Life’s Neglected Past

Three Line Tales. Life’s Neglected Past.

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Photo by Sean Tan via Unsplash

Our sunshine filled childhood days, we ran and splashed, swimming in the lake.
Those dream filled teenage years promising, as we sat dangling our wet feet.
Years gone, but have we become so dull and grey? Let’s leap naked into the deep.

Three Line Tales – Great Expectations

Three Line Tales -Great Expectations.

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Photo by Annie Sprat via Unsplash

Just another large gin to steady the nerves, must be presentable; you understand.
I hope they bring a red and some Jack Daniels or better, a Glenmorangie.
Food! Too late they are here. Why the white coats? What have I done?

Three Line Tales – A New House.

Three Line Tales – A New House.

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Photo by Andrew Neel via Unsplash

Lost in the dark, cold, damp caves. A dragon screeches loud from above.
‘Tim, Tim… Come on… out the cellar now… it’s your bedtime.’
Hot chocolate and dreams of tomorrow’s plans; the jungle in the attic.

 

Fortune Teller – Aunty Rose

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Tarot Cards – Image from pixabay.com

Aunty Rose.

Tea leaves, tarot cards and a glass crystal ball
Aunty Rose has a special gift she can read them all
Holding hands in circles, she’ll speak to your lost friends
Relaying their sad voices with promises to make amends

One summer fete she had sat in her fortune teller’s tent.
Where Mrs Gilford asked, and then all her money spent
To know where her dead man Alfred had hidden his secret gold
Alas, thought Rose, how awful for this wife not to have been told.

They sat and pondered over Alfred’s wealth while sipping sweet tea.
And Rose swirled the leaves around in a glazed white porcelain cup
To form some shapes and symbols that would settle for her to see
The location of the treasure, but alas Aunty Rose had to give up.

Let’s consult the Book of Thoth to reveal the secret of his hoard
So Rose dealt the Tarot cards into rows across the table’s board
It was looking good dealing mostly cards showing golden jewels
But alas, the next was a row of snakes, then jokers and dancing fools.

Not to worry Mrs Gilford, said Rose, I have a mystical crystal ball
Let me gaze into its misty haze, and as the clouds of ether fall
they will reveal exactly the perfect place where to seek and search
Alas, all she saw was a scabby bird holding in its beak a dying perch

Next, Rose lit some candles and in the silence of the subdued light
She held Mrs Gilford’s hands and called to Alfred about their plight
A freezing chill filled up the tent and a ghostly voice spat and roared.
But alas, Mrs Gilford could not understand and declared Aunty Rose a fraud.

Oh this failure was a terrible shame that Aunty Rose could not endure
She pack her bags and said farewell, with no predictions for her future.
Then one day a letter came with pictures of Rose on a Caribbean beach.
And a view of her new home, a sixty meter yacht – ”Alfred’s Sweet Peach’

Traditional Christmas Sentiment.

My piece below is a reflection on a well known Christmas Ghost Story.

Mr Scrouge.

I was never happy nor gave a festive care
When carol singers screeched outside my door.
They seemed so full of seasonal Christmas cheer
With good tidings and joy that I found such a bore.

My name is Mr Scrouge not Santa Clause.
I didn’t give presents and I didn’t send cards
Nor hung baubles or tinsel on a coniferous tree
Instead I’d count my gold and cackle aloud with glee.

Then I saw an apparition over St Nicholas’s church in town
A ghostly creature laughing, his finger pointing down
Mr Scrouge, he called, your time on Earth is running out
What use is your pointless life full of bitterness and doubt.

What do I care of others and your empty ghostly threats
I am off to the bookies now to collect my winning bets.
Then a tiny ragged boy appeared holding out an empty bowl
Sir, he said, my mother’s dying, please a penny for her soul.

And from the dirty rags in the doorway by the ironmonger Jacks
She rose up and I saw an evil face laughing on a boney rack
Her skeleton chattered, Mr Scrouge, it is clear for all to see
That death is knocking on your door, but you’ll never be free

My heart stopped beating, I shivered and felt a creeping cold
The ragged boy and mother laughed at my life becoming mould
I cried for an Angel to rescue me from this dark despotic death.
So I promised to spend my wealth to end all poverty on Earth.

The boy and mother warmed me from a pitiless lonely end
And we celebrated Christmas with all their wondrous friends
It cost me all my hard earned gold to bring them happiness and good cheer
And so the moral of my sad story to you must now be very clear.
That having lots of family and friends at Christmas is wonderfully dear.

Book Week Scotland -Simply Read Too

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I had a book and CD launch today with the completion of my project for Book Week Scotland.

The book contains the transcripts of a collection of poetry and short stories written by Lanark Writers, which I published. The recordings on the Audio CD, which are the authentic voices of the authors, were arranged by the gentleman on the left, Mr Boom. He also composed the music and did the sound engineering. The result is a professionally finished piece of entertainment. Mr Boom is a TV entertainer as well as a sound recorder for local music groups and bands.

Here is an example of one of the poems; Villanelle for an Ancient Lover by Edith Ryan.

 

How did this lover get to be so old?

Who once was young and in his prime

In whom the fire of the love has not gone cold.

This ardent mate with passion bold

Whose days were full of summertime,

How did this lover get to be so old?

A lover with a heart of beaten gold,

Now slower, all he needs is time

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Life’s race is run, perhaps life’s story told

In fireside tale or ballad rhyme

How did this lover get to be so old?

I thought that he had split the mould

Eternal youth, an ardour so sublime

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Time’s etched his face with line and fold

And on his hair there’s frosty rime.

How did this lover get to be so old?

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

*****

Simply Read Too in Other Writings

 

 

 

 

 

Orbiting the Moon

Orbiting the moon.
Mother stood staring out of the open window
As I walked along the gravel garden path
She looked through me as If I was hollow
But I smiled and waved and saw her laugh

We sat on the veranda with jam and scones
She asked where I had been all these years
Were you travelling in space polishing stones?
I can’t remember, she said and wiped her tears

I showed her pictures of my growing family
My children as babies then going on to school
Who are these people? I can’t see them clearly
Oh yes she said, your father, the stubborn fool

We walked to the park and sat by the lake
She told me she was proud of her beloved son
The first Scots astronaut who promised to take
Her sightseeing, past Mars and orbiting the moon

Is it time to go? she said and held my hand
She pulled up the travel rug against the chill
How long will it take and where will we land?
She rested on my shoulder and slipped away
As I watched the sun sinking over the hill.

 

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Second Glance

Second Glance by Jan Train.

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Glasgow Street Art

sometimes

when people walk away

you want to call out

their name

just so they’ll turn

with a polite look

of enquiry

and you’ll say

something

quite inane

simply

for the pleasure

of seeing

their face again.

Reading on the Radio

Hi Folks,

I had the opportunity to read two of my short stories on a local radio station.

I think the best part was the introductory music.  How I managed an hour of fumbling and mumbling I’ll never know. I trust the listeners were entertained.

 

 

The Glorious Dead

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The guilty live with the shame of the silent dead.

All around the thunderous guns blew earth to hell
And the bullets tore the souls from the hearts of men
The heroes died, massacred, row upon row they fell
and for a cause that’s not so glorious now, or then.

Over those silent battlefields the skylarks hover high
above the swaying waves of blood red poppy flowers
and on the hour when sanity returned they heaved a sigh
and still they sing for all mankind that madness may devour.