></span><br /> OH, I WISH…<br /><br />Oh I wish I’d invented the match<br />I’d have surely avoided the catch<br />Of the sulphurous poisons we saw<br />By their effect on the match girls’ jaw<br /><br />Oh, I wish I’d invented the pin<br />With its safety clasp all moulded in<br />Which saves loss of blood and some pain<br />And words which are crass and profane<br /><br />Oh, I wish I’d invented the Biro<br />(Old Laszlo was surely a hero)<br />What a difference would have been made -<br />When writing we’d now use a ‘Slade’.*<br /><br />Oh, I wish I’d invented the clip<br />Which holds documents in a firm grip<br />And saves them from slipping and sliding<br />And prevents your nice ‘Jekyll’ from ‘Hyde-ing’<br /><br />Oh, I wish I’d invented some things<br />I could bask in the glory it brings,<br />The kudos, the money, the fame,<br />And people remembering my name.<br /><br />*MeDAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-73176526028494030992007-02-07T21:28:00.000+00:002007-02-07T21:33:25.751+00:00It was ever thus<span style="font-size:85%;">It's coming round to that time of year again when hearts and flowers are all the rage. Call me an old cynic but......<br /></span><br /><br />BORROWED WORDS<br /><br />“Come, lie with me and be my love”,<br />That’s what the poet said,<br />And what a clever line is that<br />To get me into bed.<br />But it won’t work you know,<br />The answer is still “No.”<br /><br />“How do I love thee?”, yet more lines<br />That don’t belong to you.<br />I wish you’d get it in your mind<br />That other’s words won’t do.<br />And it won’t work you know,<br />The answer is still “No.”<br /><br />“My love is like a red, red rose”<br />Oh really - get a life,<br />Those words belong to Robert Burns,<br />From Galloway, in Fife<br />And they don’t work you know,<br />The answer is still “No”.<br /><br />I really don’t know how it is<br />That you can be so thick,<br />But still you’re using other’s words<br />And they won’t do the trick.<br />They do not work you know<br />The answer is still “No”.<br /><br />Try telling me you think I’m great<br />And you’ll be mine alone.<br />To be with me for all our lives<br />You’ll leave unturned no stone.<br />And it might work you know,<br />Till then the answer’s “No.”DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-32375311507053745782007-01-22T08:58:00.000+00:002007-01-22T09:15:41.479+00:00Musings<span style="font-size:85%;">I'm one of those poor benighted people who can't sleep at night. Come 2.30 in the afternoon I could sleep the clock round, by 8 o'clock in the evening I can hardly keep my eyes open, but by the time I go to bed I'm wide awake, can't get comfortable and my mind's whirling around with all sorts of unconnected thoughts jumping out at me. The following shows what I mean.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />MUSINGS OF AN INSOMNIAC<br /><br />I’m lying here and cannot sleep<br />I’m so fed up with counting sheep<br />I’ll use the time to make a rhyme<br />For Monday's blog - but nothing deep.<br /><br />I don’t envy the Eskimo<br />Who has a hundred words for snow<br />I bear no grudge - I call it sludge<br />And wish the bloody stuff would go!<br /><br />Now into black despair I’ve sunk,<br />My inspiration’s done a bunk.<br />What is that noise? Oh, next door’s boys<br />Returning from the pub dead drunk.<br /><br />Bet that they’ve been on the scrumpy.<br />Now the pillow’s hard and lumpy!<br />I’m feeling hot - Oh, now I’m not.<br />It’s no wonder I get grumpy.<br /><br />The kitchen fairy came today<br />And took the washing up away,<br />It wasn’t <em>you</em> - you never do.<br />Thank you Fairy is what I say.<br /><br />The duvet’s fallen on the floor!<br />I cannot stand this any more.<br />It’s time I think to get a drink.<br />Look at the clock! It’s half past … zzzsnoreDAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-46093667551713211122007-01-14T08:36:00.000+00:002007-01-14T08:49:56.011+00:00Uncles<span style="font-size:85%;">While we're on the subject of uncles here's another lot not to be proud of. The piece was inspired by a poem which extolled the uncles, but I decided - what about the truth behind the facade? Anyone here you recognise? I must admit there's a dash of truth in some of this.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />HEADS OR TAILS?<br /><br />Boring old farts, my Uncles. Well, strictly speaking they are my Great Uncles, brothers to both my Grandmothers. It’s by reason of their great age that they are reverenced by the family However, that doesn’t alter the fact that they are tedious in the extreme, holding court at family occasions, reminiscing about the old days and their time in the workshop. Talking endlessly about camshafts and spindles. How they could mill a sprocket to ‘within a thou’ by eye alone. Experts all of them, still retaining a whiff of oil about them, oil engrained in their minds as well as their skin. Telling of serving their time before passing on the knowledge in their turn, competing with each other to recount the little tricks learned, knacks to make the job easier, faster, cheaper. Each in his own eyes more skilful, more artful, than the others. More heroic. Kings of the workshop. Basking in the perceived glow of admiration their words induce. What they don’t realise is that the awe struck look in the eyes of their audience is the glaze of boredom.<br />However, they never toss the coin and talk of their other selves. Oh, but that would make interesting listening.<br />We don’t hear about Great Aunts Doris and May, who both committed suicide rather than face the misery of life with Uncle Jack’s cruel tongue and heavy fists.<br />At least Uncle Tom’s wife only ran off with the insurance man when she’d had enough of drunken rape every Saturday night. Much maligned, that woman, leaving such a respected man on his own. She’s gone down in family history as flighty, but I do hope she found happiness with her new man.<br />Uncle George, on the other hand, <em>was</em> flighty. He led his poor wife a merry dance. Nothing in a skirt was safe from his attention - God knows how many by-blows he fathered, there could be dozens of family offshoots out there, but we’re never told about them, are we? Mind you, he’s probably forgotten about half of them himself. Never one to face up to responsibility, Great Uncle George.<br />Great Uncle Alec’s claim to fame is shooting himself in the foot in Italy, during the war. He got a quick trip home, a slight limp, and a safe billet until hostilities ended. Strange he never boasts about his ‘war wound’, isn’t it?<br />There are no wartime stories from Uncle Harry either. He appears to have joined none of the Forces but served his country on the home front. Did rather well for himself by all accounts. He still favours the trilby and pencil moustache he wore at the time and still ‘knows a man’ from whom he can get those little extras that make life bearable, cheap black market tobacco and booze from abroad. Oh, he’s a good old fellow is Uncle Harry.<br />Uncle Alf never married and a veil has been drawn over his past life. There are rumours and whispers but no one knows for sure what he got up to on his frequent visits to London. We’re left to draw our own conclusions, but all we know is he stopped his trips after staying away for over a year. Very different when he came back, tougher somehow, but sharp when questioned and would never talk about it.<br />Then there is poor old Uncle Jim. No dead wives, no unknown babies, no spivvery, nothing. Just a blameless life with Aunty Sheila and their two children, working stolidly at his job until retirement, never getting into trouble or causing any, yet only ever being referred to with the suffix ‘Poor Old’. No hidden stories about him, he is just - boring! Poor old Uncle Jim.<br />Well, those are my Great Uncles, and I can only thank God that I’m descended from the distaff side of the families.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-7455661514798232192007-01-08T23:10:00.000+00:002007-01-08T23:21:36.722+00:00Uncle Bernie<span style="font-size:85%;">Weddings are wonderful occasions when all the family can get together and share in the joy of the happy couple. Unfortunately there is always someone....... </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I bet you've got someone like this in your family!</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /> <br />So Joanne and Phillip have done it at last, and in style too. Three bridesmaids, one of whom was my Emma, and Phillip’s four year old nephew as a page boy. They all looked marvellous, and the kids behaved so well. Almost brought tears to my eyes. I looked over at Mum and she really was in tears. Still, as the mother of the bride she was entitled to be I suppose. I saw Phillip’s mother, Hazel, having a little sniffle as well. Both Dads stood proud as peacocks, and Phillip looked fit to bust with happiness.<br />I like Phillip, and his family too. Joanne struck lucky there with her mother-in-law, she’s a lovely lady. Shame about her brother though - awful man. He hasn’t stopped showing off since he got here. I half expected him to carry on all through the service but, thank God, he managed to restrain himself - just.<br />None of our side has met him before, but Phillip had warned us.<br />“My Uncle Bernie’s a bit of pain, I’m afraid,” he told us. “We don’t have all that much to do with him, actually, but as Mum’s only brother, we can’t not invite him. Luckily he lives in Scotland, so we won’t have to put up with him after the wedding,”<br />Bit of a pain? Bloody understatement that was! God, he’s awful. Bouncing around here, there and everywhere. Has to be the centre of attention, thrusting himself into other peoples’ conversations, and then taking it over. He always manages to talk about himself. Full of it. Tells unfunny jokes and laughs uproariously at them. If you don’t laugh with him he keeps urging you on, repeating the tag line until in the end you give in in self defence.<br />He’d been bad enough before the wedding, but when it came to the photographs he was infuriating. I could tell poor Hazel was embarrassed by his antics, she kept trying to calm him down, but he paid no attention. He took over from the photographer, arranging and re-arranging the group till the poor man got quite shirty with him, then of course we saw the other side of Uncle Bernie. Went off in a huff, and I saw him being quite nasty to little Ben, the page boy. Then he noticed me watching and on went the big toothy grin, and he tried to pick Ben up, but he was having none of it. Good for him.<br />Uncle Bernie was none too pleased during the meal and the speeches either. As groom’s uncle he had nothing to do, but it didn’t stop him trying to muscle in, heckling the speakers and making so called ‘funny’ remarks. However, Johnny, the best man, had had a few by then, and told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. We all joined in, clapping and shouting “Hear, hear.” You should have seen Bernie’s face!<br />When the rest of the guests arrived for the evening they were very confused. Of course none of them had met Bernie before, and one or two thought they’d come to the wrong reception. There he was, meeting and greeting, as if it was <em>his</em> function.<br />“Hello, how nice to see you, thank you for coming,” - quite the genial host. Poor Dad had to keep re-assuring people that they had come to the right place.<br />When the dancing started, he at least allowed Joanne and Phillip to lead it off, but thereafter, true to form, he has taken it over. I must admit he dances very well, but he seems to forget that other people might want to use the dance floor. He had the cheek to tell the band to play the sort of music he wanted, then cleared every one off so he could go into a tap-dance routine, would you believe.<br /> He’s quite an old roue too. Won’t leave the girls alone, especially if they are young, tall and busty. Old enough to be the grandfather of some of them, for God’s sake. But he’s not fussy, he’s gone round all the women in turn, more or less demanding they dance with him. No one wants to, of course, but he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.<br />Oh God,! Look, he’s making a bee-line for me now. Excuse me; I’m off to the loo!<br />Bloody man, roll on tomorrow when he goes back to Scotland!DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-84097793278603061792007-01-04T01:37:00.000+00:002007-01-04T01:43:03.649+00:00An afternoon at sea<span style="font-size:85%;">Those of you who sail will recognise this and those who don't</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">may get some idea of what can happen in a very short space of time. </span><br /><br /> <br /> Azure sky, the wind a zephyr, riffling my hair with gentle caress. Warm sweet smell of the slumbering sea, whiff of oil and the tang of hot varnish. Roughness of salt on sun scorched skin. Playful patting of waves on hull, gently rocking my sleep inspiring cradle. Seagulls patrolling around me, wheeling and swooping as they clamour for food.<br /> Clouds gathering, darkening, lowering. Glooming towards my peaceful dream. Petulant wind now smacking sharply. The sea, rising in a bad mood, rocks the cradle with impatient hand. Rigging awakes with nervous twitching, planks groan as they feel the peevish touch of the swelling tide. And where are the gulls? The gulls have left me, their going a warning I do not heed.<br /> Blackening skies eclipse the sun, venomous wind now whips with vicious force, twisting, ripping, snatching the peace from the afternoon. Loose sails crack in protest, desperately trying to flee the vengeance of the wind.. The deck is now a bucking bronco, trying to hurl me into the maelstrom. Rain drives into my skin like white hot needles as I slide and slither, trying to bring order in to wet, cold hell. The world is howling, banging, bumping as I try to see through rain blinded eyes. My hair is whipped like a wet cat-o-nine tails as it lashes my face with stinging thwacks. The force of the storm is stealing my breath. I’m drowning. drowning, in the open air, gasping, clasping at rails with cold-palsied hands, losing my hold and my balance as the boat tries to writhe from under me. Sharp pain as I strike my head on a thwart. Tasting blood as it mixes with the rain on my face and drains into my gaping mouth. Salt tears now add their flavour and I haven’t the strength, oh, I haven’t the strength, to continue the fight. I lie where I fall, teeth chattering, body quaking with cold and terror. Where will it end? Is this the end? This is the end. No need to rise, no need to continue the battle, all is hopeless, my boat and I are doomed. I feel for a rope and cling to it desperately. Like a captain of old I will stay with my craft, it will be my shroud. I close my eyes and give myself to the blackness waiting to engulf me.<br /> The mewing of the gulls waken me, and I rouse to gentleness, my face feels stiff and I lift my hand and feel the encrusted mixture of salt and blood. I open my eyes and above me I see azure sky. I feel the wind caressing my hair, smell the sea and the tang of oil. Shakily I rise and sit on the thwart, feeling the sun warming my skin.<br /> As I get my bearings and head for harbour, I thank God.<br /> It was only a squall..DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-14675635248223482992006-12-27T08:55:00.000+00:002007-01-04T01:33:25.296+00:00AN UNWRITTEN LETTER<span style="font-size:85%;">This is the time of year is for families and reflection. This is a letter I wish I <em>had</em> written.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />A letter to my….…Stepfather<br /><br />Our first encounter took place on a railway station when I was almost twelve, a meeting my mother had arranged so we could get to know each other. You gave me a pink plastic handbag and I threw it back at you, shrieking that I loved my Dad, hated you, and didn’t want your bribes. Not an auspicious start.<br />My mother had left home two months previously, after what I can only describe in retrospect as living Hell. I don’t know what was worse, the stony silences, during which I was used as a go-between - “tell your father this” or “Tell you mother that”, - or the rows, which started off in in violent whispers and culminating in shouted insults and slammed doors, once or twice in physical blows - from both sides. Then suddenly it all stopped. I came home from school one day and Mum had gone. There was no explanation from my Dad, she just wasn’t there any more. Letters came, letters I learned to dread for the effect they had on my father, turning him morose and bad-tempered, but there was no word for me. It was left to an aunt to explain things and tell me about that proposed meeting. I didn’t want to go, and all the way there I tried to think of a way to escape, but when you are eleven, and especially in those days, there is no option but to do what adults tell you.<br />Some six weeks later, during which time I still had had no contact from my mother, I was told I was going on a visit to her. She was living with her elder sister, my favourite aunt, so it was with mixed feelings that I made the journey. I had been there for a week and was beginning to ask when I would be allowed to go home, when Aunty Rose told me that you and Mum were going to be married, and it had been agreed by all concerned that it would be better if I never saw my dad again. Of course, no-one had bothered to ask me. Philip Larkin was so right - they do fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.<br />You married abroad and I wasn’t at the wedding, opting instead to go to boarding school and thereby avoid living with you. Holidays were spent at a holiday home and Airmail forms were the only contact. Then came the news that I was going to have a baby brother or sister. Oh, the excruciating embarrassment that news caused me! Nevertheless I was thrilled to be asked to think of a name. I remember filling one of those letter forms with every name I could think of, using the smallest writing I could manage. There were hundreds of them and they must have been unreadable; I even added to the list in subsequent letters.<br />Eventually you came home on leave, took me away from school, and I came at last to share a home with you. Robin was born and we returned to Africa, a fledgling family, albeit one with a lot of baggage.<br />I’d never actually liked my mother, a feeling I think was mutual, and we were soon at loggerheads, especially as she treated me as an unpaid Nanny. You, however, were different. You never treated me with anything but kindness, going out of your way to help me keep up with my education, talking to me, sharing jokes and generally taking care of me. You introduced me to books I’d never have read without you, and nurtured an enquiring mind I didn’t know I had until then. But there was a distance between us, mainly caused by me. I never called you by name, never spoke to you, only at you.. If only I could have explained that my teenage truculence was really shyness and embarrassment about my behaviour at our first meeting. I was so ashamed; I couldn’t forgive myself and felt sure you couldn’t either. I didn’t realise that you were shy too and thought you sometimes stern and unapproachable. I was in awe of your intellect and I felt so inadequate beside you. How silly the young are!<br />In due course my resentment of my mother’s behaviour, both then and in the past, brought matters to a head. We had a row and I was sent back to England. A few years later you all came home, but still we were apart - me in London, you in the Midlands, and visits were rare. When my children came along I brought them all to meet you. You were a brilliant Grandfather, full of fun and laughter and shielding them when they fell below Mum’s strict standards. They loved you dearly, and I was more relaxed in your company, but still we never touched, never hugged, and even then I couldn’t bring myself to use your name<br />And then, aged forty-eight, you had a massive heart attack and died. I stood by your grave and grieved, not only for your death but for the lost chance to tell you how I felt. It’s nearly thirty years since then but whenever I think of you the pain of regret is as sharp as ever. Those two damned words “If Only”… again.<br />So that’s why I’m writing this letter. To let you know how much you meant to me, how much I grew to love and respect you, and how very much I miss you still.<br />I’m so sorry… Dad.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-37179323460778483002006-12-24T09:16:00.000+00:002006-12-26T11:49:48.356+00:00Tips from Hippie<span style="font-size:85%;">A friend of mine posted this on a winemaking forum I belong to. It's such good advice that I thought I would share it with the world.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Thanks Hippie.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br />Holiday eating tips:<br />1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.<br />2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly, it's rare. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-alcoholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!<br />3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand-alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat<br />4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.<br />5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?<br />6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.<br />7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.<br />8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?<br />9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.<br />10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.<br /><br />Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, wine in one hand, chocolate in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-18871528938021817132006-12-20T09:46:00.000+00:002006-12-20T10:01:51.669+00:00Writing Group<span style="font-size:85%;">I belong to a writer's group called ScribesRus.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">Each week we meet to discuss how to get our work published (an anthology is due very shortly) and we set a writing topic and critique the results at the next meeting. Here are my contributions to the subject of 'Ice'</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />ICE<br /><br />I’m lying in the dark, remembering.<br />“Ice?” he’d asked.<br />“Mm, please,” I’d answered.<br />He came from the bar, hands cradling the drinks. Before handing mine over he’d leant forward and kissed my eyelids.<br />“Keep them closed,” he’d whispered and pushed the glass into my hand.<br />I felt him stand away from me; “You can open them now,” he said.<br />As I did I looked at him, smiling quizzically.<br />“Drink up,” was all he said.<br />I raised the glass and then I saw them; earrings made from the biggest, most beautiful diamonds I had ever seen.<br />“Oh, Dave,” I breathed. They’re beautiful, but..?”<br />“Well you asked for ice,” he said, laughing, and held his arms open. “Come here and say ‘thank you’ nicely.”<br />As I moved to meet his embrace I exalted. At last I had the proof we needed and soon Dave Preston would be behind bars, where he belonged.<br />It had taken six months to reach this point. My boss at the Serious Crime Squad, DS Peter Ryan, had begun to despair of my ever getting the job done. We’d been given a tip off about Preston’s involvement in the robbery at Lord Kilthomas’s mansion. Not only jewels and paintings had been taken, but also the life of the elderly housekeeper. However, the witness was unreliable and DS Ryan had sent me undercover to get more evidence. The last time I’d reported in he’d told me I had a week.<br />“It’s not working Jo” he’d said. “We’ll have to try something else, and the longer you’re mixed up with him the more dangerous it is.”<br />“But I’m making progress” I’d said. “He’s beginning to trust me and I can nail him, just give me time.”<br />“One week and that’s it,” He’d been adamant.<br />Now out of the blue I’d been handed the proof on a plate - or in a glass!<br />I called Ryan the next morning; he was overjoyed.<br />“Great! Now you can get out. I’ll send an armed unit round and nab him. Well done, Jo.”<br />“No,” I’d argued. “That’s no good. Look, he’s giving a party tomorrow at his house in Essex. Send them there. It’ll only be his cronies so no members of the public will get involved. It’ll be safer, and I’ll stay till then so his suspicions won’t be aroused.”<br />Ryan hadn’t agreed at first, but eventually gave in.<br />The party had been in full swing when Dave took a phone call. Afterwards he came across to me and smiled.<br />“Drink? Ice?”<br />“Oh yes please, I need something to cool me down!”<br />“Yes, you do, don’t you sweetie?” His voice hardened as he held my arm. “Come with me,” and he propelled me from the room and downstairs.<br />“Dave, you’re hurting me. Where are we going?”<br />“Shut up! I’ve just had a call from a little bird, who told a very interesting tale. All about a beautiful lady copper. Well, bitch, they might be coming for me, but you won’t be around to see it.” He pushed me towards the large walk-in freezer.<br />I began to struggle and cried out.<br />“No point, darlin’. We’re all mates here so no-one’s interested. The helicopter’s revving up and I’ll be gone in 10 minutes.” He punched my face, pushed me in and slammed the door.<br />That was twenty minutes ago. Ryan isn’t due for another hour and already I can feel my body giving up. All I can think of is Preston’s parting shot.<br />“Keep your cool!” he’d sniggered as he walked away.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-50385110506529422832006-12-20T09:39:00.000+00:002006-12-20T10:05:46.261+00:00Second attemptTHE END?<br /><br />Now’s the end of global warming.<br />We didn’t heed the urgent warning,<br />Drove our cars and flew our planes,<br />Overloaded all our mains;<br /><br />Gas and oil we reckless used,<br />All resources we abused.<br />Wasted water and wasted food,<br />Never thought of planet’s good.<br /><br />Icebergs melt and oceans rise,<br />Swamp the land and gain the prize.<br />Gulf stream’s gone and so is heat,<br />Now the process is complete.<br /><br />Never more a summer’s day;<br />Permafrost is here to stay.<br />Cold as never known before,<br />Ice creeps over forest floor,<br /><br />Hear the crack as branches splinter.<br />In the new and cruel winter<br />Rivers freeze, and lakes, and ponds.<br />Crystals form on the green fronds<br /><br />Of palm trees in once tropic lands.<br />Hoar frost appears on desert sands;<br />Ice stifles all, six metres deep.<br />And none, not one, survives to weep.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-46335797777973462162006-12-14T13:11:00.000+00:002006-12-20T12:37:47.069+00:00Purple ProsePURPLE PROSE<br /><br />Bedecked with curlicues and scrolls.<br />Frilled and fancied,<br />Furbelowed beyond belief.<br />The golden nugget of<br />Verisimilitude obscured.<br />Ormulued with overblown opulence.<br />Gilded and garnished. Tarnished.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This is not something I aspire to and hope you won’t find any of it here!</span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-27487912297013579912006-12-13T10:01:00.000+00:002006-12-13T20:06:58.789+00:00THE WRITER<span style="font-size:85%;">Autobiographical? </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Maybe - you decide - I couldn't possibly comment.</span><br /><br />All her life she had wanted to be a writer but because she was lazy and such a very bad typist, she’d never fulfilled her ambitions. She just couldn’t face all that rubbing out or re-typing. Then she got a computer.<br />Actually, all she had really wanted was a glorified typewriter, and she was terrified of the thing to begin with. However, she soon found she was able to play games on it and enjoyed these up to a point. Unfortunately, she eventually became bored with the games that were already installed and went in search of better ones.<br />She didn’t like war games or football, or, indeed, any sports games at all, so she was a bit puzzled as to what to get to amuse herself. Then she saw it.<br />A CD of various games of patience.<br />Brilliant!<br />She’d always loved playing cards and she rushed home with the CD, installed it on the machine, and began to play.<br />That was many years ago. She’s still not a writer, but she’s an expert at patience.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-58626014601323574042006-12-12T22:42:00.000+00:002006-12-12T22:48:51.084+00:00WHERE THE .... AM I?The first thing I saw was a vast expanse of blue sky. The second was a face leaning over me.<br /><br />“You all right, son?” said a deep resonant voice. It belonged to an old man with bushy white eyebrows and long flowing beard to match. His snowy hair curled gently over his brow and his deep blue eyes were full of concern.<br /><br />“Where am I?” I cliché’d as I tried to sit up.<br /><br />“Now just you take it easy,” he said, sitting down beside me.<br /><br />“There’s no good way to tell you this, my son,” he continued, “But I’m afraid you’re dead.”<br /><br />“What!” I shouted, “How?”<br /><br />“A hit and run driver. They found you too late to help.” He shook his head sadly then brightened up. “Well, never mind all that, you’ll soon settle in. I’ll get someone to take you to the Quartermaster to get you kitted out.”<br /><br />“Kitted out?” I queried.<br /><br />“I think some clothes would help, don’t you?” he chuckled, and beckoned to an onlooker to take me to the stores, where I was issued with a long white robe and a harp.<br /><br />A harp!<br /><br />“But I can’t…” I began.<br />”You will,” grinned the QM and dismissed me.<br /><br />That was ages ago, and I do mean ages.<br /><br />They have this arrangement of soft fluffy cushions dotted about and on each sits a person ‘playing’ the harp. All you can hear is the tinkley, tinkley, plunk of miss-plucked strings. All day – every day.<br /><br />I put in for a trumpet but they said they were only for the upper echelons.<br /><br />“A clarinet, then?” I pleaded. “I’ve always wanted to learn clarinet.”<br /><br />“No”, they said. “It’s a harp and lump it”.<br /><br />Well, after another aeon I’d really had enough. I went to see some bloke called Peter, the second in command.<br /><br />“Look”, I said. “I want a transfer. I know I’m supposed to be overjoyed to be here, but I can’t bear the boredom anymore. I want to move to The Other Place.<br /><br />“What other place?”<br /><br />“You know,” I hissed “Hell.”<br /><br />Peter looked puzzled. “But this is Hell.”<br /><br />I stared at him. “No”, I said, “It can’t be. There’s all those cloud things and the harps…”<br /><br />“Oh, you people make me sick. Believe anything if you’re told often enough. Nah, this is definitely Hell.”<br /><br />“But the Old Man”, I protested, “What about him? Surely he’s…?”<br /><br />“You never thought he was…?” He shouted with laughter. “Oh, that’s priceless! Yeah, he’s ‘Old’ alright, Old Nick!” and he walked away, still giggling.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-54038250448557729962006-12-11T09:52:00.000+00:002006-12-11T09:55:01.913+00:00THE JOBAs he shut the door behind him Dave punched the air with delight.<br />“Yesss!” he crowed, dancing a little jig in the corridor. Pamela, the Sales Manager’s secretary, came out of her office and caught him in the act.<br />“I take it you got it then?” she grinned.<br />“Er, yes,” he replied, flushing. “How did you guess?”<br />“Can’t think.” she said, still smiling. “Anyway, congratulations, and I look forward to working with you. See you later.” and she carried on walking down the corridor.<br />He returned to his own desk thinking about his new job. He’d worked really hard for this promotion and he was full of ideas for the future of the department.<br />“My department” he amended to himself. When Mr. Anstruther retired at the end of the month he would be the new Sales Manager! He could hardly believe it.<br />All day he tried without success to keep the smile off his face. He didn’t want to appear too gloating when colleagues came over to congratulate him, but in the end the elation won and in a fit of euphoria he invited everyone to the office local for a drink at the end of the day.<br />He awoke next morning with the mother of all hangovers, but it being Saturday it didn’t matter. Even the hammering in his head couldn’t stop him savouring the thought of his new future. With the salary rise he’d be able to trade in his old car for something more sporty, perhaps sell the flat and get somewhere better, book that holiday he’d decided only last week he couldn’t afford. Oh, yes the world was truly his oyster now. He grinned at himself in the shaving mirror and resolved to make a start on improving his lifestyle to-day.<br />He spent a happy hour in the travel agent and booked the trip to Chile he’d thought would remain a dream for a very long time to come. It was a gratifying to realise that he would be able to explore the mountains while he was still young and fit enough to enjoy it.<br />From there he went to the estate agent and put his flat on the market. Armed with a handful of details of flats and houses he would now be able to afford he went to the local car showroom. He’d been drooling over one of the models on their forecourt for months. He did a deal with the salesman and put himself into debt, but when his new salary kicked in he would be able to afford the repayments - just.<br />The next few weeks at work he spent familiarising himself with his new responsibilities, sitting in with old Anstruther, getting up to speed on what had been happening in the department, and getting to know Pamela better. He’d always fancied her quite a lot, and was looking forward to working with her - and maybe taking the relationship further. In his spare time he went flat hunting. He’d found two he really liked and was having difficulty making his mind up as to which one to choose.<br />On the last weekend before taking up his new post he viewed the two flats and decided to take the smaller. It was nearer work and had a balcony and access to the roof. These advantages outweighed the charms of the other flat even though it was £5000 dearer and he would be very pushed to meet the mortgage. He put in his offer and it was accepted. On Sunday he started making plans for the move, sorting out a few belongings. During the evening he sat listening to music and reflected on how his life was going to be so much better in the future. New job, new flat and, hopefully, new girlfriend.<br />“Dave,” he told himself, smugly, “you’re a lucky bugger.” He finished his drink and went to bed, still smiling.<br />On Monday he went early to the office and sat at his new desk, grinning like a schoolboy at Christmas.<br />“All this,” he thought as he looked round his new office, “Is mine. All mine”<br />Just then his intercom buzzed.<br />“Ah, David. Good, you’re in,” The MD sounded sombre. “Could you step into my office straight away, please?” and he switched the machine off, giving Dave no time to ask questions.<br />“Well,” he thought, straightening his tie and making his way to the MD’s office, “Here comes the welcoming pep talk.”<br />Half an hour later he was back at his desk, slumped with his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe what he’d just been told.<br />“It’s got to be some sick joke. It can’t be true.” He shook his head and realised he was trembling. He felt sick and was afraid he was going to burst into tears.<br />He’d just been told there had been a takeover of the company. All the sales and marketing would be taking place at the new head office, and his job no longer existed. All his dreams and ambitions shattered. No job, no car, no new flat. Nothing. Just a whole lot of debt and no way to pay it.<br />He put on his jacket and, as if in a trance, slowly walked out of his office, out of the building and into a very uncertain future.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-44798790891908040772006-12-07T09:43:00.001+00:002006-12-11T09:23:51.851+00:00Poor kid.<span style="font-size:85%;">Do you remember how embarrassing you parents could be when you were about 12 or so? If you do, perhaps you can empathise with this poor boy.</span><br /><br />Halloween Party<br /><br />I knew I’d end up here, hiding in the bog and wishing I was an orphan. I’m dreading tomorrow; Wayne and Terry will really be out to get me, even more than usual. It’s my Dad that’s the trouble. Why can’t he be like Mike’s Dad, and work shifts, so he can’t come to PTA things? Or better still like Susan’s. Her Dad’s in the Navy and doesn’t come back for months once he’s gone away.<br /><br />I sussed there’d be trouble as soon as Mrs Hargreaves announced at assembly that the PTA was going to hold a Halloween party. Mum and Dad both belong even though I asked them not to. Mum said that parents should support the school, and Dad, who always pokes his nose into everything, said he was really looking forward to it and rubbed his hands together the way he does when he gets all excited. He even got himself elected on to the committee and he’s always going on about it at home. He knew I didn’t like it, but at least he could have warned me about the party. But no, he never thinks of me at all, doesn’t worry how his behaviour gets me taken the piss out of.<br /><br />Well, he’s done it this time. When I saw him, I nearly died. I refused to come, but Mum said I’d got to. I begged her not to make me, but she got cross and dragged me into the car. Dad was full of it, telling me not to be an old spoilsport. “Lighten up, Tony,” he told me, “You’ll enjoy it once we get there.” Well he was wrong there; it’s been horrible, even worse than I thought it would be.<br /><br />Most of the other parents have dressed up, the Mums as witches mainly, with black clothes and pointy hats, and the Dad’s are either ghosts or Dracula. They all look a bit naff really, but my Dad’s gone over to top, as usual.<br />He’s dyed... <em><span style="font-size:130%;">dyed</span>... </em>his hair green for God’s sake. Even Mum told him he was going too far, but he just laughed and said if a job was worth doing blah, blah, blah. Then he put this makeup on and made his eyebrows look bushy. Then he stuck some sort of white plastic thingy on which looks like a great big tooth sticking out of one side of his mouth. He doesn’t look like any sort of monster I’ve ever seen (except like my Dad, and that’s monster enough). Mum said he looked like the village idiot and he said “Exactly.” What that’s got to do with Halloween, who knows? Anyway, that’s what he’s doing now, running around the school hall with a big goofy grin, rushing up to people and prodding and laughing at them. You can see some of them don’t like it. I heard Wayne’s Dad say “Wanker!” as mine rushed away to pester someone else. Mind you, Sarah’s Mum, the one who’s got hardly any clothes on and says she’s come as Catwoman, she seems to like it. Her and my Dad have been flirting with each other. She’s sort of wriggling, and waving her fingers, like claws, at him, and trying to purr. Gross!<br />That’s when I came in here. I couldn’t stand it anymore, it was dead embarrassing. I’ll cop it from Wayne and Terry tomorrow, I just know I will. My Dad’s such a show up; I wish he’d just grow up.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-41196315241869977522006-12-06T09:18:00.000+00:002006-12-09T08:29:03.552+00:00On which side of the fence do you sit?<span style="font-size:85%;">I was asked to write a piece on windfarms without giving my own opinion, this is the result.</span><br /><br />Environmentalists are agreed that unless we do something very soon about climate change, life on Earth will become unsustainable. We must, they say, cease our reliance on fossil fuels and turn our attention to renewable energy. Unfortunately, they are not in agreement as to the best alternatives and no method causes more controversy than the effectiveness of wind farms.<br />Chief among the detractors are the scientists who argue that wind farms are not efficient enough. They cite the fact that in order to generate enough electricity to meet our needs, we would have so many turbines in place that the character of the countryside would be ineradicably altered.<br />However, a report by the Sustainable Development Commission has said it is possible to have wind turbines provide 10% of the UK's electricity by 2010. This would meet the government's target and take up only 1% of British land. Conversely, the Renewable Energy Foundation (REF) is dismayed at the report, believing too much focus on wind power is a mistake. John Constable, head of policy at REF, is quoted as saying "The report leads us to infer that wind turbines will avert climate change, but that is untrue. They have something to offer, but the question is whether we need to place as much reliance on what is actually a very high impact and costly means of emissions reduction.”<br />The RSPB and Greenpeace each voice concerns as to the effect the turbines would have on wildlife, particularly the possibility of birds flying into the blades and being killed. However, other organisations say that if care is taken in the siting of wind farms many of these problems could be alleviated. Health issues have also been raised, with one side of the argument saying that the low noise emissions of the turbines cause serious problems to people living nearby, and the other side saying that as long as they are at least 600 metres away from houses they are perfectly safe.<br />Another point of contention is their visual impact. In the opinion of some they are an eyesore while to others they are attractive. A certain amount of nimbyism creeps into the debate here; 80% of people polled said they thought wind farms were necessary, but of these, less than 10% said they would be happy to have a wind farm in their own neighbourhood.<br />So there we have it. In most debates the facts speak for themselves, but in this case the facts confuse. Meanwhile, as the argument rages on, the planet edges ever closer to destruction.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-41571653584594536762006-12-01T12:13:00.000+00:002006-12-01T12:18:12.670+00:00AN INVENTION OF THE DEVILThey come in many sizes and all colours, some black, some striped, even some with dogs or flowers on, but they all have one thing in common. They are more nuisance than boon. They are a hazard to passers-by, a possible cause of death and almost guaranteed to get lost or mislaid.<br />I am, of course, talking about the ubiquitous umbrella, reputed to have been invented by one Samuel Fox, although it was an employee of his, Joseph Hayward, who was the actual perpetrator. The man should have been sacked and I am surprised his boss claimed responsibility for such a perilous creation.<br />Let me show you what I mean. Mr Smith, ready to go to work, glances out of the window and sees it is raining. “Aha” he thinks, “Brolly weather.” As he steps out of his front door he opens out the umbrella. Here luck is with us: he hasn’t got one of those automatic ones, which snap open sharply, and his front door does not abut the street. He has not, therefore, impaled anyone unfortunate enough to be walking past at the time. Yet. However, as it is raining heavily he holds the umbrella lower over his person and thus cannot properly see where he is going. Nevertheless, he reaches the station safely and, on entering the building, collapses his brolly and gives it a good shake. He has now showered everyone in the vicinity, so even those who have arrived by car are now wet through. <br />Mr Smith catches his train and as it is crowded he has to stand. He now has a problem. What to do with the brolly? He can either hook it over his arm while he strap-hangs, which means it is flapping about damply in the faces of other travellers, or he can use it as a walking stick and lean on it. Doing this on a jolting train can lead to the point stabbing either his own or other people’s feet.<br />Arriving at the terminus he joins the throng leaving the station. Up goes the umbrella and Mr Smith strides off to work, ignoring the fact that the spokes of the brolly are at eye level of people smaller than himself. He comes to a busy junction, and has to wait to cross the road. A sudden gust of wind fills the cover and, acting like a sail, the brolly tries to drag Mr. Smith under a passing bus. He is saved only by the quick action of a burly man who grabs hold of his arm and pulls him back. A much shaken Mr Smith continues on his way to the office.It is not raining when our hero leaves work but by the time he gets off the train it has started again. It is then he realises that, true to form, the damn thing has got lost. Pulling his collar up round his ears he hurries home and vows to buy a hat instead.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As you can no doubt gather, I <em>hate </em>the damn things.</span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-6595995883646800162006-11-27T23:17:00.000+00:002006-11-28T08:30:55.727+00:00Carreg Cennen<span style="font-size:85%;">This is my take on some local history, and like most histories not all of it is true, but it should be!</span><br /><br />The hill on which Carreg Cennen sits falls vertically a dizzying 325ft to the south, and a little less steeply down to a farm on the north western side and dominates the surrounding countryside. The discovery of the skeletal remains of four Iron Age people and a hoard of Roman coins show it has been a site of some importance for thousands of years.<br />At some time during the Dark Ages the Lord of Iskennen, one Urien Rheged and his son Owain, built a fort on the hill but, being of wooden construction, no trace of this edifice exist.<br />In the late 12th century the first stone castle was built, probably by Lord Rhys, Prince of Deheubarth. Rhys Fychan inherited the castle but his mother, Matilda de Braeos, a most unnatural woman and a Norman to boot, so hated her son that she treacherously handed the castle to the English. However, Rhys managed to win it back only to have it snatched away again by his uncle, Maredudd ap Rhys Gryg. Maredudd came by his just deserts when the castle was seized by Edward I, never to be owned by the Welsh again.<br />In the late 13th century the castle was demolished and rebuilt by one John Giffard. Subsequent owners included John of Gaunt and Henry of Bolingbroke. When Bolingbroke was crowned Henry IV the castle became Crown property. Around the year 1403 it was unsuccessfully besieged, but considerably damaged, by Owain Glendwr.<br />The owner during the War of the Roses declared for Lancaster and after the Yorkist victory, Carreg Cennen was ordered to be demolished, being judged too much of a threat to the Monarchy to ever again fall into enemy hands. Enough structure remains to show how impregnable it was and how daunting a prospect it must have been to any attackers.<br />The hill itself is riddled with caves and it is thought that these were inhabited as early as the Stone Age. One could speculate perhaps that the hill could have been the site of religious ceremonies, possibly including human sacrifice, which would explain the skeletons found there. Another legend tells of a sleeping warrior, maybe King Arthur himself, who only waits for the call to come to the aid of the Welsh.<br />There is speculation too on the naming of the castle. Carreg means ‘stone’ in Welsh, and although the hill is comprised of limestone rocks, it seems a bit weak to think the castle was named for its hill. Nor is it likely to have been named after the building material as the name predates the first stone structure.<br />One theory, recently proposed, is that when Urien Rheged decided to build his fortress he took his builder to the site to get an estimate. Having surveyed the area and seen how difficult it was going to be to transport the materials up the steep slope, and how dangerous it would be to construct the eastern wall on the edge of the precipice, he turned to his Lord and, scratching his head, said, with pursed lips, “Stone me, Iskennen, you must be joking!” Obviously spoken in Welsh, the phrase has been corrupted through the ages and eventually evolved to its present form of Carreg Cennen.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">For more information and pictures of this spectacular castle go to <a onmouseover="self.status='http://www.greatcastlesofwales.co.uk/carreg.htm';return true" href="http://aolsearch.aol.co.uk/redir?urn=http://www.greatcastlesofwales.co.uk/carreg.htm&url=http://www.greatcastlesofwales.co.uk/carreg.htm&requestId=703bd38f6953ac28&clickedItemRank=2&source=google&searchType=MS&partner=google&query=carreg%20cennen%20Castle">http://www.greatcastlesofwales.co.uk/carreg.htm</a></span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-11377340093750094132006-11-18T13:17:00.000+00:002006-11-18T13:49:58.708+00:00Arctic convoys<span style="font-size:85%;">During the last war we shipped thousands of tons of guns, ammuniton and food to Russia via the Arctic Circle. These convoys were very vulnerable, being in range of German U-boats and submarines. The conditions were abominable even in the summer. The ships needed to be kept ice free at all times so they wouldn't become top heavy, turn turtle and sink. If a man fell into the water his life expectancy was virtually nil. Although hundreds of ships were lost on these convoys, many got through. After the war a grateful Russian Government wanted to present a medal to all the sailors involved, but the British Government would not allow this. Neither did they issue a medal themselves. Their view was that the crews had got the Atlantic medal and that was good enough.</span><span style="font-size:85%;">To distinguish themselves the surviving sailors, both Merchant and RN, adopted a white beret to represent the ice and cold they'd battled against. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A continuing campagne has been waged to get these men the special recognition they deserved, but it wasn't until a few months ago that the British Government backed down. After 60 years they issued an addition - the size of a button - to the Atlantic medal. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I watched some of these survivors, now in their 80s, parade past the Cenotaph and wondered how any had lived through such conditions.</span><br /><br />WHITE CAPS<br /><br />Within the shipyard dark and bleak<br />Stand gantries craned towards the North<br />Where convoy ships, their cargo held<br />In value more than men are worth,<br /><br />Towards the Arctic Circle speed.<br />Their mercy missions must not fail,<br />‘Spite foe, ‘spite cruel winter sea,<br />‘Spite flesh burnt off by glacial rail.<br /><br />Then come the bombs, the pounding guns,<br />The sinking into creaking ice.<br />Plump corpses swell the churning waves,<br />No longer flinch from cold’s sharp vice<br /><br />But float secure in velvet Death.<br />Forgotten now, heroic men<br />Who gave their all for country’s needs.<br />Who care’s now what happened then?<br /><br />Years later round a cenotaph<br />Old men in bleak remembrance stand,<br />Grieve for the shipmates who were lost<br />Wipe rheumy tears with palsied hand.<br /><br />No special medal on their breasts,<br />We do not honour as we ought.<br />To shared award we kindly add<br />A <em>button </em>as an afterthought.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-1161255469175489252006-11-09T08:02:00.000+00:002006-11-09T08:02:39.873+00:00It's own-back timeI'm so worried about the way we are damaging the planet and feel quite impotent about doing anything much to reverse the ruin we are creating. I wrote the following last year, after we had had that terrible sunami, the hurricanes and floods and other natural disasters. I imagined that the Earth was getting her own back - and more power to her elbow, I say.<br /><br />REVENGE<br />Turn again, turn again, turn Mother Earth.<br />Planet of loveliness gone down the drain.<br />Soon - world of pestilence, mutated birth,<br />Strontium 90 and foul acid rain.<br />No ozone layer - the pastures will burn,<br />No birds will fly or fish swim in the sea,<br />The forests and woods will die in their turn;<br />Mankind has gone on a merciless spree.<br />We’ve played with genetics, 'meaning no harm',<br />We’ve poisoned the oceans with all our waste.<br />No flowers, no crops, no bees in a swarm,<br />We’ve ruined it all in our ravenous haste.<br />Get rid of our greed which holds you in thrall.<br />Turn again Gaia, get rid of us all.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-19028977449826125822006-10-28T12:57:00.000+01:002006-10-28T13:07:51.208+01:00Shall we stay in or shall we eat out?<span style="font-size:85%;">This was a headline over an article in a newspaper and I liked the sound of it. Perhaps you've had this conversation?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />Shall we stay in<br />Or shall we eat out?<br />It's your turn to cook<br />But I know you'll shout<br />At the lack of<br />Ingredients. You<br />Have no flare, no verve,<br />As seen in the food<br />You usually serve.<br /><br />Shall we eat out<br />Or shall we stay in?<br />The waste of money<br />Is really a sin.<br />OK <em>I'll</em> cook,<br />You seldom do.<br />Wish I'd snared a chef<br />Instead of you.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-60773643912822537972006-10-26T21:42:00.000+01:002006-10-26T21:50:48.457+01:00aka 'Psycho'<span style="font-size:85%;">I never thought chickens had any personality but this one certainly changed my mind</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />BLOD<br /><br />Blodwen is a little brown hen, half the size of her companions, underweight and under brained, fossicking around in the dirt for what she can find. Scratching and pecking for tasty morsels, she sambas her way around the garden, taking a worm here, a cabbage leaf there. She sees me digging and sprints over to the action, muttering and grumbling if I’m not fast enough. Fingers and toes are pecked in her impatience to get to the hidden grubs. Squawks of frustration rend the air if the fork gets in her way, and she has escaped death by decapitation only be dint of my lightening reaction in deflecting the guillotine spade away from her.<br />Having had her fill she’ll wander away for a quick raid on the lettuce bed and then it’s off to find a favourite spot for a bath, where she’ll dig a hole and, with showers of dust and small stones, she busily complete her ablutions. After that, if the weather’s good, she’ll have a nap in the sun, lounging on her side, with her legs stretched out and one wing spread like a sail; for all intents and purposes dead to the world.<br />Lulled into a false sense of security by this inertia the dog, who is a new addition to the family, approaches for a surreptitious sniff of discovery, but Blodwen is like a coiled spring and is instantly on her feet. She enters the metaphorical phone box of her mind and emerges as …….PSYCHO!<br />She is as a peacock, displaying her might. She is 3 feet high, 2 feet wide and bristling with armaments, from her razor sharp comb to her burnished spurs. A fighting machine ready to take on all comers. Rambo? Puh, a wimp. Arnie would crumble at the sight of her; she is the Terminator. Her beak is a lethal weapon. She lives hard and is prepared to die hard, too.<br />She stares at the dog, who hesitates, and while he makes up his mind whether to continue, her expression says: “Are you feeling lucky, dog?”<br />The dog’s not sure and tentatively wags his tail, edging his nose closer.<br />“Go on, make my day, punk,” is Psycho’s reaction, as she stretches her head higher, fixing him with her beady eye.<br />The dog is an idiot, however, and doesn’t recognise the signs. Anyway, he’s bigger than her, isn’t he? What possible harm could she do? He takes a step closer and … Bomp! Dog with pecked nose runs down the garden, and hides behind his master, looking embarrassed. Perhaps he’ll learn his lesson one day, but I doubt it.<br />Psycho, meanwhile, ruffles her feathers and changes back to Blodwen, calmly going about her daily business, continuing her never-ending search for food<br />However, it is not only the dog who feels her displeasure. She is a nightmare on any street; the chicken run becomes a killing field if any newcomer enters her territory unbidden. With a “Back off, Sister!” she imposes her authority as she rakes her handmaids’ tails, until all are submissive. She is the queen of the roost and the others had better not forget it. She may be the smallest in stature but she’s the biggest in personality and will be sorely missed when she goes.<br />Moreover, I’ll miss the daily egg she lays for my tea.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-9930518672471217262006-10-25T16:03:00.000+01:002006-10-25T16:07:59.797+01:00My Friend EricWe have a Hell’s Angel living opposite us. He comes out of his house most days, clothed from head to toe in black leather. As he stands, legs astride, doing up his gauntlets, he challengingly surveys his surroundings. The scene is reflected in the shiny black visor of his helmet behind which hides today’s mood. He cuts a menacing figure as he strides to his garage and wheels out the bike, a shiny Suzuki. Mounting, he opens the throttle and the machine roars out its challenge to the neighbourhood like a lion staking out its territory. A few final adjustments to gauntlet and helmet and he’s away, off to explore the countryside, over dirt tracks in the mountains and to far flung towns to the north. He’ll be gone for two or three hours then the deep rumble of the Suzuki will announce his return, another day well spent.<br /> His name is Eric and he is eighty one years old.<br /> Born in Brynamman in 1925, he was the eldest son of Ita and Amelia Jones. Grandpa Isaac Jones had a smallholding nearby and Eric spent a lot of his early childhood there, helping with the work and acquiring his lifelong love of horses at this time.<br /> Once a much industrialised locality, Brynamman in the 1930s saw the closure of the brickworks, many of the mines and the only remnant of the ironworks was a huge slagheap. Most of the fathers in the village were miners and, pre-Welfare State, times were very hard. Ita Jones was a mechanic and part time lorry driver so Eric perhaps suffered a little less than his schoolmates but the whole area was very deprived. It was during this time that a group of miners got together and opened up their own drift. The workers were divided into 6 shifts with each shift working a week at a time. They received, in lieu of wages, 2cwt of coal a week for which the only payment was tuppence delivery charge. The biggest difficulty facing them was getting the coal to the surface. They rigged up a large steel drum to which they attached a long handle on each side. A steel hawser was wound around the drum and then affixed to the tram at the coal face. Two men on each handle painfully and slowly hauled up the coal filled tram. Eventually they came to Ita for advice. He rigged up an old lorry engine to the contraption and a crowd, including Eric, gathered to watch the result. The engine was switched on, the drum revolved and the coal steadily rose. Ita was paid the same as the miners – 2cwt of coal a week - and honour was satisfied. Although he didn’t understand the implications at the time Eric now recalls it as the first time he witnessed socialism at work. “For the people and not for profit,” he says.<br /> Although the Amman Valley was very rugby orientated Eric was not much interested, preferring to spend his time at the smallholding, but when he went to secondary school in Ammanford he became more attracted to sport. He discovered a love of athletics, played rugby and cricket for the school teams and in his final year won the Victor Ludorum Prize for sport.<br /> On leaving school he started an apprenticeship at the Lewis Foundry in Ammanford. It was about this time that he bought his first motorbike and even an accident in which he broke his collarbone did not put him off. He soon sold this machine for a more powerful one, something he would repeat until marriage and a family necessitated the purchase of a car. He also gave up sport at this time but in its place he returned to an old love, singing. His fine tenor voice earned him many first places in Eisteddfodau, and he was a member of many choirs and Concert parties. He studied with Madam Holloway-Morgan, a famous teacher in Ammanford, and sang in numerous operettas.<br /> Meanwhile his enthusiasm for horses was not forgotten and he took up trotting racing. Buying an American brood mare, he bred two first class colts from her and won more awards to add to his collection. Travelling to courses in England meant leaving home at midday on a Saturday and not returning until two or three o’clock on Sunday morning, so he and a group of fellow enthusiasts got together to purchase land at Tairgwaith and set up a course there. Although he no longer has horses of his own he is still very much involved with this enterprise, having been Chairman for eighteen years.<br /> In the 1960s he decided to set up business on his own, and with his usual flair and determination was soon taking commissions from local factories and mines for spare parts and repairs. Even the loss of the tips of three fingers after an accident with a grinding machine didn’t slow him down, but it wasn’t until he retired that he returned to motorcycling as a hobby.<br /> At the beginning I called him a Hells Angel, but in view of his very active life and the two knee replacement operations he has undergone, perhaps I should have called him ‘The Bionic Man’.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34619231.post-53829650117238652232006-10-25T16:01:00.000+01:002006-10-25T16:02:49.634+01:00A Bit More About Me.My name is Jan, a feminine corruption of John, meaning ‘Gift of God’. Ironic that my mother should have chosen that name; I’m sure that at the time she was unaware of its meaning as she certainly didn’t treat me as such. I learned from an early age that my best strategy was to keep very still and quiet when she was around, so as not to invoke her anger.<br />I was often farmed out to relatives when I was very small and those were the best times. However, despite her many absences my mother had a great influence on my character.<br />I inherited my selfishness from her, but also learned resilience and rebelliousness in order to cope with her. Through her, I learned to assess the prevailing mood in any given circumstance and act accordingly, an attribute that has stood me in good stead all my life. Her volatility has come down to me but, unlike her, I have learned to hold my anger unless I can put it to good use. Her impatience is also mine and I, too, do not suffer fools gladly. However, my ability to be happy with my own company is a direct result of not being able to communicate with her at all.<br />Happily, her inverted snobbery and bigotry have completely passed me by. In fact, I think it was precisely because I was exposed to such behaviour at an early age that I formed my own opinions in direct opposition.<br />I did not like my mother when I was a child and, even with the benefit of hindsight, can see no reason to change my mind. However, it must be admitted that she had a lasting affect on me, mainly for the good, strangely. Growing up I was so desperate not to become like her that I actively squashed any tendencies to do so, and hope I am a better person because of it.DAWN Literary Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14453722962742862069noreply@blogger.com0