What is a Garden ( A Rondeau)

What is a Garden?

What is a garden, I want to know

Is it just a place to mow

A place  for Children to play

Or for the tired to lay

With flowers all in a row

In winter it's covered in snow

But in spring a bright glow

Enough to make anyone stay

What is a garden?

Trees strong & tall they grow

Until a storm does blow

It may be a home for a stray

That sunbathes on a sunny day

At the end, a stream may flow

What is a garden?

Stop Listen

Stop Listen

Stop Stand a while

Listen too

Whats that?

Silence, Pure Silence. No

Stop Stand a while

Listen too

The Bird Song, the Wind

The Crickets

Stop Stand a while

Listen too

The Stream Babbling

The Water rushing

What does a child hear?

What does a child hear?

A Child Here
Birds Singing
Sirens Wailing
People Playing

A Child in Syria
Guns Firing
People Screaming
Just Fear

The Storm ( A Haiku)

The Storm

Leaves blow from the trees
Destructive damaging strength
Wrecking homes and lives

Sunset ( A Haiku)

Sunset

Red Fire in the sky
Dying down a bit by now
Dead burning no more

Fog (A Haiku)

Fog

Fog Deathly Silent

Thick, Dark Eerie Sublime Damp

Death left in it's Wake.

The Garden (A Haibun) NaPoWriMo Day 0

The Garden

Green. Yellow, Pink and Red, just some of the colours of the garden.
Frogs Ribbit, Birds Tweet, water gurgles, just some of the sounds of the garden
The smells are amazing, constantly changing, the sweet smell of flowers, the earthy smell of compost, the hint of rotting vegetation.
The garden embraces wherever you are.

Taken for Granted
Many Gardens often are
Magic of Nature

Today's pre-NaPoWriMo prompt to write a Haibun.

The haibun is the combination of two poems: a prose poem and haiku. The form was popularized by the 17th century Japanese poet Matsuo Basho. Both the prose poem and haiku typically communicate with each other, though poets employ different strategies for this communication—some doing so subtly, while others are more direct.

The prose poem usually describes a scene or moment in an objective manner. In other words, the pronoun “I” isn’t often used—if at all. Meanwhile, the haiku follows the typical rules for haiku.

Clock Works

Clock Works

Tick, Tock

Tick, Tock

Tick, Tock

Bring!

Big Clocks

Little Clocks

Longcase

Carriage

Wooden Clocks

Metal Clocks

Plastic ones too

Mechanical

Digital

Ticking

Chiming

Alarming

Hands turning

Pendulums swinging

Lights flashing

Clocks of every kind

Wouldn’t want to wind them

Wouldn’t want to find them

When an alarm blurts out

This poem is inspired by a temporary art installation at Nostell Priory called Harrison's Garden, commissioned to commemorate the 300th anniversary of one of John Harrison's Longcase clocks that has recently been returned to Nostell Priory. The art installation involves 2000 clocks arranged in one room by artist Luke Jerram.
More information see here

NaPoWriMo

April is National Poetry Writing Month (in the US anyway) and so I have signed up to write 30 Poems in 30 Days. Poetry is my thing, I prefer prose so this will be a challenge for me.

NaPoWriMo

The Colours of the World

The colours of the world

Blue and Green

From space

Can be seen

Down here

The colours

Far more

Yellow

Purple

In Spring

Bright red

Lush Green

Summers here

Burnt orange

And auburn

That’s Autumn

Crisp white

Turning grey

Winter’s day

The colours

Of Earth

Are so bright

But the Greens

Oh the greens

Make your heart sing

As a child, I grew up like many of my peers watching Television. One of my all time favourite programmes was the adventure game, yet none of my friends seem to remember it.

The Adventure Game

It was a classic game show designed for children, loved by adults.

8000 words down

Well that's 8,000 words edited only another 90,000 or so to go.

My Novel - The Editing Begins

So about 18 months ago I was going through a bad patch, with a lot of stress in my life. It as abut the same time I had rediscovered my passion for writing. So in November 2015 I sat down and in a month wrote over 100,000 words about my childhood. After printing the work I tried to edit, but it was all too soon. Now I have started the process of editing it all, I suspect this will take longer than the writing did.
Once the editing is complete I will need to find a trusted friend to proofread.

A Room, But Whose?

Cluttered might be too strong a word for this room, it was most definitely lived in and very much loved.   

Windows on three walls, would that be triple aspect?

Just inside the door a wooden umbrella stand, filled with manly black umbrellas, and antique walking sticks. A walking stick of black ebony, white cream ivory tusks and glass eyes. An ivory stick handled cane is shaped like a dog’s head, is both attractive and functional as a whistle.

Along the wall with the door, full-length shelves run from door to the corner. The shelves are bowing under the weight of the many books, ranging from sturdy leather bound tomes to modern cheap paperbacks.

Looking closer the shelves contained not only books but other trinkets and treasures evidence if any was needed that the owner of this room was well travelled. Models of the great wonders of the world and landmarks. The Eiffel tower, the statue of liberty and the Sydney opera house rubbed shoulders with a London bus, welsh love spoon and a large pine cone.

Moving onto the window wall, more shelves smaller this time, containing religious items, not just Christian, but others too.  

An exquisite hand carved wooden cross, a shape of Jesus, just visible, like a lingering shadow of something that once was.

A Russian Orthodox icon, once bright colours now faded, paint peeling.

A smiling Buddha, resplendent in gold.

A model of the Ka'bah, a black and golden cube housed in a glass case.

A figurine of Vishnu, the goddesses for hands all posed in different ways. Her golden headdress trimmed with peacock tail feathers and purple flower at her feet.

An Embroidered Kippah, in black velvet, decorated Star of Davids and Hanukiah.

A small prayer wheel, lay at the edge, looking like one tap could send it flying.

A Khanda, an all metal double edged blade, propped up against the wall, the blades dull, not functional, the grip expertly turned, decorated with orange cords.

Hanging from the end of the shelf a Chinese Lion puppet. Its body turquoise and pink, white frills and large yellow eyes, make it comedic rather than scary.

Below the shelves a large metal desk, old fashioned and cumbersome looking. Its grey paintwork wouldn't have looked out of place on the hull of a battleship. Its desktop littered with papers, books, pens and single photograph of a small child sat in an old-fashioned silver cross type pram, a tabby cat on the hood. A diary lays open on today's date, a red ribbon and a pen on the page. A cup of cold tea lurks next to the pen pot filled with useful pens stationery items and a long white feather. A small clear tub of paper clips lays on its side.

A Computer in the corner, it's monitored topped with a stretched out sleeping black cat.

On the windowsill behind the computer, large factory shuttles arranged with a lack of due care, but still an artistic appeal.  The view of the garden beyond could only be an inspiration to whoever used the desk.

A brown leather office chair slightly dog-eared and worn, cats scratch marks on the back. Draped over the back of the chair a black cape.

Moving around, two small windows on this wall, one either end. A Hanukiah in need of a dust off, and a new candle as one is missing, its others slightly wonky from melting in the sun. On the other small fisherman's anchor, its rope hanging down to the floor.

More shelves on this wall, models of ships and photographs intermingle with stacked books. Interesting articles used as bookends, a bell, a wheel spanner, a large shell, a bottle of rum, a black wooden bear among other things. By far the best a set of masthead lights, that work illuminating various parts of the room in white, green or red light.

The last wall has a large window overlooking the front, with a large green pond yacht filling the window. This wall is different from the others as it has no shelves. A large world map dominates the wall, surrounded by photographs of ships, and people. A brightly coloured set of Tibetan prayer flags hangs above the map. Beneath the map a red velvet chaise lounge, a couple of scatter cushions stacked awkwardly in the corner. Tucked under the arm of the Chaise lounge, an overflowing paper bin waits desperately to be emptied.

The floor of this room is tiled in grey. Covering the tiles and providing some warmth a Persian rug in muted shades, it's tassels somewhat worn. In the centre of the rug, another black cat chases an elastic band.

If you laid back on the chaise lounge, the afternoon sun streams through the window from the garden warming your skin.  Close your eyes, and a mixture of smells will tease your nostrils. A mix of old leather, polish, and books, but above these a sweeter, floral type smell so hard to define and yet to some so recognisable.

Mr Bleaney

Mr Bleaney

“Now come on Tom, I just need you to slip out of your clothes so we can give you a bath.”

“No, and it’s Mr Bleaney to you, not Tom.”

“Sorry Mr Bleaney, now please, Sister has said you have to have a bath.”

“Don’t need one.”

The young nurse looked at the elderly man before her, she wanted to shout Oh yes you do but knew she couldn’t. She wondered what she had done to deserve this today. She glanced cross at the trolley set up with the various lotions and potions for washing him, her eyes fell on the head lice lotion, and her head immediately started to itch.

Mr Bleaney sneezed and again and again. He patted his chest, before fumbling trying to get his handkerchief into his pocket.

“Are you okay Tom” she paused “Mr Bleaney is there anything I can do?”

He tugged on his handkerchief, it wouldn't give at first, but then it did, emptying his pocket as it did so. A few coins jingled to the floor, along with other contents.

“Bugger and botherations” muttered the old man as he tried to lean over to retrieve his pocket contents.

But she was quicker she dropped to her knees and started to pick up the items from the floor.

“It’s okay Mr Bleaney.”

Picking up first a squashed cigarette packet and an old battered lighter.

“You said you didn’t smoke Mr Bleaney.”

He looked down at the child on her knees, for that is what she was just a child, how could she be so bossy. But there was something about her, she reminded him of, oh god no it couldn’t be she was the image of his Mary when they had first met.

“Mr Bleaney, are you okay?” His face looked so grey so full of sadness suddenly.

“Yes, Yes”

He was looking at her studying her, she felt a little uneasy, please tell me he isn’t one of those pervy ones, that's going to try for a quick grope, the thought. Holding out the cigarettes and lighter she asked him again.

“Mr Bleaney, do you smoke?”

He shook his head and coughed

“No, not anymore, just carry them to make me feel good, smell ‘em I do when I need too.” He looked away from her. She smiled, picking up his wallet ad placing it on the trolley next to him, as she did it fell open revealing an old grey crumpled photograph. She tried to look at it desperately, but he saw her looking.

“My Mary” he uttered, with very little emotion in his voice, but one glance at his distant eyes told her he was full of emotion. She carried on picking up the coins, a key, his bus pass, and what was that. A small cream coloured item under the chair, leaning closer, her hand brushed the satin fabric. Closing her hand she pulled it towards her, opening her hand she saw it was a baby's bootee. She held it up, it was lovely handmade, old and could do with a good wash like its owner. Glancing up at the old man he sat upright gazing at the closed door.

“Mr Bleaney.” She passed him the bootee, he reached out, his hand unsteady. Careful she took his wrist to steady it as she pressed the delicate item into his well-worn rough hand. He looked down at her, a smile briefly crossed his face before a tear rolled down his cheek. “A cup of tea, Mr Bleaney,” she said realising that she couldn’t rush him, she needed to be gentle. He nodded.

Returning with two cups of tea, she pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He still sat silently looking at the bootee in his hand. She wondered how many times he had done this, was the bootee a comfort to him, or merely a source of more anguish.

“Mr Bleaney, are you okay?”

He lifted his head and looked at her, she was just like his Mary, bossy but kind, she had always treated him like that. Kept him in place, but loved him, and he loved her, loved her more than anything. They had been so happy, didn’t think life could get any better, that was until Mary realised she was expecting. Baby Helen had made their life complete, he had worshipped her, Mary and Helen were his life.

“Mr Bleaney, do you want to talk?  we can while we have a cup of tea.”

He carefully pushed the bootee back into his pocket and accepted the cup of tea, the steam stinging his old sad eyes, as he took a sip. It was true the hot liquid did make you feel better, even it was only for a few seconds, and it had been a long time since he had had a decent cup of tea, with real milk.

The young nurse reached into her pocket, glancing over her shoulder quickly, she passed the old man a small pack of biscuits. He took them hand shaking as he tried to open the packet, gently she took it back and opened it.

“Thank you” he muttered. He looked at the young woman's face knew he could trust her, he needed to talk, to tell someone about Helen and Mary, he had spoken to no one about them for almost 50 years.

“Spose you are wondering about the shoe?” His voice was hoarse, shaky as he began. The young nurse blushed, embarrassed that he might think her nosey.

Pulling out the bootee out he passed it to her. “It was Helen’s, my little girl, my princess.”. He paused again.

“I met Mary, that was my wife just after I joined the navy, both 17 we were inseparable. Going back to sea was a nightmare for us both. But we wrote daily, sometimes more.”

He sipped his tea.

“We had been married almost 20 years, thought we were never going to be blessed with Children. The Mary went to the doctor, thought her time was up, but she was with child.” His face brightened, she was sure he looked younger as he went on to describe their joy at the surprise pregnancy, told her how he had managed to get them moved into a married quarters house, and had fitted out a nursery. Their lives finally complete.

“Helen arrived on the 6th June, lovely she was, full head of black hair. I was lucky, was alongside when she was born, at home every night. Till she was 6 months old, then I went back to sea.” He gulped his tea, coughing as he did. She put her hand on his to comfort him.

“Mary didn’t write as much, I thought it was because she was tired, busy with the baby.” his eyes glazed, as he spoke. “But then I got a letter from her sister, Mary was dead, fell under a train they said. The baby left on the platform in her pram. I don’t even know why she would be at a train station, she didn't even have a ticket.” He looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze. “Her sister Shirley took Helen in, looked after her as her own. But when I saw her she wasn’t mine anymore, didn’t know her old dad, had a new family.”

He nibbled on a biscuit, it was good, had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone.

“I sent money, gifts, but couldn’t bring myself to visit. The day Mary died I lost both my girls.”