Through the Window

Sitting looking out of the dining room window at the birds on the nut cages I suddenly noticed a small dark shape dash out from behind the plant pots around the table with the owl sculpture snatch a few nut crumbs, dropped by the birds, and dash back again. This happened time and time again, but each time the Shrew, because that's what it was, took longer and longer to enjoy his bonanza. He was having a great time. Such a great time that he put his early warning system on hold and failed to notice Little Wol (Little Owl) sitting on a branch directly above one of the nut cages. Even when Little Wol dropped like a stone Shrew failed to take notice of the sudden downward pressure of air on his back, usually the last warning, and POW! exit one greedy Shrew and Little Wol got his lunch.

For the last couple of weeks Woody Snr. (the Greater Spotted Woodpecker) has been feeding from the nut cages and feeding Woody Jnr. Who sits, not always patiently, on the wing of the owl sculpture below the cages.

Now Woody Jnr. Has graduated to feeding himself, though not quite with the same experience as his dad. Woody Jnr, prefers to hang upside down on the bottom of the wire cage pecking the old nuts that have partially decayed with rain and age.

Yesterday his parent joined him on the cage and rather disdainfully demonstrated how easy it was to remove whole fresh nuts from a gap in the top of the cage. Woody Jnr. watched open beaked and when father flew off, still with a whole nut in his beak, Woody Jnr. set off in hot pursuit, piping away loudly in that squeaky sort of treble. One can quite easily imagine what he was saying:

"Dad…dad…dad…how d'y do that, dad?…dad…dad…how d'y do that…dad…dad…"

Sydney, the Robin, and his mate have made a nest in the ivy right in the apex of the porch. I was sitting on the lawn when I saw Sydney depart on, presumably, a foraging trip. No sooner had he departed than another Robin, obviously intent on a takeover, entered the ivy in the vicinity of Sydney's nest. Sydney's mate took exception to this and a furious row broke out behind the ivy with heavy fluttering and many squawks. She fought like a tiger and beat him out of the ivy and down to the ground where he realized that he had made a terrible mistake and beat a hasty retreat. With a little angry feather ruffling she returned to the nest.

Some time later, all unsuspecting, Sydney returned and had hardly entered the ivy when she started in on him, telling him in no uncertain terms, judging by the clacking and chirping, just what had happened and why wasn't he there when she needed him. This went on for at least three minutes before Sydney reappeared and perched on a piece of ivy with his mate still noisily expressing herself behind him. I have never before or since seen a Robin with such an abject and head hung expression. One can only imagine what he was thinking, 'Oh, for God's sake woman, shut up!'

Mornings

When I step out of the front door in the morning I step into Sydney's garden - he's the front garden Robin and he thinks it's his. We have a back garden Robin, Cyril, and he thinks that that is his territory. The two never meet because if they did it would be a fight to the death. Both Sydney and Cyril are utterly fearless and probably know the inside of the house better than we do, both being of an incredibly nosy nature. I'm quite convinced that we are only tolerated so long as we don't interfere with 'their' territory.

Apart from Sydney and Cyril there's Little Wol (the Little Owl), whom you have already met, and Woody 1(he's the Greater Spotted Woodpecker), he's got a mate, Woody 2, but even when they're together I can't tell the difference. There's a whole raft of little birds clustered around the nut cages: blue tits, finches, great tits, coal tits, hedge sparrows etc., etc. They all pause when I go out and then seem to say 'Oh, it's only 'im' and go back to the nuts.

Woody usually flies off, being of a nervous disposition, but only as far as the damson tree from where he berates me for interrupting his breakfast.

Always in the background are the hedgerow terrorists, the Magpies, clacking away like demented old-fashioned typewriters. We don't like each other so they keep their distance; their habit of hauling baby fledglings out of the nests of other birds endears them to no-one. I wouldn't stop them, but I don't have to like 'em.

We have recently been adopted by a breeding pair of Sparrowhawks, they come swooping down between the house and the Hazelnut tree and frighten the crap out of the birds happily feeding there. They never seem to catch anything, but they do focus the little bird's awareness of the skies above, which is probably no bad thing 'cos even Little Wol has been known to snatch at the unwary youngster.

This morning Sydney came to say his usual hello, but something dramatic must have happened because he chatters on excitedly for ages. I don't know what happened 'cos my Robin speak is a little rusty, but it must have been momentous because he was breathless by the time he'd finished.

John Stocker, the postman, arrives in his little red van and we spend a few minutes putting the world to rights; John is a show-pigeon enthusiast and an authority on American Indian tribes! How many English postmen can you say that about? He's also the authority on the village gossip; if John doesn't know about it it ain't happening!

This little email provoked an interesting response whereby the recipients began to look, some for the first time, at the world around them:

From Sonora, USA - How lovely to read this drinking my cup of tea this morning, Fred. Living here in the Sonoran desert. A far cry from my home and garden located in Kent, England. It reminded me so much of what is actually surrounding me here in wild life. Indeed it is different to what I was used to in England.

I too have a "Wooden Bird" as I call him, who hammers away right at 6 am on my chimney. No good trying to bury my head under a pillow. Wooden bird gets the best of me.

Also I have a variety of beautiful humming birds. They feed off feeders I have hanging off of a tree outside my lounge window. The little jewels of the South West I call them, simply because they sparkle in the sunshine. Indeed I love the wild life here in this desert. But there is one little bird I miss being here and that is my "Henry" the Robin Red breast who would wait for me to un earth the worms when out gardening with my late Father.

Also I have a "Big horned owl" who frequents the rooftop most nights. Hooting and I am sure he wears lead boots as he is a noisy chap, when hopping around.Plus the Javelina wild pigs that often run through my garden in the early hours of the morning. One would think they are a herd of elephants not wild boars. To me Fred to be aware of the positive versus negative with all the wild life I have encountered here in SW and W coast of the USA has been spectacular. I so thank you for your stories and look most forward to reading more of them.

From Cayman Brac - The sun is rising a little later at this time of year, around about 6.30am. The dawn chorus is in full swing, bananaquits and warblers. Old Truss (Red Legged Thrush) is busy squawking around his territory,and a Southern Mockingbird serenades from the top of the nearby casurine tree that planted for my Uncle Reg in 1987, and is now 40 feet high!

The wind in the seagrape and palm trees and the sea (300 feet away) rustle and swish together, and a gentle breeze wafts through the house. If I didn't have to work, I'd just lie abed for a few more hours. But cats have to be fed, kids taught, bills paid, and so I must become more active.

As I drive to school I head down the sandy road to the main drag, passing Miss Lina, clearing up her yard. At 76 Miss Lina is one of those island characters I love so much. She also looks after our house when we're not here. We exchange a few words about this and that and I head towards school. As cars pass me going the other way, everyone waves their hand in greeting - it's always been a custom here. I hope it always will be.

From Point Roberts, USA - I open the front door to either blowing cold rain or the occasional sparkly, dewy fall day, and I am serenaded by a cacophony of bird song - chickadees, all sorts of LBJ's (little brown jobs), finches, etc., all demanding breakfast - and I go out in my nightgown to fill the bird feeders in the apple tree. Usually I catch a glimpse of a black or grey squirrel streaking up the tree trunk after raiding one of the feeders. This year is the best season the tree has seen in some years. Like Fred's apple tree, some of its branches are near to breaking from the load of what I think are pippins (the tree is at least 60 years old). Like Maggie, every time someone walks by and comments on the apples I dash out with a plastic grocery bag and urge them to help themselves.

Meanwhile, the crow's raucous calls punctuate the morning. They're not interested in birdseed. If I don't watch my step, I'll plant a moccasined foot directly in a pile of doggie doo-doo, deposited every morning without fail by the Rottweiler who lives two houses down the road.

The leaves are almost all down now, though a few trees are still wearing their golden autumn splendor. Thanks Fred, for inspiring me to stop and look around instead of rushing around in ever decreasing circles.

From Africa - I check my email pretty frequently, but I'm always excited to receive people's 'Morning' impressions. Their 'awakenings' are extending further into their day and I'm learning a little more of people's lives - people I don't know yet, but would surely like to…

I'm going to try to stick to my morning. Don't know whether I'll be able to do that easily because Africa has so much more than just the morning and it's hard to decide whether that's the bit that really hits me first. When I think it's morning it could still be night. I wake early. Usually around 4.30am. We have a small lake at the bottom of our garden and during the day we are overwhelmed by the sounds of a myriad of different birds, all of them desperate for water around this time of the year. But in the morning, then it's the frogs. Millions of frogs, mostly croaking the same tune, but not one of them croaking it at the same time! It's noisy, but it's a sound.

From Northern Virginia, USA - It's cold in the morning but the sun is bright and the day ahead will be warm if we are lucky. Walking out onto the deck the leaves are already providing a colourful carpet to both the deck and the woods beyond. The sunlight is incredible as it filters through the canopy of very high trees. The light magnifies the number of different colours. Trees that were green in the humid summer are now red, yellow and all the shades of rusty red in between.

It must be cold because the usual sound of the cicadas and crickets are no longer there. They will come back later in the day. Many of the birds have gone. We haven't seen the bright red cardinal birds for a week or two, but we see the dozens of squirrels scurrying about, building their stores for the winter, which if like last year could be hard. We also have a family of chipmunks that have made a home in the lawn out front, but keep running round to the back to see if the cover of the pool is still there - in the summer they used to drink at the edge.

It is beautiful in the Fall in Virginia - we even have carved pumpkins outside the front door, and it is just about the best time of the year.

From Birmingham, UK - When I open my front door each morning I see the village pub. It calls to me in harpy like tones, drowning out the birdsong, triggering a flashback of last week's karaoke night. I rub my eyes but it is still there, a white palace framed by the dawn of a fresh new morn. Through the windows I can see the pump handles, their brass minarets glinting in the sunlight. Magic lanterns display logos of my favourite ales on the top of the bar.

I climb into my car and turn the engine before pulling off the drive. I have a choice, I can either press my nose up against the windows of The Winged Spur until opening time or join the Redditch to Birmingham Grand Prix halfway up the A435. Certain that my car used to belong to Homer Simpson, it drives itself into the pub car park, a journey of almost eleven yards on a clear day. I sit in the pub car park spewing diesel fumes into the crisp autumnal air until I have plucked up enough courage to brave the rat race again.

From this moment on I stare at the back of a GTI from home to eternity. BMWs speed past, lorries pull out regardless, cyclists choke, buses stop abruptly - why are bus stops not located in bus lanes? - red lights interrupt. And all the time I can't wait until the return trip and the sinewy wrist of Rosie, the fashionably underweight but over aged barmaid, flexing as the pump is drawn back and fountains of crystal clear beer splash into a tall glass and the foamy head settling without so much as a snap, crackle or pop.

Then I arrive at the office and Pete on security is beaming his Arsenal lost smile and all is well with the world.

From New York, USA - My first image as I walk ot of the door is a quiet hall with two elevators. We are eight stories up in a modern 30 story apartment house. As the elevator door opens I wonder who will be inside. Someone I know, a car full of children, or no one. Often a pleasant encounter - often the weather is a serious subject of discussion since we are usually heading outdoors.

Since the building is the residence of university academics and staff, the elevator is the place to hear many languages and half heard exchanges about work in progress and department activities.

The lobby is the final stop where we are greeted by a friendly doorman - outside on a grassy square stand a huge Picasso sculpture of a woman's head. Her eyes are strangely positioned and her hair is in a ponytail. I am so accustomed to the statue I barely see it.

As I walk down the walk on either side - in the fall the squirrels are busy burying acorns in anticipation of the winter. Most of the squirrels are brown except a few black ones.

In the mild weather, I am passed by young students in shorts and tee shirts, with racquets and sports gear jogging to the gym. Also older folks, grad students, gray haired academics and local residents also in exercise attire come and go.

The local bench is a favourite for the occasional derelict to sleep or sit and eat from a takeout box.

That is my morning view.

From Dorridge, UK - Kick my way to the front door through autumnal envelopes from the credit card tree. The door sweeps an arc like a windscreen wiper through bills and special offers that no-one wants.

I am late, the engine roars, the blipping throttle, back of the grid, the school 'Cannonball' run has begun.

Every car in front is 'wacky warehouse' on wheels. A writhing mass of arms and legs, screaming mums, blazers, rucksacks, comics, flapping ties, gymslips and crumpled socks round ankles with no bodies.

Cars weave to stay in the middle of the road. Half dressed drivers struggle to finger-comb hair, apply lipstick and mascara in side-turned rear-view mirrors.

Millenium is here. School! Cars parked like confetti, all doors ajar like stubby wings.

3'9" tall round lollipop lady with 9' foot lollipop patiently stops anyone crossing the road until a car approaches.

Moms pushing any child in reach through school gate, each complaining to no-one in particular that their man is worse than anybody elses and men always try to overtake because I am a woman.

I squeeze past the school. Tomorrow they will call for more traffic calming road humps, speed kills signs, road narrowing, white paint and radar. "Do you know this is a 5mph women only road, Sir?" "Really Constable."

Half dressed mum in nightie bends over. Silky bum stretched tight. All is forgiven. I am past, Right foot to the floor. Maniacal glee. I am free, free!

Unseen round corner, diesel belching, 40tonnes, eight wheels, driver scratching his crutch...

From Malvern, UK

I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still
When suddenly a tiny bird
Perched on my window sill.

He sang a song so lovely
So carefree and so gay,
That slowly all my troubles
Began to slip away.

He sang of far off places
Of laughter and of fun,
It seemed his very trilling
Brought up the morning sun.

I stirred beneath the covers
Crept slowly out of bed,
Then gently lowered the window
And crushed his flaming head!
(I'm not a morning person)

Poetry - 4

New Year's Eve on a Cornish Beach The sky adopts the lingerie of night. The sea foams and coams a siren song. Other worlds explode and trace a fiery light Across the starry throng. The sweeping surge of the seething undertow And the whispered sounds of living things, A breathless, endless world of to and fro; The breathlessness that beauty brings. Distant worlds explode in fiery panoply As each pyrotechnic star invades the night. Etching skid marks on the velvet canopy To indrawn snatches of wonder and delight. We raise our glasses and our sight To this gorgeous arch, scored with golden fire, And toast the majesty of this night, Reflected in our eyes and in our hope’s desire.

The Clay Figure Strongly muscled fingers, those servants of the brain, Pummelling fictile earth to a sinew-soft refrain Of smooth and coddled clay To impose a shape from somewhere That reflects the artist’s mind, or gropes beyond the Id To a Freudian, dark domain, where secret things are hid. In searing kiln all moisture oxidises, Sodium chloride, random thrown, lovely salt-glaze sizes. Candescent heat, ritual concremation, Lambent flames caressing the sculptor’s own creation. A Phoenix, indurated, rising from a fiery cell, Hotter than the hinges on the gates of Rodin’s hell!

Sculpture by Neal French

Our Shame God isn’t dead, He never lived, Except in you and me. He’s the dead-eyed man In the labour queue, The drunk in the park In the pool of spew, And the cranky old woman In the loony zoo. He’s the whole farting shoot, A scatological hoot, That we call humanity. We’re the gods, God help us, The Olympian owners of earth, The Zeus’ and Daphnes’ and Chloes’, The bringers of sadness and mirth. We’re it, Swift’s shit, The words And the turds Of the world. No one else is responsible, No one else is to blame. The whole bloody mess is ours, Our triumph and Our shame.

The Kiss When we met, no words passed our lips To impose their own half-truths, lies. Our needs spoke for us. Our lusts warmed and caressed each unvoiced desire. Our yearning nuzzled our vulnerability And they comforted each other. Our fears met, withdrew sharply, ventured forth again And were allayed. Mutile, we melted into each other’s needs. No mere words were needed or required.

The Invisible Man They talked animatedly, And I joined in. But seemingly nobody heard. I must be invisible, I thought. So I reached for another biscuit. “How many’s that?” she asked. And my invisibility faded away. But at least she spoke to me. “He likes that kind”, she said, Like I wasn’t there. My invisibility was back again. But she did speak to me…once And you can only eat so many biscuits.

The Con Trick (The profoundest confidence trick in the world is to dehumanise and ostracise people by giving them a label - it's easier to hate "them" than "we")
He’s not a man, he’s a nigger, He’s not one of us you see. He’s a spade, or a spic, or a Jew. He’s different, He’s one of a few. He doesn’t belong, He hasn’t the badge, The suit, the tie or the hue. So what do we do If we both have the same point of view? How can I point at a mirror And say, “That bastard’s like you”? They’re Protestants, not people. Catholics, not you or me, They’re dikes and kikes, Rockers on bikes; But we never invite them to tea. You can kill a ‘Commie’, Even a ‘Pommie’, But you can’t kill the man next to you, He’s real, he’s a person, Unless, of course, He’s like you.

Bird Life Birds like noisy leaves On a barren tree Bring life to death. Haiku

Soul Food In beauty and in calm She walks alone To feed her soul. Haiku

Beyond Recall

I am Valium, of the second Unit, Third level, zero zero three of Terra One. I sit and stare at the blank, white wall. They are correcting my mental deviation. And yet, even as the white light gently washes my Cerebral Cortex, I can still hear the steady plod of The great beast's feet and the jingle of the Metalled straps. I look inside myself again, but find nothing to Match my dreams. My memory fails the images. Nothing gives substance or meaning to my strange Hallucinations, if that is what they are. Something!... of ineffable grace, weightlessness and Beauty soars into the unpolluted air of my mind and Sings a song of such sweet pain that I feel a Physical stab to my heart. What can it be? 'A darkling thrush in blast-beruffled plume'. What strange words and yet what ecstatic sounds! The great beasts plod on, steaming at their sides, Powerful, but gentle beasts, singular, magnificent Beasts with heavy, hairy feet. More words come to haunt my brain, 'Hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind'. How beautiful the sounds, even without meaning. What is wind? Perhaps they are from some long banned videotape? I know not. They said I should not have these thoughts; Counter productive and socially regressive they said, Adding that a period of correction would Cleanse my brain. It has not. Somehow I feel that it never will. These things, images, sounds, must have some Purpose that I know not of. A perfume now assails my nose, pungent in its Strength, but not unpleasant. More disconnected words, bread, fresh, The smell is warm and comforting as of a... Why does kitchen spring to mind? What is kitchen? What is bread? I know not these things and yet regret their Passing, if passed they are and not prophetic be. I am soft-sift with many thoughts fallen from the Outer space of another time and another place. They have squeezed themselves into the capsule of My being, without relation to the cold world of Terra One and I weep that I have not the wit to Make them sense. What means now the smell of burning flesh that Waters thus the palate of my mouth and conjures Tastes that tease the tendrils of a memory aeons gone? Soft caresses of a summer breeze would seem to Mean so much yet goes for naught. There is no summer in my world, no breeze nor Soft caress. We, they say, are perfection reached. Processed with care from genesis to re-cycle time. Perhaps there lies a fault in me? A computer error in my genetic genesis? I know not. I know only that the things I now hear, see and Smell have a quality and joy I tremble to imagine. True perfection is, perhaps, a common thing we Tread beneath our feet or carelessly destroy in Searching for that very virtue. Perhaps these things existed and we buried them Behind white walls or beneath vain-glorious Monuments to progress and our own greed. If so...wither now?

Robert Henry Jones. Aged 16

‘His dark hearing caught our wheels And the choked soul stretched weak hands’ DEAD MAN’S DUMP Isacc Rosenberg
Faintly, almost beyond the compass of the human ear a bugle sounded an unfamiliar call, a haunting call, repeated again and again. There was something indescribably sad about the sound, as though a thousand newly dead spirits were keening together into the leaden sky. Like distant thunder a rumble of drums added an undercurrent of warning to the melancholy notes of the bugle.

I lay upon the hot grass, staring up at the blue sky as a strange film unwound itself upon the inner screen of my mind and that unearthly bugle echoed first in one grey cell and then in another. Mud oozed between my fingers with the squishy softness of infant anal memory. It was very comforting. The pain had gone and so had the terror, that blind unreasoning, sphincter twitching terror that possessed me when the gun-carriage rattled by and I tried to tell them that I was still alive, that there was a human being alive behind these wide protruding eyes and this black, gaping hole of a mouth, but nothing seemed to work anymore. There were no links between my brain and the extremities of my being. Like a new-born baby I did not know where I ended and the rest of the world began. I just lay and sort of screamed inside my head, “I’m alive! God help me! I’m alive”. But they who rode the noisy gun limber heard no cry and went on by. ‘Don’t they care?’ I thought, ’Don’t they know I’m here?’ Surely somebody must be missing me? But I knew they weren’t, my mates were all dead or scattered, too busy holding in their own guts to wonder where I was. Mum would miss me. Life would still be going on at home. Dad, off down the boozer for a pint and a game of darts. Mum up to her elbows in flour, baking. They’d miss me, but nothing would change just because I wouldn’t be there anymore. Little had changed by my coming and little would change by my going. Sad that. Futile like, as if I’d never been at all. The mud oozed stickily into my ears, but I could still hear that plaintive bugle call. I wasn’t afraid anymore, just sad that no-one would ever know what it was like, how I died. Why me? I thought. Why war? Why anything? Sometimes I thought the carriage would come rattling by again and they would find me and everything would be alright, but I seem to have been here for eternity. I cry a lot now and I’m so tired. The hot sun sucked at the tears on my cheeks as I lived the death of Robert Henry Jones, aged sixteen.

Poetry - 2

Summer Sonnet Warm waves of sun our body’s breach, Wild meadow perfumes passions reach, And with a sudden birth We fall in spirals to the earth And in that single blink of time Earth and we are one, sublime. Now fiery crest on azure field Dapples colours through my eye’s thin shield. Pulsating air with life abounds, Insects buzz and scribble shimmering sounds. Tall spears of grass wave fleshy lances Above our heads in slow, hypnotic dances. The world revolves, a spinning coin, A spider, going nowhere, pioneers a cooling loin.

Early Morning Coombe Abbey Sun trickling into darkest places, Creeping into cold corners. Green grass spotted with awakening daises, Plantain roots anchored in some deeper world. Fallen leaf, curling in the warming sun. Midges, scribbling random circles of confusion. White pebbles, wet with night’s perspiration. Roses, beneath my dangling feet, Striving with an awesome pothos To encase me in a thorny cage of beauty Ere a thousand years can pass yet, Within a time-warped moment. Tiny legged spider pioneers my hairy arm As through another planet. I am here, not here. There, not there. Green translucent water With puddling ducks in widening wakes. White eider and the cucking mallard. On the bank, fluttering sparrows, Inelegant thugs of path and hedge. Baby sparrow, voracious appetite on spindly legs. Mallard young in hydro-legged race Across the water’s skin To claim the crumbs, insincerely tossed By homo-sapien.

Truth Words are traitors in a way, They break the silence of what I want to say. The silence of that which cannot be spoken, Silence, like a still, dark pool. A silence that takes a lifetime to express and yet Forever remains unsaid, unplumbed, and unknowable. The truth that is unspoken between the words, The sound of silence. The first word uttered imposes all the inadequacies Of its own shortcomings upon the silence, It's own ‘truth’ upon a greater truth. In silence there lies truth, words become a screen, So we must find that truth in the spaces in-between.

Great Day On the great day of His wrath The earth will split asunder in a frenzy Of seething, smouldering rage With the Lord of misrule screaming in our ears, Bedlam broke loose. A mighty shock wave will encircle the globe And fire will engulf every living thing. Man will become a dinosaur - extinct. The scorched earth will slowly circle the sun, A corpse upon the road of night. A night for all eternity.

Scatology Somewhere there’s a purgative That could unblock my mind And let out all those words That are screaming round inside. Please God, if there is one, Let’s have a little hurry. If I don’t have a verbal crap, A purge of revelation, I’ll smother in a flurry Of jumbled words and lexic turds In academic constipation.

The Funeral (Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon. August 1976)
A white Rolls Royce Gold plated moves To lead a hearse In sorrow steeped. Behind, a lorry, Flower heaped. Thirty limousines, Black and chrome. Dark eyed visages, A world apart, alone. Hundred guinea suits, Hand-made leather shoes, Mink and haute-couture File towards the pews. A gypsy wife is dead, Now brave arrayed. Gypsy homage rare, Boldly now displayed.

The Pond A pond is a tabula rasa; Patterns on a pond Are the will of the wind, The pencil of a capricious god. Throw seven words into the pond: Out-of-infinite-silence-God-created-Man. The words impose their own pattern, Their own truth, But they cannot re-create the truth that is the pond.

Brutes blare their artificial suns, Hissing, spitting carbon-arcs; A cacophony of chiaroscuro.

Remembrance How amazing that I Should not remember it; That truly momentous time When time itself stood still. A war was done, Thirty million dead, And we still here Gave thanks with silent voice. Two minutes were agreed, Two thousand years not enough. Yet, on the stroke, eleven o’clock, The world, our world, stood still; Motor and machinery Whined to sudden stop and A nation missed a heart beat To give a nod to God. How amazing that I Should not remember this. What occupied my mind To miss this solemn time? With a schoolboy friend I played a marble game And as the world missed a beat Mine went down the drain!

Act of Creation An old man, commenting on my sketches, Equates his own at financial value; In terms of commerce, of ‘return for labour’. Blind to pleasure and reward in simply creating, He speaks of ‘Got’ ‘Worth’‘Mine’ ‘Sold’. A sad epitaph for an act of creation.

From Rat-Pack to Rat-Arsed...

One of the most exciting projects I ever worked on was as a freelance photographer for American agencies on a film called 'One More Time', starring Sammy Davis Jnr., Peter Lawford and directed by Jerry Lewis. On this film I worked alongside the late stills photographer George Whittier, a superb photographer of some of the top films in the world and a thoroughly nice man who became a great friend and a pleasure to know. What made making the film so exciting was that it was almost a laugh a minute; with two of the world's greatest clowns what else could it be? From day one for the entire ten weeks of filming there was a veritable non stop cascade of laughter and by the end I was exhausted, needless to say Sammy went on to do 'Talk of the Town' in London! Memorably Sammy Davis sat at a dining table in a baronial hall and was scripted to drink a glass of red wine and then speak a line. This he did, but Jerry Lewis shouted "Cut" and apologised to Sammy that the lighting wasn't quite right could he do it again. Sammy's glass, a large glass, was refilled and "Action" called. Sammy drank the wine and said the line. Again Jerry shouted "Cut" and once again apologised to Sammy that the sound man had not got it quite right, could they do it again. Sammy obliged, the glass refilled and "Action" repeated, and repeated, each time a different excuse and sometimes the rapidly becoming tipsy Sammy's. Ten takes, ten glasses of wine. By now the entire crew were in danger of choking on laughter and tears were running down their faces, including mine as we realised that Jerry Lewis was simply winding Sammy up. Sammy paused to look around at all the tear filled faces and simply roared with laughter as he realised that the joke was on him and I got one of my favourite pictures. Seated at the same table Sammy was in a reflective mood and by pure luck I glanced in his direction and saw him wreathed in the smoke from his cigarette, without hesitation I turned and shot without even focussing and caught the picture of the entire production. After seeing the picture Sammy asked for the negative to use on a new album. Unfortunately, the album never materialised because Sammy Davis Jnr., died some time later. I was very sorry, not because the album didn't materialise, but because the world had lost an irreplaceably talented human being.

Which came first... the chicken or the flash bulb?

During my years as a professional photographer I became, at one point, a 'stringer' for the Birmingham Post & Mail. i.e., whenever the paper called in a story in my area I would take the pictures and put the film on the next train or bus to Birmingham. On this occasion it appeared that the driver of a battery egg firm had dumped a load of unwanted eggs onto the local rubbish tip. During the warm summer night the eggs had begun to hatch and a passing villager spotted this. The alarm was raised and the villagers struggled all through the night to save the chicks. I arrived in the early hours to photograph some extremely filthy, but mightily proud, villagers and the half-dozen chicks that had actually survived. I swung into action, photographed the villagers using my brand new all-singing all-dancing flashgun; the very latest in flash technology. Then I came to photograph the chicks, placed in a lovingly prepared straw lined cardboard box. I leaned over the box, focused on one of the little balls of yellow fluff and pressed the button. BANG! When I reopened my eyes all I could see through the viewfinder was a mess of blood, yellow fur and glittering glass; my flash had exploded. I stepped away from the box and one by one the villagers filed past like mourners at a funeral, peered into the box and then at me. Now I have never seen a lynch mob, but I've got a damned good idea of what it would look like and it was looking at me. Having killed the story, literally, and wasted all their night long effort it seemed like a good time to leave…and I did with mumbled apologies and much haste. I've never been back to that village since, but I have it on good authority that their Guy Fawkes looks suspiciously like me… every year!

Poetry - 1

Zyklon B(adger) They're gassing the badgers in Devonshire, In Avon and Cornwall and Gloucestershire. It's the 'final solution' By Ministry decree. And somewhere, in an office, Sipping tepid tea, There's a Civil Service 'Eichmann' Aryanizing wildlife With British 'Zyklon B'.

Additional Information: If you are interested in the conservation and welfare of badgers and the protection of their setts and habitats then please visit The BadgerTrust.

A Bronx Tale In constant fear of the environment that they had previously loved for over fifty years, Hans (78) and Emma (76) Kabel hanged themselves in their Bronx apartment, leaving a note that read, "We don't want to live in fear anymore".
Old Hans and Emma Kabel No longer need to fear, The cry in the night, The drugged eyes so bright, The screech of the whore, The knock on their door, The junkies, the drunks, The mean tempered punks, The obscenities screamed, The nightmares they dreamed, Or the noose that they chose, Their fear to enclose, As they swing, Side by side in the night.

The Wood Engraving The stubby, blunted fingers       Sap wood smell faintly lingers, Guide the burin in a steady plough       Inherent memory of a long dead bough, Through the boxwood's virgin plane.       Where once a forest free did reign Rolls on the black and viscous ink,       And monsoon rains did freshly drink, Then white paper gently laid and pressed       There never once a single tree protest To pull a crisply new design.       When to the axe we them resign.

There's Always One She put me down with Hopkin's Accentual trochee and Dactyl rhythm. Her knowledge is superior, She knows. Her claws flash again, "Eliot was influenced by Baudelaire, Laforge And Rimbaud. Did you not know that?" Eyebrows arched, surprised. 'Silly cow!' I thought, "I'll rape her." In sprung rhythm, Of course. "Do you understand the Compressed metaphors Of Stephen Spender?" I nod sagely, my body Metaphorically pounding hers, Didactically, iambically, "Pound and Eliot are imagists", I gasp, And climax with a smile.

Sparrowhawk on the M5 Eyes in the sky on Fibrillating arms watch Lemmings pass. Run, mouse, run! M5 killer scanning Man-made banks and Thrumming culverts. Run, mouse, run! Plummeting stoop past Metalled men motoring, There and back again. Run, mouse, run! Wing'd death but touches With its shadow Blind Tiresias. Run, mouse, run! Click! Claws close in Warm flesh, sudden Red, roadside smear. Dead, mouse, dead.

Fred Phillips The frightened soul of a friend of mine Is coming your way, O Lord. Fred Phillips, of no particular fame, But I thought I ought to tell You Because they forgot to mention his name. The service was held in Bransford chapel, Where the vicar told us of Your love, Our guilt and all our shame, But he overlooked a detail, Lord, He forgot to mention Fred's name. Fred never really asked for much, He worked hard all his life and His living was a quiet refrain. I'm sure he would have liked it, Lord, If someone had mentioned his name. They all came out to see him off, His friends had not forgotten, But the man in charge of the shrivelling flame And the vicar in flowing robes forgot; Fred Phillips,             FRED PHILLIPS! Fred Phillips was his name.

The Leaf A breeze soughed soft, "Let go, let go" And with a sigh the hold was severed. Languorously turning oft To wave a sad "Hey ho", Russet dyed and dying tremor'd. A dilly-dally dalliance, Twist and twined. Soft, sliddering, glissando. Autumn coloured radiance, Hoar frost rimed, A sere leaf's rallentando.

The Uniqueness of You A single sperm in headlong dash Met, in moist fallopian dark, A single wandering egg... thus you. No planets shape this destiny, No superstitious astro-calculation. You are no marionette on puppet strings Plucked by moody and capricious gods; You are what 'ere you wish to be. You live by your free will, Not by decree divine. Any triumphs that you win And every single sin, Are positively thine.

Welcome to my Blog...

I am an ex-film and theatre stills photographer, an artist and author. With my wife, Maggie, we are restorers of pottery and porcelain from 5000BC onwards. I hold an honours degree in English and American Literature and have lived in Malvern, Worcestershire for the last forty-five years. Writing is my primary enjoyment, but whereas my forte is writing books my personal pleasure lies in poetry, wherein I can vent my feelings about some of the injustices of this world. I love meeting people and enjoy the odd single malt whisky. I am a member of: The Society of Authors, the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (USA) and the Authors' Licensing & Collecting Society. For more information on my books, short stories and poetry please visit: www.pipeelm.com.