MORE THAN THIS

MORE THAN THIS

Next time that he screams at you
and calls you an old hag,
a stuck up bitch, a selfish cow
a slapper or a bag,
just catch your breath
remind yourself,
that you’re worth more than this.

And when somebody comments
on how good you look today
just smile and then say ‘Thankyou,
how nice of you to say.’
Ignore the sulks and snide remarks
for you’re worth more than this.

When he forgets your birthday
and turns up late each night,
remember what I’ve told you
and keep your morale bright.
For one day you will recognise
that you’re worth more than this.

And when he rants and raves at you
and points his shaking finger,
just turn your back and close your eyes,
don’t think to even linger.
But keep on walking out that door
for you’re worth more than this.

And when you fully accept
that what I say is true
your confidence will re-emerge
and show you what to do.
Bid him goodbye and walk away
for you’re worth more than this.

Don’t worry that he’ll be alone
suffering a broken heart
he’ll be out there with all his charm
to find another start.
Be grateful you’ve made your escape
for you’re worth more than this.

THE END OF THE ROAD.

THE END OF THE ROAD

Terrified little bodies,
cling to the branches
high in the rain forest trees.
E.U. money built the road
that causes their despair.

It aids the removal of plundered timber,
so that someone’s fat backside
can sit in the depth of a chair
upholstered in wood from right here.

Louder they scream
as flames burn them from the trees
they thought were their sanctuary.
Where do they go now?

Shall I leap or die?
Maybe I will die anyway.
There is no time for reason
as they flail into the unknown.

One brave man with a giant heart
tries to save them.
But what can he do against such odds?
Where does he turn for help?

The chimps did bite the hand that feeds them,
as he displays on television, one digit removed,
by teeth that knew no better,
he bears no grudge.

Through the media’s eyes
he pleads for help,
unable to forsake his little friends.
He shows the plight of those in the trees,
that are threatened by the road
built with E.U. money.

He shows shattered bodies,
orphaned babies,
and broken hearts,
clutching to man,
still able to trust.

While we sit and do nothing,
in our nice warm homes,
with fancy new furniture
made with rain forest wood.

Where will it end?
At the end of the road?
Best start right here,
don’t buy rain forest wood.

You need somewhere to sit?
Well sit anywhere,
with Norwegian pine,
not rain forest wood.

You need somewhere to dine?
Well dine anywhere
with oak, yew or ash,
not rain forest wood.

Remember those eyes,
that hide in the trees,
as they plunder the woods,
to satisfy greed,
that waits at the end of the road.

AURORA'S DANCE

AURORA’S DANCE
She goes about her normal chores, checks the washing machine, feeds the cat, packs his case, washes out the muck he has left in the bath, and lifts the skin he has picked off his feet and left on the lounge floor. That’s how he sees her, someone to pick up the dead skin and clean out the bath. She re-arranges the towels that he leaves in a rumpled heap, woman’s work.
His case is packed, the clothes neatly folded, the toiletries wrapped in a poly bag, toilet bags are for wimps and he’s no wimp. She packs the book he has never tried to read. A book she spent hours choosing.
Last night she performed her wifely duties, longing for it to end. There is no passion left, now it is just another chore. Words like “slag” and “slapper” put paid to that. Each word another chip off any remaining affection; each utterance piercing her heart, until it is numbed with pain. But she is no slag; she is a lady, a lady who has forgotten how to live, a lady caught up in a trap of humiliation, false promises and financial disasters. Her dignity lies in tatters. She bides her time, like a big cat watching her prey.
He arrives home welcomed by a cup of steaming tea, sugared and stirred. His eyes search for something to criticise, as he throws down the coat he knows she will lift. He moves the plant a foot to the right of the window. Why does she always have things in the wrong place?
‘Have you got my bag ready. For God’s sake woman, I’ve told you before I don’t like that bloody shirt.’
She smiles, not uttering a word, picks out the shirt and flits upstairs. She almost takes the stairs two at a time, but then she restrains herself. (Mustn’t look too keen.) She returns with another shirt, ironed and folded. She drifts around the house looking for jobs to keep her mind occupied. Her head feels ready to burst, her heart thumps wildly.
‘Time to go’ he yells, stepping into the driver’s seat. He’s always in the driver’s seat. Inside she bubbles with excitement, but she must remain calm, as they drive to the airport in silence. Tom Petty sings “Learning to Fly” on the radio. She will remember that song for the rest of her life.
At the bustling airport she places a lukewarm kiss on his lips. She waves him goodbye, as he walks to Gate 6, the Gate that will open her life.
She arrives home, and sighs with relief as she fills the kettle for a much needed cup of tea. She’ll make cauliflower cheese tonight. He doesn’t like it so it’s a rare treat.
‘Did Steve get away okay?’ Jess asks, lifting her head from her book.
‘Yes, he got away okay’.
She stares out the window mesmerised. Aurora has come out tonight, flirting across the sky like a magic lantern, gyrating and turning her coat of many colours. ‘Aurora is celebrating my freedom. How amazing!’ But tonight her heart dances with Aurora. She stands there cherishing the moment. It can be hours if she wants, for tonight she can please herself.
The shrill of the phone shocks her back to reality
‘Did everything go according to plan. Have you told Jess yet?’
‘No, not yet, maybe I should wait ‘til the morning. I want her to have a good sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow.’
‘Okay its up to you, but I’ll be there waiting. Don’t doubt you’re doing the right thing, you should have left that bastard years ago’.
‘Okay, see you tomorrow.’
She replaces the receiver and sighs, knowing her brother is right. She knew she was not the failure, Libby her friend convinced her of that.
“Don’t let him pull you down,” she said.
“I should know, I left one just like him years ago.”
For a fleeting moment she recalls the good times, the hours of passion, the tearing at each other’s clothes, the longing, the tender moments, the promises. But like everything in his life, she was just a novelty, something to become tired of. Even the doting stepfather act didn’t last. Sulks and bad tempers manifested themselves if Claire should spend too much time with her daughter. And should the two older siblings visit, war would commence once they were gone. Anything that could possibly detract from her absolute attention was treated with contempt. The good times are a faded memory, obliterated by years of taunting, intimidation and humiliation. She understood the inability to relate, caused by a scarred childhood, and made great allowances for his behaviour.
Her brother in America cared only that she should escape from her life of torment. He wanted his sister back, not this broken spirit that phoned him regularly in tears. He wanted her to look pretty again. Her wardrobe was filled with clothes from the charity shop, but she still had style; style that caused insatiable jealousy. Insecurities became her persecution. But the persecution was over. He was gone; away on business, expecting her to be waiting dutifully at the airport when he returned. This time he would need to find his own way home.
‘Jess, what would you say if I told you we were going to America’.
She waited with pounding heart for her daughter’s reply.
Jess rose from her chair and smiled. Without a word she crossed the room and hugged her mother.
‘What took you so long Mum, what took you so long?’
Just then the sound of a car on the gravel made her jump. Before she reached the window he was there in the hall.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
Oh God, could this really be happening, had she been so bad he was punishing her like this. Thank goodness her cases were out of sight.
‘Changed my jacket didn’t I and left my wallet in the old one. Wouldn’t get far without it, and as usual when I try to ring you’re on the phone. Who were you talking to anyway? Just as well, they got me booked on a later flight.
Relief chased through her system, she hoped it didn’t show. Jess carried out the part of the relaxed daughter beautifully. She obviously wanted this as much as her mother.
She descended the stairs clutching his wallet.
‘Can’t believe you let me go without my wallet. Don’t worry about taking me to the airport, don’t want to put you out.’ His sarcasm went over her head.
‘The taxi’s waiting outside for me.’ He glanced towards the pan of simmering cauliflower. ‘Christ that stuff stinks!’ He stomped out the door, without closing it. Why bother when there’s a woman there to do it for you.

Writing Writers Short Story comp. Prize winner.

Home Sweet Home

HOME SWEET HOME

I like the house with those big leafy plants in Seabank Road. The chairs are ever so comfy, so comfy I could nearly nod off. That isn’t part of the plan, but mind you the old toffs that live there are probably so deaf they wouldn’t even hear me snoring if they did land back early. You always know a toff’s house, the walls are covered with oil paintings. Their desks and all that stuff are usually smothered with photographs.
They like velvet curtains, lined so the sun doesn’t damage their ancient furniture. I can’t believe anyone likes that kinda stuff anyway. They’ve got a nice Labrador though, soft as putty, wags and slobbers all the time. He followed me up to the bedroom, when I was having a look. Their old bed doesn’t half dip in the middle, but then they’ve been dipping into its middle for about fifty years by the look of them. They keep a nice little kid’s bedroom, all fluffy toys and books about Peter
Rabbit and Harry Potter. Suppose that’s for the grandchildren when they come. There’s a single bed with a pink cover and bunk beds with racing car covers. Maybe it’s two boys and a girl that come to visit.
I like the big front bedroom, with the twin beds, all done out with paintings of the sea, and there’s a big ornament thing of a blacksmith shoeing a horse. Looks like it’s all been hand made and painted. Must have taken a long time. I don’t think I could be bothered. The beds are covered with cream coloured candlewick bedspreads, with a twirly rosette thing in the middle. I don’t see those anywhere else I go. In the winter I sit in the kitchen. It’s got one of them big cookers that are on all the time, with two big round hot plates. One plate is usually open with a kettle sitting on the side and the other is shut with clothes piled on top, usually a couple of tea towels too.
They never lock their back door, so it’s easy to walk straight in. Bet they don’t even know I’ve been there. I even bring the dog a biscuit now; he likes the ones that look like a sausage roll. He nearly took my fingers off the first time I gave him one, but I’m getting him educated now. Imagine me, educating anyone!
The old lady bakes. Cor, I had one of her scones last week, she leaves them out to cool on a mesh tray, just like my gran. It was wicked!
Funny isn’t it, how those old people have a nice tidy home, even if I don’t like the furniture much, and then you get that Mrs. Adams. She goes posing off every day at lunchtime. Her house is a right old tip. She leaves dishes in the sink, crumbs on the sides, and there’s never anything in the fridge. Wonder what her old man eats when he gets back at night. Probably one of those frozen dinners she’s got stuffed in the freezer. She doesn’t even make the bed before she gets herself all dolled up and off. The bedroom’s a right old state, clothes flung everywhere. Her hairbrush is stuffed with hair, and she used dirty old make up sponges. I read in one of mum’s magazines that it’s important to use clean sponges or you’ll give yourself a skin infection.
She’s messing about with Jackie Tynedrum’s dad. I’ve seen them meeting out the back of Tesco’s. It’s a bit of a shame really. I like Jackie’s mum, she’s always been kind to me. Heard her saying something about my `traumatic childhood`. Anyway, she deserves better than that smarmy old git. She goes out working in the factory at the end of Toppen Road, and her useless man chases Mrs. Adams when he’s supposed to be out fixing washing machines. Wonder if that’s how they met. She jumps in his van and off they go. Do they really think no one knows what’s going on? I saw them coming out of Hillberry Wood one day. How desperate is that? She should concentrate on tidying up that tip of hers. Her cat’s always sitting on the worktops. I wouldn’t want to be eating in her house!
I bet she’s never even noticed that one or two of her videos have walked. She’s so dizzy anyway; I have them back before she’s got time to notice.
Old Grace Dixon is so crippled she can hardly make it down to the shops and the day centre, but her house is like a new pin compared to that lazy cow’s. Just as well I went in there the other day, she hadn’t switched her tap off properly in the kitchen. The water was just dripping on to the floor, when I turned the key in her lock. Fancy keeping keys under the mat. They just don’t get it do they?
She must be lonely after losing old Stan. She keeps a photo of him by her bed, and another one in his naval uniform sits on her sideboard, next to that old wooden biscuit barrel. She keeps all her cash in that biscuit barrel. One of these days she’ll get robbed. She still makes a pot of soup like as if she was feeding Stan; tastes good too. It must be hard when you’ve been together all that time, just like the old codgers in Seabank Road.
Mrs. Munro in Dovecote Place keeps a nice house. There’s never a speck of dust anywhere, and always a lovely smell of polish. She gets her hair done every Friday, and usually leaves at about 1.30 p.m. Her big room at the front of the house is quite something. She has a big bay window with deep orange coloured velvet curtains. The wallpaper is one shade deeper with gold swirls. It looks really good. On the other side of the hallway, she has a dining room with a table that shines so much you can see your face in it. The wallpaper looks like strands of ribbon, a pale shade of lilac. There’s velvet curtains in there too, and a wonderful old radio gramophone with lids that shut themselves slowly. Not like all this new junk, made of plastic. But it’s her back room that is fantastic. She’s got this whole wall covered in wallpaper that makes a mountain scene. It has blue skies, log cabins, snow-capped mountains and a lake in the foreground. I sometimes sit and imagine I live in the cabin way up on the hill. And of course, she’s got this daft cat that rubs himself against me all the time and purrs the loudest purr I’ve ever heard. He’s a beautiful cat, black with a white breast and white paws. There’s a silly little cat house thing outside the back door, but I bet he’s never used it in his life. He likes to sit on the windowsill in the back porch. That’s where I found the key underneath the golf clubs in the corner.
My favourite house is still Fern Cottage. I just love the way it sits so far back off the road. I can climb across the fence from the allotments round the back and even sit in the front room. No one can see. The big plum tree shades the windows. The windows all rattle a bit, but the owner isn’t there half the time, so he doesn’t seem to bother too much. It’s great in the winter. Sandy White checks it every Monday, and does a bit of raking in the garden and then that’s him until the following week. I’ve enjoyed many books from the shelves in the study, while the owner sits in the sun in Spain.
I feel like a little piece of these houses belong tome. After all I’m the one who appreciates them. I’m the one who speaks to the Labrador and the cat. The little bedroom at the back of Fern Cottage is just so nice I wish it was mine. It never looks like it gets used. It’s a funny little room, with its sliding door, white walls and rose-pink curtains. The tiny window pushes out and is held by one of those old fashioned catches. When you lie on your back on the comfy single bed, you can hear the pigeons cooing in the big oak tree. I fell asleep there for hours once. I feel safe there. The bed’s so comfortable. I had to take my shoes off because the bedspread is white lace. Sounds soppy for a boy, but if feels like a bed for a princess.
I don’t suppose they’ll ever notice what I took from under that bed. It’s obviously been there for years, and I just thought it would look good on my wall.
Haven’t got much since the `Social` put me into this bedsit, but it’s still better than watching that drunken sod use Mum as a punchbag.
Children used to make these things years ago, before they all had telly. They used to sit for hours just doing them. Samplers they’re called. There’s even a name embroidered in the bottom right hand corner. Mary Thomas.
Well, Mary Thomas, thank you for your handiwork. I appreciate it even if Fern Cottage didn’t.
Look at that, ` Home Sweet Home` with a little house and roses and all.

Published in Writers News. First Prize Winner D.S.J.T. Trust/Writers News.

The Keeper of The Hour

THE KEEPER OF THE HOUR

A step, a breath
a smile, a tear
each one a pulse of passing time,
beating relentlessly
and drifting like flotsam
on the ocean swell.
Wafting out of sight
and mind only to
return to shore.

Where beachcombers linger
searching for the message
in the bottle that may
change their lives forever.

As grains of sand
whisk stubbornly
into barefoot toes
walking the path of life
leaving footprints in the sand
that becomes the keeper
of the hour.

Prize winner in Freelance Market News.

Innocent Eyes

INNOCENT EYES


What do I say to innocent eyes,
when they look up at me,
asking ‘What do they mean by a nuclear attack,
is it something I can see?’

How do I shield her from evil unknown,
where can we go that is minus,
fanatical groups, filled with venom and hate,
with only her loved ones beside us?

What can I promise to protect her mind,
from worries and fears creeping in?
Help me to make this small girl’s world complete,
Help me to free it from sin.

Innocence nurtures a questioning voice,
Innocence lets her have sleep,
uninterrupted by worrying thoughts,
which I must endeavour to keep.

Far, far away in the pit of my heart,
far, far away from this child,
let us join hands in a prayer for our young,
so that we are reconciled.

If we don’t correct all the bad things around,
what future is there for us all,
why can’t we stop wanting more all the time,
why do we not hear the call.

The call has gone out to protect all our souls,
to listen, and look all around,
for if we don’t heed all the warnings,
there soon won’t be time to compound.

These innocent eyes must not fill with tears,
of sadness for childhood destroyed,
by the whims of greedy and evil mankind,
whose armourments must be deployed.

I cuddle her now in the warmth of my breast,
as she closes her eyes and drifts off,
to a land filled with peace and a bright shining light
and the white gleaming wings of a dove.

Ottakar's Prize winner, Inverness