Yesterday, I thought I'd pop into Barclays to pay in two cheques. One was a royalty payment for my first apperance in a work of short story fiction (Wonderful World of Worders); the other was a windfall win on the premium bonds  (handy but not enough to give up the day job, or the night job come to that). 

The queue was long, mainly because a trader had chosen lunch time to take in all his change, and someone else had insufficient information to gain access to her account by telephone banking and 'just wanted to speak to someone'. The teller would not tell her anything either!

It was several minutes before boredom set in and I retrieved a suduko book from my bag. I had finished the puzzle before the queue moved at all. The man now without change had left and someone else with a BIG problem had taken his place. This involved the teller having to make a phone call to a number that was engaged. Rather than serve anyone else, she kept redialling.

I tried a bit of vertical meditation; eyes open, of course. Then I started making mental notes of the conversations at the only two windows open. I'll be using them in a story before long ...

In my car, I then joined another queue ... and when I eventually reached home, I wrote this flash.

Long roads

A traffic jam that is stationary
A post office queue that doesn’t move
The irritants that we face each day
Prove beyond doubt, that there’s nothing to prove

We can pass the time, tapping our toes
While we wait for the world and his wife
To fall into step, to join the throng
Travelling along the long roads of life

It all depends how you look at things, that's the trick! Optimism. Overcoming the odds. Getting up very eary. Burning the midnight oil.

But it's important to study the sky too.

Golden thread

A golden thread runs across the sky
Anchored fast to the depths of the sea
Tying loose ends of clouds to the trees
It weaves a web that engulfs you and me

See-through, unless you know where to look
It can capture the wind, rain and snow
Close your eyes and you’ll feel its magic
Crystalised love in a double rainbow

Take care not to snag this precious thread
Tread softly on the dreams of your friends
Then when the storms rage and the gales blow
It’ll guide you safe, to where your world ends

Today's poem is another flash. At times when I have a lot else going on and can't settle down to write about today, the prompts supplied on MoreWriting or WritersDock take me in another direction. However, once I have written something, I often find that it incovers some buried feelings. Better out than in ...

To help you to understand lines 4 and 5, for those who have never met me physically (there are so many who have met me mentally and spiritually!) I am not tall, and if I were a head taller I would be the right weight. I am nearly always on a diet, except when I am eating, of course!

Who am I?

Who am I?
Can’t you guess
By my height
And my weight
And my state
Of undress

Look at me!
And think hard
Where we met
The first time
The last time
Off your guard

Remember?
What we said
How we laughed
How I cried
How you lied
Here in bed

You forgot
We were one
Long ago
Now finished
Diminished
Over. Done

Dad gave me a digibox. He'd bought himself a new digital TV and thought he'd throw his cast offs in my direction. Trying to get it working today - without success - had to call my daughter. Turns out we need a booster for the aerial.

At least I had someone handy to change all the clocks. Does it ever end, this dependency on younger or brighter folk?!

Today's poem came from a MoreWriting prompt.

Mother and child

I’m midway in life
With memories filed
Recalling the time
When I was a child

Those halcyon days
The sun always shone
Or the snow lay thick
When summer had gone

Then, as a mother
Weighed down by life’s strain
I could hear thunder
I felt the wet rain

Now my child’s a mum
And her child runs free
I can see rainbows
For my grandchild and me

The full moon is followed by spring tides: very low low tides and very high high tides. This extreme phenomenon reveals much, laying bare the rocks that usually remain covered at low tide. At high tide, it threatens the dinghies that are pulled high up the beach; it has more power.

Your view, my view

The view is different
Your side of the bed
And wondering why
Fills my pretty little head

If I lie on your left
Instead of on your right
I’m nearer the door
But much further from the light

Sure, it’s a good idea
That we try things, we two
But having swapped sides
I find I miss my sea view

Then, as we roll over
Until halfway, we stop
Midway’s just perfect
Me beneath, and you on top

Looking into your face
I am seeing so much
A new perspective
One that’s focusing on touch

I am conscious that those reading my blog in the last week or so might have lost track of where I am and what I have been up to. My poems have given little away.

I spent a glorious weekend in Ireland at the launch of the Wonderful World of Worders and, although N. Ireland is on the same time zone as Surrey/Devon, it took almost a week to get my body clock back to going to bed at a 'normal' time, not 4am.

Then, I had loads to do before we headed for Devon - with the white chest of drawers. This signalled the start of the territory discussion: who puts what where in the bedroom. I negotiated for a 50% stake!

Then 'he' went back to Surrey on Tuesday to attend a meeting in London on Wednesday. We spent 36 hours apart for the first time in ages, and it reminded me (and him!) how much we were used to being together. I have yet to write a poem to express this.

In the meantime, I have been busy on my computer writing this and that for my various clients, but found time to take part in the Flash on WD. This is number two.

Little Red Corset

On those special occasions
When there is a Y in the day
I wear a little red corset
To make my waist waspish

While my cheeks are pinched
And my breasts bulge
Above my lace-edged dress
I press hard against your chest

I melt into your arms
Biting my lip to ease the pain
Of the whalebone stays
And smile as only thin girls can

Another flash, this time the prompt was courtesy of WritersDock. See Flash Central for the prompts and Flash poetry for my entries.

Early retirement

Ten is a tad early
To take early retirement
Even at fifteen
You are pushing your luck
But once you’re past thirty
It seems only fair
To ease off
I recall at forty
Never been busier
Hardly had time to sleep
But then fifty snuck up
And sixty is fast approaching
Like an express train
In a tunnel
And now I’m blinded
By the prospect
Of putting my feet up

Another flash ...

Urban jungle
 
What on earth is the world coming to
In the urban jungle called life
Where innocent teenagers are shot
And youngsters carry a knife?

What happened to our community?
To tipping your hat with a smile?
Do you know the neighbours in your street?
Would they walk that extra mile?

We’re so politically correct
Yet bobbies have to watch their back
While druggies fight for territory
Of pot, or acid and crack

Perhaps it’s too late to start anew
To bridge the gap in this gang war
But can we, at least, turn back the clock
To make street life safe once more?

Having a bonanza week on flash poetry! This one took 8 minutes to throw out of my head, but I have spent much longer than that polishing it.

Skimming stones

Flat stones, fashioned like slivers
Thrown with a twist of the wrist
Skid once, twice, or thrice across
The lake of existence time kissed

How many times it bounces
Tells of your dexterity
But wherever your stone plops
That’s the place for sobriety

The pool of life is so deep
You can skid just as you please
But try your luck too often
And you’ll drown, sinking to your knees

Your glass house is crumbling now
Your sand is running away
So as you skim life once more
Enjoy the promise of today

There will be no tomorrow
It’s disappeared without trace
And like your stone, it has sunk
Signalling the end of your race

Another one prompted by MoreWriting ...

Empty roads

These empty roads lead nowhere
No matter which way you turn
Whether east, west, north or south
It’s your life. You’re gonna burn

You must travel with someone
A person that you can trust
Someone who’ll always love you
Love, that’s different from lust!

Then at the end of the road
The one that leads to the pyre
Look back at how they helped you
To walk, head high, to the fire

When it seems to be over
You’ll find it starts up anew
You’re welcome in the next life
Where there’s happiness, for you 

Today's poem was written yesterday in response to a prompt on MoreWriting, and has been since revised to incorporate changes suggested by reviewers on that site, and to polish it some more.

Ugly as sin

She may have a pretty face
With dimples when she smiles
But if you dig deep enough
You’ll see through her feminine wiles

She’s a madam, with a whip
Has you under her spell
She’ll do what she wants to you
Strange acts that you’ll never retell

Oh yes, you’ll enjoy her games
And the sliding within
But don’t be fooled by pleasure
There’s nothing as ugly as sin

Tomorrow, you’ll know regret
The whore, dressed up as bliss
Empties wallets ... you'll wish
You’d never laid eyes on this miss!

When writing a poem for a Flash on MoreWriting, you get only 15 minutes ... this one took 10 minutes. It could probably do with a polish.

Old bag

That was always the way
Sunday at four, tea for two
But now me old bag’s gone
I’ll be needing a fresh brew

I’m logged on to’t Internet
And looking in’t lonely hearts
For a new tea-maker
And one who lives in these parts

Listen to this one, mate
She sounds like she’d be frisky
She’s offering friendship
And says she quite likes whiskey

Now that would go down well
A spot of spirit in’t tea
And, look, she’s no old bag
So she’ll do nicely for me

I know I said yesterday that we were off on our holidays, and it does seem like that here, but this holiday home is where we will live, once the dust has settled. 

Last night, the sky was full of stars. The air was fresh and we could hear the waves lapping the beach on the opposite side of the estuary.  Very romantic ...

I noticed first thing that the sun has moved across a bit. Apparently that's to do with the seasons! I have a lot to learn.

Home

It’s the sense of belonging
Of being where I ought to be
Convinces me this is home
Our home, the place for you and me

Yesterday I spent - as it turned out, wasted - precious time setting up a UPS account. I filled in screen form after screen form giving details of the Shipper (that's me) and the Recipient (you don't need to know who he/she is!), and giving details of the dimensions and weight of the parcel and how it would be wrapped, and details of where it could be collected from. I went through the process of paying for the shipment of this important parcel online using my credit card, and I printed out the label on my printer using my ink and my paper.

Today, the parcel was in the right place at the right time, with its printed label securely Sellotaped to it. And that's where it stayed for hours and hours. 2 pm I said it'd be ready. UPS said they'd collect by 5 pm. Someone stayed in all afternoon to be there when UPS called.

I returned home just after 5 pm. The parcel was still sat on the porch table. At 5.30 pm, I rang UPS to ask where the van man was. It took several menus and hanging on 'while all our operators are busy helping other customers' but eventually I spoke to a lady who needed me to go online and log in to my new UPS account to find out a number which apparently only I had access to. Having jumped though that hoop successfully, said she'd contact the depot who should have been picking it up and they would ring me within the hour to explain when the collection would happen. She said it was unlikely they could get someone out to me now; I should have rung before 3.30 pm to chase the non-collection. It seems that my arranging the collection the previous day, giving the depot 18 hours' notice was insufficient ... How silly of me!

An hour later, dust was beginning to collect on my parcel and we were almost packed ready to set off for a holiday. (Yes, I know I have a lot of holidays, but that is immaterial.) I rang UPS again. The operators were still 'busy helping other customers' and it took 10 mins to speak to someone who was oh-so-apologetic, but couldn't give me the number of the local depot - no, he reassured me, he'd mark my parcel as very, very urgent. And the local depot would ring me straight away.

30 minutes later, the car was packed and we were keen to set off. I rang UPS again - got through the menus pretty quick now that I know the sequence - and as soon as one of their busy operators had time to answer my call, I cancelled the collection and asked for my money back.

We are at our holiday destination now - with the parcel. I will have to find a way to send it tomorrow ... Anyone got any suggestions?

Useless UPS

Urgent parcel? Forget it!
It'll stand for hours neglected
And you'll be lucky if it's ever collected
UPS is a useless pathethic substitute
For a united parcel service

I know it's a bit ahead of time, but someone did ask me:

What do I want for Christmas?

I want … to see you smile
After what seems a long while
I’d rejoice to hear
Yuletide excitement
In your voice
I’d be heady, legs unsteady
To sense your presence
To feel your tug
On my heart strings

Truth is, though
Listen to me
I only ever wanted
To be wanted
No need for wrapping paper
For bows and things
Your asking me
And it seems
Laying bare, generosity
Is more than enough
Of a Christmas present
For me, it’s the stuff
Of dreams

Yesterday, my ex was 60 years old. It was one of those days I had expected to be with him, presuming we both lived that long. Like the day our daughter announced she was pregnant for the first time, it would have been a moment to be shared. Some things are not meant to be.

Yesterday

Yesterday
Or was it the day before
I thought we’d be together
Us, for ever more

We only spent three nights in Derry, arriving on Thursday in time for the Open Mike session at the River Inn, enjoying the book launch on Friday at the Verbal Arts Centre and then exploring on Saturday before returning home on Sunday.

We took the open air bus (many thanks for an informative and amusing, and sometimes scary talk from Peter AKA Pierre) and walked along the riverside path admiring the view of the two bridges.

Everywhere we went, plaques explained the history of Derry, and I took notes.

Images of Derry

Four streets meet at the Diamond
And beneath the cobbled stones
There’s a maze of tunnels, rat run
For soldiers to scurry ‘neath townsfolk’s homes

There are fourteen sycamores on Grand Parade
The fruit looks like a bunch of keys
Took six men to fire Roaring Meg
A gift from the Fishmongers, if you please

Black iron railings and high barring gates
Graffiti scarring the walls with paint
House high murals, a reminder to all
How violence destroys, how war can taint

The bishop‘s casino windmill, once a pigeon coop
The lead from the Cathedral tower spire
Was turned into bullets
For angry young men to fire

Now, where are the markets for fruit and fish
Long gone the herring and meat trade
Flax, yarn and linen consigned to the past
And the shirts are no longer hand made

The town folk are right proud of their history
So their glasses of Guinness be refilled
As Derry sits astride the River Foyle
And money pours in for the rebuild

Marty, the taxi driver, instructed us to 'walk the walls' - so we did.

However, on Friday, we also had to fit in a lunchtime book launch at the Tower Museum: a book called The Story of Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, written by Felicity McCall and the artwork (it is presented as a cartoon strip) by Joe Campbell.

More on Friday evening's launch of Wonderful World of Worders, later ...

The walls of Derry

If you ever go to Derry 
You must walk the walls, to be sure
If you do, so the saying goes
You'll return, to Derry, once more

It was at about 9pm on Thursday that we touched down in Derry. Marty, the taxi man, was there to greet us, and whisked us the Tower Hotel to dump our stuff. We then we made our way to the River Inn for its inaugural Open Mike session.

There was a lot of drinking going on, and great music. The poets had to work hard to get themselves heard ... but we managed. This was my contribution; and because I was a newcomer to Derry, they listened. Bless them.

On waking, 7 

Head thudding, mind a blank
The stench of stale smoke
On your breath as you exhale
But don’t open your eyes
Until you realise
Where you are
Where you have been
And who you must thank

Piece together your recent past
One moment at a time
Check for clues
What brings you here
Then when here is clear
And you have a tight grip
Lift your lids, let sleep slip
To see who is lying next to you

Is it someone you know?
Does he have a name?
And can you remember?
Would you want to see him again?

If the answer is no
Slide out so quietly
Like a slow ray of sunshine
That melts away snow
 
If the answer is yes
Move ever closer still
Wrap your arms around him
And go in for the kill  

This one has appeared on my blog before - day 15: Tuesday 23 January. That was a long time ago; so I reckon it is okay for another airing.

Another day spent travelling. With limited Internet access - so apologies for delay in posting!

En route to Derry

In transit
checked in, baggage gone
Waiting, waiting, waiting

Time to board
Trek to gate eighty-eight
Par priority seats

Tense take-off
Thirty-eight thousand feet
Grabbing the chance to sleep

Holding breath
Crew to seats for landing
We hit the tarmac, bump

Engines off
Pausing for baggage reclaim
Taxi waits: it's Derry

Yesterday, I went shopping to buy ingredients for a dish I had hoped to cook for a dinner party next Monday. Supermarkets may be criticised for filling shelves with Christmas fare too early, but it seems I was ahead of them in my desire for red cabbage and vacuum-packed chestnuts. I spent the journey home wondering what else to do with the joint of pork I have in the fridge - and about Chistmas which seems quite close to me.

Never too late to say thank you

The empty place at the table
The name struck off the Christmas list
Their exodus, a reminder
Of how much we loved the ones that are missed

Unsaid ‘thank-you’s litter the room
Their presence taken for granted
But let us, those that are still here
Say a prayer for the disenchanted

Beg forgiveness before we eat
Recall opportunities lost
Summon kind thoughts clouded in pink
And send all our love to the hearts we crossed

Never too late to say thank you
To make that special someone smile
Worth trying to turn back the clock
And to rebuild bridges, once in a while

A theme that has been at the back of my mind (not in a corner ...) was prompted by the term 'independence disorder', heard on the radio and used to describe bad behaviour of an individual. What next?

Anyway, today's poem is a warning: to those who suffer from independence disorder ...

Independence disorder

Never needy, always greedy
Spoiling for a fight
Think you know your own mind? Great!
Does not mean you’re always right

No, you are not blessed
Knowing how to win
Just success obsessed
Leading with your chin

Sadly, your die is cast
Your independence disorder
Will get you nowhere fast
As you back into your corner

This one has been brewing for quite a while. I first heard the term at a dinner at a pub called Stepping Stones near Box Hill.

Retreads

Retreads try harder
Feet firm 
On fertile ground
They’re more focused
On success
More tolerant
More forgiving
But determined
Not to accept
Anything less
Now they’ve found
True love
Second time around

It's been a very long day ...

Inspiration

Poised, with my red pen in my hand
Inspiration comes in many guises
Sometimes it’s a sight or a sound
That’s the source of poetic surprises

As midnight, my deadline, draws near
I feel a change of emphasis, a curse
While I search for words out of place
This muddle of thoughts unravels as verse

Thank goodness today’s task is done
I can head for bed with my conscience clear
For tomorrow will be the day
It’s a milestone: three quarters of a year