Often we approached the bay over high ground
Taking the track from Totland between the heather
Where the small blue butterflies dusted the grass
With a fluttering sparkle and the gorse spoke yellow.
The climb to the top was arduous with many stops
Sitting on prickles, the scent of sheep buzzing
Around our ears and nostrils and filling sandels.
A rest refreshed with that thermos coffee hot on lips.
Then in an instant we came out of shadow to meet
The white glare off the sea and a downward decent
Across grassland filled with thistles
To drop
Through style and gate and down onto the road.

Love Mary

By: Cedric McClester

ALLAHU-AKBAR, (TRUE)
GOD IS GREATER THAN THEY KNEW
Or why would they do what they do
And then pervert al-Islam too
BISMILAH – (IN THE NAME OF ALLAH)
They plant bombs inside of cars
To blow up strangers near and far
But they take things too ******* far

AL-HUMDILILAH – (PRAISE ALLAH)
But not by giving Islam a scar
Who the hell they think they are
Shaytan’s minions? They’re on par
ASTAGFIGALAH (MAY ALLAH FORGIVE)
Those not cursed by how they live
Chopping heads off especially with
A rusty knife known as a shiv

INSHALLAH (IF IT’S ALLAH’S WILL)
Those who maim and also ****
Will soon be presented with the bill
And their ambitions will get them nil
ALLAHU-ALUM (ALLAH KNOWS BEST)
The sins they will have to confess
To get those sins up off their chest
While facing hell fire nevertheless

WALAHI (I SWEAR BY ALLAH)
Hell will find them wherever they are
In their homes near or far
Because they have raised the bar
YA-HAMUKALAH (MAY ALLAH PROTECT YOU)
From those ****
Who constantly beat their war drums
And take advantage of the deaf blind and dumb




Copyright © 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

With this Gift our Sterling Mentor progress
In lending your time for our Efforts grow
Though at first we fear the Alum Rod - less,
Is really your Way of True Friendship show
Though I ask where the First Silence once had
Was which my Stamps took your Character stern
That I actualise; A Great Heart you have
Which we Stunned Locals have begun to Learn
And really do your Words explain the Map
This Growing Business where our Voices speed
Helping your Brethren on their Cards and Lap
With Excelled Service do we take great heed.
And now you Return where most Teachers rest
Feeling confident that we did our Best.

Shimmering Sea

Sitting at my cluttered desk
I’ve just attacked a rabbit
with a knife. Don’t fret,
it was an Easter gift,
a golden bunny bebowed
and belled, the chocolate
incised and brought to light,
rich and dark so keenly
comforting aside the coffee
beaned from Nepal.

Her gift so lovingly given
I bless her ever-thoughtfulness,
and turn my thoughts
to see her walking by the sea,
on the cliff path
by the shimmering,
glimmering sea, always
at her right hand, blue,
an April blueness
barely a footstep from
a vertical drop through
the light-filled air . . .


Heady Scents

Fox, she would say,
without so much as
a sudden sniff,
and carry on her way
alert to all and everything.
And I would wonder,
Fox? But I had not been
schooled to recognize
a creature’s scent,
though sensitive always
to the human kind:
that sweetness after ***
found in Cupid’s gym.
So the subtle coconut
of bright-flowering gorse
and garlic woodland-wild
when trodden under foot.
will have to do instead.


Brimstone and Blues

Well, the sea is blue today,
why not the butterflies too?
though seen, it seemed
for a second,
fluttering at her feet,
tumbling indecisively
in flickering flight,
then gone: to leave
a stain of perfect blue
upon the retinal cells.


Peacocks (not butterflies)

I thought it was a peacock’s cry,
but it turned to be a turkey
out in the orchard next
our path to the sea.

Such an unpleasant-looking
bird whose tatty hind-feathers
rose as its blood-red throat
trembled with venomous
indignation at our presence.

Sad creature,
so ugly,
a troubling form
lacking grace or line,
majesty or wonder,
colour or display
of the pave cristasus.


Skylarks

Larking skywards
in the soft spring
vertiginous blueness
of the daylight heavens,
on song with circular breath,
seaward and away.
We only saw it descend
and heard the formants
change of its harmoniced
voice as it brushed
the standing crop,
finally fell,
and disappeared.


Swallows

Martins maybe?
Surely swifts?
But swallows?
Not yet awhile.

Some similar birds
fresh from flight
across southern seas
appeared, tumbled over,
shook the blue air,
then disappeared, as
suddenly greedy for grubs,
insectivously joyful,
so glad to be over land
once more.


Stonechats

I take your word for it
(having still to finish
the birding book you gave
at Christmas). Sounds right:
the sound of two stones
being rubbed together?
This robin-sized bird,
though dumpy in comparison,
who likes to sit on a gorse bush
and flick it wings; a nervous habit
some might say.


Blue on Blue

The sea in your eyes
is blue on blue
dear friend, dear lover
of my earthy self
whose eyes are browny-green,
whilst your’s own cloudless sky,
reflect the still shimmering sea.


A Ruined Castle

In a gap between
Purbeck Hills.
the Castle of Corfe
stands tall yet ruined.
Kaikhosru Sorabji
once lived in its sight,
composer, pianist, recluse.
Owning a cottage
he called The Eye,
with a Steinway Grand
and a cat called Jami  -
he wrote long complex music
people found difficult to play.
Eventually forbidding
all performances, he died
aged 96 - in 1988.
A curious man.


A Complete Castle

This must be an Italianate folly,
hardly ruined but complete.
We’d stopped for tea,
both hot and thirsty.
You’d hoped for ice cream
but had to wait for another day,
another place.

Had we not a train to catch,
and two miles still to walk,
we might have sat on its balcony
high above the shimmering sea,
and whilst eating ice cream,
looked on the sight of Lot’s Wife,
that white and final pillar of chalk
far out in Alum bay.


A Chapel

Profoundly square,
on a cliff-top high,
buttressed to its cardinal points
with a single window,
with a single door,
this chapel stands
where St Aldhelm
of Malmesbury,
would sing his sermons,
and, just for fun, some
hexametric enigmata
(riddles to you and me)

From his weaver’s riddle, Lorica:

non sum setigero
lanarum uellere facto
Nec radiis carpor duro
nec pectine pulsor

I am not made from
the rasping fleece of wool,
no leashes pull [me] nor
garrulous threads reverberate . . .


A Lighthouse

Brilliant white
and thoroughly walled about,
squat and unmanned,
it sits begging for
a crashing wave,
a serious storm,
but not today.
The sea is still,
calm and gently lapping
against the rocks below.


A Steam Train**

At Swanage station
just in time,
and amply satisfied
by our twelve-mile walk,
we settled ourselves
on bench-like seats
in the carriage
next the engine as
56XX Tank No.6695
took on water,
built up steam
for the seven-mile ride
past Heston Halt,
past Harman’s Cross
to Castle Corfe.

A circuit made
in seven hours
by path and rail.

Hold the phone, hold the freakin’ phone. Lisa’s got a boyfriend!
I’ve never seen Lisa with a boyfriend. Lisa draws men like fireworks on a dark night but I’ve never seen her keep one. I mean, it’s not unbelievable but it’s on the edge.

Then, one Friday evening, he came to visit. His name’s David - “call me Dave,” he said, meeting eyes and offering micro-expression smiles as he nodded around the room. Knowing he was coming, our suite’s common room was full, as if everyone came to see Lisa do a dangerous magic trick.

Dave’s got a young, Michael Keaton vibe going (the original movie batman), with a cocky, easygoing confidence and comedic snark that suggests he has everything under control. He’s 26 years old, about 5’11’ (a little shorter than 5’9” Lisa in heels - but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind), with brown eyes and unruly brown hair.

With some cagy sleuthing (I asked) it turns out he met her at her father’s (company's) Christmas party last year! I was there - and they’ve been secretly communicating for ten months!! How did I miss that? My situational awareness is obviously porous, and unreliable - was the room spinning?

You know, I hadn’t really focused on it before, but one of Lisa’s flaws is that her feelings and opinions don’t always show up in her expressions - it’s very annoying.

I’ve always been interested - umm, obsessed - with fashion. If I weren’t going into medicine, I’d have majored in fashion (called ‘Interdisciplinary Studies’ at Yale). Anyway, Dave’s been “dropping in” for the last few weeks - every Friday afternoon - arriving from Manhattan in his (my guess ~$6,500) business attire. What does Dave’s fashion sense tell us?

His business suits (charcoal-gray or olive-green) are Brioni, his dress white shirts are Thomas Pink, his ties Hermès and his shoes are Santoni. He’s slim and well tailored. I give him 5 stars.

If his work attire is lux, his casual attire speaks volumes as well. His weekend wear is a white dress shirt, open at the collar and jeans - both crisp and starched to hell and back. The long, stiff, white shirt sleeves are never rolled up. The jeans - deep blue and new - have a razor sharp crease down the front and his shoes are burgundy, Timberline, boat shoes with no socks. That outfit screams (Texas) oil money.

“What is it you DO?” I asked him, that first night, as Lisa was off getting ready to go out.
“I’m a “M & A weasel,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. (that’s Mergers and Acquisitions, if you don’t know - with one of the Morgans - JPMorgan or Morgan Stanley - I can’t remember which).
He’s one of those reviled, monied, ‘Wall Street’ guys. Yep, he‘s in control of everything.

“Tell me about you.” he said, giving me a serious, intense look that held immediate charm. He seemed relaxed, his suit coat off, his white dress shirt glowing in the suite’s soft lighting.
“I’ve got the highest GPA in Yale’s pre-med program,” I informed him, adding, “..in my opinion.”
He chuckled (which, of course, made me like him more).

You know, life in an education bubble can get tedious. Sure, it fills our days from edge to edge and satisfies our basic needs but it can be stifling - a faraday cage filtering life into carefully measured doses. Come Friday nights, we’re ready to hit it.

One thing I like about Dave is that he wants to be one of us and he’s never tried to peel Lisa away for himself - I think that shows an ease and generosity of spirit. Did I mention that Dave’s a Yale alum? He KNOWS New Haven.

The first night we all went out, it was the whole clan - my roommates, the girls in our sister suite, Dave and Andy (a friend of Sunny). We went to an expensive harbor restaurant to get to know Dave and seafood-martini celebrate. We had an epic time. Dave fit in like family.

I’m kind of used to paying for off campus stuff because some of these girls are tight and I’ve got a bag, but when the waiter brought the check, Dave and I found ourselves both reaching for it.
“May I?” He asked, with his Keaton-like smirk. “This time,” I said, with my own shrugging smile.

Later, back at our suite, Dave’s heading back to his hotel (less than a mile away) and slowly, quietly, saying goodnight to Lisa by the front door. “You’ve got some awfully long legs,” he said, like a 1940s black & white movie gumshoe. Taking her gently by the back of the neck and waist and twisting her tall, thin frame in a dancer’s backbend dip where she hung, suspended in his arms.

“I’d like to shimmy up one of those legs like a native boy looking for coconuts.” She chuckled.
Leong and I, sitting on our red corduroy couch, exchanged eye-rolls and smiles - he’s a romantic goof, but somehow, he carries it all off - right down to the kiss.

My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-4 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alam Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
I no longer know whether the bungalow is still standing or what it may be called .Mary xxxx

With their new awards show - VH1 Big In 2015 with Entertainment Weekly - the network aimed to 'highlight the trailblazers and epic pop culture moments of the year.'

So it was no surprise then that Taraji P. Henson, 45, was one of the program's honorees for her unforgettable work as Cookie Lyon on Fox's smash hit Empire.

Taraji looked stunning as she arrived at Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, California on Sunday for the celebration, flashing some skin in a fitted black Alexander **** dress.

Taraji wore a sleeveless, black dress for the event that hugged the Fox star's curves while showing off her toned pins.

The flattering number also featured a laced-up, cut-out along the side of the dress that added some edge to the look with a flash of skin.

She coupled the look with a pair of studded, strappy black heels, and donned a pair of dramatic, dangling earrings.

She showed off bold eyeliner for the event, as well as big lashes and a complimentary mauve lipstick.

Taraji's brunette tresses were styled in gorgeous, wild curls, and the actress looked to be in good spirits as she hit the carpet, showing off a big grin and at one point even blowing a kiss.

Amy Schumer was also being honored at the event after her stellar year that included the success of her comedy Trainwreck.

The 34-year-old smoldered in a form-fitting red gown, which she coupled with a pair of coordinating red pumps.

The flattering number featured three-quarter length sleeves and was fitted to show off the comedian's trim figure.

She wore her long, blonde tresses styled straight for the show, and showed off a smoky eye and a dark manicure.

Amy was joined on the carpet by her sister Kimberly Schumer, who wore a sleeveless, bright blue mini dress that showed off her toned pins.

She coupled the playful frock with a pair of strappy, black heels, and wore her long, brunette locks in soft curls.

Amber Rose, 32, put her ample assets on display in a figure-hugging mini dress as she arrived at the Pacific Design Center.

The model wore a long-sleeved black mini dress which featured a plunging front and also highlighted her toned pins.

She coupled the daring number with a pair of strappy, black heels, and hid her eyes behind over-sized, black sunglasses.

Pitch Perfect 2 director and star Elizabeth Banks, 41, wore a textured black dress with a semi-sheer skirt and bow-shaped cut-out along the front.

The eye-catching dress hit at just above the actress's knees, and she coupled the look with strappy, peep-toe black heels.

She accessorized with a coordinating, black clutch, and wore her long, blonde tresses pulled back into a chic updo, with curled, wisps of hair falling around to frame her face.

Queen Latifah, 45, and Katherine Bailess, 35, both opted for stylish, black jumpsuits for the awards show, though the former wore long sleeves while the latter opted for a one-shoulder look.

Katherine finished off her look with a pair of peep toe heels that showed off a dark pedicure, and wore her long, blonde locks in soft waves.

She accessorized with a pair of dangling earrings, and added a pop of color to her look with a bright red lipstick.

Parks And Recreation alum Aubrey Plaza, 31, stunned in a form-fitting, white mini dress that featured metallic embellishments, and she coupled it with chunky, black heels.

Elle King, 26, meanwhile, was a bit more colorful in a pretty floral dress, though she added a bit of edge to her look with a black, leather jacket.

Master of None star Aziz Ansari, 32, looked dapper in a fitted, black suit worn with brown leather oxfords and a bright, pink patterned tie.

T.I. - host for the VH1 and Entertainment Weekly event - looked stylish in an all-black ensemble that he accessorized with Aviators and a bold, silver necklace.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-3 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So over twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alan Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.

Hmm
The quiet density of a heavy ceiling.
I can't tell if caving
or breathing
Or maybe I'm exaggerating
my
phone exchange.

****
Somehow still I just
reallllllly
really
Want to cover up. Deep. Somehow.

My eyes are so full.
I feel sorry for the burn victims that got too close,
But then again, you can drop a cigarette and
BOOM
Outta ******* no where
your french toast
But cover me in honey, honey
And I swear not to flinch
Because these burn have let the skin expose my soul

And my soul doesn't speak in adjectives
but it climbs
And climbs
And climbs
And I don't know what I'm ******* looking for
but somehow I believe everything you've said.

Aloe
Alum


We are the same.
There's nothing else to it.

Nothing is right, everything is permitted.
If I was the king of the world, I'd make more things round, nobody's
Baby ought to be put in the corner. Nebraska full of skyscrapers for earthquake And hurricane victims, the soybeans and corn there is a machine of mutually Exclusive syrups that taste the same. We could go back to calling sugar what it Is, sweet.

I could make you a prince, her a dutchess, myself just another worker among Workers. This hive society is getting old, and Britain holds half of our honey in gold bullion. I would make stone soup, and make it Special on Friday. Acorns would be exclusively for dendrofied alum, and not for raking or Rattling. We could call the bad sick, because there is no bad; and we could Eliminate the goods and musts, and mustn'ts as they just make people feel low. No one can feel fat, they can only think they are.

We too could have an organized society of writers and editors and critics Whom decide what words we allow into the English language. Commercials Are poisoning our youth, our mainstream, our middle-American allies that Rebel against us with their extra-laminate NRA cards. My right to bear arms Allow me two, a left arm and a right arm. That should be plenty for many of Us.

I would call the president a model citizen, since he only models. Change Fitness Journals into Fashion magazines- everyone would like to dress Similarly enough as it is. The costs are high, and the big cities have rifles and Shotguns aimed at us over their shoulders. Data sharing, wi-fi could come With high-fives and we could all use one cable for everything, and one Password of password that unlocked everything.Perhaps we could begin Banishing people to live outside of Rome again. The hunting is better in the kept gardens. so we should allow this.

I've done something wrong, I've been rendered invalid by the bell, cowardly When it comes to giving advice, and if I was the king of the world I'd make More 24hour pizza places in Chicago, following the outdoor food-styles of New York CIty. Given names should serve as middle names until people are Old enough to choose what to call themselves.

We should reward more nobodies, and depopularize all of these "somebodies," leaving a little room for the poets to do their work.

If I was the king of the laughter, I'd package laughter and ship it Internationally, bottle up messages and send letters. In fact I don't have to be The king to send letters, I just need some postage and an envelope. One for Every person on the planet, to send a thank you note for being alive, a flower To bring them comfort, a quarter, and a bottle of pear nectar to nourish and Show them that I care.

That I care about we and not just me.

I stand with all those who fought for just cause
I give my ink to solidify their spirit
And energized their body and soul
I support their long walk to freedom

And hope they spread like dandelions
Drinking bowful water to quench their thirst
Which shall be hitchfree from slave guards
Please I need water to drink just a drink

I came from a community water is scarce
It is a trading commodity sold with pence
Dirt mud dances as we fetch
Alum so expensive only few can perch

We leech as fly just to get a drop
Ragging with thuds of defiance soul
Carry their cattle to drink the spring as a spoil
****** situation it turns and boil

As blood spreads so we drink
I need a water as a sink
Please come to my community and make a drill so we wouldn't be sick
In long run life it will save and stalk

Give a simple drop so we can cook
For years I feed on fruits that are poison
Cut in diseases of fluke worms
And guinea worms drag for a feed

They chase for spaces as they soul rely
I am a living dead my body reply
Waiting for last drop perhaps it may revamp as it rain
My foreclosure day might be dark

Please a water might sing thousands of song
For if I give my soul away I hope my message will reach many and touch their hearts to give us a drop as gong

by Martin Ijir

Medgar Wiley Evers, a name strong and powerful
The college, a mission of knowledge, Understanding and Education excellence
The beauty of essence
CUNY Medgar Evers College being my discovery
Yes this is the story
Medgar Evers College showed me the way in being the person I was seeking and supposed to be
I became the graduate the world did see
I was a truly believer in Evers Teachings
It was the transformation enhancement of the Medgar Evers College uplift
Coming to Medgar Evers College was the balance of what can be achieved and the offset of Social Justice
I learned knowing where I belong
Being prepared for the challenge in getting along
Yet, Medgar Evers College enriched my educational soul like an upgraded electronic component
Stand on purpose with a mission in mine
Set the standards while drawing the line
The discovery of Medgar Evers College was my own exploration
I was on the launching pad, but aimed with the foundation of learning being success
Being my MEC alumni was my honor and privilege of appreciation
Many said I was not college material
But Medgar Evers College changed that into “I was Capable”
Destiny was in my corner because of Medgar Evers College efforts
So Medgar Evers College fulfilled me in being one of their many products for success and beyond
Words can be expressed, but understanding must be an answer. Medgar Evers College showed my own elevation into education as an open door. I entered and was enriched with instilling self-esteem in every way. Medgar Evers College objective was my take away of always remember and don’t forget.”

THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION and CASABANCA are tied as my most favorite film I've ever seen in my life, Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins in the former, Ingrid Bergman--the most beautiful woman I've ever seen--and Humphrey Bogart, a fellow Andover alum (he got kicked out his first year).

THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION is, indeed, tied as my most favorite movie.

But it's also a documentary.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

A fairyland of undergrowth, with a damp musky air,
St Lawrence has a faithful oath, to cultivate and share.
A thrive of all alive, in lush green leaves of old,
The trees in mists sublime, inside a micro climate wold.

A secret world of organisms, multiplying million fold,
Where delicate microcosms, dare to be so bold.
This natural habitat, from seedlings very small,
Quenched by a water vat, chalk streams a waterfall.

Waterlogged muddy bramble slips away at will,
Fertilised to nourish, it's hard to keep it still.
Thatched cottages blend, among the evergreens,
Flowers wildly transcend, into unexpected scenes.

A house made of glass or stone, brick or thatched,
An array of different homes, wholly mismatched.
An under cliff protected, from wind and heavy rain,
Where settlers have constructed dwellings on delicate terrain.

Red rocky backdrops, contrasting in the light,
Emerald carpet covered tops, against a cliff of white.
A multitude of Cretaceous hidden footprint tracks,
Of pre-historic fossils providing us with facts.

Alum bay provides the candour, steep hill cove, the English day,
Black gang chine, the entertainment, screams above a silent bay.
The noise of nature's habits, where a gentle hush is heard,
Of scurrying little rabbits, or a cheerful songful bird

Home to Dickens and to Darwin, Carl Marx to name a few,
Alfred Lord Tennyson inspired by the picturesquely view.
The Osbournes, Alan Titchmarch, are living here today,
To escape from commerciality, and keep all fame at bay.

Well-trodden shutes take a stranger to the sea,
Along a Pirate's secret route to claim his offshore ******,
Time has not dissolved these perfect pretty scenes,
Well used in the past and still there to be seen.

A quiet friendly cloak, behind a rich and wealthy hive,
This isle of natural opulence, where many past events survived,
Ancient stone church steeples, where priests left their gold,
Built for religious peoples, as a refuge from the cold.

Take a step back in time, to unspoilt and unruly soil,
Where the elderly recline, in this haven for the Royal.
The Victorian architecture, preserved in perfect light,
An outlook of conjecture, is called the Isle of Wight.

(a projection, genuflection, and extrapolation - if/when thine eldest "star student" progeny becomes the bride of one lucky guy)

with ur svelteness quite outstanding and accompanying zeitgeist tub boot my knowledge iris see vd reprieve from arm hug get n escort rub bing bliss until thee betook by another down thee aisle of life a pub
lick venue, where eyes bet cha yar er re: zist ta bull n deaf fin knit nub

charming slightly older gal to em ma, a puerto Rican well *** boy well worth effort form to start a family o' year own, time and tide will tell
waves of nostalgia for childhood memories may be difficult to quell

effort to cultivate relationship with omnipotent emotional ease
with nuptial savings bond, a salutary hint of success - cuz he's
a near perfect match wedded til death do ye part, locked, keys

engineered principally by fate recognized worth turning to dust
where omnipotent invisible bars anchor with mettle no gust
nor clangorous discord erupts, and neither one of ye lust
after infatuation of anther hold ye with pinterest n trust.

time to curry familiarity with ye mid haw ter, i didst waste
so unwise for this papa to express envy, and how thee taste -
of euphoria, whether single r double spaced
years 'tween offspring will not conflict with biological run -  raced
as greatest marathon - yet ardent cross country track star placed
yar mental, physical and spiritual well being, where well laced
sneakers ratcheting pedometer set other challenges faced
against duel as tempus fugit will acquiesce to grim reaper
hence, i must be mindful n make haste
to gather thine few rose rubs while ye may witness time erased
all the while the shadow of father time 2b finds me chaste.

already taking quantum leaps edging 2b come college alum n aye
a severance dissolving parental protection doth evince good bye
yet tis a relief, that few tears evidence that this papa didst cry
thus, this generic guy
doth app ply
words 2 roll like die
an image in my
mind well nigh

to evoke n elicit intrigue and say "hi"
in his atypical mode - butta not 2 pry
nor intervene un-necessarily - only to share as i try
2 exchange lite banter 2.0 n case u wonder why
u most likely did not get such an electronic sigh
email if...ye wish to chit chat or converse 'bout pry
vet matter, thus nearing conclusion, dada doth notify
a hope that ye accept my
weaknesses and faltered during your girlhood - no reason 2 lie
about detached emotional fabric - faults no excuse foreign alibi.

now before i go to sleep
ur sunny roseate countenance
   will invoke slumber within me
   like an oracle - quick n deep.

meanwhile life passes in one direction end date toward
as additional minute men slink in their swiftly tail lord
non-harried style spruced n tricked up ford.

He was badly injured
Blood was quenching the thirst
Of eroded plants
The deserted way was grieving
With the sighs and panting
A strip of bandages adored
The heavy rescued heart
And then someone with a thick mustache
Dragged him towards a haunted hut
The stranger put alum
As blood trickled with pus
Moreover the stranger took off
The bandages of his heavy heart
And his warmth drowning wrath
Till the man became convalescent
The hut wasn't built in thick woods
It was in the slum of clothes, threads and technical loops
People might have stitched the man's wounds
Probably they were the best tailors of the town
The man is fine now
In those deserted ways
He's been trained the art of removing bandages
Strip by strip..
He gained his name and fame as one of the best tailors
In a town of trespassed healers..

The boys he had known were now men dressed in suits
of conservative hue and tone.
Except for those few who were painfully young
and attired in  uniform.

The girls of his youth who had been ,mostly, aloof
were adorned with some glittering stones.
He noticed one young girl with a dusky complexion
who was sitting apart all alone.
He saw upper class men, the jocks and the freaks.
then he noticed how grey they had grown.

His friends shook his hand and pounded his back.
"You are the last  to arrive.!"
The final Alum of a school long since closed
with no graduates still left alive

A long time graduate courtesy
Hard Knocks alum,
once again yours truly
posts reasonable rhyme
about shortest day of the year.

Two o'clock Ante Meridiem
nostri Jesu Christi
hour hand clock
sprung forward sixty minutes
round about same of month
every year, what a ***
er, an inconvenient truth
diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum

a sensation of jet lag
(with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme,
nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as *** hum

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom

fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for
emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea –
gram ma mother earth glum,
where live yik yak
(paddy whacked) wired vanguard

trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
cream mated behavioral sink
her inert ashes boxed for mo urn eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum
bling bloviation, once
worth matchless peerage,
now pitched comfortably numb

lee into morass of temporary
confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering with
Gulliver's swiftly traveling
Lilliputians slum
bring within islets
of langerhans defiantly thumb

ming nose, where body, mind & soul
vampire weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got
hijacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in min (ute) power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly grudgingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis American express
hiz fashionably late opinion
regarding space/time
continuum did devour

hypothetically yours truly
wallows, pinwheels, flails...
doubling over into singularity
attaining infinite mass
enroute to encounter blessed cosmic lord.

Black hole event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the REO bandwagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.

Hard knocks Methacton school alum
ofttimes finds ruining his fate
while squarely planted on me ***
nevertheless felt rightly triangulated
flashed mobbed by disheveled and unshaven,
foo fighting beastie boys
whereby their gray stubble encrusted
wayward synonymous days old crumb -

after getting wolfed (re: gang lions)
as delectable entitled treat
buttered fingers drubbing upon tabletop
analogous to playing a drum
oy vey, yours truly cannot believe
he ate the whole thing -
thus feeling bloated and glum
giving way (rather succumbing)
to Sir Isaac Newton's
first law of motion first law
a body at rest stays oh so ** hum
inclined to remain supine
and comfortably numb
able, eager, and ready (reddit)
to down tumblr full of ***
argh go sum... my poor tum.

ALDI GIANT supermarkets
(within small radius of miles
from me Schwenksville, Penna abode)
sell delicious delectable treat
goading, inspiring, and spurring me
to craft poem essentially
patronizing manufacturer,
whose skilled food technicians
engineered absolute winning dessert

courtesy their natural born talent
schooled (most likely at culinary institute)
possibly supplemented insync
with advanced degrees
at other institutions of higher learning
after various and sundry
trials and error with plus or minus
marginal limits of tolerance
concocting mouthwatering secret recipe.

Lemme use hypothetical situation
to accent chew ate,
how alluded dessert tastes great,
especially when rumble in tumbly
clamors for glorious goody
regarding appetite to satiate
unfortunately circumstances
force your truly to wait.

If (the following
constitutes far fetched scenario)
stranded on a desert island,
I after falling to Earth
when parachute fails to open,
weighed down by an excess of
Daiya vegan non dairy cheesecakes,
would finagle an empty pie tin
flashing aluminum dish higgledy piggledy
to signal an oinking porcine SOS
think jeepers creepers
knowing my luck being abducted
by an alien cannibalistic, gnostic,
narcissistic life forms,
who quickly abandoned me

subsequently left to my own devices,
(where you dear reader
would discover one humbug),
I would be forced to scrounge around
rubbing two sticks together
to create warmth
plus distilling oils -
derived from edible herbaceous plants,
whence I would *******
(not prematurely) - olé
to sauté said collard greens
with wild mushrooms.

Unspecified number of hours spent
many yesterdays ago since March 6th, 2021
reading (cover to cover) Pennsylvania Gazette
March/April 2021 issue.

Proud papa highly regards eldest daughter,
University of Pennsylvania alum
as academic whip smart high achiever,
she did (after quite a stretch of time
after graduating) become
self supporting earning hand over fist money
employed at the B Corp
(short for Certified B Corporation)
as yours truly
(her biological father) feels glum,
cuz I would qualify
mine impossible to quantify
existence as humdrum,

hence quite envious at well deserved income,
which exact dollar figure I will remain mum
yet if privy being financially,
what me worry would become obsolete
mine mental would find me comfortably numb
livingsocial in splendour
versus dwelling in slum
bring (think dirt poor -
according to long ago slight
courtesy youngest sister)
whereby financial shortcoming exacerbates
predilection toward anxiety
with distress squarely within tum.

Back during mine salad days
earlier within mein kampf
precious time squandered away
this doubting thomas
grabbing life by figurative horns,
his outlook toward future
did excel at procrastination,

a pointedly powerful stance did delay
ambivalence toward purposefulness
hit me courtesy metaphorical
ton of bricks, now at threescore earth orbits
around the sun absorb shock
while grizzled and gray

recognizing when sober
upon post drinking up lackadaisical indifference
feigning to care not a whit,
I allude to johnny come lately self actualization
analogous to confronting judgement-day
resigned to gather wilted, shriveled, matted

rosebuds while I may
experience e'en just fleeting aliveness,
thus yours truly doth pray
to dance (why I'll) while
these spindleshanks sashay
into Elysian Fields
exorcising atrophied muscles oy vey!

Proud papa highly regards eldest daughter,
University of Pennsylvania alum
as academic whip smart high achiever,
she did (after quite a stretch of time
after graduating) become
self supporting earning hand over fist money

as yours truly
(her biological father) feels glum,
cuz I would qualify
mine impossible to quantify
existence as humdrum,
hence quite envious at well deserved income,

which exact dollar figure I will remain mum
yet if privy being financially,
what me worry would become obsolete
mine mental would find me comfortably numb
livingsocial in splendour
versus dwelling in slum

bring (think dirt poor -
according to youngest sister)
whereby financial shortcoming exacerbates
predilection toward anxiety
with distress squarely within tum.

Back during mine salad days
earlier within mein kampf
precious time squandered away
this doubting thomas
grabbing life by figurative horns,
his outlook toward future
did excel at procrastination,

a pointedly powerful stance did delay
ambivalence toward purposefulness
hit me courtesy metaphorical
ton of bricks, now at threescore earth orbits
around the sun absorb shock
while grizzled and gray

recognizing when sober
upon post drinking up lackadaisical indifference
feigning to care not a whit,
I allude to johnny come lately self actualization
analogous to confronting judgement-day
resigned to gather wilted, shriveled, matted

rosebuds while I may
experience e'en just fleeting aliveness,
thus yours truly doth pray
to dance (why I'll) while
these spindleshanks sashay
into Elysian Fields
exorcising atrophied muscles oy vey!