BITTER SWEET

Bitter Sweet

Rising Brook Writers

DISCLAIMER: To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this pub-lication is in the public domain or has been reproduced with permission and/or source acknowledgement. We have researched the rights where possi-ble. RBW is a community organisation, whose aims are purely educational,

and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the copyright to their own work. Names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are used in a fictitious way. Any resem-blance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

SPECIAL THANKS: Staffordshire County Council’s Your Library Team at Rising Brook Branch

PUBLISHED BY: Rising Brook Writers

RBW is a voluntary charitable trust. RCN: 1117227 © Rising Brook Writers 2013 The right of Rising Brook Writers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of

the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

This anthology is dedicated to Clive Hewitt without whom RBW would not have

achieved half so much.

First Edition Cover image:

© Cathysbelleimage | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

http://www.stockfreeimages.com/

http://www.dreamstime.com/

Bitter Sweet

3

Published by Rising Brook Writers

2013


4

Contributing Poets Alice Schofield 6 Countryman (Fred Waterfall) 11 Edith Holland 18 Elizabeth Leaper 26 Jane Moreton 30 Joy Tilley 39 Paul Fox 36 Penny Wheat 42 Pauline Walden 55 Stephanie Spiers 48

Bitter Sweet

5

Introduction Bitter Sweet is the sixth annual collection of poetry produced by Rising Brook Writers‟ library and RBW Online workshop contributors. As well as publishing poetry, Rising Brook Writers participate in a number of live performances each year. Poetry readings are an established feature of the annual calendar of events and each October, contributors celebrate National Poetry Day.


6

Alice Schofield

The Way We Were

When I was a child, we played lots of games, Like „hopscotch‟, „hide and seek‟, „hit and

run‟, Unlike all the children we see today,

Who sit and press buttons with their thumbs.

We played outdoors, and loved climbing trees, We had gangs; and splashed about in pools

Had there then been any „Health and Safety‟, We would surely have broken their rules.

In the old days our pleasures were simple,

We just loved playing out together, With our toys and our imagination

We shared times we would always treasure.

Technology now has impinged on our lives, We‟re turning into a press button nation

Many consider this to be progress With X-boxes, i-pads and play stations.

But I have to confess I do not agree

Maybe I‟m just stuck in my ways All these gizmos and gadgets maybe hailed as

the best Yet how I long for the Good Old Days.

Bitter Sweet

7

Alice Schofield

Winter

Cold and dismal afternoons Curtains drawn at three,

No rays of sun to keep me warm Just a welcome cup of tea. Frosty mornings, cosy bed It‟s hard to start the day,

But I struggle to make the effort Work to do and bills to pay.

After a steaming bowl of porridge

I go out to clear the snow Chat to woolly hatted neighbours

Back indoors, I‟m all aglow. Switch on music, stoke the fire

Have a read, then phone a friend Just because it‟s cold outside

Enjoyment mustn‟t end.

We have to make the most of life, However bleak the season,

We must grab the moment, seize the day Only then we‟ll find life‟s reason. This morning I discovered mine, And it made me want to sing,

There were snowdrops in my garden So, „Farewell Winter, Welcome Spring!‟

Feb 2011


8

Alice Schofield

Bonfire Night

I‟ve just been to a bonfire „do‟ it was held in a very posh park

We had cocktails and canapés on the lawn as we waited for it to get dark

The evening was terribly civilised, we mingled and chatted a bit

Then on the dot of six o‟clock, both the fire and the fireworks were lit.

A kaleidoscope shower of colour descended from

on high Explosive sparkles of every hue filled the

November sky And so it continued for more than an hour our

senses all bombarded Then, after mince pies and coffee, we said our

goodbyes and departed.

On reflection the evening was pleasant, but if I‟m honest, I have to say

It didn‟t hold a Roman candle to the bonfire nights of my day.

Back then as a child we had such fun, the whole neighbourhood got together

We‟d gather wood, and pile it high, no matter what the weather.

Bitter Sweet

9

We made a „Guy‟ and in a pram, pushed it from

door to door Collecting pennies as we went, to buy fireworks by

the score. On November the fifth, we assembled: family,

friends and neighbours. Then we tossed the Guy atop the fire and set

alight the wood of our labours.

Next, some of the dads lit the fireworks, Catherine wheels, jack jumpers and flares

The everyone gathered together for all the refreshments we had to share

We had hot potatoes, treacle toffee and parkin, sometimes we had mushy peas

But one thing we all shared together was the wish for an evening to please.

And please we did when I was young, Bonfire night

was a night to remember, So, I‟d like to raise a glass and say

‘Three cheers for the fifth of November.’

5th Nov 2012


10

Molasses has come back into fashion in the last twenty years or so, but when we were kids father had a forty gallon drum in the corn shed on a block so he could run off some when it was needed. The drum was half used and thick with mill dust, and the lower small bung was only finger tight. We used to take this bung out and wait for the treacle to slowly ooze out and get fingers full of the stuff before replacing the bung.

Countryman

Bitter Sweet

11

Black Molasses in the Barn

I Remember at the Beeches, way back in the barn, A great big forty gallon drum, on a block away from

harm, It contained black molasses; a good half of it was used, With hot water mixed, spread on oats when they were

bruised.

Take the bung out and wait a bit, for it to slowly flow, We all liked to have a taste, dad said it'd help us grow, A finger full and then another, it was lov-ely and sweet,

Left your hands all sticky, you couldn't be discreet.

We had plenty over the time, but still a lot unused, Mother said it would move us, but father he was

amused, He said a good clean out, every now and then,

Would tone us up, and help us all, to grow to big strong men.


12

Countryman

Just Got Over Retiring Age

I've just got over retiring age, And only now put pen to page,

And now I'm getting past my prime, Thing appear all in rhyme,

Following a train of thought,

It must be a bug that I've caught, On looking back all through my life,

How lucky I've been to have good wife,

She generally sorts out all my bugs, As well as order all the drugs,

Cuts my hair and wash my cloths, Boots I wash down with a hose,

Food it's bought with so much care,

Low salt and sugar be aware, Meal are always at a regular time, This I'm used to whole my lifetime,

Bitter Sweet

13

Get up early every morning, When most folks they are still a snoring, When cows I milked got up five thirty,

In for breakfast hands were dirty,

Not done this for twenty years, But this old habit never blears,

A couple of hours of time and thought, Before breakfast rhymes to mind are brought.

Owd Fred


14

Old Tractors Large, Old Tractors Small. Old tractors large, old tractors small, Some go well, some they stall, Most are older, than their owners, Some run sweetly, some are groaners. Worn out tyres, cracked and perished, Rims all pitted with rust and blemished, Some come with nose stove in, Cut it off and chuck it in bin. New bonnet it will cost the earth, Sprayed and polished, look like new birth, New chrome nut for steering wheel, To finish the tractor, will give you zeal. Wheel nuts painted or new ones shiny, New pins and clips, on little chains oh blimey, These little touches make the difference, Get it noticed from a distance.

Countryman

I drove this tractor from new in 1956; it stood un-used for almost twenty-five years and now it is over fifty years old, it's been brought back to life. Here it’s had the engine done, the wheels and

back end have been painted, the bonnet engine and gear box have yet to be cleaned up, but that was back in 2005. It is now fully painted up in its original livery and almost looks like new, we have

taken the tractor on road runs, but this ones max speed is twelve miles per hour, the E27N will do a bit faster if pushed

Bitter Sweet

15

First thing you're told when first you're out, "That's not right shade", and gives you doubt, A clever clogs with brush painted bonnet, That's my old tractor, he's to covet. Quite a bit of competition, Who's got the silliest seat cushion? Hessian bag on tin pan seat, Very original, but not so neat.

Every one becomes an expert, Their influence on you exert, Keep it original they say, Fibre glass copies keep at bay. A nice sweet engine, like to hear, New plugs and leads, and wheel to steer Throaty roar when it's struck up, Draw the crowds, when you wind it up.


16

Countryman

I Booked into a Ploughing Match I booked into a ploughing match, there to show my skill, See how straight and even, my opening split instill, A moment‟s loss of concentration blows the ideal apart, Spend the rest of all that day, looking like upstart. Good many tractors on the field, all like minded to plough, Markers out all over the place, beyond the plots allow, Down and back complete the split; wait for judge to mark, Close it up, flat top or pointed, critical watchers remark.

Bitter Sweet

17

Some pause for lunch walk to see, how the neighbour‟s done, Body language tells it all, a grimace purse of lips so glum, They try to break your confidence, concentration goes, Look back and see plough blocked up, new expletives compose. All best mates when ya make a mess, condolence all come in, A very polite clapping for best in class, everyone wishing to win, A jolly good bunch of plough-men, relax till judge comes back, See who‟s is best of the bunch, and who has got the plaque. Countryman (Owd Fred)

When harvest is finished,

September is the time to plough the fields for winter sowing, and now is the time for ploughing matches, with vintage and modern ploughs. (Stafford one was at Marston September 2012)


18

Edith Holland

Stars (A poem for National Poetry Day 2012) Stars are miracles of sparkling light some near some far some way out of sight A star is an actor with the ultimate prize A young girl dreams with stars in her eyes. There's a star symbol used for a proud human race One country's flag is a star out in space. We well know the stars of the silver screen And the award displayed for high class cuisine. There was a guiding star helped sailors come home But outshining all others is our star the sun.

Bitter Sweet

19

Edith Holland

Roberta and Jonathon went for a ride in a lovely old red saloon They took along with them a random collection of books to suit every mood. I have it in mind Jonathon said as he twined his hand through her long golden hair Why don't we marry? no longer to tarry in this crepuscular air. I shall plant a new rosebush Roberta said softly to mark the happy occasion. Jonathon just smiled he was busy at work on a tricky algebraic equation. (RBW Random Words Assignment 2012)


20

The last burst of energy from the artist's palette

is Autumn.

The abundance of colours are Natures flourish

before subsiding once more into the quiet season

of replenishment, to store again all the natural

resources ready for next years display.

This will be repeated year on year in hedge-

rows, woodlands and gardens, from the lucious

hanging bunches of the Guelder Rose berries like

shiny beads of my lady's necklace, to the tangled

thorny sprays of wild blackberries alive with in-

sects who take advantage of this feast each

Autumn.

Stop and wonder awhile at this munificence,

gaze at the endless hedgerows over burdened

with this rich harvest of scarlet, some wild and

natural marking out territory and acreage of own-

ership, many the tribute to a diligent gardener

who has cared through his lifetime creating the

shapes of topiary we admire and envy.

Edith Holland

Guelder Rose : Viburnum Opulus Wikipedia picture

Bitter Sweet

21

Exploring Prose Poetry

Adding to this overwhelming offering of nature

are the breath taking colours, no artist can really

capture what our eyes see and interpret to our

senses.

The slightest breeze gives life and movement,

we can stand and admire it all it is wondrous and

ephemeral.

Then one Winter morning with no colour to dis-

tract our senses we become aware of a slight

warmth of the shrouded sun, as the early mist

melts away, there on the hedges and sleeping

shrubs lie the finest network of nature's embroi-

dery created by some of nature's most unloved

creatures, the spiders, but no-one can deny the

beauty of this show.

Guelder Rose : Viburnum Opulus Wikipedia picture


22

Edith Holland

Day Dreaming Look down into the stream with the wonder of a child watch the light play on the ripples as the sun catches the tiny scales of a minnow. Movement is constant, forever changing the shapes of the pebbles, Hear the melody of the water swirling, now gentle, now urgent in its need to discover fresh pathways. Flooding after rain, changing colour with peat settling back into its gentle rhythm twinkling and splashing along the gravel bed.

Bitter Sweet

23

Edith Holland

Invisible Love Although you are gone from me I feel you are near When decisions need making I remember your care. You steady my hand when I'm signing my name Behind to guide me, always the same. You were ever the cautious one Made no rash decisions You calm my emotions, lift up my spirits. I know you are here your presence is all Not just that picture on the wall.


24

Edith Holland

It's Life Is there a pattern to life Are all the incidents planned By a power I don't understand. By taking the left hand fork in the lane Am I destined to be unaware of what the right hand fork offers. I sit on the bank and wonder as the sunlight sprinkles patterns on the path. The sun is climbing I must decide this is not a game, It's life.

Bitter Sweet

25

Edith Holland

Celebrating next of kin Granny's faced was round and rosy, soft warm skin and smiling lips Grandpa had a grizzled beard told us tales of sailing ships. Uncle Peter always busy had no time for children's games. Auntie Josie in a tizzy couldn't remember any names. Brother Conrad's handsome face gave him the chance to star on Broadway. Sister Ethel not so lucky made do with what others threw away. Cousin Joe, here's a case runs a fish stall in the market Bought four by four wheels, showing off, couldn't find a place to park it. Tracy's baby number six, surely this is one too many Never mind it's called a family How about a kiss for Granny.


26

Elizabeth Leaper

First Taste Apparently, when I was small, I wouldn‟t eat a strawberry. I cried, clamped up my mouth, screwed up my face and turned aside. They tell me, my father forced one between my lips, past my clenched teeth and then… …how my face changed at that first taste. It must have seemed the sweetest fruit of all, Eve‟s forbidden Apple in the Garden before the fall. So many more, so lush, so juicy, have passed my lips since then, but not even one, I swear, comes near to tasting half so sweet as that first treat.

Bitter Sweet

27

Elizabeth Leaper Frost Art How I long to see again the pictures Jack Frost used to draw on my window pane. I used to greet with such delight, after a cold and frosty night, the fronds and ferns of filigree that he had drawn exquisitely, the icy peaks, the sweeping swirls, the little dots of icy pearls. Graffiti art par excellence and drawn with ease at every chance, until much later in the day the sun would melt it all away. But now double-glazing is the norm and central heating keeps us warm and so his drawings now, alas, Jack Frost can‟t sketch upon the glass. Although unseen he‟s still about, on cold mornings when I‟m out he nips my fingers till they‟re raw, toes and ears he makes quite sore, but his art is something rare, you hardly find it anywhere. O how I long to see again the pictures Jack Frost used to draw on my window pane.


28

Elizabeth Leaper

Winter Rain It‟s dank, it‟s drear, the weather‟s dire, the icy rain bites at the skin. I wonder why I ventured out – I should have stayed within. No colour – in the mist-grey sky. The trees, the ground, are bare. No colour – on the passers-by, just greyness everywhere. No joy, no joy but endless damp. It‟s cold, it‟s wet and grey. A dark and dismal atmosphere. O dreary, dreary day.

Bitter Sweet

29

Wistman's Wood in Winter Wikipedia


30

FAMILIAR TENSION When you were all little you jumped up and down and shouted “Look at me! look at me!” splashing in the sea or turning cartwheels in the grass. You wouldn‟t let it pass if I admired one more than another - not the right thing for a mother to do. Look, I‟ve been with you half the day but with them only now for this meal. We have to even things up a bit or somebody may throw a fit. We‟re all grown up now, for heaven‟s sake, so why this ache? Why am I sitting here, in this pinkish loo, wondering what to do, shedding tension and gathering my strength before I can return and smile down the length of that humming dinner table?

Jane Moreton

Bitter Sweet

31

WEEKEND VISIT She sits between them, parent at each end of the table, anxious, loving. They pass the marmalade, drink coffee, wonder what she‟ll do today, whether she‟ll be with them tonight. Last night, for sorrow at their seeming so bereft, she refused an invitation, cut short a phone call; sank into too many soft cushions, watched TV. They do not ask her plans, and for this self-denial she‟s glad; glances at them with love, and then beyond, out at the cloudscape of the sky. Her glance pulls back, down to toast and cutlery. A butterfly recalls her gaze to the glass, tapping with impatient wings, fluttering to regain that bright beyond. She rises, releases it, Red Admiral, to the open seas.

Jane Moreton


32

AMAH They spoke of you as Amah, only so; your successor has her name below the photograph. She does not hold me in cradling arms as you do - but I was bigger then. You cradle me, but I cannot recall your smell, your voice, the feel of you – all I know is that war divided us while I was still small. How, tell me how did I lose you?

Jane Moreton

Bitter Sweet

33

RECOLLECTION They arrive, our children, bringing their grown-awayness, their scent of other lives. At these longed-for gatherings memory‟s cupboard doors burst open, flinging out knives for me to catch and sharpen; I test them on my heart. There are cake tins on the cupboard shelves, but I find they are empty save for a few crumbs. It‟s poor provender in this pantry. I try to turn away, force myself back, and stare in shame, disconsolate, at stained untidy shelves, unstoppered bottles and jars. They come to look in with me, our children. They say this cupboard is in order, the shelves stacked with good things: show me tins, filled with cake; bottles, with ginger beer: say I must screw the lid on the jar of tears, stack the knives safely. They close the cupboard door.

Jane Moreton


34

BONFIRE Corners of letters catch fire; love scatters in the flames, colours them, crumbling into ash. But no, that‟s only paper; what remains is the affection, though only half-remembered; the warmth we shared, I and these friends, lost so long, passed by, passed on... Though we are no more in touch, never see each other now, if we met again our warm embrace, shy perhaps, would still mean as much as ever is contained in these sheets now consigned to flames. Better to let love drift on new year‟s air than leave it weighted down with dust in a crammed drawer.

Jane Moreton

Bitter Sweet

35

My Wife

I think my wife is truly ill She‟s pale and growing thinner -

I have to drag her out of bed So she can get my dinner.

It‟s getting quite sad really, What drives me to despair

Is how her head bangs on each step As we go down the stair.

I‟ve bought a brand new stairlift

It‟s been no use at all The woman‟s been too idle

To fix it to the wall

And yet to make her happy Is all I really seek;

I‟m taking her to see Milan - They‟re playing Stoke next week.

Paul Fox


36

Gorilla Never point at a gorilla For in pongoid etiquette The simple act of pointing means You‟re issuing a threat. You may look at a gorilla But try not to meet his stare. It‟s another sign of menace Which gorillas cannot bear. Should you come across gorillas In a pub or on an outing Then try not to annoy them; Don‟t go grimacing or shouting. Gorillas are most gentle beasts But this should be remembered - If you annoy them in the least You‟ll promptly be dismembered.

Paul Fox

Bitter Sweet

37

Paul Fox

Collector I collect, coins, stamps, dust and people – Beautiful people I keep in the pockets of my memory And take out on cold, wet days To brighten the darkness. And you are one of these. And when I die Your sadness will be a greater epitaph Than words. Soon we will part And all I will ask is Remember me.


38 Wikipedia image

Bitter Sweet

39

Deception „Solanum dulcamara‟, oh, such A pretty name for a pretty flower, Turk‟s caps of purple Over small yellow faces, Delicate stems lean Confidingly for support Among the grasses, Shiny leaves turn to catch the sun. Autumn beads of green and red Thread the hedgerow, Tiny tomatoes, enchanting, Enticing. Ah, beware, For nightshade is its English name, Or, as rural sages have it, „Bittersweet‟.

Joy Tilley


40

Forget-Me-Not

In Memoriam S.T.

A tiny blue flower in the garden grows wild,

Each petal a memory. In Springtime it gently unfurls its buds,

And every one whispers low, „Remember, forget-me-not‟.

Each flower is the colour of faraway sky,

Each leaf is the shape of a heart. In cloud and in sunshine, this plant seems

to say „Remember, forget-me-not.‟

Remember, forget-me-not.

Written to be sung — original music also by JT

Joy Tilley

Bitter Sweet

41

The Picture

Belladonna! lovely lady, Your dark eyes wide, Your skin so white,

To what artifice do you owe your looks?

Your portrait is admired now On the gallery wall,

But you yourself are dust.

Were the pupils of your eyes made large With atropine, distilled from Deadly Nightshade?

Were your cheeks made pale With powdered lead?

Was your beauty worth the sacrifice?

No lady today would do these things- Botox and silicone are so much safer.

Joy Tilley


42

Penny Wheat

Doves

When he needed a messenger, Noah chose a dove.

Sent out from the security of the Ark And from the companionship of his mate

On an important mission. To the wide, unending water.

It circled the wide, unending arc of sky, Seeking, searching on high,

Discovered life and brought it back. Faithful bearer of good news, hope for mankind.

By Jordan‟s banks He came, the Son,

As sign to all that God requires an honest heart Full of remorse.

He who should have done the deed Content for now at least To have it done to him.

God‟s blessing came to rest on him When the dove came down

And lighted on his head for all to see. “This is my Son. He pleases me.

You must take heed of what he says.”

Bitter Sweet

43

White for purity: white for innocence: Just like the Godman.

The spirit came as a dove. A sign of God‟s favour.

Then was that dreadful day,

So feared, so long anticipated. Time for now at least, to say goodbye.

I left you in the chapel, Went out into the sun and so bereft, so alone

Looked upwards, seeking consolation. And saw the doves there, Necking, wooing, cooing.

So glad was I to see them, my reassurance.

A year or more had passed And we invited were to remember our own

Particular one, once loved, now gone. From two bright baskets, flower bedecked

Six doves ascended Like wisps of white smoke, to the wide sky, Where they circled, swept and were gone.

But I was happy for the sight, knowing God was in it.


44

Penny Wheat

The Good Earth

Thank God for the good earth. Season by season she proves her faithfulness, She offers of her firstborn, So generous in her fruitfulness. Thank God for the good earth. She nurtures with such care The small seed entrusted by the farmer, Surrendering her progeny, matured, to the ploughshare. Thank God for the good earth. She clothes the fields with grass and flower, Supports and sustains the giant oak, And graciously receives each summer shower. Thank God for the good earth. She, humble, modest, is aware of man‟s abuse, Yet unconcerned, with a good grace labours on, Her patient, quiet benevolence continues.

Bitter Sweet

45

Thank God for the good earth. Unfailing towards us she yields her annual harvest, While we who reap her bounty without thought, Take as our right each year‟s bequest. Thank God for the good earth. She our expectations oft exceeds, and from her flows A liberal blessing, which she generously bestows. Thank God for the good earth - Benignest of benefactors.

Haiku. Ancient olive. Two thousand years ago Did Christ Harvest oil From you?


46

Keys and Locks I can‟t tell you how much I hate water. I‟ve a morbid fear I will drown. Yet as odd as it seems, the place of my dreams Would be not to live in a town. Oh no, I would live near the seaside, Or river, or lakeside or lock. With a view of the quay, yes, that would suit me, Watching boats as they tie up and dock. I could watch the locks opening and closing, If I lived close by a canal. See the barges go by, call out to them „hi‟, Yes, that would be far from banal. They say a girl‟s crowning glory Is her beautiful head of hair. Mine is lifeless and dull, not lustrous and full And grey, when it used to be fair. I wish I had long, flowing tresses, And locks that would cause men to stare. Kate Middleton‟s got style and a beautiful smile. Oh how I dislike my short hair!

Penny Wheat

Bitter Sweet

47

On Wednesdays I sing in the choir, With two hundred or more in the chorus. Some songs are in C, or a different key, And Liz plays and arranges them for us. She bangs out the notes on the piano. We meet in the local school hall. Liz conducts, sings and plays to accompany our lays She‟s jack of and master of all. Some keys are sung and some keys are played Some are of ivory or of ebony made And as you can see, There‟s more than one key. We girls we like having our secrets. We may keep them locked up in a box. Love letters from beaus or faded photos Safely stored thanks to keys and to locks. A key and a lock A lock and a key. Two things which are handy As handy can be.


48

Before breakfast: Sandown IoW 2012 Watery dawn, nacre on the roof ridges, sneaks with shards of mandarin, across dark sand.

White cliffs, wearing streaks of magenta, waiting, silent, rebuffing all comers. Find damp seat, cover with newspaper. Spindrift pillows, floats across salt-blackened groynes, No gulls cry. A lonely black-headed bird circles. Wait by reeds. Any time now.

Caged, alpha male, Snoopy, stirs. Bellows his lungs to announce the day. Sniffs the air for prey. Lion king, despite circumstances. Window panes tremble. Dew glisters on mown grass. Sands sigh their secrets, and porridge boils and bacon sizzles in all the B&Bs along the front. Welcome to Thursday. Going home tomorrow.

Stephanie Spiers

Bitter Sweet

49


50

Metal Detector Alone. A figure on a dark shore. Solitary. A shadow man, stark against the sea‟s sparkling brilliance and the tar-black sand. Arm swings, out and back. Arm swings, out and back. Stops. Listens. Arm swings in tight circle near feet. Bends to a crouch, Uses trowel to dig in pebble strewn shore. Throws something away. No luck. Tin can lid. Bottle top. Back straightens, arm swings, Out and back, out and back. One foot forward, out and back, Tide turns, foam lapping around troughs of blackened groynes. One foot forward, arm swings, out and back. Silhouette grows smaller and smaller, vanishes towards the cliffs.

Stephanie Spiers

Bitter Sweet

51

Barren Sliced like cold liver on a butcher‟s slab, Ripped from its moorings By blue gloved hands. This pod of creation Sacrificed to prolong bearer‟s life. Tattered reminder: Torn and shredded by attempted Foetus. Parasitic growths Taking all and leaving Nothing but devastation. The quick and the dead Both leaving their bloody mark. Now a void, a distant memory. Strange webs of knotted strings, Distorted digestive pathways. The moon holds no dominion The flood, too, passes into memory Becomes buried in reminiscence. These barren depths which Duty fulfilled again and again, Like unseen medal ribbons, Hanging from an old man‟s coat, Creation more worthy than any badge of honour, Quietly define matriarchal status on the road to oblivion.

Stephanie Spiers Dec 2012


52

Stephanie Spiers

Billynomates Scruffy and smelly that‟s Billynomates Red-rimmed eyes and hungry belly that‟s Billynomates Nits and un-ironed shirt that‟s Billynomates Deep inside hold all the hurt that‟s Billynomates Black eye and runny nose that‟s Billynomates Arms on desk: a short doze that‟s Billynomates Dirty socks and no PE kit that‟s Billynomates Punching and scrapping: another hit that‟s Billynomates Scratching, scratching: ever thinner that‟s Billynomates No dinner money, no dinner that‟s Billynomates

Bitter Sweet

53

No school trip: no swimming fees that‟s Billynomates No shoelaces, dirty knees that‟s Billynomates No knickers nor vest that‟s Billynomates Missing all the Sats tests that‟s Billynomates Mum‟s drunk, dad‟s gone that‟s Billynomates Childhood dragging on and on that‟s Billynomates

Dedicated to all the Billynomates of this country who go to school hungry and thirsty and have been failed by an eroded Welfare State and a school

catering system, dominated by „profit margins‟, and which too often shows little compassion for children most in need.

2012 the year Food Banks open in Staffordshire to not only feed the homeless but also the growing number of out of work families

going hungry.


54 © Mattphoto | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

http://www.stockfreeimages.com/

http://www.dreamstime.com/

Bitter Sweet

55

I stood beside the shuttered boat, Watched the swirling chimney smoke; Windows blind, Tight closed eyes, Wondered are they safe inside? Man and dog; I need to know - And break my word To leave them undisturbed? Which matters most, Whose selfish needs – as all needs are? Are there times to break ones word, Perhaps to save a life? Or simply to indulge ones own desires? And so I walked away Not knowing which, With no decision made.

Pauline Walden


56

Pauline Walden

Is it too late To enjoy a lost Spring? Maybe so. Is it too late To find the one thing That makes life worth living? I really don‟t know. The trouble of life Without passion Seems nothing but strife, That I certainly know.

Bitter Sweet

57

Pauline Walden

How once I loved to walk these woodland glades, To watch his loping stride with dogs at heel And see the sunlight glinting on a mane turned gold; Tall and proud as the beast whose name he bears A lion in my life. And still we walk the wooded glades with dogs at heel, But I no longer watch the loping stride, Or see a greying mane turned gold by glinting sun. This lion in my life, still tall and proud, Is just another man.


58

Pauline Walden

2

Today I visited the village church, Christmas fete, Vicar elderly, stiff of gait,

Glanced briefly, nodded, turned away. I hesitated, loath to stay.

But then I caught a glimpse of something bright, The Holy Family

Bathed in dappled light Through stained glass

High in the dimpled wall Where yew tree shadows pass,

And fall.

A tiny child stood gazing at the scene So still he scarcely breathed.

He took my hand, his touch as soft as thistledown. And so we stood

Close, silent in the dappled light. Then all at once a friendly voice enquired,

Would I like some tea? Oh yes I would,

How kind to notice me. I turned back to my companion,

He was nowhere to be seen. I asked after him but no-one seemed to know,

Or be concerned.

Bitter Sweet

59

Acknowledgements Back Cover: Ian McMillan photograph by A Mealing Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where the source permits not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‟s copyright be accidentally infringed please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.


60

is

Rising Brook Writers‟ sixth collection of poetry.

The contributing poets

participate in Rising Brook Writers‟

weekly library and online

workshops.

Our Patron: The Renowned Poet Ian McMillan

BITTER SWEET

Documents

Transcript of BITTER SWEET