Monthly Archives: April 2018

‘It is a mistake to think that you can cut a frozen pineapple.’

‘It is a mistake to think

that you can cut a frozen pineapple.’

You’d need the strength

of twenty hunks,

and arms that are built

like the strongest tree trunks;

a spirit that can’t be swayed,

nerves of steel;

deep convictions,

and a fisherman’s creel

(just in case).

But, who has all these attributes?

Who indeed?

When a can of chunks

is all you need.

We Liked Him A Little At First – Then He Began To Grow On Us.

He was so small when we got him;

but, goodness, look at him now!

He barely fits into the room;

and he’s created a shadow

that’s become a gloom –

goodness, look at him now!

Dawn Chorus

Birdsong

is all I need;

apart from the bare necessities of life

(and you can sing that song, if you wish).

They call,

they answer;

finches, starlings, the humble wren;

redbreast, blackbird, sparrow, then…

having sung,

they sing again.

Beddington Doddy

Beddington Doddy was a textbook corpse.

Cold, clammy and totally without feeling.

He had no friends, to speak of;

and little in the way of small talk –

which may have been the cause of his lacking any buddies.

Nobody called him Al,

or Bed;

and, consequently,

nobody took him to task,

or bed;

because Beddington Doddy

was just a dead body;

but, only just.

Words!

Words

don’t come easy

to me

he sang;

and that I wrote,

as if by rote.

But, sometimes, they do

come easy;

to me.

Words are my trade;

by me, they are made

to turn cartwheels

and work hard for their keep;

they sleep little,

working long hours,

becoming brittle…

until, one by one,

they are moulded into shape.

Gape at my words,

and, gazing upon them,

escape from your reality

into mine.

“By The Book!”

‘Bardly Writ’ My Shakespearean trilogy (in one part) is actually available as an e-book! There is a link over there to the right – no, over there… that’s it. That’s if you want to fork out the princely sum of £1.99.

If you perchance purchase…

If you could feedback on Lulu.com after having read it I would be muchly appreciative. Thank you. G:)

“Shakespeare! Here, Today!”

“Shakespeare! Here, today!”

Is what I’d really love to say,

or shout.

But, sadly, there’s not a lot

of Him about.

And, yes, I gave Him a capital H;

why shouldn’t I?

He’s a playwright of the age;

of whichever age you are He is;

and this I write because of that

(and that I wrote because of this).

To be truthful,

I take all chances

to write of Him

and praise His glory to the skies.

Shakespeare, Poet, Bard, arise.

PS Shakespeare was a Taurean,

just like me,

we have lots in common,

as I’m sure He’d undoubtedly agree.

Liskeard Writers Group story for May 1st – Jet Mette.

Mette Grøtteland was feeling an amazing oneness with the sky as she sliced a clinical pathway through the air, guiding the Northrop F-5E jet-fighter betwixt the clouds and the heavens. She gracefully carried out another serene banking manoeuvre, and then headed the jet towards the north and its destination.

“Don’t forget we need to do a quick turnaround at Bodø.” Jorek’s irritating voice coming through her earpiece broke the spell.

“Roger that, Jorek.”

Mette rechecked their course for Bodø – and, for now, that tiny morsel of conversation was all they had. It was obvious that Jorek was miffed at being paired with ‘Jet-Mette’; but, as he had failed to form a trusting partnership with any of the male pilots, Mette was the last option for him – ‘you’d think he could man-up and not be such a schmo’ thought Mette.

Mette loved the flight to Bodø; the land this far north had always held her heart in its pine woodlands, mirrored lakes, and myriad, rambling fjords.

She had grown up within hiking distance of the Saltfjellet–Svartisen National Park and her Vegan lifestyle of being as one with Nature was not what most people would expect of the country’s newest, and youngest, fighter pilot.

In fact, Mette was a trail-blazer in her outlook upon life; her fitness regime, along with her principled beliefs, caused many to sneer at her ethos for living, though secretly many of those sneering were just jealous of her talent and dedication.

Then, breaking the smoothness of the flight, and from out of nowhere, the Northrop coughed nonchalantly, causing Mette to scan the gauges and seek for any problems. All seemed well; and, for a further minute or so, nothing else occurred; but Mette eased the Northrop’s speed and altitude just in case – she knew well to cover any eventualities.

“Belt up in the back!” was Mette’s smiling communication to Jorek – he couldn’t see her smile, he wouldn’t have appreciated it, anyway.

A series of lights then commenced a little disco-display before her. ‘Not good.’ surmised Mette. She radioed ahead to Bodø:

“Bodø. This is Jay-Emm-Two-Zero.” Her identifier was the initials from her nickname ‘Jet-Mette and her age on becoming a pilot; and, as they say, some Norwegian jokes are funny.

“We are on course to you, six, seven, zero, eight, North; four, ten, nine, six, East. We are experiencing electronics malfunction. We have reduced height and speed. We may need to bring Jay-Emm-Two-Zero to Emergency Landing Procedure. Repeat: we may need to bring Jay-Emm-Two-Zero to Emergency Landing Procedure. Please track our signal. Over.”

Bodø replied straight back to Mette, they repeated the location, and stated their readiness to assist in getting plane and pilots back safely.

Mette, in the meantime had been scanning for a certain clearing that she knew from her hiking in the Saltfjellet–Svartisen National Park – an orienteering exercise that may now be of far more use than she had guessed at the time.

“We may need to put her down.” Mette gave Jorek a little heads-up on the probability of terminal engine problems.

“Can’t we just eject?” Jorek was always the first to sacrifice an aircraft; he may have had lots of experience, but he had no loyalty at all to the machines that kept him in the air.

“You can, if you want to, Jorek; I’d like to get this old tub down safely.” she paused for a few seconds, “It’s make your mind up time. You staying for the landing, or are you gonna float down on your lonesome?”

Jorek considered his options: if he stayed and Mette landed safely then he could share in the small glory; if he ejected then he would definitely live to jet-fight another day. However, if the landing went belly-up then he might just need scraping off the ground; and, anyway, it wasn’t for definite that the Northrop was going to give up the ghost, was it?

“I’ll stay here for the moment; can we not make it to Bodø?” he queried.

Mette spared a few more seconds for his question – while she scanned the terrain for a make-do runway.

“I’d say that this trip is about to terminate in the National Park – I just hope it’s not the bears in the wood that come to our rescue.” Mette switched the landing gear down. She knew that there were some straight tracks in a few places around the park; but, they weren’t usually that wide. The plane would have to try off-roading as an alternative career. Now where was that path?

Mette saw it. “Right. I can see a route down that we can use.”

Jorek had gone into silent mode; he may have been praying; but, apart from that, he was certainly no use in a crisis.

At twenty, Mette was already an experienced pilot; but, simulated emergency landings were not the real thing. Now was the time to put all that theory into practice.

Sure and steady was Mette’s plan. Get it right first time and there would be as little fuss as possible before they awaited the Helicopter Recovery Team.

The landing was as near perfect as you can get when the runway has an assault course set up on it. Dodging rocks and branches, as well as could be, brought Mette, Jorek, and one tired jet-fighter to a gradual stop.

Mette closed down the fluttering engine. Flipped open the cockpit and sprang out for a warm down.

’Fitness of the body is healthy to the fitness of the mind’ thought Mette, as she carried out what stretching exercises she could in the flight suit.

Jorek was less active; both mentally and physically.

”How long will they be?” he asked, almost whining the question to Mette.

”They should be able to get to us in about thirty-five minutes if the breeze is following nicely. Race you to that tree and back?” Mette pointed to a tall Spruce about a mile away that dominated the area.

”I’ll give you a minute’s head start?” Mette knew that Jorek was not going to be running anywhere, anytime soon.

His look was enough to confirm that.

”Okay. Stay cool.” and off she went.

I Sit Down (to write a poem). #SoC

The Cheesewring (to the centre)

So, I sit down

to write a poem;

but, what do I write about?

I have no idea.

So far this has been prose;

and prose is just words upon a page,

meaning nothing

signifying little;

perhaps a sign of the age.

Prose, written by a novelist;

he has a novel idea,

he writes it down;

and he doesn’t have a bike –

which is a joke, if you like –

“No, vello!”

unless he’s French –

“Non Vello!”

which, probably, doesn’t make sense,

even if you are French;

and is even less likely to,

if you are not –

like what I am.

So, ‘poetry’ what do I do?

I haven’t a clue.

Have you?

No?

I thought not.

Left to my own devices

I probably would

write a poem;

which is the situation

that I find myself in now.

And, how do I go about

this

thing?

This writing of poems?

Of poetry?

Any help?

No?

None from you.

I wasn’t expecting any;

I’ve asked many;

but few even respond;

it’s above and beyond

most people

to understand

a poem;

and, especially one like this

which isn’t really a poem;

but, is – if you know what I mean;

if you are one of the few.

Are you?

The Little Fincham and District Serious Poetry Society.

The Little Fincham and District Serious Poetry Society.

by Graeme Sandford

The Little Fincham and District Serious Poetry Society meet in the spacious realm of the Little Fincham Mission Church.

For a paltry three pence for each meeting, the poetic types of Little Fincham and the surrounding environs can listen to some classic poetry from the past, and also some hidden gems from the recent past; reading out their own poetry with all the enthusiasm that the converted can muster.

Avoiding any poems that include swearing and blasphemy, due largely to the location, a broad swathe of literary gems are recited to a mostly appreciative

audience.

Tonight, we meet the group at their regular monthly meeting, second Tuesday of the month, seven pee em sharp.

It is now ten past seven, and the throng are still removing coats, sorting scraps of paper, and settling themselves into the uncomfortable pews that the Church has kindly provided for the occasion.

This tardiness has, as usual, annoyed Stella Rogers, the chairlady, although she keeps that annoyance bottled and determines to give those late-comers slightly less time to recite than the organised few that were here and settled at six fifty pee em.

Stella spoke, with a little too much authority, “Right!” She catches herself, “Yes. I’d like to welcome you all to the one hundred and thirty-seventh meeting of the Little Fincham Serious Poetry Group. And I must just say here, and now, that over the last eleven and a half years we have prided ourselves on always bringing the best poetry to the poetry table. Our stalwarts Jennifer Jumble, Douglas Doniert, and Hettie Hopgood have been alongside me since the first meeting, and a few others have been attending this group for many years; but, we are always happy to see a newcomer…” Stella nods in the direction of the newcomer. “…popping through the poetry doors to join the group.

We shall get to know Ophelia Oakenshaw better in a little while; but, firstly, we must do our poetry housekeeping. As you all know it is three pence into the pot for the meeting -which includes a donation to the Church Roof Fund – and first-timers are free. If you can just sign the register as it comes round and tick the ‘paid’ box, then we can get on to items for discussion.

The book is passed around the congregation.

Stella continues: “Firstly, our most recent poetry book ‘Poems From The Pews’ has not quite sold out the seventy-five copies that Douglas has kindly printed for us. And, whilst we are talking of the book, Douglas, can we take a little more care on the spelling. I have a list of errors – and apologies – that we are going to have to insert into the remaining copies.

TBC