Trains and Boats and Planes. Prompt. Bold Street Writers.

Today at the Bold Street writers the prompt was 

Trains and Boats and Planes

They come from China

Where storage sheds fill acres of land

And high rise homes house workers

Who sleep the sleep of the exhausted

Before rising early to catch the next

Shift. They come from South America

Colourful and handmade. Combed alpaca

Mexican laced and Frida Kahloed

On cushions and fridge magnets

For teenage girls to plump up

Their bedrooms as they string

The Chinese LED lanterns around

The windows. They come from

India smelling of spices. Turmeric

Myrrh, frankincense and the East

Silks and satins and toiled over

Hand woven rugs to warm the

Feet of the teenagers’ mothers

Slumped in the rattan armchair

Exclusive to Habitat or Ikea or

Harrods. They come, they come.

And the warehouses fill with boxes

And crates and wooden carts and the

Strong arms of the Polish, Czech, Hungarian

Workers, lift and lay , lift and lay.

And the distribution points keep busy

Every moment of every day to satisfy

The people. And the roads fill up

With Stobart trucks and their wives

Names gaily painted on the bonnets

Keeping bonnets on the wives.

And in a room high in a glass castle

Grey costumed people with

Grey faces and grey hair, rub their

Hands and smile with satisfaction

At yet another Black Friday

G.Snape 28^th Nov. 2019

A Poem for Thursday...The Fall

The Fall

Watched rusty leaves turn brown

bend over in the autumn winds

hang on a little longer then fall

and lie in all their glorious

shades now safe from any

sudden squall that might

blow unexpectedly and hit

the birch trees. Old trees 

in the grove. Too tall for

this small garden.

Watched chestnut and oak trees
 against the end wall where 
conkers fall and squirrels

scurry to hide them all in

shallow holes for springtime feasts.

And acorns where striped wasps 

once flirted, laid eggs and changed

the cupped balls to magic creatures

we foolishly name galls. 

All this

from a saggy chair, through blue

painted doors, an autumn shawl flung

lightly round old shoulders. Recalling

the shout of children in the field

once young, now tall with lives

uninterrupted by the thwack of ball 

on bat or cry of yield.

Ahead of the game...it's only Tuesday.

a Poem for Thursday

The prompt today was from the delectable Eileen...do you remember when she didn't turn up at the Writers Thursday Morning and so we wrote as the prompt...

"Eileen is missing".

She was there this morning...and gave us a very apt one for the time of year.

"Things that go bump in the night".

Some scary ghoulish stories emerged.....some great poetry..and another chapter in the latest detective story by Liz Hedgecock.

Just back from the academic and intellectual air of the Poetry Festival Aldeburgh....

What did I write...I wrote a bit of doggerel.....

Thing that go Bump in the Night

Shut the door turn out the light

Snuggle down   say night night

Head on the pillow eyes shut tight

End of another day.

Sleep doesn't come      brain's in gear

Too many thoughts in your head I fear

Mindlessness needed    a glass of beer?

Legs numb where you lie.

Lie on your left   lie on your right

Lie on your back     see if it might

Help you to drift off into the night

Dream a bit on the way.

Kick off the bedclothes  far too warm

Stretch your neck   stretch your arm

Count to eight       could eat a barm!

Maybe you ought to pray

Him beside you roars like a bull

Give him a shove     merciful lull

Silence again      brain again full

Feel like you're going to cry.

All of a sudden        a noise on the stairs

Wide awake now        wonder who dares

Challenge the noise maker both of you glare

Hoping it just goes away.

Tiptoeing over     turning the knob

Opening the door   viewing the job

Sigh with relief     it's only the dog

with his new slimey toy on the stair.

Back into bed                shivery cold

Cuddle the pillow       hottie now cold

Sheets in a tangle  blankets now cold

May as well brew up some Char.

"Austerity"...Sunday's Short Story.

I read today that the ruling party is abandoning the thought of austerity. Hmm. Not their style I'm thinking. But I'm sure many will take a deep breath and sigh...Thanks!

Margaret H. gave us the prompt a few weeks ago. This could be read with a Belfast accent...

Austerity!!

“What have you done with my pills?  I need them. I know you’ve moved them mother. You’re a blooming nuisance with your tidying up all the blessed time. Let the dust lie, it’ll be like that when you’re dead and gone. And I’ll be dead and gone if I can’t find my pills. I can feel myself coming over all faint already. I’m gonna sit down a wee while and collect my thoughts, pull myself together.

Sorry.

And what the hec  has happened to that cushion? You know I have to have thon there cushion at my back otherwise, I will end up crippled with pain. I’ll be laid up in bed for a while and then you’ll know all about it. You’ll be traipsin’ up and down yon stairs. I can’t be sitting in that chair with that cushion there, even if it does match the chair better than mine. I know how your mind works. I really do.

Sorry.

Has the paper arrived? I haven’t seen it anywhere. Don’t tell me that paper boy has given up again. Waste of space. I can’t stand lazy people like him, no get up and go, no loyalty to his customers. Well mum you’ll just have to pop across to the newsagent and get it. And while you’re at it, tear a strip of of that woman over there for not making sure her best  customer gets his daily on time. What’s the point of getting the paper at ten in the morning? Sure it’s old news by then. I’d go myself but I’m feeling a bit woosey, I need to get those wee red pills. What have you done with them you old fool?

Sorry

While you’re over at the shop, get me some ciggies. I’d give you the money but sure me wallet’s up the stairs in the other jacket pocket and I couldn’t make it up there at the moment.  Sure I’ll pay you later when I get over this wee bout of dizziness. Oh and a cuppa tea would see me through ‘til you’re back. Oh and make sure you put three sugars in the way I like. Last time I’ll swear there was none. The tea was flipping bitter. I’ll just have a bit of shut eye then ‘til you’re back.

Sorry

Have you gone yet mother? Mother do you hear me? You’re deaf you auld biddy. Deaf as a doorpost. I could be dying here and you’d not give two hoots. Do you hear me? I’m not going to shout, sure I don’t have the energy. I would have the energy if I could get hold of those bloody pills. Are they down the side of the couch where you sit? Why would you move them, I said why would you move them? I may as well talk to the wall for all you care. Is that cup of tea coming? Three sugars mind. And the paper would be grand before lunch for crying out loud. If that’s you by the front door, I’ll do without the tea if you’re on your way across. Ciggies, remember ciggies! Mind like a sieve mother , mind like a sieve. God I feel lousy, where the hec are those wee red devils? If I were a fit man I’d be up looking for them. I would. I know I would. That’s the kind of man I am. Aye, That’s the kind of fellow…fellow…fell…

Sorry.

[Slams door and gets into a taxi with suitcase]

A Poem for Thursday.

Once again we met at The Gateway Centre opposite the beautiful Golden Gates of Warrington's Town Hall.

The Bold Street Writers.

And the prompt...very apt for the moment... came from Pat who had introduced me to this wonderful group a few years before.

"The Unexpected"

Well there is so much unexpected at this moment in history...though maybe there may have been more before the days of media coverage of each and every tiny change of mood and tone but we will never know and that could have been a blessed bonus!

This is my offering.

Unexpected

Twice I looked  to find it true.

Not daring to believe my eyes.

The screen  flickered, night was old.

From my companion came sighs,

Disbelief. Fear tugged. Anxiously 

We watched. Numbers rose and fell.

The outcome boards were black

The names above were bold.

The list grew longer, stronger

Were the thoughts we shared.

Mouths tightened, eyes narrowed,

Or eyes wide, mouths agape.

You think you've seen it all

By the time your pension's drawn.

We made another coffee, sleep

Would have to wait 'til  results

Crashed the top line, powered

Through, above, over, beyond.

Whose dreams would crash? And

Whose would soar?

The band played on while the

Dancers danced. What should we do

At a time like this? Should we 

Laugh or weep? Some will rejoice.

Losers lose and winners win.

As it is in life, so in death.

And midnight makes you morbid.

So we crack open the brandy.

We plump up feather cushions

For the necessary comfort in

The long haul.In the small hours

As we wait for light to filter

Through net curtains, and brocade. Then 

When spirits are at lowest and

Souls dried of emotion comes

The long-awaited verdict after

Lonely days, and years

Have passed in the waiting full

Of hope, despair and longing?

A faithful partner at his side.

A shining spotlight  on him. he

Holds his head up high and ...Waits . 

But the Master of Ceremonies in

Red velvet jacket speaks. 

And we hold our breath in

Expectation. At last a result.

The mirrored ball is lifted high and

And Anton  claims his prize.

Now those of the distant shore.... Amerikay!... may not know how long and hard Anton du Beck has fought for the "Glitter Ball...the prize of Strictly come Dancing"...but at a time like this here and across the pond...we need some light relief in our lives.

Vive Le Anton!

Sunday's Short Story....."The Rustle of Silk"

Thursday morning writers group and Liz gave the prompt....

"A rustle of Silk"

I was going to write about my first silk dress when a memory from my early days as a teacher came to me...and after the first sentence the story arrived...... 

We lived on the top floor of an Edwardian house. A window looked out over the park opposite with it’s treelined  walkways. It was a good district in the southern coastal town.

We were three girls, young women, professional workers.

Val the theatre nurse in the local hospital, Jill the fashion buyer for the big store in the middle of the town and me, teacher of a reception class of little ones in the old school up in the village on the top of the white cliffs.

Always laughter and friends, that’s my memory of the flat. Maybe at times too much laughter and too many friends marching up and down the stairs at all times of the day …and often the night.

Madame Durant lived below us. We were young and not inclined to tenderness in our observations. She was, at least to us, old and squat and rather hairy in places we women are not suppposed to be hairy.

She regularly complained bitterly about us to the landlord, probably the owner of the property. He came to see us to plead for mercy for Madame. He invited us to his home to chat to us about thoughtfulness. We had tea and cake and he smiled at us. We were young.

Madame Durant was a writer of love stories. Passionate, lustful, full blown love on every page. We wondered if there had ever been a Monsieur Durant. We gave him a title….Mr. D.O.Durant! Such is the cruelty of the young.

We had a friend who was basing much of his life on the philosophies written within the book by A..A.Milne….”Winnie the Pooh”

Often in an evening we gathered in the lounge, sprawling on sofas, prone on cushions laid out on the floor, chins tucked on to knees, balanced on the edge of chairs and listened while he read. He read the escapades of Pooh and Eyore, Ro and Kanga, and most of all Christopher Robin. Each character’s voice was matched to it’s personality. Squeak of Ro, depression of Eyore, sensibility of Christopher Robin. We laughed and cried with the wonderful renditions and stomped our delight on the floor. Poor Madame Durant. I cannot read it now without hearing Eyore’s mournful tones.

I was given the task of organising the décor in the flat. I embroidered seat covers, bought furniture from the local junk shops, made curtains for windows from best Robinson and Cleavers fabrics mum had brought over on one of her visits. It was my contribution to the general feel  of the place.  I looked for ways to decorate, but we had little money left over once the rent was paid. And we each had our weekly bus fare and lunches to think about,  as well as all those little extras in a girl’s life. At twentyone my teacher's salary was £40 a month. It stretched quite nicely and there was always a bit there for Saturday morning coffee and cake in the southern coastal town .

I was in a finding-out mood when I decided to have a look into the little dark cupboard under the eaves. I went in headfirst,then body and then pulled in my long legs. No light switch in the cubby-hole, no torch in the flat, just feeling around with my hands to try and find anything interesting . As I think back I’m sure there could have been dead birds, mice or at the very least big hairy spiders!

But I found none of these. However tightly packed into the fartherest corner where roof and floor met was a roll of something soft. I grabbed it as best I could.

Without wanting to damage the contents, I eased my way back to the opening holding the roll of fabric carefully in my free hand. It was covered in dust and grime as was I. My knees were raw with crawling on the bare boards.

The roll of silk in my hands had writing on it and more than that it also had some design printed there.  I laid it out flat on the hall rug and examined what I had found. A map of part of Europe. A square of silk as large as a man’s handkerchief, with the map of Germany printed on it. An airman’s escape map with escape routes marked clearly. Thin enough to be able to screw it up tight or fold it flat. Small enough to be hidden in the lining of a jacket or cached in the hollow heel of a boot. Still perfect, still usable. But who had been the owner of it?

Was it Madame Durant’s lover? Had he been a Frenchman in the resistance? Maybe an airman based in the airfield up on the cliffs where the school was. History hidden in a dark cupboard in an attic in an old house in a town on the south coast of England. A town looking over the Channel to France. On a fine day in good weather you felt you could almost throw a beach pebble and hit the far shore.

And Madame?.....is that why she wrote her stories of love and lust? I will never know after all these years later…

But the prompt…prompted me to go back there in my memories, into that cupboard and find treasure.

So much unknown in a rolled up map of rustling silk. 

Sunday's Short Story.

I know it's Monday...but we left the house on the Bay...Sunday evening, and scudded down the old M6 to catch The Durrell's on the box...so no time to post as we cope very nicely without WiFi in the Bay house.

(...an aside...
...the bay sunset, which is renowned anyway, was especially beautiful on Saturday because of the stormy weather....I just had to run out and catch the end of it before the sun went down.)

Prompt

The prompt from Pat F.on Thursday at The Writer's Workshop was a challenge. Not that it isn't always a challenge for me...but this one stumped me for a while. But the only thing to do in that situation is to go with the first idea that comes .. and run with it. We only have a bit over an hour to write before we read the results to each other....so here it is...

Albert was not yet ready to share his age with Ivy. She had been told that his birthday was coming up, But as his secretary she needed to be careful about broadcasting it around the office. After all Albert was the boss.The company had been good to her. Life was difficult enough since Syd died. She was still coming to terms with an empty house every evening.Ivy felt angry about it all although she knew that his family had a history of heart attacks. Nevertheless, being who she was, one who copes, it was just a few weeks after Syd's funeral that she determined to get herself a job, and get back into a daily routine.To have Albert as her boss was more that she had dared to hope for.She did have a lot of experience noted down on her c.v. But with so many people applying for so few positions, she realised that in this she had fallen on her feet.....or to be more precise...on the office chair!

Her office wall abutted Albert's office wall. And regularly she would either be in his room taking notes or receiving lists of jobs to be achieved, Or Albert would breeze into her office. No knock of course, just striding in and sitting on the edge of her desk with a file or USB to peruse But recently often it had often been with a mug of coffee at the start of the business day. That was quite a thing! In her last job she had always been expected to be both office worker and tea girl for the whole  floor. 

He was no Adonis, Albert P. Shingle. Sometimes when she thought about it she had a giggle over the name...Shingle! Was it an illness or a beach? She preferred to think it was a beach.And what did the P stand for if anything? Some people put a middle letter into their signature to make it more memorable. Of course it might just be Peter or Paul or maybe Phillip. But she liked to think it was exotic...maybe Peregrine to counteract the blandness of Albert.! Oh dear as the months had gone by that she was thinking more and more about his life outside of the office, And today she knew that he would celebrate his fiftieth. Surely it couldn't pass by unmentioned?

Someone elsewhere in the company must be planning a surprise. No word of this forthcoming...at least none that she had heard of. Her job was precious. She loved the work. She was good at it she discovered. Better than she ever imagined she would be She would let the day pass by.

Every day Ivy made sure that all she did and even what she wore was as professional and efficient as she could make it. She was taking much more thought over her appearance than she had done for many years. Was that her being professional, or did she feel at forty three she still had a lot of living ahead of her? With no children from her marriage to care for life was starting anew .So there would be no way she was going to throw a spanner in the works and step forward now to plan something for Albert's birthday.

But there were little things she could do without making an issue of it. She put a bunch of spring flowers in a pretty jug on the side of the desk - not too ostentatious just enough to sweeten the often stale office air. She bought a packet of triple chocolate biscuits to offer when he arrived  with her coffee. She wore a new blouse she had bought at the weekend. Still a crisp white cotton but with a little pie crust collar on it. And in these small ways she hoped her boss would know that she recognized both the day and also the position she held in the company.

At nine fifteen as usual Albert stepped into her office. Coffee in hand, he smiled. She offered him a cookie. He took one and hesitated. 

"It's my birthday Ivy. I was wondering if you would join me this evening for dinner? I've taken a chance that you might say yes and booked a table at a local restaurant...what do you say?"

The flowers bloomed and shared their perfume in the room, out through the door and into the rest of the building!

Oh dear...cheesy end...but what to do when Pat says.."Five more minutes and then we shall read!"

Well you bring it all to conclusion...and who doesn't love a happy ending anyway!!

By the way you could see more of my pics on my Instagram site...if you were of such a mind!!

geraldinesnape...documenting the mundane