I thought I heard the ocean roar

I thought I heard the ocean roar

I liked my Uncle Jack the best

he used to come to tea

he used to tell me stories

he wore a beard and smelled of Havanas

he liked a tot of Captain’s rum

he liked to laugh,

my Uncle Jack

and

I laughed with him…

…Jack was an adventurer they said, he would never come to much, whatever that meant…

…they would sit there round the big table , a few less every year and have a conversation when there was really nothing more that was left to talk about…

…they’d said it all before…

…it was like a merry-go-round..

and

…today it was the turn of Uncle Jack while he was with me and Jessie served their soup…

…… they had been a grand family once, a house with commanding views of the sea, a fortress against the storms off the ocean but all winter the chill never left your bones,  as the icy winds and rain lashed horizontally against crown glass…

…and…

…when it was as hot as it was this year cook made cold cherry soup that uncle Jack loved with an extra tot of Kirsch…

… Jack…the philanderer, the good for nothing, Casanova, ne’r do good, who  drank and smoked and chased the ladies…a charmer…he was NOT…Aunt said,  and she knew about these things…I could hear them through the floor…Aunt was an authority on the subject…she mixed with the right people,  like-minded, as she put it, where people were discussed, Art and the opera, the string quartet that came to play in the grand hall but never money…Rembrandt’s birthday reason for a toast as he would have bee 470 years old today…

…money was simply always there and everyone just helped themselves to what they had a need to do…they avoided carrying the stuff just like the Royals  but like it or not you often needed to carry a purse these days mainly for the  for tipping …some of them used to go shooting,  others went on fishing trips, mountain hikes and travels on the ocean blue…Aunt herself liked German Spas where she would feast on wild boar and venison, languish in goopy moor baths to be hosed down with needle sharp darts of cold water till her skin turned prickly red all over and she shivered with delight…for the circulation it was, she said,…for the improvement of  her sad, worn  spirit as she put it….vital for her and all the family when she had so much to contend with, what with Uncle Jack and all the children who loved him so dearly…

…he was everyone’s Uncle Jack but he was mostly mine…

…my Uncle Jack comes every day to tell me stories and the tales that no one else knew… He spun me yarns and grunted as he settled himself  into the old chair with wings frayed here and there now at the edges from the leaning……he ran his right hand through his beard and in the left cradled golden liquid that sparkled in a cut glass tumbler.

…now then, he would say, where were have we got to…and he paused for a moment…catching up with memories seemed hard for him sometimes…oh yes, he said…John, that’s right, John Masefield…my old friend at sea you know…we served on HMS Conway together, I saw the beard bobbing, he rocked slightly back and forth  and his chest expanded with pride…magnificent she was, 125 foot gun deck, full rigged,  queen of the ocean and a privilege to serve on her…he’d seen a nocturnal rainbow once lit by the full moon, the eye of a giant squid looking at him, mermaids and angels that came down through thick walls of fog to guide them and steer them clear of the rocks…floating moonbeams and sirens singing on the wind…the silent flight of an albatross as it hung in the air above the rigging for awhile until it veered off on a mission of its own into the wind to far horizons…

…the iron lung was pumping hard, the noise was huge and regular, breathing, reassuring, swishing air I could not breathe for myself…

I could see the sea from the window through the Georgian squares that were lower than I was in my prison. Crown glass distorted the ocean somewhat and the sky and through the swishing I thought that I could hear the ocean roar…

…a good man, my uncle Jack said, as he snipped off the end of the cigar and lit a match, took a large sip of the golden liquid, …oh yes, my friend Masefield …he lit the cigar and between puffs to get it going he said, poetry, he wrote poems you know… and he began to recite to me and touched my cheek to wipe away a tear…I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky…

…I watched the smoky swirls in the sunlight and my mind drifted as he spoke and remembered…

…and all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,

and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over...

...he slumped forward, his glass shattered and he did not stir...
...the cigar slipped from his fingers...

and

...through the swishing sound I heard their laughter  from below me in the dining room…they would come up in time…

I liked my uncle Jack the best

he used to come to tea

he used to come and tell me stories…

15.07.13

not the end of the world

not the end of the world

nothing seemed right for her today…

…and …

…something needed to change…and…

…nothing would change if she did not change it…

..but what was she going to do?

…the answer would come, she was certain of that and she could always ask the Goddess for help…

…she was alone on the beach, not a soul was in sight, the beach was all hers, the sea was all hers and the sky and the clouds and the song of the ocean…the pounding of waves on the rocks, shrill, the cry of the gulls on the wing above her, the rain in her hair…it was all hers, it was her prayer but it was not enough for her today…

…Midsummer day and a howling gale from somewhere but she wanted to dance in a meadow of daisies and of buttercups, she wanted to dance with her friends, with flowers in her hair, a circlet of wild roses and ivy. She wanted to laugh, look up at the sky and run, run, run till she could no longer breathe, sway to the music played on whistle and flute, dance, dance and love, love and laugh…outstretch her arms and embrace the glory of this day and fly…it was the solstice of summer, moon to the half, a gaining moon, not waning…and it was also a Friday, the day for loving and giving…all good omens she thought…could not be better, all perfect and right…

…and…

…it was not the end of the world if the sun did not shine…

oh Goddess, she cried out to the sky, will you not help?

I have an ache in my heart

that is deep with such longing

but

the love is all there, light brightly shining…

I want to run with the others!

I want to laugh with them all!

I want to be young with no cares for a day…

and

dance in my gossamer dress

hold their hands and turn in a circle…

and

make the magic happen…

the goddess was kind,

and

granted her wish

and

she was no longer alone on the beach

she ran

and she laughed

and

she joined the midsummer dance of her friends in a buttercup meadow, daisies gently swaying in the breeze, hawberry scent in the air, butterflies winging and skylarks singing, the sun was warm on her body, the wind caressing her skin, hearts pounding, feet following the rhythm of the song, dresses swirling  and turning, a crown of flowers in her flowing hair…as they danced to the sound of the whistle and flute…

…she had known the answer would come…

…they found her, smiling, eyes closed in contentment…

and

…they wheeled her chair away from the window…

…looking out

    to

    the

    sea

.

May Day

 May Day 1934

…down Sun Bank Lane past Hale Bank Farm he ran this morning and he did not stop until reached the little moss covered clearing in Sun Bank Wood just where the river flowed and made a little rock pool.

He pulled the laces of his new black plimsolls Mum had bought him , especially for today, and dug his toes into the soft, cold moss.  He leaned against a tree there, felt the tremble of his growing manhood and breathed the damp wood air to calm his lungs and the pounding of his heart.  The river narrowed here, gurgled and whispered as the water lapped against the rocks and he watched for the glint of a fish in the water…he had seen hares box here, it was his place, his secret place, a tiny arena where the moss had grown over the boulders and when he was here he was lost in time and started as if waking from a dream to run home for his breakfast…fried bread today as a special treat for Mayday, he knew it, could taste it already and he quickened his step…nothing could break the magic of his day…the smell of the earth , the song of a robin, chaffinches calling, thrush and blackbird, he knew them all, as his Grandad had taught him, whisper of the wind in the tree tops, the song of the river, sun rays lighting dew drops like tiny diamonds in the grass, morning sparkle in the grass along the river bank. His place, this was for sure, no one else ever came here… Teddy Moore was happy….

…today was May Day and today he would dance with Rosie Simmons.  They would weave a web of pink and yellow ribbons round the maypole  on the vicarage green, they would watch the Morriss Dancers and he would kiss her on the cheek. Both were in Mrs. Bacon’s class where he had rested his head upon her ample bosom when he was only five… Ted knew that Rosie would go away to school next year…he to the big school in Widnes, on the bus…

                                                     

                  

May 1st 1941, in the warm evening sunshine aircraft are made ready as the crews clamber aboard. Daimler-Benz engines cough and splutter into life with a belch of exhaust fumes and the noise shatters the peace of the Summer twilight.

Throttles are pulled back, and slowly, rubber tyres start to move over the grassy airfields in Northern France. The heavily laden bombers shuffle and line up for take off. Hitler's mighty Luftwaffe were taking to the skies again.

This time their target was, Liverpool.

The German squadrons massed into formation and headed up the North Sea or West, then North up the Irish Sea in an effort to avoid the thicker fighter cover of the RAF over Kent. On into the gathering gloom the bombers flew. It was rumoured the Germans were using new technology of radio beams to locate their target.

                                                                               

 

latest report in the Weekly Gazette:

1st MAY 1941

The start of the May Blitz, 8 days of bombing intended to cripple the ports either side of the river Mersey and hamper the supply lines from the West. The area was hit hard during this period with terrible loss of life and destruction.

Just before 11.pm the first set of bombs fell onto Wallasey and signalled the start of the May Blitz. Liverpool and Bootle were also targetted this night as the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the docks and bomb the people into submission............ It failed.

 
2nd MAY 1941

The bombers return in force with wave after wave hitting the area in a prolonged attack. Liverpool city centre is the main target and suffers terrible damage. The Dock Board building, Saint Michael’s Church in Chinatown, the old White Star building, Liverpool Corn exchange, are hit this night.

An Ambulance Driver is killed at the Pier Head.

DENIS HAWXBY

died 02/05/1941, aged 28.

Crawford's Biscuit factory on Binns Road is hit. One person ( a Firewatcher ) dies from wounds received in the blast.

ALAN PARKHOUSE

died 02/05/1941, aged 17.

A bomb hits New Bird Street killing 3 people.

JOHN HERON

died 02/05/1941, aged 36.

WILLIAM OWENS

died 02/05/1941, aged 51.

WALTER RALEIGH PHILLIPS

died 02/05/1941, aged 35.

                                                                                        

 

…it had been a small wedding, Rosie Simmons became Mrs. Moore in her Mum’s wedding dress, Ted,  smart in his uniform, buttons and boots shiny from polishing…just families and their best friends…no fuss but a spread in the Golden Lion, they cut a cake that Ted’s Mum had made for them with a bride and groom in the middle…

…it was a good day and they were happy, they had only the one day and one night, Cherry tree cottage to live in, rented and Rosie would get everything ready for when he  came home, only one bedroom, an end of terrace, was all they needed for now, they would be happy there together…

…she walked with him as far as Hale station where he caught the train to go to war, she would wait for him, hang lace curtains in the little windows, plant red geraniums and a garden and on his return home to her they would begin their lives together and maybe buy a house one day when the children came along… they’d live there until they were very old, wrinkly but still smiling and in love…life was good today and full of promise…she was Mrs Moore now, after all and that counted for something…

…no one knew where they would send him…

…she stood very straight as the train began to move and take away her Ted, she waved to him, smiling through a veil of tears….

…there was no one to meet him at the station when he came home…

…shattered…

…worn…

…old for his age…

…and for the first time unsure of a life without commands, demands, screams and guns and smell of burning on the wind…and after the train drew away the silence was huge and it frightened him…

…he began the long walk home to Cherry tree cottage and to his love in Hale …

…there had been no letters…

..he wound his way through Sun bank wood where the river still whispered, no time to take off the boots, muddy and worn, the moss not so inviting and his love was waiting for him…

…he crossed the little bridge that led to Chapel Lane, with wearied feet past Hale Bank Farm to Sun Bank Lane where he had lived when he was small and in just a few moments he would see their cottage and hold his Rosie tight…

…there had been just the one bomb in Hale…

…just one stray bomb…   

dispatches

dispatches

it was standing room only

it was very tight

but you got used to it in the end

and

it was only like that at the start,

it got easier as you faded…

it’s not the way it was

and

I can still remember sometimes

no time and no room, no sound but for breathing, no laughter, no noise,no beeping, no bleeping, no clicks and no ringing ,no singing…no talking, no walking…just breathing and being…and seeing life’s seething…

standing room only you see…

we have all that we want, all that we need and we own nothing at all

we are allowed the standing room

and

the space to breathe

enough space for the patchers and watchers to see and to move…

so there is just US,us,the masses and the patchers, the watchers, the guides and the carers, controllers, admin and birthers and owners…

who own all the masses and patchers and watchers, the guides and the carers, controllers and admin and birthers…

the owners decide who who stays and who fades

controllers and admin tap notes on their tablets

the guides and the carers check all and report

the carers control all the birthers and births

…decide all… for us all so that we don’t think…

it’s all new now, you see, new every day, everything new every day and you get all that you want and you wish for… and although we have nothing and need nothing at all there is still a price that we must pay…and we pay it and are happy because we get more and more and more and because we keep nothing and let it all go…as we fade…

…all except for the children…

…we remember the children…

…and…

…the children get nothing…

…the children are the workers and the birthers of new children so that we can move on and fade…

…there is no stopping them now, they just keep on coming…the automators see to that…

…there is now no force from anyone…we have no more pain, no need for tears, the patchers and the watchers see to all that…

…they come when the watcher has seen…

…and…

…give you a patch…

 …a green one for heartache, a red one for anger, yellow for hunger, orange for sex, purple for love and a white one to fade…and as all the children are birthed the admin knows who to fade, one for one it must be so all remains equal and the guides and controllers get on with their guiding, controlling the masses…

it’s standing room only

sometimes a bit tight

we’re used to that now

and

it doesn’t take long to the fading

once you’re on patches…

…I remember sometimes in between…

…it isn’t..

…the way…

…that it was…

the thinker

the thinker

 I have nothing to say…
…and…
....even if I did I wouldn’t say it…
…so what is the point? …

now thinking, is another matter altogether. I think an awful lot…

…I think all of the time.
…I think out loud.
…think when I sit.
…think when I walk…
…when I read I think…

I am a very slow reader…
 …and for me I think that thinking out loud is the best. You remember then what you are thinking as when I do all the other thinking I always forget what I’m thinking…
...so there is not much point to that either
….forgotten thinking’s not much use…
no point to it at all…
 …but..
…when thinking out loud you think things through, you work it all out, you know what to do…
…and…
…you know what to think…

 …now I read in the paper on page 84 a rabbi told one of his flock not to grieve , not grieve over the body of his dead wife, who was still very young and her parting was sudden…
...he said that her body was only the envelope that she came in, a thought with some merit, he said that that her soul and her being was etched into his heart…
and
…I thought he was wrong. I thought that if she’d been made in the image of God, to deny grieving would be denying the grieving for God…God may be pleased that she was coming home to Him again…but her hubby could not hold or hug a soul or spirit, could he…he would be lonely and grieving is ok, even if some of it was for himself…God would understand that…God knows grief is ok…He took back something he had lent, a bit of Himself…of course you could grieve…

…I thought that the Rabbi was wrong… 
…what’s that?, someone says…
…what’s what, say I…
…what you said…
…I said? …
 …oh, nothing…
…nothing to say…
…nothing to say?
 …no…
…thinking…
… just thinking…

rockchicks

I don’t dwell in the past…
I’m all up to date…
and
I rock and I roll with the times…

I pay my taxes just like anyone else, my bills and my mortgage, for dancing and singing, for yoga, pilates, send the kids off to Welcombe to do a quick course at the Yarner to get them out of my hair for the day, take Billy to Golf and they come back so happy at the end of the day that I feel great guilt! And have done nothing at all that was wrong…

Jess has made a felt flower and Tom brings a panel made of red glass and yellow all set in lead like a small window to hang in the hall so it might catch the sun, a plaster on his finger but he had survived it and he loved it all, he’ll go again soon, is what he said and so too will Jess, it’s bee keeping next…

Must quickly check e-mails and facebook and twitter, load pics up to Flikr and work Photoshop for a bit, check the history on the puter to see where they’ve been, lol…

…and…

…then do lunch with the ladies, The White Hart's the in place, is where everyone goes now to lunch on the yummies that the Dutchman’s prepared.

Such an artist he is in the kitchen and out and he bakes all his own bread, tasty morsels to tempt you. Clear golden soups with lovage and chives and his choc tart is divine, the coffee amazing , all made with a glint in his eye and to die for and he comes in at the end to see if he’s passed…with not even a pearl drop of sweat on his brow…

…we all nod and we smile, we could hug him in turn, we would hug him in turn if we could…and he knows that we would and disappears happy, knows he’s excelled and succeeded and offers a treat to each one of a chocolate praline or perhaps a little liqueur?

Oh, ladies that lunch do so very much more… and they remember the past and how it all was…the excitement on Fridays when you’d get ready to go out for the night...you never knew whom you would meet…the twist was the thing then with Elvis and Chubby….we wore mini skirts and the sack was the rage…we teased up our hair in a beehive, wore lipstick, Pink Icing, and eau de cologne...Tweed was my favourite and Sandalwood too. Wore Tweed for Jimmy and Sandal for Jack and I alternated every week. Not that we ever stuck just to one…there was lovely Larry with his blond hair and a quiff combed back with Brylcream, black haired Brucie who was ever so shy but a mean dancer…there was Melvin who’s Mum had seen God and Chuck who now sported a DA, very chic, crepe sole shoes of blue suede and he rocked, jacket with a black velvet collar. I loved little David the best and Swiss Pauli who wore lipstick and dressed up in girl’s clothes. We even smoked a cigarette or two and the silver holder Mum no longer wanted looked ever so cool, is what everyone said…I wore white winkle picker heels or the blue T-straps and liked to wear dark tan stockings as if my legs were brown. We went for a giggle, and had lots of fun, teased the boys something awful and ate chips with salt and vinegar wrapped in the Daily Mail on the way home on the bus and sometimes mushy peas as well…we had to be home by twelve at the latest and had to make sure of the bus…as a Dad would be waiting at our stop to walk us all home…they took it in turns, our Dads, to make sure we were safe in the dark and alone in our beds…they’d carry our handbags and often our shoes as our feet were so tired from dancing…Joni Mitchell was in, Annie Murray, Bob Dylan and on her guitar played Joan Baez to free us…and Twiggie who did…

The Dutchman will never know about this, and why we all like him so much…he is all the loves we never dared to love, does all that and each of us to dream her dream, and reminisce together… we still are all friends, know who was with whom behind the shed then for a chat, had not moved away at all and still together to this day…and all too soon it is the time to leave, to pay the bill and go…back to the present to pick up the kids, make tea for the golfer, then pour him a G, lol, learned the shortcuts of speak, to understand what they said, get back to the ironing, the washing, feed cats and the dog, water the cactus, prune roses and bushes and pull out some weeds and make sure all the letters had gone to the post to pay all the bills, the new yoga subscription, the lessons for riding….then think of the shopping at Tesco…and think of the tennis at the Tarka next month…braces for teeth and the clinic for Jess…so you see that I rock and I roll with the times…

…and…
…that I’m all up to date…
…I don’t dwell in the past…

one day

I see you…
I see you still…running, climbing , dancing, …
I hear you…
I hear you still…laughing , crying, mourning…
I feel you…
I feel you still…touching, holding…your hand in mine…
I taste you…
I taste you still…holding you tight…taste the salt of your tears…
I smell you…
I smell you still…through the seasons of years…
I remember you…
remember

your spring
and
your summer
your autumn
and
your first winter snow

and

…one day…

you will stop…
…take the time
and
remember the one who held you
and
who soothed
and
who
helped
you
to
grow
.
.