Heavy rain tonight! I didn’t get soaked. D’ya know why?
I was wearing me rain jacket. Me big coat.
If I wear it, it never rains.
The moment I wear shorts or sunglasses,
I’m soaked right through.
I swear my shorts attract clouds.
But, my big jacket. The one with all the pockets.
It has never felt a drop of rain.
That’s why the clouds moved by me on the ride home.
Words – my contribution
Hear My Problems Only
If I could stop myself feeling, would I tear it out of me?
No, but I would cut this feeling from me.
Dig deeper for focus on possible positives.
If I could remove all the reminders, and the memories to make it hurt less, should I try to silence all?
I need to feel. I need to know. I need to hang onto hope.
No matter how little remains.
If I could wake up tomorrow energised, refreshed, no longer tired and raring to go, would I sleep peacefully now?
I know I can. Yet I can’t. I should. But, I won’t.
I try to release the anger. The pain. The worry.
Should I desperately reach out for hope and determination, clutching it to my heart?
Kick back the snapping, snarling, scrappy black dogs at the feet of my bed.
Today ends soon. Tomorrow starts immediately. Onwards.
Tree Fall.
Amongst the space of a lonely field,
Towering into winds never before perceived,
For many a century, the wood stood unpeeled,
History’s hardest winds never before conceived.
This night, your great winds blew, relentlessly,
Shaking all umbrellas as they wandered,
And sweeping side to side shattered panes carelessly,
Macintosh jackets thought as squandered.
Stood upright, resistant to gales,
Arose squelching sounds to tree roots,
Battered and blustery heaped on, it fails,
Tougher than a pair of old boots.
Creaking and leaning, sinking deep into,
The tree sought to stand hard on the land,
The air blew and grew as the storm did brew,
Tanned tree’s fanned roots sank into sand.
The turbulent gust gave more bursts of force,
Fierce furious and volcanic blasts slammed,
No longer the tree could hold its long course,
Rammed into it and cause it to be dammed.
Tempestuous savagery caused the tree to turn,
Leaves leapt into volatile and quarrelsome air,
Down went all branches as the trunk turned up fern,
Slumped down, did it all without but a prayer.
The ruinous remains of life situated across,
Soon, dies down the storm of the night,
New horizons lay out for its coating of moss,
Once upright, now fitted tight, susceptible to parasite.
The adaptive bole will adjust as best,
The sideways makeover, an alteration,
Its fruits shall bear once more upon its crest,
Should it steady in its newfound acclimation.
Budweiser.
Shimmering shards of shattered semblance
Beneath broken bottles, unwanted emblems
This mark of shame; scattered destruction
The cyclists, aware, swerving the obstruction;
Former bottles tossed, discarded and then some.
We are unneeded. Before this day
We were used, emptied, paid for, on display
Gave joy, and felt sorrow and now we lay wasted
On the croft, forgotten.
Pick a battle with our handlers so:
To you and your unforgivable hands we know
To decay, expenditure and ruin, with lost opportunity.
Broken faith in our use to your community
We no longer hold your golden ale, or darkest stout
On the croft, forgotten.
Some.
Sometimes, I feel backwards. Some hours, all I touch breaks. Some weeks last longer than others. Some days, a storm becomes an argument. Some moments fade to anger. Some challenges become impassable mountains. Some paths cut off. Some routes have new walls. Some connections tear apart. Some green turns to black. Some perfumes rot in sunlight. Some rainbows wash away. Somehow, I can’t walk away.
Like yesterday
Was it yesterday we last met? Or, the week before? What? Over four years?! Unbelievable! It feels just like yesterday.
A new place with a new arrangement? Feels homely and familiar. I’ve never been here, yet it fits like a glove. Incredible! It feels just like yesterday.
Older paws and fresh tails. New photos and shirts and books and electronics. Similar but different games. Same old, same old. It feels just like yesterday.
Same voices, different figures. Hearts and minds open or closed. Warmth, deeply felt friendship. Experiences gained through tales and moments unmatched. It feels just like yesterday.
Hugs, handshakes, and cheers. One for the road. A night cap. A natter. It all matters. It’s irrelevant until it’s relevant. A proud writer talking to a writer. Audiences growing. It feels just like yesterday.
Congratulations and commiserations. Job done. Here’s to another one. Not too many years away next time. Days instead. Open doors and invites. It feels like it will be tomorrow.
Too much pressure.
Too much pressure, I’m at boiling point. Crawling beneath, and within, hidden desperation. I know not, and no longer see what’s around me. I’m scared, so afraid, bring me down.
Too much pressure, bubbling over. I cannot taste this food you make. Isolated, solitary, remote, godforsaken, detached from you. There is no love about this town. The fury I feel is bringing me down. Curled up here, afraid to move.
Too much pressure, burning up. I cannot hear the sound of birds. Rile, irritable, aggravating, enraged – no smiles. All intrinsics, essentials, and instincts instantly lost. Insobriety, inebriated, intoxicated, disappearing. This night stayed. No reappearance nearing.
Too much pressure, feeling cold. I cannot feel your hand on mine. Unevenness, rough, changed, random protrusions throwing out delusions and illusions. Sleeping here in fear’s shadow, hiding away. Cold, clammering, coughing, spluttering, wheezing and sneezing. I struggle to breathe, numb and wheezing.
Too much pressure, reaching boiling point. Too much pressure, bubbling over. Too much pressure, burning up. Too much pressure, feeling cold. Pressure relieving as I slip away. Drifting and shifting. I’m out. Gone.
Reflected.
Morality is an argument. Conscientious decisions trouble. Choices a barrage of beratement. Unearthed memories lay in rubble.
Wicked temptation twists contemplation. Rightfully wrongly, lyrics of living. Shrouded silk on slivered sensation. The sieged scattered soul of sacred sieving.
Reflection reigns readily within contrast. Thoughts tumble twist, blast, and clash. Tumultuous turmoil thrashes out the past. What once was, and what no longer is, rests in ash.
Triumphant yesterday smoulders in the mirror. Grounded mortar spills from split seams. Consider it, nor will it deliver and trigger a shiver. The remains of the day gleams no further dreams.
I said you were…
I said you were too hot, so you cooled down.
I said you were too bright, so you dulled somewhat.
I said you were too serious, and like that you became a clown.
I said you didn’t share, you gave away the lot.
I said you were too fast for me, so on the brakes you stood.
I said you were ever so proud, so you became modest.
I said you were an angel, so you got up to no good.
I said you didn’t hide truth, so you became dishonest.
I thought you cared, with that you spared no thought.
I said you were too dry, so you rained hard.
I said you saved too much, and the balance became nought.
I listened to your love for me, only I became a mard.
Good luck İlkay Gündoğan
Irreplaceable
loveable
kind-hearted
accountable
yes, he can
8
Gracious
ünbelievable
natural talent
das genie
out-of-this-world
ğlorious
assertive
never ever to be forgotten memories.
Interminable.
Eternally.
How long is that?
Forever and a day.
Surely that is too long, right?
Always.
When does that end?
Until I know when, I’ll carry on.
Until I know how, I will turn the now into the future;
And the future into the past.
Interminable.
Pryce Writer.
Ever since the cinematic cover of the Aberystwyth Mon Amour noir novel caught my eye, I’ve needed to wear glasses. That isn’t so true. I have never worn glasses. Also, not true. I have worn sunglasses and safety goggles, as well as some sort of cinematic enhancement framed device. I have never worn spectacles due to an eyesight problem. Not that wearing glasses should be frowned upon. You can also frown without eyewear. One author, and probably a few more were glasses. Nobody judged them, or perhaps they did. I cannot be responsible for everyone. I wouldn’t want to be, either. Malcolm Pryce, the author of the Louie Knight series wears glasses and has great vision.
Mr Pryce, lectured at Oxford, published online videos (The Oxford Writer) for aspiring writers, worked in advertising and other such pleasantries on his path to becoming an author and inspiration to a walking tour in his childhood hometown of Aberystwyth. If you are lucky enough to read reviews or listen to them, you will see phrases and words such as:
“This is Crime Noir with a hefty dose of pastiche” – Girl with a Head Stuck in a Book, Amazon
“… with a dollop of Monty Python and a zest of The Dam Busters – is a riot.” – The Guardian
“Throw in some veterans, hidden identities and some really good ice cream and you have a story that can barely be believed” – Eco Witch, Waterstones
“…the off-kilter imagination that made Aberystwyth Mon Amour such fun is firing on all cylinders again.” – The Independent
“…such cadence, such panache and such abundant comic talent…” – Daily Telegraph
Many writers want a page turner, but as the author highlights, future writers should aim for much more in the imagined reviews of their future imagined texts.
Storytelling at campfires from the times of men (with women and kids) living in caverns and caves has evolved time and time again. Curiosity, causality and conflict have spread in life and text, equally. Page one, the hook raises a question. Raising more and more questions, answering a few or all, whilst raising more adds to anticipation as we go from page to page. The page turner, so to speak. Causality must propel, and progress needs resistance, like conflict or things that go wrong.
Scenes set tones, moments and a stage that action can live from. The reader reading a book imagines scenes, unlike those at the theatre or movies where actual reality or computer-generated imagery causes a scene to lead to another scene and every sequel afterwards. The finale is the end. Stories within stories lead to novels. Ian Fleming famously set his 007-vehicle Goldfinger in three parts. Part one: Once is happenstance. The sequel: Twice is coincidence. The finale: Three times is enemy action. Fate delivered in text.
Emotion in reading can be tragic. Readers are drawn to it. Stories can help us experience something life cannot always guarantee and help us connect to our hearts and minds. Writer Malcolm Pryce evoked a twang of curiosity and desire to know more, when he mentioned On The Art of Writing by Cornishman Sir Arthur Quillar-Couch. This Bodmin-born poet, novelist and critic pushed for short, sharp, succinct English to be used by writers to draw in readers. Concrete words are easily connected to and visualised. Abstract terms and jargon can be difficult to access for many readers. The simplest of words can generate a dramatic effect.
Beyond these paragraphs, other key topics included:
- · story definition.
- · plot coupon.
- · habit
- · never give up
- · Vlad the Impaler was a memorable and model baddy
- · morbid curiosity
- · In the Realm of the Senses (Japanese)
- · the need for suspense (to arouse curiosity)
- · Thisness
“A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit”. – Richard Bach, author
Much more will be learned from Mr Pryce. I’ll save it for another day…
COME ON CITY!
This is for the fan who couldn’t get a ticket; this shout for the one who couldn’t afford it; this is a cheer for those no longer here; raising a glass, singing we’re not really here!
COME ON CITY
A dedication to the fan of Sun Jihai who followed him and then followed us, hooked to the buzz, the love, the passion of the South Stand, the joy of following City over land and sea (and Stretford), the York massive and the gatecrashers at Blackburn.
COME ON CITY!
This is a call to all, to follow the ball, and head it and kick it and shout it into thar onion bag at the other end. Cry out loud, cry out proud, Poznan, and bounce, swing uour scarves and poor out your hearts.
COME ON CITY!
To those who followed Gerry Gow’s moustache, Ball on the bench, Pearce’s sensational home team, Santa’s Cruz’s wobbly knee, Ireland’s Superman lingerie range, Uwe and his ancestors, the Doyle generations, or cold nights in Hyde watching our future.
COME ON CITY!
To the women’s team, done and dusted; to the under 16s, under 18s and EDS champions at rest; to the loanstars on their way back; Perrone and Co overseas; to the subs and the starring eleven…
COME ON CITY!
To the dreamers and schemers, they always believe us, the rioters and chargers or fields, and all who wear the pride in battle of blue and white… no matter what happens today, yesterday or tomorrow, we say:
COME ON CITY!
DZY
On special days; do nothing days; on stay in and snooze days; I wish you were here.
To find new pathways; climb new trails and have short stays; roll in grassy hays; I wish you were there.
Looking at cloudy skies; pondering those storms by eyes; sunny days swarming flies; I wish you were everywhere.
Tidying up after little ones; brushing dog hair off the chair; making efforts ever so fair; I wish we were together.
Foul weather; tough times; moody moments we can’t decline; I wish to share forever.
Just us.
Just us.
No-one else.
Those who matter in the distance.
Those who care, held close.
Our thoughts in your thoughts.
Your warmth together.
Just us.
Two peas. One pod.
Wrapped up snuggly.
Joined. At the hip.
Together.
Stronger as one.
A union led by destiny.
No pressures. No worries.
Challenges to face together.
Fearless and relentless.
For us.
Hope and glory, in lands, over the seas and by green trees.
Bound at the hands.
Rings on.
A bond. Embraced.
One.
Stressful authority.
Prove your status.
Copy that letter.
Twice.
Translate this to that.
Duplicate, duplicate, duplicate.
Thrice.
Indicate at the tick box.
Here, there, and HERE.
There again.
Copies of a passport.
Duplicate and photostat your household register.
Voice print.
Embassy and Consulate verification required.
University experience desired.
Nose print.
Passport photos. Wedding photos. Holiday photos.
Travel history records. Paper money trail. Bank statements.
Dental records.
Fill in this.
Provide a copy of your birth certificate.
Photographs.
What was your dog’s mum’s maiden name?
And, what did your ex-wife eat for lunch yesterday?
Evidence.
Bloodtype, fingerprints, retina scan.
When did you last sneeze?
Health check.
How good are your genes?
Swear an oath, an affidavit, an allegiance to the flag.
Sing the national anthem. In Swahili.
Verify.
What are your political beliefs?
Trump or Xi? Sunak or Churchill?
Confirm.
Height, weight, favourite colour.
Where do you plan to go?
Bureaucracy.
Hand over your loved ones.
Get down on your knees.
Pray.
Relieve yourself of all sins.
Seek absolution and fix this.
Hurdles.
Vellichor
The scent pours off of you, slipping away from your soul, wriggling away, pulling you down to the hole.
The depth opens up wide, snarling ruthlessly snide, ripping darkness from below, confirmation that hopes lost and lied.
The pages tear from the spine, torn away in time, words failing to be read, all shrouded in grime.
You lay on the shelf, emitting bad health, your pages full of wise wealth, yet all pass your stealth.
Daylight comes and goes, your words nobody knows, inside treasures like a rose, you slip away on endless rows.
The dust on your front and back, tightened and slack, no hands to pick you up and put you on back.
Discrimination
Why do you discriminate against me?
Why do you think you’re better?
Who allows you to talk over me?
Am I too unambitious if not a go-getter?
What makes you the king of this castle?
Whose voices are you speaking for?
Why do you bring me all this hassle?
Was it my forefathers in that long forgotten war?
Didn’t you understand the mistakes of the past?
Is it my skin, you fear?
Do you blame me or my people for that blast?
What values should I hold dear?
My religion or your religion?
Hate us? Hate me? Hate our future?
Where is the peace dove or grey sooty pigeon?
What makes you think I’ll level a score?
Equality or inequality?
Why do you raise your voice?
Why do you question my ability?
Why do you ask me for my choice?
Will your hateful words always haunt me?
Do you decry the freedom I seek?
Where is forgiveness and the blossoming new tree of the free?
Are you unhappy that I am not weak?
What makes civilisation?
How do I know that you know?
Where is my destination?
How will you show we can no longer grow?
Reunion.
It’s been a while.
Time has flew by. It’s moved swiftly and aimlessly since we last met.
I’ve returned to you.
Far across oceans, mountains, and valleys, we are in unity again.
My absence here, and your patience in waiting.
Another day came and went. A week. A month. Gone. Half a year.
Since we departed, it’s been different. Away from you, unshared memories and moments.
You needed me. I’ve been independent of you.
Skin deep.
Together again.
Nobody misses a mosquito.
Mams, moms, mums… 妈妈
Words taught. Ideas thought. And spoken. A gift, a token, a day awoken. Mums are brilliant. They’re resilient, they’re efficient and sufficient. A guide along paths. A shoulder to turn tears to laughs. Mums, moms, mams, 妈妈
Books given. Lies forgiven. Lessons learned. Trophies earned. Encouraged. Discouraged. Pushed on. Troubles gone. Forever enduring, securing and helping you before and during. A fanatic supporter helping and scoring. Moms, mams, mums, 妈妈
Try this, try that. Do this, do that. Eat your corn. See her scorn. Tidy up, fold it up, put it away. Have your say. Listen to the way. Day after day, always there for you. Truthfully, forever true. Mams, moms, mums, 妈妈
Loving, caring, sharing (through choice or not), supporting (win, lose or draw), there for you, no matter your lot. MUMS, MAMS, MOMS, 妈妈
Thanks for being my friend.
Interminable.
Eternally.
How long is that?
Forever and a day.
Surely that is too long, right?
Always.
When does that end?
Until I know when, I’ll carry on.
Until I know how, I will turn the now into the future;
And the future into the past.
Interminable. Apparently.
Hope’s message
I don’t want to see tubes coming out of your nose; or your face lacking cheeks coloured in rose.
I don’t want to see wires attached to your skin; nor your arms stretched out so thin.
I want to tell you off for trespassin’; I want to see you read Carl Hiaasen.
Or, shout at you for hiding your homework; watch you frustrated shouting berserk.
I want all your worries, testing times; problematic homework, and accidental crimes.
I want to learn alongside you; watch you grow strong as a Sky Blue.
We should be together, I apologise; when you’re older you’ll realise.
Wise as it is, life ain’t simple; especially seeing your still simple.
Finally, I believe we shall laugh together; walk on hills whatever the weather.
Those tubes and the fear can’t last; hope you recover ever so fast.
Prayer.
To pray is to say, to wish fear away.
Not just this day, but tomorrow and the next one.
To push aside worries and wrap you in warmth, in our arms, you sway.
Feel our love and all your troubles are gone.
So be it. Amen.
Time.
Time waits for no man.
No man should wait for time.
Nor woman.
The fine line.
Key worker and essential cog one day, discarded the next week.
“Valued employee” and “fine example” until you’re not relevant.
“Outstanding” and “innovating” before being outdated and obsolete.
“Indispensable” or “central to the team” as a budget slash deems your release date now.
Punctual, loyal, and attentive to fine details, followed by succeeded and outdated.
Moving on up, rising to the top, but all of a sudden, tumbling and spiralling downwards.
There’s a margin. A wafer thin gap. A sliver of light between dark and lost. A piece of hope dangling on the thread of chaos and change. Which way it blows is not always your choice. Which way you respond, use your own voice. A pathway here or a tunnel there. Give in, or go on?
Go on.
Nothing to Everything.
It took everything from my system. All energy is sapped. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. A freight train to the soul.
I lost comfort.
Hope vanished.
Life’s path took a dark spiralling turn south.
Goals and ambition kicked into the gutter.
Shattered connections.
Unhelpful, unhealthy solitude.
All I could see was emptiness and fear.
A vacuum of a chasm.
Empty demands and is spoken of in snide words.
Lost belief in myself.
Hurt. Gutted. Irrelevant.
Life being a cunt. Tortured. Shamed.
You gave me everything, every smile and every belief. You fueled me. You lit the lighthouse once again. A defibrillator to hope.
You gave comfort.
Life took a huge mountainous climb towards the sun.
The constant goal and need embedded.
You asked for nothing and embraced my confusion.
Impressive reality and challenges ahead.
It’s a wonderful miracle.
Without judgement, without demands.
Gained a soul this last year.
Excited. Overwhelmed. Relevant.
Life is a joy. Pleasured. Pride..
Storm in a Teacup
Don’t conceal it. Don’t hide it. Don’t fear it. Don’t fight it. Just put your head down and right it.
Don’t give in. Never surrender the win. Block out that enormous din. Just get yourself up and head for the win.
Don’t shatter your dreams. Avoid tearing at the seams. Watch out for low beams. Just look for the place with good teams.
Don’t slide about. Don’t scream and shout. Don’t ever make yourself doubt. Just let it all out.
If not, what have you got? Your thing, your place, your lot. You’re more, are you or not? You’re here on this pale blue dot.
Now go get it yourself! Trust in your health. There’s more to life than wealth. Put doubt firmly on the shelf.
In a pickle.
Financially, mentally, substantially.
In a pickle.
Unquestionably undoubtedly, profoundly.
In a pickle.
Historically, periodically, profoundly.
In a pickle.
Oddly, secretly, openly.
In a pickle.
To the letter, by the books, across the board.
In a pickle.
No trust fund, no benefactor, no obligation.
In a pickle.
Without reserve, without doubt, without care.
In a pickle.
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 