Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mitchell Dec 2013
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back
Bogle Jun 2013
All I know is this...

When what I hold closest to my heart,
Is in jeopardy,
he makes my organs fail to start,
my beast inside has many names,
but we like to call him Bertie.

In these times,
my body kills me before I **** my body,
the choice is no longer mine,
so i punish my body night after night,
for his torture I'll make him sorry.

So I know I have this choice,
to punish him **** my self or cut off what I care about most,
or there again I could respect his noises,
he is killing me,
to be protective of the love I hold closest.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
the grovelling pig...
and the snivelling dog...

the snorkelig tabloid &
taboo of...
anything beside
the born blue: whale...

an arsenal of ****-joy words...
a much bigger
"assumption" of...
raj-stan spices...
to compete with
the 20th century arsenal
of the manhattan
project of h'america...

     and whatever the soviet
sly of empire-building
came to pass: and pass it did...

no one is celebrating...
how... pacified...
the disintegration of the soviet
"empire" took a postcard
turn in the events of history...

when the roman empire
disintegrated...
             no one is going
to go forward and bless:
how the russians played poker:
and... folded?

              to leverage in the oligarchs...
the... eternal flames of parody blues...
of avarice and that story of
yachts: tripping on...

greed is beside the l.c.d. "tripping"
chess pieces avarice...
the "insomnia" tactics of:
happy boys... shooting rich-boy
bullets at... all the more happy:
rich boy targets...

a french riviera target nuance: dulce...
deux...
       excesses of letters...
comes the grafitti with a tow
of toe-tied batman:
only val kilmer will do...

       yes... i grew up on "serious"
cinema... "serious":
i.e. "curious"... i.e. bored...
existential feats of bergman?
the magician?

    a film that would never allow
me a want to subscribe to...
reading into...
what's beside... pop culture propaganda...
not under the umbrella of the soviets...
or the historical nazis:
or...

          this time compass of:
a withstanding inconvenience of
hiatus... and hubris...
        scandinavian origins story...
                
      the red sq.... promenade... delight...
in... to fashion a hugo: who boss:
boss of who? via: hugo's who's hugo: who?
this advent of claiming...
riddles from the 20th century...
all clear: calibre...

   prior to 1945... exciting years...
and of that...
as if... waking up... from a family affair...
king edward VII:
       Bertie 12/20
                             give 'im a "sigh"
of relief... let's make that... a reasoned
fraction...
              mr. cig ar ah-rette'tsar...
                 herr 12/24...
                              herr halbzeit...
                world war I borrows...
19th century and... the insightful delight...
of the ruling elite and "******" affairs...
after 1945...

  so many years... of having to...
have... one's humor... dislodged from...
a coronation:
the republicans...
contra: the libertarians...
blah blah...

               because...
by no means... the russians were...
ploy:
Bertie the... and Tsar Nicholas...
didn't resemble clones...
               herr halbzeit... who the **** was he?
it's not so much a conspiracy theory...
it's... everyman's fiction...

  who's going to bother time well
spent: in the advent of requiring said
events to have happened...

             ****** was an ugly surname...
and how he... confiscated...
how he... rode to events like a Khan...
and usurped... nay!
hijacked! the aritocratic houses!
and they... fell... head: oh look!
no heels!
                   look!

   kopf-uber-ferse!

they're english! the fwench wish
they weren't cousins...
but the house of ßaß!
it was all a family affair!
                
                       the affair was so minded:
that poor h'america was involved...
and... how... the freed people from
the trigonometry of tyranny under
king george III... escaped...
then had to... choke cousins...
and fake cousins...
and bride themselves to...
the fire-bombing of Drezden...
etc.                         and more...              etc.

people with tattoos...
yes... those who don't mind history...
history and their amnesia project...
i have... skin clean from...
auschwitz imposed...
or that glorified ink-itch of modern times...
i have history:
my mind is tattooed...
loser loser: and a winner of what?
a tax on a car?
a road tax? a car i also own an
m.o.t.
                  i've learned to ride horses!
give me a horse!
**** your traffic car sterility:
i'm in love with the double-decker bus!
from london through to honk-*******-kong!

the 20th century can't just
become some... amnesia deposit...
history is a fake: i was supposedly...
only... "dreaming"...
          through to the Weimar Republic...
but i'm not invested in...
culminations...
in... old scores and schools of thinking:
taxing the dead... etc.

                i drink when i truly enjoy writing...
and... imagine... that i do:
imagine writing for a newspaper...
writing as a chore...
that has to be necessarily...
an artifact of sobriety and...
journalistic integrity... mmmpphhhghh...
sorry...
   journalistic integrity?
apart from a war or... ***** dealings
when all the culprits have had
their feet washed by a:
jesus christ look-alike...
    a... idi amin... retired in saudi arabia?

one could say... since i was born
at the end of "it": that i was... have been...
hijacked by the 20th century...
to write... a parody... epitaph...
someone has exacted me...
to write... an exit... wording...

perhaps because... there's still that
20th century immediacy...
all the other centuries... could...
not celebrate...
they could march on... into...
a dream-esque satirical state of progress...
perhaps they did dream...
while we're struck by the insomnia
invented by the 20th century...
well... the 19th...

when Prometheus...
            Frankenstein: fire! bad! ugh!
when Prometheus...
               when Promotheus...
St. Peter would love to entertain
the thriced acknowledged...
thus: no denial...
      Michael Faraday...
   or that lightbulb men-struosity...
     Edison...

   to clone a sheep...
        the perfected beijing-valkyrie
of the genetically perfect:
zero acne... blah blah...
               but a clone: clone?
   trouble that...
if not soul: then autonomy...
clone to pet?
ah... clone to pet... ah... ha ha! ah ha ha!
a clone to pet!
answers: the clone's self-determining
autonomy: alias: S.D.A.
        eh... it's missing a letter...
let's just keep it as "soul" for the minors...

ah ha ha: giggles oh my! the furore from
pandemonium!
the idea so lodged in the inferno...
the last time anyone heard just
laughter... was when...
****** was first... "investigated"...
in-ves-ti-ga-ted... gay-ted...
see: missing letters... somewhat...

and yes... there is... the closest approximate
of... flying lizards...
of... turtles out-living...
   beside what could be...
contrived... exoskeleton mush of muscles
and brains...
magpies...
of all the birds... magpies...
the closest akin... lizard folk...
to descend from "angels"...

   magpies are like... the cinema
depicted... velociraptors...
   magpies are the modern velociraptors...
the crows can croak their odin *******
off all they want...
the woodland pigeons do their...
whatever striptease echo coo... coo...

magpies... for me... magpies are...
the heirs of the velociraptor...
proof?! ah ha ha! proof?!
what proof is there that...
an asteroid... hit the earth...
and wiped out the dinosaurs?!
i haven't seen any "proof"...
  i've just heard... an undeniable fiction....
supported by science...
so here's mine!
the magpie descended from the velociraptor!
have you even... heard the magpie...
the variation of its communications
vocab?
it's prehistoric! compared to other birds!
even in the words of humans:
they are... conflated with:
gypsy-mythology:
that they... seek silver...
anything shiny...

           intelligence is a curse...
what proof is there that a meteor wiped
out the dinosaurs?!
what's history like in the hands
of man...
with active negation:
i.e. "the holocaust didn't happen"...
let's write our own:
play dough history...

the magpie is a direct descendent of
the velociraptor...
somehow the d.n.a. survived the meteor crash...
the turtle is still here...
the birds: still are...
the jelly-brain pickle of the great t-rex:
the serpent is still wriggling away...
but i ask: what proof:
what greast... undiscovered crater?!
the Mariana trench?
there's? big squid **** and all range
of car-boot sale *******?!
there?

                 a statue of shiva too:
snorkeling... to boot?!
    i've been alone and "lonely" enough...
of all the common birds...
the magpies... the magpies...
the "teutons" of the skies...
the velociraptors...
                  you've heard the seagulls...
you've heard the crows...
you've entertained the sparrows...
the woodland pigeons...
the robins remained mute...
the kestrels remained mute...
the magpies were the most vocal...
and when vocal... at most: in variation...

velociraptors...

yes... this is "history"... it's "history"...
with journalism and... "journalism"....
              last time i heard...
a louis XIV made it into the t.v. with...
a sidekick show of Versailles...
eh... Phillip II Augustus...
    "perhaps"... just "perhaps"...
           the lion in winter... who the ****
ever happens to remember a historical
excavation fetish from 1968?!
it was only a ******* cameo!

not for the actor... the capetian!
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
Ascot - Race Course 1910-20 by daib0


King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
At Ascot later that year
his mistresses, I hear,
all favored blacks over reds.
Black hats with black feathers
they wore
in mourning for Bertie, they swore.
Black dresses, of course
for their dear love, now lost,
who, often, had honored their beds.

King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
In uncertain blue twilight
Dark shadows were spawned
as the glow from the
lamp lights had fled
Kaiser Wilhelm now free
of restraint from
  his Uncle Bertie
with reckless abandon
chose war.
The Long period of peace on the European continent ( 1871-1914) was coming to an end. An end hastened by the death of England's King Edward VII, the man who was the uncle of Europe.  As Sir Edward Grey famously said at the time ( 8/1914) :"The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our time". I have tried to echo his sentiment in the second stanza.
Alan McClure Nov 2010
Betty Botter bravely brought her
best out putting pen to paper
built a book both brave and brittle
based it on the bitter battle
she had fought to beat the bottle
blossomed bigger, better, brighter
got the right to be a writer
Brought the book to Bertie Baxter
Baxter's Bookstore's biggest buyer
but the buyer was no biter
he thought vampire books were better
Tried to bate her and berate her
and belittle Betty Botter
bad benighted ******* bade her
"Be more like the bigger hitters!"
Better bet your bottom dollar
Betty Botter's ****** bitter.
Someone else could probably do this better, but hey-**.
Hazel Connelly Sep 2012
The net's a big headache
I need a bloke you see
I search and search for hours
But can't get one for free.

I bought myself a web cam
I thought I could chat and play
But there wern't any blokie blokes
Only the ones that were gay.

Hang on! Who's this?
It's a blokie figure
He looks like me grandad
But me grandad's thinner.

Says his name is Bertie
Asks if I'm into leather
Then said I was a bore
We wouldn't be good together.

Oh wait! I must be dreaming
I see a tanned Blokee
I smile at his picture
He smiles back at me.

He speaks , I can't hear him
He hears, but can't see
I think my PCs broken
Why does it happen to me?

I think I'm in love
I hope he feels the same
Oh ****! my PCs crashed
And I never got his name.


© Hazel
Got Guanxi Jul 2015
I used to climb Trees

Out in broad daylight,
where we used to ride bikes,
My home time was defined by streetlights,
fistfights and first times.  

I used to play kick stone.
outside on the roads of my home. 
Scared of the dark when I was home alone. 
A sombre tone in those days. 

My cul-de-sac was a continent,
you couldn’t count the times 
we jumped hedges and jumped the brooks,
wider berths as we grew and beamed with confidence.

He grew up on the other side of the brook to me!

Exploration into dilapidated buildings,
to seek out lost felines for the £10 reward. 
One guy got stung by a bee nine times, 
he lived to tell the tale of course.

Thinking back sometimes, 
It was us who had nine lives,
playing on the tramlines and and swimming in high tides.
colliding with live wires and life lessons,

We built sandcastles and burnt them down,
in spaces of seconds.
Lost in imagination.
I stayed in the sea until my fingers wrinkled, 
but this happened more often in the bath if i’m honest.

It seemed so simple, 
within the borders of our town, in those days.
The good old days,
or so they say - 
but i don’t disagree with the sentiment of it all, if i’m honest. 

It’s a ghost town now,
Treehouse's and broken fences,
Sweet shops and trips to the dentist.
A playground apprentice,
like Dennis the menace,

Ernie and Bertie,
maybe.

The bell rang more times than I care to remember.

It symbolised the beginning of the next class rather than the end.
To some at least, i’m not quite sure precisely who.
But it always started in September. 

Those were the days, 
Kiss chase and roller skates 
missed chances and romances.
First dances and your first falls.

The sycamore tree got smaller,
but remains the exact same size.
The boys got a little bit taller,
some of us guys even became wise.

Life is full of surprises. 

We flew apart. 
The sun went down and we grew up.

And now I don't climb Trees anymore.
my best friend
Nigel Morgan Apr 2015
for my Sidcot Friends

Two poems on Encouragement

I

She rose to her feet,
and sitting a few rows behind
I could not see her tears
as they coloured every word she spoke.

‘I have been thinking,’ she said,
‘of my dear sister dead
this fortnight past.
Loved by all whose lives
she touched, home and abroad.’

With some courage this woman
then described the memorial service,
the church alive and packed to honour
her sister’s life, a life of encouragement
always given with the kindest words,
and her wonderful smile, always.

II

His delivery was achingly slow
every word measured right
on the cusp between sense
and no sense, but ******* the memory.
Fitting somehow because his subject
was the movie ‘The King’s Speech’,
how he and friends had focused
during their Lenten study
on Bertie, the stammering monarch,
discouraged and made fun of
at every turn.

But,
befriended by a commoner
this future king was encouraged
to know that he might speak one day,
words of hope, of resolution, of courage;
encouragement no less - in a difficult time.

(to be read with aching slowness . . .)


At Meeting


‘For each and all
we need silence and stillness.’
So she had written . . .
and we were certainly
silent. Still is a harder
state when sitting
on those wooden forms,
benches well-bottomed
and the floor at our feet
creaking like planks
on a ship’s deck
in a stiff breeze.


Presence in the Midst


I hope for His presence.
It comforts me to know
He had been here before,
sitting close by, waiting.

But, lately, I am removed
from the Promise and the Gift,
and not fully awake, the silence
droops my shoulders,
bends my back so the daughter
of my friend (and partner)
wonders, ‘Is he asleep?’
No, I say when confronted
later. Not I.
Resting perhaps, and
just relieved from the sentry-go
of imagination’s so
persistent commands.



Heels Together


In spring sunshine
on a wooden bench
by the circular pond
I sit to listen
to water’s spray
and play from
the diver’s fountain.
Here a pair of sculptured feet,
body and limbs immersed,
and into the lilies disappeared.
But with the heels so neatly together:
to make a smaller splash.


Seven Hills


I’m surrounded here
by the Seven Hills –
Callow, Blackdown, Dolebury Warren,
Sandford, Banwell, Crook Peak
and Wavering Down and up
again and back to Callow.
These carboniferous limestone heights,
Mendips all, are home to the peregrine falcon,
geranium purpuleum, the long-eared owl,
and *dianthus gratianopoltanus
.


Sunset


Sitting alone,
with only the sunset
for company,
I watch an orange globe
fall, fall behind a distant
hill hiding the Severn and the sea,
a spring evening and the birds
in song before the approaching dark,
the rising moon, the solitary stars.



Four Yurts in a Field


‘Speaking truth to power,’
The Guardian said,
‘Questioning authority,
Challenging the status quo’
and so  . . .

Four yurts in a field
make for a centre of
simplicity, truth, peace
and equanimity all
quite inescapable here.




Singing Easter Sunday


We sang as we do here
on Easter Day this joyful
noise together all and sundry
to bless the day with music’s
Concord and Time, rhythm
enlivened by the Sweetest Charity,
flipping the wings, tingling the feet.

When every empty bar did give me leave
I caught her singing smile, her sensible
shoe-standing stance, her grace,
her peerless beauty in that grey
frock falling just to stockinged knees.
She was all and more and ever
I could wish her ever to be. Amen.
An Easter Settlement is the name given to a Quaker gathering over the days of Easter Thursday to Easter Monday. It's a time for families, food, fellowship and fun. Quakers don't actually celebrate Easter but they nonetheless recognise its spiritual importance and see it as an opportunity for reflection and friendship.
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.*

How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.

Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******* Bertie "Big *****" Bloggs.

His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****".
And then he croaked.  Unsucked and unloved,

O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-**** on a nearby trolley).

These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.
Joe Jul 2012
Parma became violent
She threw her weight
Around

Bertie cowered
Hunched shoulders, eyes straight
Down

Parma pounded, pummeled
Bert's soft head fell
In

It takes allsorts
Bert's final thought
There is no sweeter sin
Dora Joe Dec 2014
There is Bozo,
Then comes Donny.
***** follows.

Above me is Bo,
Bertie next.
Mmm, yeah, Krunzie.

The princess, "Sunshine".
Yes, the little one.

And me,
Oh, I fit somewhere in there.
But, no harm done.
I'd miss me too.

Usually referred to as no.5.
Or no.4.
Whatever you fancy.

The End.

-Doey
Olivia Kent Feb 2015
The gas man visited today.
Tried to blow them all away.
Smoking setts all filled with fumes.
Bertie badger's done away with.
Bovine T.B.
Setts empty now.
All for the sake of some silly cow.
(C) LIVVI
butterfly May 2017
sweet little nothings -
bertie Botts flavoured beans -
from the sweetest heart on earth

how sweet to munch each beans
oh! ‘tis not the thing
but the act - with - Endearment!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
as albums go...

  kiss me kiss me kiss me

will always outrank

    disintegration:

...show me show me
        show me how you do that trick
the one that makes me scream he said
the one that makes me laugh he said
and threw his arms around my neck
show me how you do it
and i promise you i promise that
i'll run away with you...

       i was somehow always the big boy
preferring depeche mode...
  but then again,,, the vampires were out,
along with the Edwards...
           and... the game was played...
          
would have been easier asking queen Vic
to eat a ******* mango...
    had Bertie scolded his son's
stutter...
maybe then Wilhelm would not have
sent the Zeppelins...
               but then again...
what a boring London without
the Blitzkrieg revisionism!
                      a love being love,
yet a love, most painful -
           like lip-reading a mouth of a nurse
while she allowed me to spectate her
talking...
                  on the tube to her place
of work...
       lip-reading...
                    mouth open, penning,
death ears...
                          
i once heard an advice...
can't get a girlfriend in england?
travel to India...
i have a shortcut...
Manchester, Liverpool,
or Newcastle...

                        as far as i am concerned,
the English girls up there
are no chasing Saudi Sheikhs...
                  and aren't too keen on
Germans, either...
            might test my luck...
                           i'll wait for my parents
to die...
   then i'll head to t he north of England
and express my fondest
thank you, outside of
Goa or Gujarat;
i'll keep the curry recipe,
                     thank you, very, much.

i always belonged in the north...
southern English galls were
always supposedly gold digging...
      
                  my parents die...
i'll travel north...
   and have me a treat of a
northern granny to bore,
and become boorish with...
           not very unlike pears or
apples...
english women?
     sour grapes in the home counties surrounding
London and encompassing Bristol..
come the north?

            fireworks in winter!
daniela Apr 2019
it’s always national something day. national pancake day.
national sourdough bread day. national tweed day.
national jelly bean day. national talk like shakespeare day.
there are bakers with flour hands and runny batter
and elbow patches and rambling professors and assignments due
and the bertie botts every flavor beans that make you think of
hogwarts and sonnets. there’s always a tomorrow dragging
itself up over the eyes of last night.

today is national reconciliation day.
the planet has eleven years before it starts biting back
and your heart feels like a timer. you should see
hawaii before it sinks into the ocean. you should see the polar
icecaps before they melt. you should climb to the bottom of
the grand canyon and look up at the sky if you still see it
and celebrate national canyon day if we have one on the calendar.
you should accept that life is beautiful because it’s ugly.
you should call your mother more. you should tell her that
there is a word for “soul” in every language. tell her alma.
tell her you were buried under snow for so long that you forget
that your father, born of rainforest, still takes it for magic.
tell her that life’s not fair and you still want one anyways.
tell her that people always ask you how could you write
about love at time like this and you always
answer how can you not?
in my poetry class today we wrote poems in 30 minutes using adages or idioms as the titles
Lawrence Hall May 2019
The rain makes even concrete beautiful:
A drop, then two, and then a singing shower
Baptizing the pavement with little pools
That catch the lights and bounce them all about:

Street lights all golden, rippling up and down
And automobile lights slipping across
The other lights, interrupted by feet
Splashing and slipping all the wet way home

And you, dancing about in the puddles -
The rain makes even love more beautiful



(A brief look through the InterGossip does not show that “Rain Makes Even Concrete Beautiful” has been used as the title for a song or poem or other “spot of art” (as Bertie Wooster would say). If it has, please advise me so I can change it.)
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.
The bus stop
was there,
but not quite there.

Something was
missing. Or had,
perhaps been added.

Buses passed,
all with the
same driver.

That was odd,
but not quite odd
enough to be troubling.

The F11 wouldn’t stop.
Yet, it stopped long ago,
a green streak fading –

a tail of memories,
the ghosts of boats –
under Bella and Bertie’s gaze.

Going back
can never
be going back –

chocolate bars shrink
and the wrappers
rustle, differently.
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            The Haunted Electric Toothbrush

This morning at dawn
I was alone
I heard a moan
A mysterious groan
A ceaseless drone
It wasn’t the ‘phone

It was my toothbrush

It had on its own
Turned itself on

My Philips Sonicare ™© and (legal protections in a peach tree) has done me good service for years. This morning it turned itself on atop a glass shelf with other little bottles of this and tubes of that, making an unusual moaning / groaning / droning that took me some time to sort out. It is a great device; when it finally hands in its lunch pail (as Bertie Wooster would say) I will buy another just like it.
Shakespeare says nothing about electric toothbrushes.

— The End —