Shed No Tears.

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Shed not a tear when I be gone,
Don’t wet your cheeks for me.
I’m in the ink you write with
That you can not seem to see.

I sit beside you daily,
as you go about your life.
Watching out for trouble
I try to ward off strife.

I whisper secret stories
In your ear for you to write.
I infiltrate your thoughts
When you put out the light.

So there is no need to feel lonely
Or to wander there in gloom
For I am in every corner
Of each and every room.

Colleen and Ronavan prompted with belief/believe thank you both.

I resurrected this poem because it fits perfectly, i wrote it for an author who was grieving and said she could no longer  write. It now fits me as the words my Dad would say to me when I doubt myself.  If we just believed in ourselves we could achieve anything. Leave a comment, place a word let me know what it was you heard.

Hope !

Click to visit and join Colleen and Ronavan’s prompt here.
Communication is the most important ability we have, as human beings we ignore this at our peril. The money that would be saved, the lives lived and problems solved … if only communication was used instead of weapons.

Often I am told I talk too much and I probably do, but take a leaf from my book, stop thinking your colour or creed puts you above anyone. There is but one race… the human race. Knowledge is power and know this, communicating clearly and calmly ‘will’ bring world peace.

We share the earth, and share ideas, which in turn, builds relationships and that can alter everything because it opens the way for peace.

For Ronavan’s challenge today, in light of the atrocities that man has committed  I felt this had a place.

Hope for new tomorrows

Open our eyes to true beginnings.

Pleased to leave behind yesterdays sorrows

Enrich our lives with hope, peace and love.
An acrostic poem, please comment and connect I will get right back to you.

Empathy Calls .

I laugh until the air has gone
Then gasp to draw some in.
Speaking makes me happy
my smile shines from within.
But tear drops plop shamelessly
on cheeks that are too old,
to bear the sight of homlessness
amongst streets  paved with gold.
With hope she looks for a coin,
or a sip, to ward away the shame.
Too hide the pain of life,
Done living on the game.
The want to wash away reality,
Replace life with dreams and cheer.
Or deathly silent moments
That  dull the pain and fear.
We judge them so lightly
Label them; and sneer.
Not seeing their plight,
We rarely  shed a tear.
So why not hovver in that doorway,
Stoop, and smile to say hello
Because they are only human
With no other place to go.

Continue reading “Empathy Calls .”

DON’T BLAME IT ON THE MAGPIE.

Singing in the Rain

This is about my rebirth, moving away from familiarity, family and friends. Starting afresh and trying to fit in. Leaving employment where I was held in high regard, to retire ten years earlier than I imagined, given the oportunity to write. Find a new life with a new husband.

Me and He, have only lived in Somerset for three and a half years, we relocated from East Anglia and are still trying to fit in to rural life, amongst people who’s families have resided in the area for generations. We have a pleasant home at the end of a small Cul-de-Sac in a tiny village. We have a mature garden with tall trees and a stream running along the bottom. The gardens a south facing corner plot; the reason we bought it.

Today I will introduce you to Doris and Mandy. Both names I changed for privacy sake; and my safety. Doris is eighty something years young, has a string of children, grand children, and great grand children, Somerset born and bred with a rich accent to boot. She lives alone in her bungalow at the end of the close.
Last year Doris had a car accident, after some weeks in hospital she was allowed home wearing a neck brace and sporting a twisted hand and a nasty leg injury.

The other person is Mandy, she is also Sometset born and bred. We go walking together, shopping and generally enjoy being what my Father would call “Silly buggers”.

So between Mandy and myself we pop in on Doris and check she’s okay. Mandy picks up medicines and shopping, I bring her the few yards to our home where we chat, drink tea and hopefully stop her being lonely. Yesterdays visit went something like this.
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Mandy brought Doris in for a cuppa, a cake and a chat. Doris was selling the church/village monthly paper which she put on the table, as I fetched my purse.
“Thrush hasn’t visited the area for nigh on three years” Said Doris as She took the money for the paper. She sniffed and went on to blame the majestic Magpie that bounced like a youth across my back lawn.
*Pointing* she said “Bloomin vermin they are, steal eggs, eat chicks and hedge hop, that’s the rascal”, she unpeeled her coat and nestled her bottom into a big armchair. I was pretty sure Mr Thrush had been feasting from my lawn for three weeks now, but not wanting to contradict until I was certain; I kept schtum.

Doris and Mandy debated the culling of Magpies and Badgers in Somerset, as they blew their tea, licked chocolate from their fingers and chortled away in their Somerset dialect. John ‘best half’, championed the Magpie and thought Badgers beautiful, which gave me an opening to voice my opinion. Doris was having none of it “Vermin I say, and so would the farmers if you asked them”.
Doris let slip a few snippets of village gossip (which are now in my note book for later use) she wagged her finger in her I’m telling you manner several times before her cake was finished. A pleasant interlude was had, everyone hugged and thanked my best half for the lively debate and the ladies left.

This morning in writer mode I got up about five thirty after an hour #writing #Editing I took my morning tea to the french windows and sat. The sun filtered by the rain began to sneak through the sycamore at the bottom of the garden. Then there on the lawn, delving it’s spikey beak through the sod in search of a juicy breakfast was Mr Thrush. My photographic skills or lack of stopped me from catching a picture good enough for here. But fortunately my sister in law is an avid photographer and allowed me to post her picture of a thrush in full song.
Our love of the wildlife here had me researching the RSPB website; hoping to see if I could do anything to encourage more into the garden.
My googling revealed that the Thrush is on an RSPB red list; which means numbers are very low . But I was pleased to be right when I read that the Magpie and Sparrow Hawk are not responsible for the decline of small song birds.
The ‘offender’ as Doris would say, are the farmers, for filling in wetland ditches and pulling up the hedgerows. The very people that were being defended ( by the farmers daughter) only yesterday at my table.
Now I just have to get the courage to tell Doris she is wrong…
I may leave it a while, after all I can’t afford to lose a source of information, or upset the locals… not this week.

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press  here to read others take on Coleen and Ronovan’s prompt.
My picture says it all… tea the cure for everything, the first step to fit in to a new life. A rebirth of us.

I’ll Cover your Back, It’s All In A Days Work.

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A hard day or two stuck in a ditch, watching, waiting. Ice cold rain trickles from my wax jacket into a now sodden overall; filling my boots. You can’t walk off to urinate or knock a door to use the facilities. The heavy weapon makes my arm shake. Watching with tired concentration, occasionally broken by a Tomcat; leaving his scent. I put the red spot on a passing fox for something to do, drop a light in front of him on the grass, where the tremble of my hand assists with a tiny red dance. Minutes pass as the fox moves on, he doesn’t know what boredom is. I am back to watching down the barrel of a gun, eyes heavy with sleep, a stomach rumbles at memories of feasts you’ve yet to eat. A sandwich bag serves as my waste receptacle; it always has made me retch.

However many stakeouts, undercover jobs you take part in, each one holds its own horrors. The cramp, boredom and the urge for the pan. The cat that blows your cover, by playing with a light from the scope, as a kitten does with a mouse. An occasional fit of coughing can expose you to danger, or simply a ditch filling with rain that turns to ice in the small hours. In the summer a thirst can make your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth; the smell of yourself is unbearable. When the sun makes your overalls feel like an electric blanket soaked in sweat.

This night was freezing, my partner pressed over my shoulder and lay across my back to transfer body – heat. Hail and snow filled the ditch, our teeth chattered and hands shook. Not a movement or a flicker had been seen for two days. We knew the subject was in there … but nothing. The van kitted up was two streets over, they tried to keep us awake with lewd jokes and taunts of snacks with crisp bags rustling in our ears.
At 5am, we are eventually replaced. Relief came crawling on their bellies from the bushes behind. Every sinew stretched or tightened beyond belief. Heat and pain shot through our muscles after being unused for days; it was excruciating. Balaclava’s down, safety on, we slither out of sight, sorry for the stench and state of the hole we vacate.

A hot shower and clean uniforms, and food at headquarters soon refreshed and refuelled us. He had my back, my life, literally in his hands and his in mine; the way it was, it should be. The tiredness began to take over, allowed to show in our faces and the pallor of our skin. We sat at our lockers without a word, I retrieved the hip flask from its secreted place; nodded and passed a slug of scotch between us. Wearily we left, both hoping the pager didn’t sound for at least twelve hours. But all the time knowing if it did we’d be there in a flash; no question.

On my arrival, the house was busy, kids nudging, shoving, muscling in on plates of toast and cereal. The noise of the chatter assaulted my ears as they all spoke or sang at once, clattering cutlery, clanging, arguing about shoes and bags. She lifted her head and scowled as if I’d been on a jolly. “Hi, did you get them?” Standing in her wrap, and silly bear feet slippers, the pair the kids gave her for mother’s day. I can’t speak, I shake my head. She snorts and under her breath …”Another waste of time” she mumbles and bangs down the knife; I take myself without a word up to bed. The bed we once slept in together and planned our lives; long before.

Four in the afternoon I wake, the house is silent, my first thought is the job. The team, did they pull it off? Had it been a waste of resources? Dressed and out, I spend the next four hours disecting the case, celebrating the capture. Like a fraternity we came together, with a rugby club attitude, we worked and played to the exclusion of all others. We covered each other’s lives every day, we covered each other’s backs, like brothers or family, we pulled together a team, a solid unit.

Raucously wild we were, we cleared the bar, a nightmare some said; seen as elite and privileged. So together we built a wall and stood strong. For years we held fast, until one by one we fell, burned out, broken or just exhausted. The heat of the chase, the adrenaline of the hunt, the pride of the capture; now gone. Disbanded, scattered, here we were trying to resume a life, one long forgotten left behind.

Obvious now why we didn’t do so well, once we were surplus to requirement. Families had found their way without us around, kids were women and men with dreams, adventures of their own. Wives subdued, tired, unable to give up the ground they had earned through hard work, love, and consistency. Grown men, strong men, they crumbled, marriages broke, men unable to function were lost. Divorce, suicide, mental breakdown and depression, all the above; claimed fifty five percent of the team. But once protectors, police men, rescuers of many; with lives full of adventures; egos as big as skyscrapers. We try to find new ways, new lives, it was hard but had to be done. Friendships tangled with jobs and families, adventures, adrenaline; and now the emptiness.
No one left to cover my back.

Please leave me a sign that you have been, a comment will be responded to in a flash, or sooner…😇

An Artists Rap.

Coleen and Ronavon have challenged writers quote Wednesday with the word Artist or art press  here to join in or read the challenges.

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Here follows my attempt.

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We have graffiti on the walls,
Coloured words flying birds.
We was ere, painted on malls
Coloured scenes and words.

Artists creep out of sight
Put tags where they’re seen.
Painted in dead of night,
So we know they’ve been.

Is it art they paint
Or walls they abuse.
And space they taint
What have they to loose.

Fill  walls or hoardings
Choose their own looks.
Like musicians recordings,
Writers  words in books.

They’re  artists not chancers,
Composers, authors, sculpters,
Actors,  Painters and dancers
Song writers and customisers.

All with a message to leave,
Credible, deserving a place.
Grafiti gives room to breathe,
Not compramising the space.

In the mood of a rap, another risk I take a challenge to push me, genre free on my blog. Please comment, You won’t offend me, I look forward to reading your views.