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Jace Mar 2021
Hair that flicked across his face
To make us joke he only had one eye
He made us hold our heads up high
When people pushed us down

The red eyes more frequently bloodshot
But we ignored all of the signs
After all it wasn't unusual that Alfie was high
He was high quite often

He wouldn't cry or tell us about him
Only ask about our day see if we were ok
While hiding his own problems away
Leaving us to think he was fine

I hope you're happy now Alfie
Now you've broken Lily and I
I know it's harsh and uncalled for
But did you have to go and die
What the **** am I gonna do now?
Try and stop your girlfriend falling apart?
Good luck with that
She was broken before you dropped her
Broken before you were
Broken but you held her together
You held us all together alfie.
Did you have to go and die?
Mary Gay Kearns Sep 2018
Every morning she went out for a walk
To find where the fallow meadows swept
And one bright clover peeped its head
In the foliage of wild leaf and green grass.

This part of the day was the beginning of joy
As far as she could look back and see her way
The lovely land dew wet on the leather shoes
And little Alfie to remember passing his way.

Love Mary ***
This poem was inspired by my dear friend Pam’s morning walks
And thé photos she shared with me .
Little Alfie was her baby grandson who died at two hours old and
Some of the walk take her past his little headstone

Love Mary ***
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
There was this time before the going home. The supers bowled off with cheery parents or elder brothers a good fortnight before the big day. There were lessons, but despite the best efforts of the staff who remained nobody could take this between time seriously. Mr Gayford for maths was hardly a substitute for Alfie's lively lessons. But Alfie we knew was climbing in the Alps this Christmas and would return with photos and tales that kept us enthralled despite the sums he invented - calculate the air pressure at 4107 metres on the Jungfrau. We all loved him with his self-raising Citroen Safari that smelt enticingly of Gitanes and that scent Claudia his girlfriend favoured. Oh Claudia, so wonderfully and exotically dressed, who seemed a world away from any boy's mother or sister.
 
Mornings were quite different. A later breakfast and then a two-hour practice with Dr. B . Hard work, with new music to learn. But the carols! Oh those sounds, and so different from what we sang all year. Boris Ord's Adam lay y bonden, Praetorius A Great and Mighty Wonder, Torches, In Dulce Jubilo. and as Advent progressed that magical verse anthem by Orlando Gibbons This is  the Record of John.
 
I was just eleven when Dr. B said, as we opened the music folder for the morning rehearsal, 'St Clair, Can you do this for us please?' Not so much a question as a command; you didn't say no to Dr. B. The introduction was well underway before I grasped it was to be me. How I stumbled through it that first time I don't know. I could never hear this piece without tears welling or indeed falling. ' Look Mog is getting tearful' said Richards the head chorister, and the little boys would snigger. And I would blush:  through my freckles to the roots of my auburn gold hair. Did nobody understand what this music did to me, what it said and expressed? At eleven I think I had began to know, and later when I heard it in Kings Chapel, and then conducted it variously to those bemused American students, listened to my gramophone recording, its affect always, always the same. I was experiencing truly what Vikram Seth has called an equal music, something so entirely right, a true conjunction of words and music, a coming together beyond anything as a composer I could ever imagine, a yardstick life-long; it became an acid test of sensitivity to my love of music and has been passed only four times by serious friends and lovers. To know me you must know and feel this music . . .
 
And so on the second Sunday of Advent at Evensong I sang this jewel, this precious flower of music's art. The candles flickered in Her Majesty's chapel and we stood for the anthem. The chamber ***** began its short introduction already weaving together the four-part texture - and then the first solo statement. This is the record of John when the Jews sent priest and Levites from Jerusalem . . . and then the tears fell and the music swam in front of me as though glazed in the candlelight.
 
Who art thou then? And he confessed and denied not, and said plainly, 'I am not the Christ'.
 
Oh that melisma on the 'I', that written out ornament, so emphatic, and expressing this truth with innocent authority. I sang it then as I hear it now. Nobody had to demonstrate and say 'Don't let it flow, let each note be separate, exact, purposeful'. So it was and ever shall be, Amen.
 
And they asked him, What art thou then? (Art thou Elias? x 2). And he said I am not. ( Art thou the prophet? x 2) And he said I am not.
 
The verse anthem is such a peculiar phenomenon of the English Reformation. Devised it is said to allow the hard-pressed choirmaster to train the main body of his singers in a short response, the soloist singing the hardest and most expressive music on his own: the verse. It is also so well suited to the English choral tradition with its Cantores and Decani ordering of voices. I was always a ‘Can’, even later when I joined the back row as a tenor.
 
Then they said unto him, What art thou? That we may give an answer unto them that sent us. What sayest thou of thyself? And he said I am the voice of him that cryeth in the wilderness. Make straight the way if the Lord.
 
And so I wonder still about the place of this text in the liturgy of Advent and why, cloaked in Gibbons’ music, it has remained affecting and necessary. And who is John? a prophet of the desert, the son of Elizabeth to whom Mary went to share the news of her pregnancy and whose own son quickened in her womb as she heard of her cousin Elizabeth's own miracle - a childless woman beyond childbearing age unexpectedly blessed and whose partner struck dumb for the duration of her confinement. Is it just another piece in the jigsaw of the Christmas story in which prophecy takes its part?
 
When I was eleven I thought to 'cry in the wilderness' meant exactly that - tears in a desert place. I learnt later that this was a man who stood apart, was different, a hippie dressed in the untreated skins of wild beasts, who lived amongst those who sought the wild places to mourn, to place themselves in a kind of quarantine after illness or bereavement, who then became wise, and who cried.
 
Such meditations seem appropriate to the season when there is so often the necessity of travel, much waiting about, the bearing down of the bleakness of winter time, though strung about with moments of delicious warmth when coming in from the cold as with the chair by the library fire I craved as a chorister to escape blissfully into fictioned lives and exotic places.
 
How these things touch us vividly throughout our lives; as we watch and wait and listen.
Luce Dec 2015
alfie said 'heaven is real'
now I can't wait to go home.
thank you, you lil Angel.
I almost took the funeral thing down because it doesn't quite go with my room. I am so sorry. I sometimes see you out of the corner of my eye. Thank you for being there when it is difficult and I want to die.

Whenever it will be, I am looking forward to coming home. I wonder what it is like to be in a place where all the small things we worry about are so unimportant. I will see you soon lil buddy. Smokes on me.
“What was it all about Alfie?”

Yes, there was a time I didn't think
of a woman’s feeling they were an object
only of my desires.
Then love came as did rejections
and sleepless nights.
What were the tears for when the dance
was over she believed in me.
This infatuation so slows at growing up
for a time I visited prostitutes
much easier that way
but not really it left me empty inside
and living in fear of
Sexually transmitted illnesses
not to forget, the self-loathing.
Of course, slow as a man is in those matters
it took a woman to teach me
that love doesn't grow on trees like pears
but is nursed through the heart
transmitted through the eyes when you meet.

Love is the only things that matter
the rest is a waste of life as blood runs down
a wall in a bombed out city in Syria
DieingEmbers Jan 2013
13:01 weighing 7lb 2oz
you entered this world
your mothers mirror image miniaturised
wearing the smile her mother gave her.
My second grandson Alfie born this afternoon, I made it a 4:20 poem as my daughter went into slow labour at 4:20 am this morning
Mary Gay Kearns Oct 2018
Cascades of red in Hedgehog Houle
The beginning of Autumn falls over
And breaks the greenest in morning
We pass the church arched doorway
And the hawthorn berries brightest.

Walking the steady step in this day
Finding the bend the windy winds
Show me little Alfie in his nestling
For love carries everything trusting
This pathway of flowing memories.

Love Mary **
Tom Orr Nov 2012
It’s been three years since I took my last photograph. Photography had lost its appeal and there were no longer moments I wanted to capture, to freeze in time. I only wanted to move on, just to walk... Besides, my camera’s broken and I can’t for the life of me be bothered to get a new one. I’d rather spend the money on a trip to Brussels, that’s next on the list.

I suppose I’d say I have one true fear in the world and that’s staying still. My mother used to say “Oh Alfie, you’re like one of them AHDD children” and after I correcting her, I’d usually just shrug as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” It could be said that my mother was one of those people who just had no time for the world, society was not her priority. One time a member of a local charity knocked on our door asking for a donation. My mother stood there, cemented like a gargoyle and poured out a flurry of very high decibel palaver about how her husband was in the marines and how she owed the world nothing because of it. I have to admit, it was a pseudo-logic that I’ve, to this day, not quite decoded.

My father made the decision to enter the Royal Marines at the age of 19 and my mother hasn’t forgiven him for it since. Perhaps that’s why she’s so sensitive about the whole “I owe society nothing” thing. I used to argue with her about it, about how it seemed right that he made his own decision to fight on behalf of his countrymen, but part of me has always despised his decision. I’ve gradually developed a cliché, but not inaccurate, view that soldiers are merely puppets for rich men’s wars and that glorifying the armed forces is just a sickening way to try and justify ******. Of course, I never shared this view with my father, even if I had, he’d have long forgotten. Whenever he comes back from service, I’m usually in some other part of the world, sitting in an outdoor café, preferring my life. It’s thoughts like this make me feel that I'm more like my mother than I primarily thought. I suppose some may call it selfish, but I merely believe it to be good observation, and therefore an intelligent alternative to what society wants me to believe. We’ll stick with arrogant.

My excuse is that arrogance was part of my job; I had to be correct, all the time. I was in that awkward career position, where I wasn't quite high up enough to be able to fully express my own views and so I had to stick to the hard-line “everything has to be extremely left-wing” approach. Journalism: the home to those who mould the minds of the world; or the breeding ground of *******, if you will. Personally, I was lucky enough to have no permanent boss; essentially I was my own. I wrote my columns for Liberal newspapers all across Europe and they edited them at their own will. It paid the bills, but like my views on my father’s military situation, I still possessed that distaste for the immorality of it all. I still remember my first article. I was 17 at the time, the writing type, enjoyed all things politics. It was for a moderately popular newspaper/magazine company in Western France, named “La Quotidienne”. I’d written a piece on local traders not receiving fair deals for their produce and as a result, the editor had asked me if I’d like to have my own regular column. The column was named “Teen Activist”, which nowadays I deem to be relatively patronising, but it was rather humbling all the same.    

I probably ought to explain some geography. I was born in Surrey, England in 1981 and lived there until my mother decided to move us to France in 1985. The military weren't too pleased with the move, because of course, this made us spies. The whole ordeal was a bit messy, but not really worth noting. We moved to Rennes, which is where today, I would consider home; although I haven’t actually seen home for a good 5 years. I guess the important thing is where I am and where I've been, but as I said before, I’d rather concentrate now on where I'm going. To Belgium, my suitcase is packed once more and my tired passport taped like an extra vital ***** to my wrist (because despite my relentless travelling, I always manage to leave my passport in some unsuspecting hotel room by accident). Blame the occupied mind of a ceaseless traveller.
This is NOT a poem - please feel free, however, to read and comment - every opinion is valued :)
Alice Burns Aug 2014
Even when the sun is absent to cast it's light
Still some shadow remains close in sight
Moving as I do just at slightly different time
And to my feet does it not align
It is no shadow but an echo of maybe
Unsure for its presence is so hard to see
Perhaps a spirit following my every stride
Nonetheless a friend in who I so often confide

Together we roam both night and day
And not too long is it ever away
For in my sight does it choose to be
Together as one in serene unity
Though at times torches come a blaring
And fear overcomes this spirit ever caring
So whilst out in public does its body remain
Within my thought does its life remain

That night it was you who light upon me did give
To show others how much you could get away with
As if to your mischief not only an eye did I blind
But care not for how much you did me undermine
And though your sins did I forgive so hastily
Your gloating did my friend and I effect most angrily
And though I could not your presence abandon
My companion fled with all speed it could fathom

I always welcomed you no matter the consequence
And fight did I always your fights too intense
But that night as you shared space with my soul
You took on a rather monstrous looking role
As if expecting me to do your every chore
Your egotistical rantings sent it right out the door
So now if my kindness is once more disrespected
Will your requests forever be rejected
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
.the crows' persistent croak undermines all attempts at man's adventure into universal fame, or one that might distinguish man's composition, from earth, as intended for adam, to air, as intended for odin, to water as intended for poseidon, to fire as intended for the tetragrammaton.

it fails, most of the time,
poetry is scarce,
too much fondness of the abstract,
hence residues of
distracted verse, whimsical,
overburdened pronoun usage -
such likes - complex punctuation
to replace diacritical marks in
france or germany or norway,
poetry doesn't have the impetus,
just doesn't have the impetus to
package fudge, package fudge paragraphs
of fiction, poetry isn't anything
unless it's anti-fiction,
there's no point idealising
how you would fit into a glass stiletto
when it doesn't allow a fitting: cindarella was first
two jealous sisters got their heel
and big toe cut off, you want to encode
that as .pdf or .jpeg?
technophobes ***-standing:
is that enough for a start-up religious cult?!
i'm just wishy washy wondering,
all bets on it taking off - congregation of
en masse suicide seems a fanciful expression,
mind you, i have no excuse.
where there's a middle there ain't no finger,
no message evaluation and furthered to
an execution, the middle has an eroteme:
not exactly erotically thematic, just
a hunch off huh...
so... poetry... it's scarce, tumble **** practice
of a lost joke...
poetry exhibits itself sometimes in tight-tangle prose
of a knausgård - fancy wording a mile apart
would make traffic accidents aplenty,
and it happens... ramble ramble ramble (worded),
then some poetic ecstasy like an unguided tour
of a gallery making you kneel in anti-catholic
gesticulation of a painting by francis bacon...
shouldn't happen, but it did...
so while prose writers are like things infused
with packaged designation of the right
digestion and right diet content of carbohydrates,
poets are like: what sustenance from air?
we ramble sometimes, **** naked i presume,
but we do, and when we do, we draft novels
for other people, we're not into nation building
or writing novels... we're the anorexia of prose...
and that's grand... because it means
that our readers have to be self-involved,
not ready to grasp the rooting of prose diction...
more fused to the open airs
of writings' scarcity...
we need strong readers not numbers...
we need people who are self-involved,
who would spit and kick a copper statue of
the poet represented in a public square with
people of the spoken tongue the real tourists
wondering: who's that?

that aside...
          i went to sleep thinking about chess...
into bed at around 1am
woke up at around 9am...
past two nights? interludes of
perhaps 2 / 3 hours...
    cutting on the alcohol is one thing...
keeping a tally?
proof: co-op sells 1liter labelled bottles
of scotch,
but as it turns out, according to my braille tally?
it's: ⠷⠷ (500ml) + ⠷⠷ (500ml) + ⠷ (250ml)...
they label it as a liter...
but it's actually 1.25liters...
three days later: you get the full picture:
-esque akin to 'and on the third day he rose
again, according to the scriptures...'

good luck to the men and their vanity
projects...
   i will never become as famous as
the man who "invented" stumbled upon
fermentation to produce beer / wine...
distillation to produce whiskey / *****...
dom perignon and albert hofmann
are known now... give it a few centuries later...
****! gone!
       but to overshadow the universal
stability of a woodland pigeon cooing,
a crow croaking, a fox laughing?
   my words are here: yet these examples
retain the future unchanged...
by void, crook, vogue or folly...

so i went to sleep thinking about chess...
there's the king: the point
of the game...
              to topple the king...
get ol' charlie firsty on the chopper...
distract charlie zee 'eck'und
with pseudo-harems and handel...
and fireworks on the thames...
little learning tool offshoot of louis XIV...
the king is just an elevated pawn...
it seems the king only controls the pawns
given his own movement rules...
the queen though?
   she's the bishop and the rook combined,
as she's also the king and pawn, combined...
the knight is the only odd piece
on the whole board...
   why? didn't queens feast their eyes
upon knights of old, at tournaments...
chivalry: the dropped oopsie handerchief moment
when the king wasn't looking?
the knight piece is the only outsider piece
on the board... hence it's ontological
grasshopper routine of jumping
outside the line of pawns and then
jumping back into line...
the king is a king in name only:
it would appear...
  while the most powerful piece on the board
is the queen: since if the king merely
control the pawns:
   at a battlefield a king command pawns
(soldiers)...
  in the background...
the queen will command...
   the bishops, the knights,
   the rooks (houses, castles) -
she's not on the battlefield with with pawns...
and soon knights become judges
and lawyers - merge with the bishops...
i never like playing chess -
but i liked thinking about chess...
  from the perspective of: the queen is
the most powerful piece on the board...

you could even rewrite chess by expanding
the board... so it would look like so:

1. denotes pawn         9. denotes king

2. denotes bishop        6. denotes queen
3. denotes knight        4. denotes rook.


1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
         9 3               (battlefield formation)
      2 4 4 2             (behind the scenes formation)
        3 6    

but the board would have to be expanded from
64 to say... 100 squares... per board...
it's still chess... but with a twist...
it's what real life would look like...
one knight would be faithful to the king
and stand behind his army on the battlefield...
the other knight would be *******
the queen in secret surrounded
by castles and the clergy / the judicial system...
well: so many people have become so good
at the game of chess...
   kasparov vs. deep blue...
         so smart: and yet no imagination.

besides... i had more important things to do
today than remember what i fell asleep with...

1. making the perfect sausage rolls...
the most pristine invention of the english
and how the french fumed when their puff
pastry was "degraded"...
never use meat from sausages...
always minced pork...
and instead of adding carrots...
celery... and who would have thought
that fennel seeds are the secret ingredient...

2. watching india get their *******'
whipped and their ***** put into
a meat grinder by the new zealand side
at the cricket world cup...
**** me the last 5 overs!

3. lamenting the state of cinema...
the pursuit of "being" via distraction
with the end goal of fulfilling "happiness"...
so much for "being" and so much for "happiness"...
take two prime examples...
it only took 8 years to spare all the details
that seperate them...
1958's the inn of the sixth happiness
starring ingrid bergman...
those movies! mmm hmm!
i would gladly take away all the current
heavy editing and metallurgy scaled
CGI for a classical western panoramic view...
no dialogue... just an expansive camera
distance where the characters are dwarfed
by the grander scheme of things:
even if it's just a valley or a field...
cinema dropped the paranoramic
   interlude, resorting for the clausto-****
of heavy editing with multiple cameras
switching backwards and forwards
like watching a game of tennis...
    actually: both genres degraded themselves
dropping the panoramic view at times...
less in sport, more in cinema...
but this is 1958... the 1950s! the glory days of cinema...
fast-forward to 1966... and the film:
ALFIE...
       what's the difference between a lothario
and a ****? a self-employed ******...
or some other weird combition of 'not-a-joke'...
wait a minute... why are the women
so ******* dumb come the mid-1960s in cinema...
while back in 1958: they were so admirable?!
ingrid bergman learned mandarin,
she was ambitious, she was stubborn...
she was bossy...
  come the 1960s we're talking about
    beings without either soul or will
simply orientated at being dumpster *** toys...
i don't even know where the men
did that to them...
           the women in 1950s cinema
gained respected... they were commanding...
or at least decisive in giving
the least expected virtue: generosity
and on top - a sense of fairness -
                             a merit pyramid...
1960s cinema women, "women" are nothing
more than sloppy teenagers...
these women are not women...
1960s cinema doesn't depict women...
it's starting to depict one direction:
  pissy-pants teen girls...
               ******* at the sight of harvey styles
sighing and ****...
        plus... back in the day:
cinema used to be... engaging...
ben-hur? how long? 5 hours?
  gone with the wind? how long? 7 hours?!
cinema like opera: 15 minute interludes,
toilet breaks before the next part went on...
now? a quckie 1.5 hours long CGI ***** fest
of minimal dialogue and the heavy editing
juxtapositions of "angles"...
       people don't watch modern cinema
because it's engaging...
they watch it... because it's... distracting...
pretty bright lights! ooh! aah!
i love the fact that i'm being snarky
           and sarcastic... what else can you be?!
   i don't even think is missed that much
when it comes to the sub-culture of drugs...
psychadellic or otherwise...
i ****** well missed on a decent amount
of cinema...
   and when that happens...
       look at me...
                            what's that phrase...
a bitter old man... aged 33...
bitter doesn't even cut it...
              it's not even a bitterness...
it's an elevated sense of nostalgia...
   for me nostalgia is something i was present
at when it started going to ****...
late 1990s... cartoon network, early internet...
etc.,
              1990s date night movie quality
requiring adults to employ babysitters...
i was there...
1950s cinema? yeah: i wish i was nostalgic
about that... but i wasn't there...
hence the technical observations...
and how, objectively: movies were...
oh god so much better.
judy smith Nov 2016
Fashion designers love foraging through the antique markets of Clignancourt in Paris and Portobello Road and Alfie’s Antiques markets in London snuffling out vintage pieces for inspiration. The flurry of romantic Victoriana on the catwalks for autumn can clearly be blamed on this obsession.

There has been an undercurrent of reserved, covered-up fashion ever since Pierpaolo Piccioli and his former co-designer Maria Grazia Chiuri introduced a more demure aesthetic to Valentino five years ago. Longer skirts, prim higher necklines and covered arms have become the slow trend of recent seasons creating a hyper-feminine look.

Riccardo Tisci at Givenchy and Sarah Burton at Alexander McQueen have long been beguiled by the Gothic romanticism of Victorian fashion with their use of corsetry and dark dramatic lace and velvet for eveningwear.

In fact, London-based vintage fashion dealer Virginia Bates admits she doesn’t remember there ever being a time when Gothic Victoriana didn’t feature in at least one designer’s collection. “The fascination with the romantics, poets, artists and even horror [classics and films] give designers a great source of inspiration,” she says. “It’s an irresistible era.”

Certainly a lot of it has appeared on the catwalks this season at McQueen, Marc Jacobs, Burberry (shown only a month ago in the see-now, buy-now collection), Simone Rocha, Preen, Bora Aksu and Temperley London, as well as at smaller brands such as Alessandra Rich, Three Floor created by Yvonne Hoang and A.W.A.K.E.

There were dark distressed Linton tweeds, unravelling knits and black tulle in Simone Rocha’s autumn collection. Rocha was pregnant when she started designing it and was inspired by Victorian dress and motherhood, in particular the nightgowns and matrons.

“All the wrapping and swaddling of babies,” she says, before elaborating on how “the Victorian ideals of properness were made perverse with the conservative and covered-up pieces contrasted by the sheer and embroidered fabrics.”These gauzy vaporous fabrics succeeded in making her eerily romantic silhouette look rather contemporary and daring.

Subversion is key to making such a prim and proper period in fashion history modern and relevant for women today. Marc Jacobs, for instance mixed long Victorian coats, ballooning crinolines and crochet doily collars with sweatshirt tops and laser-cut leather for skirts and jackets together with some scary Goth horror make-up. Nothing is, or should be literal.

As Justin Thornton of Preen says “we love the Victorians, the laces and the white shirts, but it is the vintage pieces rather than the era that inspire us”. His partner Thea Bregazzi has collected aristocratic laces and ruffly vintage shirts from Portobello Road market for as long as he has known her and these frequently find their way into their collections, “but linings would be ripped, garments will have holes in them – it is a deconstructed look”.Virginia Bates once owned a famous vintage fashion emporium in Holland Park with a client list including the biggest names in fashion from John Galliano to Donna Karan and Naomi Campbell. Now she only works with private clients and designers and they, especially, she says were looking for genuine Victorian pieces when planning their autumn collections.

“A black fitted jacket with inserts of handmade lace [that is] embellished with crystal and jet beads, ***** and silk lined ... How exciting and inspiring is that? Silk and fine lawn shirts, soft and flowing with ruffles. Don’t we all want to wear one and live the dream?”

Thankfully a few designers do right now, and there were lots of heavenly creatures in fragile asymmetric lace dresses toughened up with leather corsetry at Alexander McQueen, and richly coloured swishy dresses at Bora Aksu. While Christopher Bailey cherry-picked the centuries in his Burberry collection, lighting upon frilled white cotton shirts, nipped in jackets and military capes from the Victorian era. Given that Victoria reigned for more than 60 years there is a lot of history for designers to plunder, so this will not be the last we will see it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Fitz
Fritz
Fido
Sandy
Spencer
Chaplain
Bernard
Jesse
Snoopy
Charlie
Charles
Fred
Freddy
Bones
Remmy
Ren­a
Reno
Tony
Julian
Julie
Frisco
Meghan
Addison
Robby
Buddy
Rudy
F­riedrich
Fredrick
Bernie
Rudolph
Adolf
Ferdinand
Rose
Cassie
Cassidy
Lee
Balto
Little *****
Allen
Alvin
Jake
Demi
Randy
Alex
Richard
Alexis
Kenneth
Ken­ny
Chris
Jose
Josey
Rodger
Moe
Joe
Emilio
Walt
Emily
Emma
Maddie
­Anna
Jafar
Aladin
Jasmine
Genie
******
Amber
Gracie
Ramen
Gordy
G­ordon
Jordie
James
Bucky
Huff
Manny
Sam
Samantha
Mary
Marie
Tila
­Rita
Cathy
Tammy
Mickey
Cam
Amelia
Rene
Jeb
Dan
Bagel
Tommy
Donut­
Bubbles
Blossom
Buttercup
Mark
Cody
Andy
Cristo
Andrea
Whiskers
­Mike
Bill
Billy
George
Geo
Joy
Mitch
Trigger
Tigger
Stephen
Archi­medes
Anya
Duncan
Nitro
Crash
Bub
Crystal
Egor
Bernadette
Cammy
T­immy
Antonio
Natasha
Natalia
Ivan
Abbey
Abdul
Carly
Aaron
Omega
F­inn
Nina
Debby
Tomato
Tabby
Artie
Archie
Noah
Kyle
Alfie
Alfred
Conrad
Conner
******
G­unner
Fry
Fries
*******
Constance
Connie
Frank
Fran
Candice
D­andy
Lucy
Lou
Louis
Quincy
Doogle
Dubie
Dakota
Ace
Casey
Barry
Te­rry
Trenton
Gabe
Laurie
Cornelius
Kabob
Sky
Skylar
Rufus
Louie
Ba­rton
Kimmy
Angel
Capri
Basil
Cy
Ruby
Emerald
Eleanea
Elenor
Barth­olomew
Jazz
Dreamer
Thunder
Topaz
Amethyst
Salsa
Meril
Dodo
Toto
­Eric
Barbera
Hannah
Katie
Zoey
Ben
Pinto
Squanto
Columbus
Columbo
Porgy
Bess
Clark
Savannah
Ken­dra
Marco
Leise
Toby
Trevor
Tresten
Treven
Adrienne
Caleb
Carlyn
­Ricky
Gibby
Donny
Han
Solo
Hans
Gabby
Dirk
Spot
Sebastian
Dee
Sco­oby Doo
Shaggy
Polly
Reginald
Burger
Steak Sauce
Ethan
Bradberry
Lucky
Fergie
Cheese
Boxer
Napoleon
Snowball­
Gerald
Jeremy
Benji
Gemma
Pal
Mal
Preston
Jack
Jackson
Molly
Mac­kenzie
Alexie
Alicia
Dora
Olivia
Salvador
Beast
Beauty
Oliver
Dal­e
Rim
Marley
Diego
*****
Bobby
Ralston
Zeke
Rooney
Plato
Cole
Nep­tune
Sailor
Frida
Rico
Dali
Veronica
Victor
Copeland
Swift
Riley
­Tubs
Lassie
Yo-yo
Harvey
Lemonade
Coke
Pepsi
Tanya
Camille
Token
­Laser
Beam
Seamus
Dorthy
Ian
Moby
ConstantEscape Aug 2013
I remember my body trembling as I took my first step inside Payton High,
I remember my hitched breath and twitching eye,
I remember sitting behind a blue eyed boy during homeroom,
I remember thinking his eyes would be able to light up the gloom.

I remember it took me exactly one day,
To walk to him during lunch with my tray,
I remember offering him my cheese dip,
And that was the start of our friendship.

I remember wondering why he was always alone,
When he was the most beautiful being I’ve ever known,
He was spontaneous; he loved feathers; he loved star gazing,
You could say I fell in love with him because he was amazing.

Everyone ignored him as he walked on by,
I never understood the reason why.
So cold, so aloof, so distant from the crowd,
I remember thinking it was because he was so proud.

I tried many ways to draw him close,
A movie, a drink, a lunch, all that I could propose,
I am sorry, I am so sorry, was all he said,
The light in his eyes went dead.

I was never his and he was never mine,
With this fact, I had to pretend I was fine,
Little did he know he was killing me,
Because my heart was locked and he had the key.

I remember it was a rainy fifth of July,
When I was talking to a teary eyed guy,
Who had a newspaper on his right hand,
And on the left was a pink wristband.

R.I.P it wrote in capital letters,
With a picture of two white feathers,
I took the newspaper and there on the obituary,
I saw ‘To the 1st anniversary of Alfie Ary’.

The picture of my blue eyed boy was staring back at me,
Black and white his smile filled with glee,
My world started spinning round and round,
My thoughts in disarray as I fell to the ground.

Where was he, I looked all around,
But he was nowhere to be found.
The corridors were filled with haunting memories,
Of questions unasked and cryptic apologies.

I was in shock, was his existence a lie?
Just then a cold breeze blew by,
I remember his shaky breath whispering one last time,
“I love you baby, but you can't be mine”.

W.H.Y~
John F McCullagh Oct 2015
Jeudi, 21 Février, 1788, NYC

Il a été dit que la science progresse un décès à la fois. Pour Jeune Docteur Richard Bayley, professeur aspirant des études anatomiques, ce fut littéralement le cas. Il avait besoin d'un approvisionnement constant de cadavres récemment décédés pour ses recherches, et ce fut la raison pour laquelle il était là, la négociation avec les trois voleurs de corps dans le sous-sol de l'hôpital de New York.
"Il ya une jeune femme, Margaret La Stella, décédé jeudi dernier, et qui repose dans le complot de sa famille dans le cimetière de l'église de la Trinité." Ceci est le corps, je dois, pour ma recherche, et je suis prêt à payer le taux en vigueur pour vos services. "
Quel improbable trio étaient ces hommes debout avec lui. Leur chef, James, était un géant d'un homme robuste, près de six pieds de haut, ses deux compagnons étaient des nains par comparaison, à peine cinq pieds chacun. "Rafe ici est un bon pour crocheter les serrures sur les portes de fer et Alfie est rapide avec une pelle en bois. Il les ressuscite dans une hâte: «Je vais pousser le corps dans une brouette et de vous rencontrer de retour ici pour livrer la marchandise et récupérer notre argent. Vous aurez à payer un peu plus que vous le feriez pour un pauvre ou un nègre ".
Il était une négociation rapide et le docteur assez rapidement convenu à son prix, laissant James à se demander si il aurait dû demander plus. Eh bien, une bonne affaire est une bonne affaire, et une médaille d'or chacun Guinée était bon salaire pour un travail obscur de la nuit.
Ils défilaient sur puis, laissant le jeune Richard à ses pensées. Bientôt, très bientôt, il serait de nouveau afficher Margaret. Bientôt son corps allait abandonner ses secrets pour lui et il serait apprendre la mort avait pris celle qui avait été si belle et si jeune. Il n'y avait rien à faire pour lui maintenant, sauf à attendre. Il est assis avec une tasse de thé et a tenté de se distraire avec le journal du soir.
Body Snatchers, ou Resurrectionists, comme ils préfèrent être appelés, sont en mauvaise réputation en cette année de notre Seigneur 1788. gens souhaitent en général tourner un oeil aveugle quand le corps de certains pauvre a fini sur la table de dissection. Un bien faire femme blanche avec une famille était généralement prévu pour se reposer tranquillement. Encore James et ses deux petits complices connaissaient leur entreprise et vous faire le travail rapide de celui-ci sur cette nuit.
James arrêta son cheval et le chariot bien en deçà de la Trinité, ne voulant pas porter trop d'attention à eux. Il serait monter la garde à la porte du cimetière avec une brouette tandis que ses deux complices petits glissa à l'intérieur et fixés au corps.
Trinity Church cimetière était à côté du site de l'ancienne église qui avait brûlé dans le grand incendie de New York du 76 '. Le doyen actuel de l'église avait accumulé des fonds destinés à la construction d'un second, plus grandiose église de la Trinité, mais encore la construction avait pas encore commencé. L'absence de l'église physique devrait signifier pas de gardien et un cimetière qui serait totalement déserte sur une nuit la mi-hiver froid. Avec seulement une lune décroissante pour l'éclairage, les trois hommes étaient dépendants de lanternes à main qui ont donné peu de lumière et à côté de pas de chaleur lorsque les vents du sud de Manhattan serraient à la gorge comme un spectre vengeur.
"Et c'est parti. Rafe se rendre au travail cueillette de la serrure, tandis que je l'aide avec Alfe la bêche et les couvertures. "
«Je vais avoir besoin d'une longueur de corde, trop mate, à nouer autour du corps et le faire glisser le long de la tombe."
Ils ont été surpris par le cri plaintif d'un grand corbeau noir qui a été perché sur la porte du cimetière de fer et qui semblait être en regardant leurs activités avec curiosité et méfiance.
«Je dois la porte ouverte, allez, Alfe, je ne veux pas être là plus longtemps que je le dois."
James regarda les deux hommes petits happés leurs lanternes et des outils et ont disparu dans les ombres du cimetière de Trinity.
Ils ont trouvé la tombe récemment fini de la fille La Stella rapidement, et Alfe commencé tout de suite avec sa pelle de bois pour creuser le cercueil de son lieu de repos temporaire. Il a travaillé tranquillement, mais ses travaux ne vont pas complètement inaperçu.
"Mate, Prêtez-moi un coup de main et nous allons la faire sortir d'ici. Jetez la corde ".
Rafe a fait comme il a été soumissionné. Il a également ouvert sa lanterne et l'agita en un signal à James que le travail était presque terminé. James n'a cependant pas été le seul qui a vu le signal.
Comme le corps a été exhumé une lueur d'or attira l'attention de Alfe. Je t avais un anneau sur les cadavres quitté l'annulaire.
Grave voler était considéré comme une infraction plus grave que trafic de cadavres, mais sûrement pas l'un allait remarquer petit anneau d'or disparu. Quoi qu'il en soit ce corps allait retrouver tell disséqué et articulé, il avait entendu on fait bouillir la chair de l'os de fournir un squelette complet pour l'étude. Personne ne les payait pas assez d'argent à son retour ici quand le bon docteur avait fini avec son travail.

Était-ce juste imagination- de Alfe ou fait froid main morte des cadavres lui semblent se battre pour l'anneau avant qu'il arracha libre. Immédiatement, cependant, toutes les pensées de l'or est devenu secondary- il y avait des problèmes en cours de réalisation
"Vous là, montrez-moi vos mains!" Il y avait un garde dans les motifs de la chancellerie, un peu de malchance qu'ils avaient pas compté sur. Rafe, pas un héros, sa réaction immédiate a été de tourner et courir. Il lâcha la corde et le corps de la jeune fille se laissa retomber dans le trou, près de piégeage Alfe dans une étreinte indésirables.
Alfe bondit de la tombe ouverte et renversé le grand mince tombe garde qui semblait un peu plus d'un squelette lui-même. Il a entendu le crieur public dans la distance la sonnette d'alarme. Alfe a abandonné toute idée de récupérer le corps de la jeune fille et avait l'intention d'évasion. Comme il sauta de la porte, il pouvait entendre la garde frénétiquement essayant de charger son fusil. Alfe besoin de plus de distance. Il a dû se rendre à James à la porte.

Un fusil à âme lisse est une arme la plus fiable et à beaucoup plus que 100 verges pour atteindre un succès était plus de chance que d'habileté. Alfe entendit à peine la décharge de l'arme, mais la douleur dans son dos était difficile à ignorer. James l'a attrapé avant qu'il ne tombe, mais il est vite devenu évident pour les deux que Alfe ne fallut pas longtemps pour ce monde.
James et Rafe ont travaillé rapidement pour obtenir Alfe dans la brouette et le roue de l'écart. Le gardien tentait de recharger mais la distance et l'obscurité devenait leur ami. Il ne serait pas obtenir un deuxième coup avant qu'ils ont fait à la voiture.
Pour le docteur Bayley il semblait que les Resurrectionists étaient de retour plus tôt que prévu il, mais le corps dans la couverture était pas le corps qu'il avait prévu de recevoir.

«Il y avait un garde posté à la chancellerie en face du cimetière. Il faut avoir vu l'un de nos lanternes et est sorti pour enquêter. Il descendit un coup à nous pauvres Alfe obtenu dans le dos. "
Richard regarda par-dessus le corps de Alfe, le nouveau sujet du Royaume des morts. «Combien voulez-vous pour ce corps?" Ils ont conclu rapidement leur affaire, James ne fait pas tout à fait aussi bien qu'il aurait pour le corps de la jeune femme, mais divisées deux façons il serait suffisant pour obtenir de lui un endroit pour dormir et nourriture et la boisson en plus. Alfe allait être un homme difficile à remplacer, mais il y avait beaucoup d'hommes durs bas près des docks qui feraient le travail et ne pas trop parler aux mauvaises personnes.
Il pensait qu'il ne serait pas bientôt d'accord pour ouvrir la tombe d'un dame. Les corps des pauvres ne sont pas si étroitement participé.

Bientôt Docteur Bayley avait le corps d'Alfe déshabillé et lavé et prêt sur la table. Dans sa vie relativement brève ce corps avait rarement eu assez à manger et trop de gin à boire. Les dents qui lui restaient étaient jauni et il y avait des signes de maladie des gencives. Richard était sur le point de faire la première incision dans la poitrine quand il a remarqué une lueur d'or dans la main droite crispée.

Il était un anneau; il était la même bague qu'il avait donné sa Margaret quelques semaines avant. Juste quelques semaines avant la mort l'avait prise de lui. Il ne savait pas qu'elle avait été enterré avec lui. Richard a tenu le petit anneau dans sa main et a commencé à pleurer amèrement, dans la connaissance cruelle qu'il ne reverrait jamais son visage, pas dans cette vie ou la prochaine.
A short story, in French, based on a grave robbery that took place on Thursday February 21, 1788 in Trinity graveyard in New York City.
anonymous Nov 2014
The dream boy I want
or no, should I say the man
yes, he's a man, a grown one
his age left boyhood 8 years ago
but his demeanor says otherwise. (sometimes)

I already have him.

He's not very tall, only beat me by a slim
3 inches
and his crooked fingers from
breaking all them
fit nicely into mine
a broken jigsaw puzzle.

he wears a flat cap like an Irish newspaper boy
maybe it's because he's from potato famine land

His breath lingers of cigs
and alcohol
with his grade-A Alfie Neuman smile
and oh god, those everlasting deep dimples
how can i forget to mention those pacific ocean eyes
corazón de oro

everything leaves me in awe
take me
take me
take me
love me

we'd have the same initials if we married

but all i want now is just to be able to
touch
hold
caress
love
him.
super bad but i don't really care. having writers block lately so decided to do the trending challenge
Grace Oct 2017
So you’re clearing out your room,
clearing out more of yourself,
because it’s the end of the world, isn’t it?
The end of an era anyway –
the end of the bad decision to paint
your room pink.
You never really liked the colour pink.
Your old room had been sunshine yellow,
that bright happy colour of raincoats
and welly boots and sunflowers
(and yellow was still my favourite colour
when i painted my room pink –
yellow rubber in my pencil case,
yellow bow in my hair –
a sunshine happy kind of child
but not really. i painted my room pink
just because).
You wanted the new room painted a shade
called jazzberry but you were told it was too dark.
You wrote in the card to your dead great grandmother
that you were having your room painted jazzberry
and then you didn’t.
The card was placed in her coffin and cremated with her,
and you experienced that strange sensation at the funeral
of not feeling what you were supposed to be feeling.
I should cry, you told yourself, I should feel sad,
but you had cried all your tears in advance
and you’d cried them all for dead grasshoppers
and the old house you were leaving behind.
(always the same with me, isn’t it.
tears over everything except the things that matter.
i’m crying on the floor over lino, over my bedroom,
over a dress that’s in the wash and not my wardrobe)
The new bedroom had wardrobes you loved,
mirrors you loved and hated and it was pink.
It was your safe place, the space that wasn’t
really made for you, but was the one place
in this world where nothing could get you
(except me and yourself, but that’s another story).
Anyway, let’s get back to the point.
You’re clearing the room out because it’s the end of the world
and you’ve been putting it off for three years,
but you’re a crumbly cliff and waves are strong.
You’ve been thinking of train tracks
and gosh aren’t you dramatic,
but you’re finally clearing your little self out.
The toys are easy – you keep a couple whose names you remember
(Tallulah, Alfie, Tilly, Phillipa, Clementine
//oh my darling, ruby lips above the water
and the dream of kissing your best friend
that will forever be connected to
oh my darling, Clementine//),
the clothes are easy – in fact,
it’s all easy when you start to let go
of that nasty little girl from the sunshine yellow
and from the pasty pink.
You bundle her off into charity bags and bin liners
and then you find it – the Special Box.
It was your treasure trove in an
orange Jacobs crackers box  so you open it,
thinking you’ll keep everything, and then,
well then it’s a box full of *******.
Not just ******* things that once mattered,
but real ******* – broken pens, meaningless rocks,
used rubbers, crumbled tissues, incomplete
gifts from Christmas crackers
(and how very like you and me – to keep
things that go in the bin. we cling
to the sadness and the guilt and the fear
just because).
You throw away your special box
and you throw away all your junk
(except your new junk –
every train ticket you’ve bought
since the First)
and then the room is empty.
Were you ever here, you wonder
(and what toys will you have to give to your children?
you get asked, and you say you won’t have any.
i won’t because how would i, for one?
how could i, for another?
how could i put them through all this?)
and then you remember, that yes,
you’ll always be there – sunshine yellow,
pasty pink, nasty little version of nasty bigger you,
but for now, you’ve cleared yourself out a bit.
The new room will be blue
and one wall will be papered with books
(and i see what you’ve done –
you’re using the imagery of your own poetry,
because it’s easier to live inside of your own imagery
than deal with anything else, isn’t it)
and maybe, you think and the others think too,
this is a good thing, the sign of a change to come
(but your Special Box was full of *******
and what other evidence do you need
to know that you will never change or move beyond this?
this is as good as it gets).
a poem (kind of - i don't know if this is really poetry or just strings of thoughts to be honest) that i wrote today. not my best but i'm back at uni and not doing poetry this year
DieingEmbers Jan 2013
Alfie won't eat
can't keep it down
there's fluid on his chest


Three days two nights
and lots of care
he's home and well and blessed.

Thank you to God
whom heard my prayers
and doctors that would not rest.
Alls good they drained the fluid and finally eating and keeping down, prayer and medicine working hand in hand
Del Maximo Jun 2019
imagine he was your child
your infant
imagine your child clinging to
and fighting for life
breathing on his own
after ventilator’s plug was pulled
imagine the doctors deciding
against your wishes
to let him starve to death
depriving him of the strength
to hold on
and the nourishment to function
and grow
(miracles do happen, after all)
imagine that you have another doctor
a second medical opinion
telling you there is HOPE
but the medical monopoly
and the courts say NO!
imagine your helplessness and frustration
imagine your rage and pain
imagine a piece of you dying
with your child
How do you get over that?

Del Maximo
@06/27/2019
Bob B Oct 2019
(Try singing this poem to Dionne Warwick's version of "Alfie," by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.)

Somehow you went wrong, Lindsey.°
Don't you feel like the president's chump?
Don't you feel he's wrong, stringing you along, Lindsey?
Strange things happen when you deal with Trump.
You once said he was unfit,
And if he was so unfit, Lindsey,
Then what happened to make him the man?
There can be no doubt what this is about, Lindsey.
How did a foe become his biggest fan?
I guess it doesn't matter if you've got no pride, Lindsey.
How can you live with yourself?
Can it be that Putin has some dirt on you, too,
That you want to hide, Lindsey?
Your odd behavior baffles us, Lindsey.
Wait till you're thrown under the bus. You will be, Lindsey.
If a fool is what you want to be,
Say good-bye to dignity, Lindsey.
Lindsey…

-by Bob B (10-28-19)

°Lindsey Graham, Senator from South Carolina

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YidCdaLPPR8
nicoarty Aug 2015
Alice tied string round her fingers,
For each thing, lest she forget,
She'd done all the work,
Come up with the phrases,
And with friends in mind off she set,

Her first two strings were for Alfie,
The hottest boy in the class,
She unraveled each one, read its label,
"Hey Charlie, lose the glasses, then lose yourself"
"Tommy Digs shift, we don't want your fat ***"

Her third string was for the patio group,
So she could sit at the benches every break,
"Eugh, wrieking Robin, you stink worse than the bin, take It with you and get away"

As the day wore on,
More strings were untied,
A trail of fraying strands in her tread,
Each one connected,
To the arms and legs,
Of Tommy, Charlie, and Robin at the other end.

As Alice was a puppet master,
One of many in her school,
With each new string to pull and tug,
Her popularity grew,

Alice tied strings round her fingers,
For each thing, lest she forget,
Each one she pulled on would tighten,
And scar an arm or a leg,

Cause her strings would entwine with others,
And the few most ensnared and caught,
Had no choice but to obey the ropes,
Tied around their Wrists,
their Necks,
and their Hearts.
A strange view on middle school life I guess, just food for thought guys.
There's a rushing and flowing of following feelings,
I'm down on my knees, hey buddy I'm kneeling.
Something's taken over my skin,
its inside my soul and its making me thin.
Its making me cold and its filling me with sin.

Holding me tight, don't give up,
but its stealing away my fight.

Alfie is losing the battle with life,
a violent attacking from and army of strife.

He's not out for the count though,
I still have my mind, Its not making me blind,
I got my thoughts and I'm still quite kind.
I'm here for the long run.
RH 78 Feb 2015
Innocent and inebriated.
In the dead of night she staggered.
Young at heart but intoxication excess had made her slightly haggard.
Emotionally charged with deep rooted scars upon her heavy heart.
Shadows clouding judgment her world had been torn apart.
No one knew her plight, her fight, the tragedy she'd faced.
Take the story one year back where the cause is easily traced.
Her little boy of five years old
Alfie was his name
Knocked down by a drunk
Killed stone cold
What an awful shame!
A downward spiral an empty house
The result of a mothers loss
Equating to another drunk
Who couldn't give a toss!
Jackie Mead Jul 2017
My dad Joe, was a gift from heaven, put on this earth to love only one woman.

To have their children and love them true, each day with my dad was one in which you grew.

He loved and cherished each one of us three, Philip, Jacqueline & Christopher - with Hilda, his love, by his side the family was complete.

Riding a bike, driving a car, hiking up cliffs, hitting a ball, roller skating, skate boarding, travelling far, our Dad was always there to catch us lest we should fall.

Sunday trips to the beach or river, climbing Kit Hill, trips to Morwelham Quay, treks on Dartmoor, ice cream treats, and Callard & Bowser toffee
.
Swimming, body surfing, Phil learning to drive on the beach, French cricket played on the shore, all of these outings gave us fond memories we still adore.

Traveling with Chris and Mum on sunny days, staying in B&B's while they were away, Chris long jumping into the pit with Dad by his side was as good as it could get.

Dad gave us each the tools to live our lives, independently, confident and worldly wise.

He gave to me a love of the three P's -  people, politics, and poetry.

To my brothers, he gave a love of all sports but mostly his beloved Cricket along with Rugby and Athletics.

When each of us married he was there by our sides, smiling with pride, accepting our partners into the fold.
To us all he advised don't do as I say or as you are told; seek out what or who makes you happy until you grow old.

As our families expanded and grew he became a Grandad, first Michael came then Simon, Jason, Robert, Sophie, Danny, Sammy, Lola, and Jonah, he encouraged them in all that they did whether sports, drawing, dancing, work choices - 9 Grandchildren kept him busy as you can imagine.

Then later in life as  Great Grandchildren were added Tansy, Alfie & Roman, life remained busy.

My Dad was one in a million of that I am sure, I feel his presence every day, when out walking I feel he's not far away.

When I'm playing with the grandchildren I know he's there too, smiling with pride in everything they do.

When the family get together he's never forgotten and all of his grandchildren have their own stories to share; of Grandad and his sense of humour, his love, support, and care.

We miss you, Joe ***
First anniversary of my dad's death next Wednesday, he had a long and happy life and gave us such happy childhood memories, he was our rock until he needed us and then we were his rock.
I miss him every day and can't believe that he hasn't been here to meet his great grandchild number 3 Roman, he is a fighter and his great grandad would have been so proud of him
Anais Vionet Sep 19
We’re coming up on the spooky pumpkin-latte season, when days suddenly end, while I’m busy in some sterile, fluorescent chemistry-lab and there’s nothing to do but walk down dark science-hill to the dorm.

Is that rustling the sound of leaves or footsteps?  The most effective horror stories come from spaces of doubt and hover between reality and possibility - but no fears, this isn’t my Halloween story.

Apparently, there was a scandal last year, about underage girls being served at bars around Yale - I mean, seriously, who knew? Sunny’s still having fun. She’s out every other night like a hunting cat ‘meeting’ all these new freshie girls. She has the best takes. Her hungover Sunday morning debriefs are not to be missed.

I’ve gotten comments that suggested that the party lives of U-girls are seen as dysfunctional, but to me they’re perfectly normal. Everyone seems to want college life to be saccharine and sanitized. I figure most students live highly stressed lives. We’re expected to show up to multiple classes, on time, prepared and be ready to perform at the highest levels academically - then add to these pressures our elaborate social and study demands. Young adulthood is strict in ways you may not remember. Poor us. sigh So we have a little fun.

I’ve been bottled-up, by and large, this semester - mostly by my own twisted need to get ahead in every subject and I joined a Yale Society - dumb, I know, like I have the time. But I was tapped and Annick (my sister) said “DO IT!” I bet I quit when the going gets tough.
Why did I think senior year would be easier?  

Fall semester is a time famous for freshmen heartbreak - with everyone newly away from home and old boyfriends. About that...

I hate it when boyfriends get old
and you have to get rid of them.
Not chronologically old - don’t call your lawyer,
this isn’t ageism rearing its ugly head.

There’s the chafing-like pre-breakup irritation,
because you’re suddenly separated by distance
and experience. it’s easy to feel out of touch and
unable to voice your joy about the new life you’re living.

It’s the little things that tend to bother you first, like the sudden
strangeness of lingering silence on the once-exciting video calls.
Ugg, breakups - the subject freaks me out - I get shivers up my spine
and feel nauseous, just thinking about them - I’m not mocking heartbreak.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.
Adolescence should feature at least one earth-shaking, world-shifting, heartbreaking first love - unless, of course, covid happened.
Do I harp back to covid lockdown too much?
Well, it happened. It was our Vietnam, and we were unprepared.

There’s a guy showing me some persistent interest - something I have no time for - or interest in. He’s a tall, sporty, transfer student from Princeton. Not unattractive, in a sort of eager, and dense, hipster way.
“I have a boyfriend,” I told him, hoping he'd lose interest.
“He must be invisible,” he observed, several days later.
Then, “If you’d give me a chance, you’d soon find out I’m a sparkling conversationalist.” He updogged.
“Introverts,” I said, “we should be running the world, but no one listens to us.”
“I like a woman with ambition,” he said, encouragingly.
“Go away,” I replied, and he did.
But he was back in the morning because he’s in my residence and we share a shuttle bus stop. sigh

Question: Why are they still calling storms hurricanes?
I mean, now that they can have male or female names, shouldn’t they be themicanes?
.
.
A song for this:
Alfie by Cilla Black
Does Everyone Stare by The Police
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 09.18.24:
By and large = another way of saying "in general" or "on the whole.”
Dark n Beautiful Jan 2018
I leant upon the cold iron prop
On the subway flat form: suddenly,
my thought turn to this movie from the 80s
About a little boy name Alfie
Whose tongue got caught on the frozen lamp pole
During a daring rush trend:
Winter months can be so brutal

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Winter Depression, / a seasonal S.A.D
In the mist of all this: I saw a small bird
Rumbling through the garbage looking for food
His dotted feathers caught my attention
Perhaps not all birds fly south for the winter after all:
Homeless birds seek shelter with homeless humans
Without the small outdoor wood fires:

The beautiful landscape we once admired is blanket with snow
The roar of the winds and the surging of water;
It wasn’t a pretty sight to see with my watery eyes

We cried out to our God for a little relief
But most of all we keep praying for safety
I fell on my **** trying to step over a bank of snow
Luckily I didn’t land on my face
The humiliation and the botherations of dealing,
this kind of weather year after year:

we just have to bear in mind that
Winter begins on the winter solstice and ends on the spring equinox.
The roses will bloom again, the tulips with rise again in April
And we will determine which one is the morning dew
And which one is not the icicle dripping:

......................................................­...................................
Prayer for autumn and winter days
I’ve just rediscovered this beautiful prayer from belief.net. I know it’s now winter and the title is Prayer For Autumn Days, AND I’m not crazier than usual, it is still appropria…
sparklesandangels.wordpress.com
Jackie Mead Feb 2018
Two Stars shining brightly above
Two Stars shining with gods love
Two Stars related by birth Oskar and Ted my beloved Grandsons
Missed very much by your Mummy and Daddy on earth
We did not get to hold you and whisper your name
We did not get to watch you run rings around your brother and call his name
We did not get to be proud Grandparents and watch you grow
But  Two Stars came and shone one day the result is one that did remain,  now Alfie has an earth brother Roman's his name
Two Stars your family still think of you dearly and cherish your memory
We wish we could have held you and kept you in our care
All we asked was for God to love you until one day we can all be there
Your life on earth was short and brief but  Two Stars you shine on in our memories
This is a Private one
Donall Dempsey Sep 2019
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF  ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

F**k  all
(hand over fist)  
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)  

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

*******

THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND
Lawrence Hall Oct 2019
Are You Going...?

             Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa
             largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum
             nóstrum. Ámen
.

Miz Busy with her homemade apple pies
Uncle Alfie lapsing into a snore
Young lads and lassies making goo-goo eyes
Miss Billie’s cookies (shhh…they’re from the store)

Children frolicking only with their ‘phones
Jolly old Ed basting burnt barbecue
An altar boy gorging until he groans
The teenagers’ gross game of choke and chew

Young marrieds getting into a squabble
Politics roaring like a thunderstorm
Bubba came drunk; he’s beginning to wobble
Tox ‘tater salad that’s gotten warm

Unidentifiable glop upon a stick –
No, I’m not going to the parish picnic
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
It was 3:00 a.m. in Bowie Maryland in the year of our Lord, 1861.

A drum roll passed by in the night not more than a mile away, and Billy couldn’t tell whether it was coming from the Yanks or the Rebs. Both of Billy’s brothers had left home in the past two months.  His oldest brother Jeb having joined the Army of Northern Virginia, while his next oldest brother Seth was now fighting for the Union with Major General George G. Meade in the Army of the Potomac. Billy’s family was like a lot of other families in Maryland, and the Western Shore of Virginia, with some men choosing to fight for the North while many chose the South.

Billy was just about to turn sixteen and still had not chosen his side.  He had friends and family fighting for both and knew that the time was getting short for him to choose.  He couldn’t imagine fighting against either of his older brothers, but once he decided the possibility would definitely be there.  Billy pulled the bed covers over his head and thought back to a more pleasant time — a day when his two older brothers had taken him fishing in Mayo along the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.

His brothers couldn’t have been more different.  Jeb was large and domineering with a personality that fit the profile of the typical soldier or warrior.  Seth was more studious and would rather have his nose stuck in a book than behind the sights of a Springfield Rifle Model 1861.  The 1861 was the most widely used rifle on both sides. The south called their version the Fayetteville Rifle, and Billy’s Dad had given his to Jeb just before he died last year.  Billy had never fired the big gun and had only carried it for his father and brother when they went on their weekly hunts for deer and small game.

Billy Finally Drifted Off To Sleep …

The next morning, his mother told him that Union soldiers had passed by in the night under the command of Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth.  They were on their way to Alexandria Virginia to join with Colonel Orlando B. Wilcox in an attempt to retake Alexandria and drive the confederates out.  It was just too close to Washington D.C. and had to be secured. For several months confederate troops had been infiltrating Maryland and sightings had been reported from Hagerstown to Anne Arundel County. Billy wondered about the fighting that would take place later that week and hoped that wherever his brothers were engaged they were safe and out of harms way.

After breakfast, Billy decided to spend the day fishing along the Patuxent River just southeast of his home.  He rode their old Tennessee Walker George as his blue tick hound Alfie ran along side. It took Billy an hour to get to the river and he used the time to once again try and decide what the right thing was for him to do.  He had sympathies for both sides, and the decision in his mind was neither black nor white.  He wished that it was because then he could get this all over with and leave today. Billy was famous in his area for being able to get across the water. Whether it was a makeshift raft, dugout canoe, or just some drift lumber available, Billy had made it across long open stretches of the Chesapeake Bay — never once having been deterred.

He Was An Early Day Chesapeake Waterman

Billy returned home from fishing that day and found his house burned to the ground.  His mother was standing out front still in tears with her arms wrapped around Billy’s little sister Meg.  A rear-guard unit from Ellsworth’s column had gotten word that Billy’s brother Jeb was fighting for the South and just assumed that the entire family were southern sympathizers. Billy’s mother tried to tell the soldiers that her middle son was fighting with the Army of The Potomac.  No matter how hard she pleaded with the sergeant in charge, he evacuated all in the house (Billy’s Mother, Sister and Aunt Bess) and then covered the front porch in coal oil, lit it with a torch, and then just rode away. He never even turned around to watch it burn.

That Union Sergeant had now made Billy’s decision crystal clear, at least for the moment.  Once he got his mother, sister, and aunt resettled, he would make his way to Virginia and join with his older brother in the confederate cause. He remembered his brother Jeb telling him that the Confederate Soldiers had more respect, and he couldn’t imagine them doing to his family what the Union Army had just done.

It took Billy two weeks to get his Mother resettled with family up in Annapolis.  He then packed the little that remained of his belongings, loaded up old George, and said goodbye to the life he knew.  It would be a week’s ride to get past the Union Camps in Southern Maryland and Northern Virginia, and he knew he would have to stay in the tree line and travel at night.  If caught by the Yanks, his only chance of survival would be to join up with them, and he couldn’t imagine fighting for those who had just destroyed his home. His conviction to get past Fredericksburg was now determined and strong.

All Billy had to arm himself with was an 1860 percussion squirrel rifle that his brothers had bought him before going off to war.  It was only.36 caliber, but still gave Billy some feeling of security as he slowly passed through the trees in the dark. His plan was to hug the western shore of the bay, as far as Charlotte Hall, and then take two short ferry rides. His first would be across the Patuxent River and then one across the Potomac on his way to Fredericksburg.  He prayed and he hoped that the ferry’s he found were not under Union control.

Billy spent his first night in Churchton along the western shore. It was quiet and uneventful, and he was actually able to get a good night’s sleep.  He had run out of oats for George though, and in the morning needed to find an understanding farmer to help fortify his mount.  As he approached the town of Sunderland, he saw a farmer off to his right (West) tending to his fields.  Billy approached the farmer cautiously making sure he rode around in front of the farmer and not approaching from the rear.

The farmer said his name was Hawkins, and he told Billy there were oats over in the barn and two water troughs in front of the house.  He also said that if he was hungry there was a woman inside who would fix him something to eat.  He then told him that he could spend the night in his barn but since it was still early in the day, he said he was sure that Billy wanted to move on.

Billy thought it was strange that the man asked no other questions of him.  He seemed to accept Billy for all that he was at the moment — a young man riddled with uncertainty and doubt and on his way to a place he still wasn’t sure was right for him.  The look in the man’s eyes pointed Billy in the direction he now needed to go, and as he turned to thank him for his hospitality the man had already turned back to his plow.

In the barn were three large barrels of oats and five empty stalls. Two of the stalls looked like they had recently been slept in because there were two empty plates and one pair of socks still lying in the stall furthest to the left.  Billy fed George the oats and then walked outside.  Everything looked quiet in the house as he approached the front door.  He knocked twice, and a handsome looking woman about his mother’s age answered before he could knock a third time.  The woman’s name was Martha and as she invited Billy inside, she asked him when was the last time he had eaten?
Yesterday morning Ma’m, Billy said, as Martha prepared him some cold pork and cooked beans.  Billy was so hungry that he thought it was the best thing that he had ever tasted. Martha then told Billy to be careful in the woods because both union and rebel forces had been seen recently and there were stories of atrocities from both sides as they passed on their way.  Martha also said she had heard that Union forces had burned a farm up in Bowie a few weeks ago.  Billy stayed quiet and didn’t utter a word.

Billy Remained Quiet

After he finished his meal, Billy thanked Martha who had packed salt pork for him to take on his way.  Billy walked George to the water trough and waited as George drank.  He looked across the fields and he could sense what was coming.  This tranquil and pastoral scene was soon to be transformed into blood and gore as the epic struggle between North and South finished its first year. It was late fall in 1861 and Billy’s birthday was in two more weeks.  This was never the way he envisioned turning sixteen to be.

Billy thanked Martha, put the salted pork in his pouch, and remounted George. Martha said:  Whichever side you are riding to, may God be with you, young man.  Billy thought it was strange that she knew where he was heading without him telling.  He then also thought that he was probably not the first young traveler to stop at this farm for some kind words and sustenance. He rode back out in the field to thank the farmer, but when he got to the spot where he had met him before, the farmer was not there.  Billy wondered where he could have gone.  As he rode back down the cobbled dirt road, he noticed a sign at the end where it reconnected with the main road — Billett’s Farm. That wasn’t the name the farmer had told him when they were first introduced before.

Hawkins He Had Said

Billy worked his way towards Charlotte Hall.  From there he would head East to Pope’s Creek and try to get on the short ferry that would take him across the Potomac River and over to Virginia. Then Billy was sure he would finally be safe.  Tonight though, he only made it as far as Benedict Maryland, and he again needed to find secluded shelter for the night. Benedict was right along the banks of the Patuxent River where the farming was good, and the fishing was even better.

It was getting dark when Billy spotted what he was looking for.  There was a large farm up ahead with two large barns and three out buildings.  Billy sat inside the trees and waited for dark.  It was inside the outbuilding furthest to the east that he intended to stay the night.  As darkness covered the fields, Billy walked slowly towards the large shack.  He led George behind him by his lead and hoped that he would remain quiet.  George was an older horse, now fifteen, and seemed to always know what was required of him without asking.  Not that you can really ask a horse to do anything, but George did just seem to know.

Billy got to the outbuilding and put his ear to the back wall to see if he could hear anything from inside.  When he was sure it was safe, he walked around front to the door, opened it, and he and George quickly walked inside.  In the very dim moonlight, Billy could see that it was about 20’ X 20’ and had chopped wood stored against the back wall.  There were also two empty stalls and a loft up above about 10’ X 20.’  Billy decided to sleep downstairs in case he had to get away fast, and after tying George to the furthest back stall, he laid down in the stall to its right and fell fast asleep.
Billy doesn’t know how long he had been asleep, but all at once he heard the sound of clicking and could feel the cold hard press of steel against his left temple.  He woke up in a start and could see five men with lanterns standing over him in the stall.  As his eyes started to adjust, he noticed something strange.  Three of these five men were black.

Whatcha doin here boy, and where you headed, the biggest of the three black men asked him?  Billy knew that how he was to answer that question would probably determine whether he lived through the night. I’m headed to Virginia to try and find my older brother. Our farm was burned a few weeks ago and my mother and baby sister are now living with relatives.  I need to let my brother know, so he will know where to find us when the war is over.
I think this here boy’s fixin to join up with the Rebs, another of the black men shouted out.  Tell the truth boy, you’re headed to Richmond to sign up with old Jeff Davis ain’t you?  Billy lied and said he wasn’t sure of which side to fight for and that he had a brother fighting for each.  With that, the biggest of the three sat him on a barrel in the corner and began to talk again …
What you done tonight boy is decide to camp in a rural spot of the Underground Railroad.  You know what that is boy?  We have a real problem now because you knows where it’s at.  We can’t trust that you won’t tell nobody else and ruin other’s chances to get North and be free.  Billy just stared into the man’s face.  He had a strength mixed with kindness behind his eyes and for a reason Billy couldn’t understand, he felt safe in this man’s presence.

Son, we is makin our way over to Preston on the western shore where we catches a train to the North.  We have one more stop before there and that’s at the Hawkins place just thirty miles up the road.  Billy then knew why the stalls back at Martha’s barn had looked slept in.  He still wondered why the sign at the farm entrance had said Billett instead of Hawkins.  The black man then said: My names Lester, and those two men over there are brothers named Rayford and Link.  By now, the two white men were gone and only the four of them were left in the stall.

Since you say you haven’t made your mind up yet about which side to join, let me help you a little with your choosin.  Lester then went on to tell Billy that Rayford and Link had five other brothers and two sisters that were all killed while trying to escape to the North.  Not only were they killed, but they were tortured before being hanged just outside of Columbia South Carolina.  Lester then asked Rayford and Link to remove their shirts.  As they did, Lester took his lantern and shined it over both of their backs.  Both were totally covered with scars from the several lashings they had received on the plantation where they had worked back in South Carolina.  Lester said this was not unusual, and no man should be treated that way.  This was worse treatment than the slave owner would ever do to any of his animals.

Lester then said again: It’ll be a shame to have to **** you boy, but for the better good of all involved, I’ll do what I gots to do. With that, the three men walked outside, and Billy could hear them talking in hushed tones for what seemed like an hour.  Lester walked back inside alone and said: What’s your name son?  We’ve decided we're taking you with us up the road a piece.  You might come in handy if we need a hostage or someone with local knowledge of the area as we make our way t’wards Preston. Go back to sleep and we’ll wake you in an hour when it’s time to go.

Billy couldn’t sleep. It had been a long day of interrogation and darkness was again approaching.  He heard the men talking outside and from what they were saying, he realized they did all of their traveling at night hiding out in small barns and shacks like this during the light of day. He wondered now if he’d ever see home again.  He wondered even more about his previous decision to fight for the South.

In an hour, Lester came in and asked Billy if that was his horse in the stall next to him.  Billy said it was and Lester said: Get him outside, we’re going to load him with the chillens and then be on our way.  When Billy walked outside he saw eight other black people in addition to the three he had previously met.  It was a mother and father and five children all aged between three and eleven.  Lester hoisted the three smallest children up on George’s back, as the other two lined up to walk alongside.  They would make sure that none of the younger ones fell off as they maneuvered their way North through the trees at night.  The mother and father walked quietly behind, as the three large black men led the way with Link scouting up ahead for anything unforeseen.

Just before dawn, Billy recognized where they were.  They were at the end of that farm road he had just come down the day before, but the sign now read in faded letters Hawkins.  Billy looked back at the sign and he could see something written on the back.  As he squinted into the approaching sun, he could see the letters B-I-L-L-E-T-T written of the back of the board.  Billy was now more confused than ever.  Lester told them all to wait in the trees to the left of the farm road, as he took out three small rocks from his pants pocket. The sun was almost up and this was the most dangerous part of their day.

He approached the house slowly and threw the first stone onto the front porch roof — then followed by the second and then the third.  Without any lights being lit, the front door opened and Lester walked inside.  In less than a minute, he was back in the trees and said:  It now OK fo us to makes our way to the barn, where we’s gonna hide for the day.

After they were settled in the five empty stalls, Lester decided who would then take the first watch.  He needed to have two people on watch, one looking outside for approaching strangers and one watching Billy so he wouldn’t try to escape.  What Lester didn’t know was that Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to go anywhere right now and was starting to feel like he was more part of what was going on than any hostage or prisoner.

In another hour, Martha came in with two big baskets of food: Oh I see you have found my young friend Billy, I didn’t know that he worked for the road.  Lester told Martha that he didn’t, and he was still not sure of what to do with him.  Martha just looked down at Billy and smiled. I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do Lester, and then she walked back outside toward the house. Lester told Billy that Martha was a staple on the Road to Preston and that without her, hundreds, maybe thousands of black slaves would now be dead between Virginia and Delaware.  He then told Billy that Martha was a widow, and both her husband and two sons had been killed recently at the Battle of Bull Run.  They had fought on the Confederate side, but Martha still had never agreed with slavery.  Her husband and sons hadn’t either, but they sympathized with everything else that the South was trying to do.

Billy’s head felt like it wanted to explode.  Here was a woman who had lost everything at the hands of Yankee soldiers and yet was still trying to help runaway slaves achieve freedom as they worked their way through Maryland.  Billy wanted to talk to Martha.  He also wondered who that man was in the field the previous morning when he had stopped to introduce himself.  He was sure at the time it had been Martha’s husband, but now Lester had just said that she was a widow. More than anything though, Billy wanted to talk to Martha!

Billy asked Lester when he returned from his watch if he could go see Martha inside the house.  Lester said: What fer boy, you’s be better off jus sittin quietly in this here barn. Billy told Lester that if he mentioned to Martha that he wanted to see her, he was sure she would know why and then agree to talk with him.  Lester said: I’ll think on it boy, now go get ya some sleep.  Oh by the way, did you get somethin to eat?  Matha’s biscuits are the best you’ll ever taste.  Billy said, Yes, and then tried to lie down and go to sleep.  His mind stayed restless though and he knew deep in his heart, and in a way he couldn’t explain, that Martha held the answer he was desperately in need of.

In about two more hours Martha returned with more food.  She wanted to dispense it among the children first, but three were still sleeping so she wrapped theirs and put it beside them where they lay.  After feeding the adults, she walked over to Billy and said: Would you help me carry the baskets back up to the house? Billy looked at Lester and he just nodded his head.  On the way back to the house Martha said: I understand you want to talk to me. I knew I should have talked with you before, but you were in such a hurry we never got the chance.  Let’s go inside and sit down while I prepare the final meal.

Martha then explained to Billy that she had been raised in Philadelphia.  She had met her husband while on a trip to Baltimore one summer to visit relatives.  Her husband had been working on a fishing boat docked in Londontown just south of Baltimore.  It was love at first sight, and they were married within three weeks.  Martha had only been back to Philadelphia twice since then to attend the funerals of both of her parents.  She then told Billy what a tragedy this new war was on the face of America … with brother fighting brother, and in some cases, fathers fighting their own sons. It not only divides us as a nation, but divides thousands of families, especially those along the Mason-Dixon line where our farm is located now.

She also told Billy her name was Billett, but they used Hawkins at night as the name of her Railway Stop along the Road. Hawkins was Martha’s maiden name and to her knowledge was not well known in these parts. Hawkins was also the name distributed throughout the South to runaway slaves who were trying to make their way North. Martha felt that if they were looking for someone in her area named Hawkins, they would have a hard time tracing it back to her.  The Courthouse that she and her husband had been married in burned down over fifteen years ago and all records of births, deaths, and marriages, had been consumed by that fire.

By reversing the sign at night to Hawkins, it allowed the runaway slaves to find her in the darkness while protecting her identity in the event that they were caught.  Under questioning, they might give up the name Hawkins while having no knowledge of the name Billett which in these parts was well known. Martha also told Billy that she had nothing left to lose now except her dignity and pride.  Her two sons and husband had been taken at Bull Run and now all she wanted was for the war to end and for those living imprisoned in slavery to be set free and released. Her dignity and pride forced her to try and do everything she could to help.

When Billy asked Martha … How did you know the right thing to do? she said: The right thing is already planted there deep inside you.  All that’s required is for you to be totally honest with yourself to know the answer.  Martha then turned back to her cooking.

Lester then walked into the kitchen and said: Martha Ma’m, what’s we gonna do wit dis boy?  Martha only looked at Billy and smiled as she said, Lester, this boy’s gonna do just fine.  Lester then looked at Billy and said: Somethin you wanta say to me son? Billy asked if he could go feed his horse and then come back in a few minutes.  Lester said that he could but not to take too long.

When Billy walked back into the barn, George was tied to a wall cleat in the far left corner.  He walked him out to the water trough in the dark and then back inside where he gave him another half- bucket of oats.  He looked in George’s eyes for that surety that George always had about him.  Just as he started to look away, George ****** up his head and looked to his left.  The youngest of the black children was walking toward George with something in her hand.  She was with her older sister, and she was carrying an apple — an apple for George. George took the apple from her hand as he nudged the side of her face with his nose.  Billy looked at the scene, and, in the moment’s revelation, knew instantly the right thing for him to do.

Billy went back inside where Lester and Martha were drinking coffee by the fire.  Billy told Lester that NOBODY knew these backwaters like he and his brothers. He also told Lester that by joining his cause he would never be faced with the possibility of meeting either of his brothers on the field of battle.  This seemed to strike a nerve with Lester who had a brother of his own fighting for the south somewhere in Louisiana.  In Louisiana, many of the black’s were free men and fought under General Nathan Bedford Forrest where they would comport themselves with honor and bravery throughout the entire war.

Billy then told Lester he had never agreed with slavery, and his father had always refused to own them.  This made the work harder on he and his brothers, and some of their neighbors ostracized them for their choice.  Billy said his father didn’t care and told him many times that … No man should ever own another or Lord over him and be able to tell him what he can or cannot do.

Lester then asked Billy what he knew about these backwaters.  Billy said he knew every creek and tributary along the Patuxent River and all the easiest places to get across and get across safely where no one could see.  Lester said they had a friendly ferry across the bay to Taylors Island, but many times the hardest part was getting across the Patuxent to where they were now.  From here, they would then decide whether to go across the bay to Preston or head further North to other friendly stops along the Road to Delaware. Billy said he would be most helpful along those stops further North and on this Western side of the bay as he knew the terrain so well.

For four more years Billy worked out of Martha’s farm hiding and transporting runaway slaves on their way North.  He would make occasional trips back to Bowie to fortify the barn that the Union soldiers had not burned when they torched his house that day.  His family’s barn would become the main Railroad Stop before taking those last steps to freedom that lay just 100 miles beyond in the free state of Delaware.

After reconstruction, Billy went on to become a lawyer and then a judge in Calvert County Maryland.  Martha had left Billy the farm in her will, and he now used it as a haven for black people who were freely emigrating from the south and needed a place to stay and rest before continuing on to the Industrial cities of the northeast.

When Martha was dying, Billy asked her who that mysterious farmer was that was out tending her field that morning when he first stopped by so many years ago? Martha said:Why don’t you know; that was my father, Ethan Hawkins. He worked that field every day since my husband and two boys were killed.  I’m surprised he let you see him.  I thought I was the only one who ever knew he was there.  But, but, but, your father died many years ago I thought.  Martha looked at Billy with those beautiful and gentle eyes and just smiled …

Seeing him that day had changed Billy and the direction
of his life forever, making what seemed like King
Solomon’s choice — the right and only one for him.


Kurt Philip Behm
Mary Gay Kearns Feb 2018
The room was full of a quiet light,
She lay back in the chair
Letting peace find her,
Cradle her in its arms.
Everything seemed still.
Then she noticed the curtain
At the bottom,
About the height of a child,
Moving.
She said it was like a baby
tapping it from behind.
She had to go over, eventually, and look.
Nothing and no reason for the curtain
To have done that.

She had longed so much
Just for some comfort.
To know he lived
And lived her as she had
Lived him.
She was very emotional
When she called to tell me.
She said "Mummy at least I know he's ok...
I am so sure it was him."
She just felt after all this time,
That he was letting her know,
He was there.

A few weeks after, she found out
She was expecting a baby.
A sister, Bonnie, for Alfie.
He was letting her know,
She was coming.
Sometimes,
Time is different in immortality....
to how we see it.

Pam's beautiful phrasing/words in a poem
By me.
Love Mary ***
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.


new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)  
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)  

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie


THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of  various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE)   as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz)   and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING    NORTH UTSIRE    SOUTH UTSIRE  
FORTIES    CROMARTY    FORTH
TYNE    DOGGER    FISHER    GERMAN  BIGHT
HUMBER    THAMES    DOVER    WIGHT
PORTLAND     PLYMOUTH    BISCAY    TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)  
SOLE    LUNDY    FASTNET
IRISH SEA    SHANNON    ROCKALL      MALIN    HEBRIDES
BAILEY    FAIR ISLE    FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE)   as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz)   and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING    NORTH UTSIRE    SOUTH UTSIRE  
FORTIES    CROMARTY    FORTH
TYNE    DOGGER    FISHER    GERMAN  BIGHT
HUMBER    THAMES    DOVER    WIGHT
PORTLAND     PLYMOUTH    BISCAY    TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)  
SOLE    LUNDY    FASTNET
IRISH SEA    SHANNON    ROCKALL      MALIN    HEBRIDES
BAILEY    FAIR ISLE    FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND
Jackie Mead May 2020
I remember the day, our darling daughter gave birth.
A newborn grandson given life on this earth.

I remember feeding the ducks with grandchild number three.
Running in the park, buying ice cream, sitting on the bench, feeling happy and free.

I remember spending time with my Mum.
Shopping, walking, talking, laughing having fun.

I remember collecting Alfie from school.
Walking, talking, laughing but not holding hands, at 10 years old he is the image of Mr Cool.

I remember Sunday lunch with our son, his wife and two children.
Their son a bundle in their arms sleeping on their shoulders, the other a lovely daughter who is twelve years older.

I remember evenings spent with friends.
Food, wine, chatter and laughter, no rush for the evening to end.

I remember walks in the park.
When you didnt have to social distance from each other and children played on their boards in the skatepark.

I remember days out in the car, not worrying about travelling too far

I remember far away holidays in the sun.
Jamaica, Aruba, South of France.
Staying out late, holding hands,  moonlight walks on the sand.

I remember travelling to my work place.
Working with others, sat face to face.

I remember lunches with my girlfriend Lesley.
Sometimes walking and talking, other times sat in a cafe or in its garden on a bench, meeting others being friendly.

Each of these scenarios give such pleasure to remember.
But excuse me for saying, it's not the same as cuddling and holding your family members.

One day soon, when it is safe to do.
A big hug has its name on it especially for you.
To my loved ones, family and friends, love them all.
Still under some type of lockdown in the UK.
The internet of course means you can video chat with people.and I video chat twice a week with my Mum but she lives 45miles away and i havent seen her face to face in 8 weeks, i really miss her
My middle son has a child 7.5months old and our daughter has one 3months old and we havent held them in 8 weeks.
However i am so grateful that my family remain healthy.
Hope you and your families remain healthy too.

— The End —