Author: Gail

Bride’s Mound; for Kathy Hope

Bride's Mount

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Up on Bride’s Mound, where the sky meets the ground

Circle wheels within wheels, on a blue winter day

Child of the trees, of the stars and the breeze

How much we love her and want her to stay

Waft of incense on air, words of ritual prayer

Gentleness, blessing, children at play

They who confessed her, who laid out and dressed her

Scattering acorns, wormwood, and bay

No dark corner spared in the memories shared

Of the pain that she had before finding her way

Rivers of sound, through the harp, through the ground

Diluting the darkness, dissolving dismay

Herein is forgiving; the dead and the living

Made fresh by the scent of a rosemary spray

Such redemption and peace, in her final release

Leave us free to remember and love as we may

We are all of us here; she has nothing to fear

Her spirit has gone from the bier where she lay

As together we stand, on this green hallowed land

Holding dear Kathy Hope as we love her away

*

by Gail

Too Late For Words

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*

Oh, when they were alive we never said

The things we say about them now they’re dead

Too far away now, too far gone to hear

Gone, never to return or reappear

Too late to say how much they meant to us

Just hollow words, and funerals, and fuss

And sorry tears, and memories, and pain

And wishing we could see their face again

That gaze exchanged by eyes when last we met

That lingered a split second, we forget

That precious image, vague, so hard to find

In cupboard corners of unconscious mind

*

Why didn’t we just tell them they were great

Too late today, too late now, all too late

We had that thought that day, we didn’t call

What if we never called that much at all

Or when we did, droned on and on and on

No chance to listen now they’re dead and gone

And our last words, a blessing or a curse?

A dirty joke or elevating verse?

*

And what if it was bad, so very bad

Unreasonably difficult or sad

Too late to shake hands now, forget, forgive

For they have gone and we have stayed to live

To reconcile our difference alone

With icy wind and cold unyielding stone

With questioning, with anger, fear and prayer

And all the time just wishing they were there

*

They change us most, our dearest kith and kin

Lay waste the landscapes that we dwell within

Leave shattered palaces in ruined wake

Leave with that part of us they chose to take

Make waves rise up on ponds in silent glades

Blast particles of light through sunken shades

Part oceans with their leaving, break the sky

Leave fish upon the shore line high and dry

*

And even those we never thought we knew

The ones we thought were simply passing through

However long the number of their days

Do change us, in small subtle little ways

Make dust prints on the table in the hall

Leave crumbs on plates, and scuff marks on the wall

Blow gentle breezes soft through window crack

That whisper ‘I am never coming back’

*

The more we loved the more we miss, the more

We yearn for some strange loophole in the law

Unwilling to concede the battle lost

To pay for love, and ever count the cost

We search in dream, in lonely mountain walk

For one last touch, for one last quiet talk

And briefly, in the corner of our eye

We see them come, and go, and wave goodbye

*

At every funeral we stand and swear

That next time we will say how much we care

Say that we love them, call them on the phone

To let them know that they are not alone

And every time we fail and forget

That well intentioned heartfelt course we set

I loved you, did you know that, tell me true?

Unanswered echoes coming back at you

Dark holes within the soul and endless night

Bright angels lost in distant blinding light

The empty vase, the upturned empty chair

Deep lesions of the heart and songs in air

*

by Gail

truly odd; a bowie thing

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something strange to earth was sent

dropped some art then simply went

now lonely spiders left on mars

watch red shoes dance on dusty stars

and walls of televisions sing

sweet things about the rebel king

the lad insane, the skinny duke

androgynous inspired fluke

flight of peacock, coloured flash

funkin’ funky ash to ash

china diamond, cold as god

genuinely, truly odd

*

by gail

The Tale of the Wobbly Bog

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On the subject of the unwanted water feature down Wobbly Way…

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 Water, water, everywhere

In rushing rivers down the wall

As loud as grand Niagara’s Fall

In to the Wobbly Bog

Pouring, pouring, endlessly

Insistent flow of running streams

Unwanted runnels carved through dreams

Swelling the Wobbly Bog

Soaking, soaking, soggily

The puddle deep, the muddy ground

‘Tis said there was a postman found

Drowned in the Wobbly Bog

Dropping, dropping, gravity

Bleaching brick with scale of lime

On damp of wall the mark of time

Shadows the Wobbly Bog

Gushing, gushing, noisily

Unbalancing the Feng and Shui

No wind to dry the churning sea

Flooding the Wobbly Bog

Madness, madness, sanity

By white noise of incessant drip

Is sunken like a sodden ship

Wrecked in the Wobbly Bog

Misty, misty, spookily

By moonlight come the boggy sprites

With mischief and their tiny lights

Haunting the Wobbly Bog

Wishing, wishing, hopelessly

That some good knight with tool or sword

From Aster or the Water Board

Might conquer the Wobbly Bog

Watching, watching, grumpily

The paint that never dries; dismay

As Wiltshire waters pour away

In to the Wobbly Bog

*

by Gail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mourning After The Night Before

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*

 

“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?”  I haven’t a clue

What day is it? Who’s at my door?

“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”

Says some stranger who slept on my floor

The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea

Turns my stomach inside upside down

Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee

Of a banging night out on the town

“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”

“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”

I may have blacked out after midnight I fear

But now I’m…remembering…Stuff

Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind

As glimpses emerge from the fog

Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind

And my new Christmas phone down the bog

I thought I was hot but in retrospect not

In the morning light nowt could be plainer

And that I remember I like not a jot

My naked and drunk Macarena

Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state

And last year we gave it some welly

But if anyone had not enough on their plate

We’d do onesies and pizza and telly

My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch

They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right

But last night I must have been well out to lunch

For I reckon I started a fight…

It was something to do with a girl I once knew

And a joke that she did stuff for money

And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo

Well, I thought the punch line was funny

Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat

As I’m clearly not Super or Dry

And what are the words that are writ on this note

‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’

And I’m going commando; hilarious bants

Will be had in regards to my loss

Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants

On the top of the Market Cross

It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood

Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra

Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud

And a wing mirror nicked from a car

I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt

And at some point I’ll have to atone

But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt

Crying blubbery tears for my phone

*

by Gail

Serving the Grail; for Brad Combs

Brad is admin of the Writers’ Group on Facebook…

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A kindly sword and savage pen

Are the marks of a writer and leader of men

Blessed be he who came to teach

The wildness of wisdom and freedom of speech

Where fainter hearts might fall and fail

He stands to serve the Writer’s Grail

This ancient sage; this humble youth

This herder of cats; this teller of truth

Is he we know and love as Brad

Our literary Galahad

*

by Gail

Billy No Mates Magpie; My Tree

 

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*

Outside my kitchen window stands a single hopeful tree

Such beauty in the ghetto is a saving grace for me

In the spring at night its silver buds shine like tiny stars

Twinkling by the bin store and the white vans and the cars

In summer green its vibrant leaves shade cat shit covered grass

And flicker subtle shadows on my kitchen window glass

In the autumn there are berries, for tiny birds to eat

Glowing brighter than the sunset, falling red on grimy street

So many contemplative pigeons seeking sanctuary I’ve seen

So many blue tits, sparrows, robins, adding colours to the green

Squirrels, blackbirds, starlings; quarrels, lovemaking and chat

The cuckoo of a carrier bag, the stranded curious cat

One day they will chop it down and all that will be left

Will be the tarmac and the garages, and I shall be bereft

In the meantime, it is winter; naked branches cold and bare

And a single lonely magpie, every morning, sitting there

Usually with magpies, if you wait a little time

Another bird will come, to bring you joy, as in the rhyme

I watch the skies with hopeful eyes from early dawn till late

Can he be the only magpie in the world without a mate

The magpie sits alone and waits, he’ll be alone tomorrow

Billy No Mates Magpie

And his sorrow

*

by Gail

Midnight Mass; St. John’s

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Church on Christmas Eve

Experience of spirit

Secular delight

…

Candles flickering

Stirred by one communal breath

Casting bright shadows

…

The choir whispering

Mournful cadenced melodies

That bless the silence

…

Drunken folk giggling

Respectfully hiccupping

Noisy chundering

…

Strange and precious faith

The uninitiated

Wary, questioning

…

Through agnostic eyes

Such peculiar mystery

Custom, novelty

…

The truth hides in love

Ancient priests and children know

Its simplicity

…

The door is opened

Out in to the night The Word

Flies on sacred wings

…

Midnight Mass; the light

In darkness comprehending

Emptiness with joy

*

by Gail

The Solstice Door

The light is coming… and I wish you well

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The Solstice Door

*

Behind the running, running man the land

Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry

Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone

Inscribing solemn circles in the sky

There is no time to take a backward look

Just running, running, running, running blind

He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove

With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind

He runs with only hope in empty hands

All faint of heart, with life blood running cold

The chill of winter earth beneath his feet

All water turned to ice in frozen fold

All out of breath with minutes yet to live

He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew

Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door

Described in tales the bards and ancients knew

 ‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade

All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls

And in the glade there stands a single stone

And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls

And there, within the shadow’s light he sees

That which before him other men have found

A stairway leading down in to the earth

A dark descending path in to the ground

No way but down now, this the only way

He gathers one last breath, and full of fear

Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps

That lead towards the portal of the year

How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair

That shadow down, down to the Solstice door

To where, beneath the door a chink of light

Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor

He sits upon the bottom step to rest

Reflect, and contemplate the year behind

And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit

And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind

Forget me not, she sings; I am still here

I wait for you, for life to shift and stir

And through the keyhole and the chink there blows

A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir

Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face

The promise of new life upon her breath

Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step

For she has saved him with her love from death

Another year dies, another lives

He sits and waits; she watches from afar

And as he waits the light in darkness shifts

And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…

*

by Gail

Bar Humbug

In which there is much bad language in The Vaults (the best little micro pub in town), and Mortimer Cheese makes an unfounded allegation about Santa…

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 Mortimer Cheese wasn’t easily pleased

And he didn’t like Christmas at all

At the pub where he went for his grub and a vent

He would sometimes just rant at the wall

Particularly riled by people who smiled

He would give them a piece of his mind

He just didn’t get to where he was today

By being in any way kind

“Happy Christmas” they said, to the back of his head

“I think not” he would say as he turned

“Are you taking the piss?” he would splutter and hiss

Spraying mist from the beer he had earned

“Don’t give me that, about Christmas, you twat

All that tinsel and plastic and light

Santa” he said, “is a paedo in red

And I’m wishing for cloud on the night

As for the star and the kings from afar

I’m for Dawkins and none of that tosh

Jesus!” he said, “You are well off your head

Bring on the shagging and nosh!”

Seven pints supped, he was just warming up

He had a few choice things to say

Some thought he joked with the words that he spoke

But most folk just melted away

One girl held a candle, despite all his scandal

They had once had a ‘thing’ in his car

In a zebra striped dress which she wore to impress

She watched him with lust from the bar

“Leave me off your list” he said, getting more pissed

“Not you love, I’ll come in your stocking

A quick in and out, that’s what Santa’s about”

And other things frankly more shocking

His blood pressure rose as the atmosphere froze

And his words chilled the air of The Vaults

It seemed a good crack to stay on the attack

So he started on everyone’s faults

The sad and the chubby, the hapless, the grubby

All punters were grist to his mill

“What’s wrong with you folk, can you not take a joke

You’re all bloody ugly or ill”

By quarter to nine he had well crossed a line

Malc the landlord said “Cheese Boy, you’re barred”

“More feckin’ drink” said the drunk man, “I think

That I’m better than you and well hard”

“No, you’ve had enough” said the landlord, “so tough

It’s time you went home to your bed

You’ve been nasty and loud, you’ve done Britain First proud

And you’ve told us we’re better off dead”

Mortimer grumbled, and stood up and stumbled

And pointed himself at the door

Knocking the bar so the big humbug jar

Fell off and smashed on the floor

“Humbugs for me” he said, grinning with glee

As he picked out a few from the glass

“I’m already sweet but these humbugs are neat”

So he necked three, and fell on his arse

“He looks a bit red” one kind punter said

“Take no notice” said someone, “he’s joking”

“Stop larking about and get the fuck out!

Oh bollocks, he’s actually choking”

“Call for the Doc!”  “But he called me a cock”

“Well call for the nurse then!”  “She’s pissed”

There was nobody there who had much of a care

There were only the folk he had dissed

A bloke at the bar, who’d been quiet so far

Who had hoped to escape any drama

Had listened to Cheese, with his bile and sleaze

And had pondered the workings of karma

Understated but cool, the bloke jumped off his stool

Someone whispered “A nice little mover”

He grabbed hold of Cheese and with confident ease

Did a swift nifty Heimlich’s Manoeuvre

A grunt and a shout and the humbug shot out

Made a ring like a bell on the bar

“I’m guessing that’s time then” our Mortimer said

“I’d best get me coat then, ta-ra”

…

As he swayed up the street he heard following feet

And a voice that was eager to please

The girl from the pub, who was stripey and sweet

“Bar Humbug” sneered Mortimer Cheese

*

by Gail