shadows cast into clouds of sand as footprints leave their mark
voices so full of fun with not a care in this world
summer sun washed over by the crash of thunder
the sea shouting against the shells to your ears

blue whispery skies feed warmness to the skin
as weeks of a worklife pass to say goodbye
ice cream melted to cheeks as tissue lips from a nan
feed a childs cry
this is what we live for in a world so left behind

donuts sugared a thirst as sticky fingers lay ******
fish from an ocean battered or fried to the best ive ever noshed
sounds of the beach washed over me as grandads snores a snort ..
too much lunchtime pie i guess ..deserving resort
dreams of a past ...dreams of another

football played and dogs all wet scenes from a beach
alive still ...kids gone red
searing sizzles from a sun at its best as rounders run
or frisbee fetched
photo taken a collection booth ..memories made as dreams come true
dreams of a summer
dreams of a summer

The dreamy sea washed ashore bringing
little bubbles of life to its end
Children splashed and jumped as wave after wave fell in
Bucket and ***** at the ready as castles from the sky
formed from minds in youth and fairy tales
Cream at the ready as grandads cap retreats  
crisped from the comfort of his strippy deckchair he waits  
Mothers blankets blown from the wind held down by
a shoe to be lost and a stone found yet not cast

These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had    

Ice cream sounds calling at fathers request
Is grandma still yawning from bingo's night fest
a donut for mother all sugared and warm
don't forget Charlie as woof is all heard
A match game of cricket from children about
or footy at lunchtime sweet sand in your mouth


These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had  

Asleep from the sun and a sneaky quick pint
as dad tries to doze be free to unwind
A call for 3 strikes as rounders is found
hear grandad all snoring more cream to be crowned  
Tis time for a dip to twinkle your toes
to jump back a mile oh blimey its cold

These are the memories all children should have
a time when no phones when a time wasn't planned
No little computers to spoil the day
just fun and great memories of children at play
A time when your family all joined in the fun
a shame we have lost this to greed and the sun

We didn't see that one coming,
a curved ball out of nowhere

'there but for the grace...'

but
let's face it
we knew they were titanic tossers
dealing
off the bottom of the deck
*****
low down
double crossers,

doling out
reeling more in
they're getting fat

we're at the thin end
of the wedge
all
hedging bets

let's face it
we run out of words to describe
the lie they use
to justify

just why they abuse.

The greed of them is becoming legendary,
human decency goes by the board while
the board in the boardroom are *******
with my life as if
it is I
that's
the bride and
the longest suffering wife.

well
they can do what they like,
but I don't have to like what they do
and if they're ******' with me they're
sure as hell
******' with you.

We meet by the lockers
at break
I'm still amazed
that this school
has Cheerleaders
that basketball
not rounders & netball
is the sport played
that we study
the Cold War
' Of Mice & Men'
& the War in Vietnam
that we have 'Hitzenfrei' days
that our German teacher
always forgives our mistakes
that boys & girls
hang out together
that we put on musicals
I've never heard of
That we celebrate the fall of the Wall
that we take school trips
to Concentration Camps
that there's no uniform
that the teachers
rarely explain anything
that the word ' rubber'
doesn't mean ' eraser'
here but something else
that there are stereotypes
like 'nerd' & ' prom queen'
that we welcome grafitti
that we believe in Love
above any kind of Study
that we have the freedom
to pick & choose our failiures
without being sent
to the Principal's office
that we read Kerouac
Carl Sandburg & Ginsberg
that nearly everyone
has lived in at least
two or three
different countries
that we rarely fight
that my crush
plays trumpet
in a ska band
that we go
to the nearby Lakes
on weekends
& the English language cinema
on Tuesdays
that we celebrate Halloween
bit by bit I nearly forget
my All Girls school days
in soggy Britain
where I had no friends
where we sang hymns
every single morning
where we didn't practice
the Love we preached
where our future
was crumbling old Oxbridge
where we had a coat of arms
where we had houses
named after the merchant ships
of our Founder  from the 1600ds
where we didn't dream
of becoming Presidents
or Astronauts but Academics
forever lost in musty books
the flower of our youth, wasted


Hitzenfrei days were days in summer when we were let off school because it was too hot.
Wall - Berlin Wall

So now we have captain Cook
OK, he might be worth a look
  But Andrew Strauss
  Back in his house
To my very core I am shook

In the test team new names do pop
With Carberry right at the top
  All rounders not thin
  With Tredwell for spin
And Wright giving a biff and a bop

Shahzard is there for swing
Of reverse he can be king
  And if Prior gets vexed
  Steve Davies comes next
Pardon me if start to sing.

Onto the **** One-Day side
This I simply cannot abide
  Or believe what I read
  Cook is now made to lead
At table bottom we will reside.

It's sports day
it should be fun
there's no way
anything could go wrong...

but it did
during rounders my shoulder became irritated due to a previous problems during swimming.
200m sprint well I was put down for 400 but I did 200 instead. All went well I was in the lead from the beginning
but when I finished I wasn't tired like I usually am and was about to pass out.
I was told to sit down but didn't realise what I was on about.
Eventually I got away from the crowd still unable to breathe properly
and threw up, calmed down, nearly passed out with the help of nobody.

Yiska waits by the fence. The school's on the other side. Yiska waits for Benny; he is at lunch, she waits impatiently. The playing field is crowded with other kids; some girls sit in groups talking and laughing. Yiska sees boys coming out, Benny not amongst them. She waits arms folded,a face on her. Alma said she'd told her brother about her. Alma was her best friend. That's the boy, Yiska had told Alma. He's my brother, Alma said. Good, you can tell him, I fancy him, Yiska said. Alma had said she told him. Yiska waits; walks along the fence; sees other boys. No Benny. She has visions of things going places. Not that she'd tell Alma that. Some things are best not told. She looks towards the playing field; girls and boys in groups or couples or alone. She looks back towards school. He's there, Benny, walking by the fence, hands in pockets, school tie hanging loose, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Alma said you wanted to see me, Benny says, looking at Yiska, his eyes hazel, his look, steady. Yes, I did, Yiska says, feeling her nerves beginning to unravel. Rick said you wanted to see me, too,  Benny says. My brother? Yiska says. Yes, the very one, Benny says. They stand by the fence, face to face. Only he said, you fancied the socks off me, Benny says, smiling. I never said. She looks past him. Yiska feels undone. Anyway I'm here, Benny says. Only said I liked you, she says, looking at him now, seeing his hair, the quiff, the smile. He looks her over quickly: eyes, hair, lips, hips, thighs shape of. Shall we go for a walk? Yiska asks. Sure, he says. Where? She asks. Benny shrugs. On the field? She nods. They walk off together, apart. His hands are still in his trouser pockets. She walks hands in front, fingers joined, prayer mode .Cat got your tongue? He says. No, no, just thinking, she says. Of what? Me? My socks? She smiles. She looks at him sideways on. What do you fancy? He asks. Who said I fancied anything? Yiska says, blushing slightly. Rick did, Alma hinted, Benny says, My socks, apparently, he adds. She looks at the playing field. Folds her arms. Stops and looks at him. I never said fancied. So what then? He says. She looks at her shoes: black, dull, unpolished. Maybe, a bit, I do, she says, looking at his shoes: black, scuffed. He takes his hands out of his pockets. Touches her arm, feels along until he reaches a hand. Nice hand, he says. She lets him hold it, feels his hand touching hers. Warm, soft. Taking her hand, they walk on. How much? Benny asks. How much what? Yiska says. Do you fancy me? He says, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand. Fancy's an odd word, she says, interested, more, she adds. O, I see, not fancy me at all, he says. She looks uncertain, the blush spreading. If I were in your bedroom would you fancy me there? He asks. What a question, she says, feeling her pulse increasing, imagining him there, in her room, her bed made-unusual for her- but made up tidy. I'd fancy you anywhere, Benny says, in a nice way of course, not necessarily in your bedroom. She looks at the high fence, the road beyond, traffic passing. He looks at her hair, the way her ears are just visible if she moves her head a small bit; lobes, suckable. Alma didn't say you fancied me, Benny says, but Rick did. *******, Yiska says, just like him. She looks at the wooded area to the left of the playing field. Went there once to fetch a rounders ball that got hit there in P.E, she muses. Could go in there, she says, pointing. Best not, he says, people may get wrong ideas. Think things. He sits on the grass, pulls her down, next to him. Safer here, he says, holding her hand, still. She sits next to him, crosses her legs, pulls her school skirt over her knees. She senses his hand there. Warm, wet, heated. How old are you? He asks. Same age as Alma. Thought so, he says. How old are you? She asks. Fourteen, he says, leave school at Christmas, be fifteen, then. She looks at his hand in hers. Wish I could leave school then, too, she says. I can't wait, he says. No more brain-washing. She looks at his eyes. Hazel, bright. I will dream of him tonight, she thinks, I'll dream of him next to me. His hand in mine. Mine hand in his. Will we kiss? She imagines so. Must not make too much noise though. Mother hears things too well, she thinks, looking at his chin, the jawline. What will you do? She says. When? He asks, looking at her school tie, tied in an untidy knot, her small ******* bulbs. When you leave school? She says. Don't know, want to be a mechanic, maybe car mechanic, he says, wondering what she would be like if she was beside him on her bed or his bed for that matter, but then she'd had have his younger brother there, too. Then you won't be here, she says. No, thank God, he says. I'll miss you being here, she says. Can always visit you weekends if I get a bus, he says, wondering if her bed wouldn't be better as she slept alone. She strokes his hand in her as if it were a cat. He looked past her at the other kids on the grass. Reynard was playing football as was Trevor. That'd be good, she says, I could meet you off the bus, if you came. If you like, he says, watching Trevor almost score a goal. She looks at his hazel eyes, the smile, Elvis like, the quiff of brown hair, his hands, she muses, stroking with her other hand. I don't want to appear forward, she says, but could we kiss? He looks back at her. Kiss? He says, looking at her lips and cheek and forehead. Where? He asks. Here, she says. Where, here? He says, homing in on her lips with his eyes. Not here on the field here, she says, blushing, looking around in case others are watching. Where, then? He asks, looking at her eyes, seeing himself there, small and untidy. Maybe, at school, in a corridor that's empty or in a doorway, she says. Why not here? He asks, no one will care a jot if we do. She bite her lip, releases his hand, looks past him, behind him. What will they say? She asks. Who? He says. Others around, she says, returning her gaze on him. Who gives a monkey, he says. I do, she replies, reddening in the face. He gets up to leave. Look, I am missing a game of football sat here, another time maybe, he says. No, no, don't go, she says, clutching at his hand, being pulled up as she does so. She stands beside him, still holding his hand. I can watch, too, she says. He looks at her, feels her hand in his. OK, he says, if you want. I do, she lies, walking with him towards the boys kicking a ball around. She senses the grass was  a bit wet because she is. She feels it. They stand and watch the boys in their game. She feels uncomfortable. Feels slightly undone, but they watch the game, she unkissed, but watching the boys having fun.

In the cancer museum
I imagine where mine
would rest in peace and ease.

My eyes scan rows of organs:
Disney’s lungs on top of
Newman’s own **** pair;

Ingrid Bergman’s left breast
bump Bette Davis’ right—
indiscreet voyagers;

Audrey Hepburn’s colon
nesting Farrah Fawcett’s
like Tiffany Angels.

I saw my spot next to…
but the doctor called me
back to look at the scans.

He pointed out my growths
grouped in a triangle,
told me of their plan/cure-

called them clouds but they seemed
caterpillars vegging
out on my intestines.

I imagined them cocooning,
metamorphosing to
surgical butterflies

or staying just rounders,
yellow earrings just for
Audrey’s and Farrah’s lobes.

Then the doctor turned it
and the picture became
more terrible things:

rats, sharks, wasps all vying
for valuable shelf space
in the small gallery.

Tourists and soldiers from
the plane crash/war museum
wander in wondering

why there are no jet planes
reassembling in slow
motion horror, dog tags

melted into the seats,
flesh in the torn engines,
no screams of real terror,

just the crowd bumping and
marching into me in silence,
sometimes taking pictures

while **** yellow chemo
solution runs down my
leg in pupae slime lines.  

The last one opens me,
looking for spikes of grief
or fury.  Finding none,

not even a cold tomb,
just a rip, tear, dim sounds
as the crowd echoes down

and surges out the door
for all the Holocaust
store souvenirs next door.

I hear my heart rustle
in the computer bytes,
the breath of trees

and swallows in my files,
a dusty cross inside
releasing butterflies

to the sky as I step
back and watch all
****** into the blue.

“Do you think I got it
all in?” the doctor says,
snapping my last picture

I was brought up on a council estate,
I had 53 aunty's and I was everyones mate,
We played out till dark or till we felt hunger,
We'd beg mum or dad to let us play longer,
I had holes in me shoes but they made me run faster,
I had national health glasses held together with plaster,
Dried snot on me face mixed in with the dirt,
Corporation pop stains all over me skirt,
But I was happy,
Go of for the day with butties of jam,
If we where lucky, some biscuits of me mam,
An old fairy liquid bottle full of cold water,
There's one we'd always chase, but never ever caught her,
We'd make dens in the woods from old boxes and trays,
Be princesses in a castle, oh what joyful days,
We'd sit in the field, making daisy chains,
Play rounders and hido, and loads of games,
Run to the mobile for a 10p mix of sweets,
Sit on the curly wall at the bottom of our street,
Pinch a bunch of flowers from St Gregs ground,
And say to mum "honestly they where found",
Get grounded for giving cheek or answering back,
Walked along the ralla, the old train track,
Wait for the icey, all of us in drones,
To ask him politely for any stale cones,
Played out in the rain, got soaked through and through,
Just some of the things we used to do,
In those endless summers of my past,
That have gone far to fast,
But they have made me who I am now,
A ****** of Mother and a miserable cow.
Haha joking,
I'm proud of my childhood, I was very lucky.

I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town
————————————————————————-


<>

I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town, Jack’s on Bridge Street, the hardware *** toy *** anything-you-need store.

I buy my painting supplies by special order, delivered by ferry,where they get crazed at the colors I select, Vermillion, Drunk-tank pink, and the marvelous, quite scandalous, ***** Gallant.

My easel resides on my front porch, never moved, only when a wipe down is necessitated, or rain storm torrential makes it essential,
to avoid  warping wood.

From the porch, I paint the view, from my house on the hill, overlooking the channel separating our tiny isle from the mainland is deemed magical amazing, for this same scene painted repeatedly, but  differently,
a thousand times, a thousand changing ways.

Almost every home, only for the year rounders, has its own version, so my obituary, will be both in the town newspaper and forever before their eyes.

I do not sell my paintings, the ones supplied, gifted by my island.
Unasked, I notice that someone walks past my porch, my existence thus a daily-verification, in every season, but for the winter, but then, my presence is marked, publicized, nonetheless, duly reported,
by Jack’s delivery boys.

Cities are *****, grimy places
Full of people with interesting faces.

There's dark hair, blonde hair, red hair, white hair and grey ;  imagine all the colours of a rainbow and then add a few.

There's fair skin, dark skin, olive skin and mellow tones too.

There's small eyes, wide eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, grey eyes and brown; some have 20:20 vision, some hide behind glasses, some wear contact lenses to enhance their sight, some have a world of darkness behind their eyes.

There's large noses, small noses, wide noses, button noses, some hold glasses upon their face, some are cumbersome, some full of grace.

There's clear skin, wrinkled skin, acne skin, damaged skin, translucent skin, soft skin, dry skin, sunkissed skin, sunburnt skin.

There's big ears, small ears, pierced ears, cauliflower ears, ears with rings in to make them wide; some people wear hearing aids to enhance what they hear, some live in total silence.

Some people are tall, some are short, some are able to walk, some need assistance every day to be able to walk even a small way.

There are cyclists and runners on every street, roller skaters, walkers your most likely to meet; add in football, cricket and rugby players too, basketball, rounders, netball, tennis and golf, squash, badminton, swimming and diving, there's such diversity in all that we do.

Libraries and Museums open their doors, sshh be quiet, though it's free to explore.

Shops, coffee shops, hairdressers a plenty, though some of the bigger spaces remain empty; cost of rent is exceedingly high and don't even think about the option to buy.

There's leisure parks to walk and have fun with your dogs, parks with swings and roundabouts for your children who are  young.

Some Cities have rivers, some have canals built to let barges through.

Some Cities have harbours, marinas too, look over the Ocean at a sea that's blue.

All Cities have Universities to provide education to those from home or from far and wide.

Spoilt for choice of courses to attend there's professions of course, doctors, dentists, lawyers and nurses, accountants and vets. There's media, dance, English language and literature, geography, history and maths. There's IT, cookery and drama and how to handle a camera. There's business and entertainment, wedding planning and Latin. Any subject of your choice can be found somewhere around.

You can find comedy clubs, poetry readings, chess clubs, scout clubs, lego groups, cookery classes, sewing classes, reading groups, right outside your door, if you took the chance to look around your neighbourhood and the  time to explore.

Don't write off the City though it may look ***** and grimy in places, it is as you can see, full of interesting people and places.

Soft brown bread easily cut into
teeth seek out seeds to split
slight crunch of salad
green and still a little wet
brown spread of pickle
just a little, not too strong
save strength for the cheese
salty and satisfying, addictive
simple sandwich uncovering
memories of simple times
always sunny all the colours
seem brighter when I remember
family picnics games of rounders
wildly swinging the bat
I always missed
lounging on the green grass
gently placing crisps
with extreme precision between
the soft brown bread

SATURATED IN SONG

Single symphony's sent as latest greatest samples of earths finest noises

Drops of dew to begin anew, clouds breaking as seagulls come into view

Rhythms  of rounders on rivers trickle,  arousing even the fickle, flowing emotion felt from the voices

Rain songs rein high while rain across a plain tunes take on a different hue

Screaming or singing of streams gleaming leave the ears steaming, while our mind and soul rejoices

Mysterious moisture or rivers rolling often leaves us over flowing, Rhymes of their sadness  also carry gladness to help us feel new

Whispers of wandering waves leaves our souls enslaved, distant serenades giving the voiceless choices

Babbling brooks come from song books seeping  deeply into all our nooks, Their depth carried in the minds of all but a few

Boisterous ballads refresh our palates, leaving blood pumping through hearts and veins

Dittie and Dally about the dew drop Inn is a win, choirous voices allowing us to see into the sea

Moisterous boisterous ballads refresh our palates,  waterfalls falling become the calling while always awaiting refreshing rhymes of rain across the plains. R.C

Once more, through town upon my bike, I flew
On Marston Rd, to think, that once, I knew
This road was as the daily one to school.
Then up through Cowley, thinking myself a fool
That hot summer’s day
To make the same way
Down Magdalen St so late, so mad,
Thinking of the fun I had…
Then down past school, the roundabout
Where I’d do a quarter turn about
Each and every day a month ago.
Even past the fields, father would not let the river slow,
The river of my memories, as he asked were these familiar to me
Too? And so they were; Rounders, tennis, punting days’ insanity
Have not escaped my mind just yet.
Up High St, past the colleges, I could not bet
For thoughts to be abated. My sweet town
Bereft of all but my memories strewn down
As I still rode on, and down Queen’s Lane now
Where many a happy lonely moment was spent, thinking how
I rushed down there with shopping early before Christmas…
Taking the corner, admiring the blooms, and fast
The next one, and my chest is filled with a twinge
As I remember a rainy night beneath New College Bridge…
Then St Helen’s Passage, the Bridge of Sighs, the Sheldonian!
My sweetest, proudest moments as an Oxonian…
Broad St, broad and small from lack of crowds
Still my head is in the clouds -
And St Mary Magdalen, the concert with my brother in winter,
The Ashmolean standing tall within the hinter,
And up St Giles, and down the Lamb and Flag,
Thinking of the afternoons I’d sometimes drag
Walking there, various aims or none in mind,
Now leaving the Natural History Museum behind,
And Dad reminds me of the trees that used used to fruit
Along Park Rd where now there are none… So, en route.

i'm not much of a gamer,
i stopped on PS1...
   now... if i actually saved enough
money for a PS2...
i would have been a gamer
for a while longer...
so ****** graphics is when
i left the whole carousel...
    but i somehow made a comeback...
on the toilet...
   so what... 20 minutes a day?
some people reads books
on the throne of thrones...
          now that's bad...
         and in light of the current
youtube banning of...
what's his name rikkaku?
   rikakikaku?
   you might know the story...
he plays a game,
punches a feminist in...
what's that game called?
   red dead redemption 2?
     anyways...
   i currently play War Robots...
(2 lame 2 blame user)...
but i realized something...
  NPC games are... what's the word...
****?
       i watched a few videos
and starting thinking...
  this sure looks like someone
jerking off...
     or at least to make an eloquent
elaboration...
the games are solipsistic...
literally solipsism...
           now... the genius of
War Robots... there's no NPC
in them... these games are fun
because you are put into a squad
and you have to come up
with an on the spot tactic with
anonymous real-life people...
    like: heavy robots for
    the long distance combat...
medium robots: all rounders
and light robots to catch the beacons...
to hell with NPC games...
yes... i know that there is a payment
processor in place...
   but... there's also a patience processor...
it takes time to level up
either robots or weapons...
you don't have to pay...
   you just have to wait...
which is also genius,
because then the game longevity
increases!
   how?
     well... with NPC games...
you get to finish the game...
there's a beginning a middle and
an end...  
       so... there's your 50 quid
down the drain...
              non-NPC games are
inexhaustible...
   and if you learn to be patient enough...
you get to level up...
  actually... there is an "end"
in this non-NPC game...
the skirmish mode...
where everyone's robot is at level 12...
and their weapons are at level 12...
i'm guessing the developers
inserted this mode in...
on occasions, to counter the argument
that battles are won because
the squads
                     are inconsistently matched
up... with rich users...
who do pay for leveling are playing
users... who do not pay...
*******...
      i like the disadvantages (if there
really are any)...
   because they the need to figure out
a team tactic intensifies...
         oh hell... non-NPC games all
the way... it's like going back into
a ******* sand-box and playing with
other kids...
      non-NPC games? rule!

The destiny plays vital role
in everyone of our lifetime.
We must get ready to play with it.
Everyday with enthusiasm.


It doesn't matter whether we win or not.
But be the players, all rounders,
and founders of stadium.
We must give the tough competition.

Destiny or fate must have written about us.
Without bothering about that,
lead the life fruitfully,
One day you may fade not now. Play well.
Dr.Marysuresh

Memories of childhood days,
Where outside the children played.
When fathers worked and mum’s stayed home,
No latch key kids, or home alone.
We didn’t have a lot to eat,
School dinners were a welcome treat.
Cake and custard was the best,
wanting more like all the rest.
Tuesday was family allowance day,
butter roll then out to play,
Playing rounders with our mates,
Not going home until very late.
If you got bullied by another,
You didn’t dare go tell your mother.
For she would give your ear a slap,
Tell you go and hit them back.

Imagination was a wondrous thing,
boys made carts with wood and string.
Old pram wheels were the best,
race down hill was the test.
Battered and bruised we didn’t care,
two or three would often share.
Mum would shout, our trousers torn,
Patched up knees and bums all worn.

Blankets we had on our beds,
frozen fingers put between our legs.
Curled up in a ball shivering and cold,
dads old coat was like pure gold.
Wake up in the morning with nose of blue,
Jack Frost had painted the windows to.
We didn’t care what we would wear,
or even think to brush our hair.
Our parents didn’t have a lot,
no need had we the door to lock.
Neighbours helped out one another,
Children would respect their mother.
Memories of childhood years,
as clear today as yesteryears.