The cat, bird stalking,
early morning dog walking,
the sun rises over the eastern hill
behind the fir trees.
Spring morning chill
meets
spring sun warmth.
It is still early.
The plants, freshly watered,
drip and gleam in the light.
Geraniums, pink and red
and rosemary lifts her violet head,
the lavender flowers, purple
while bees flit, feeling Provençal.
Sarracenia, the fly catcher, lies
and dreams of catching flies.
The brevity
of morning’s clarity
Crystal-crusted peaks
standing sentinel
A sheer-sided cliff
black against blue
hides the sky above me
Its sides thick
with winter’s skeletons
stalking stick shadows,
stark
against night’s incandescence
which chases up the sun
A once waterfall
in winter suspension
and, like us all,
awaits the sun.
Every letter lingers,
and every word wrings,
while the stubborn sentence stabs
the pained paragraph.
***
The sun also rises.
Donde esta la fiesta Ernesto?
The sun also rises. It rises on a new day, in a new way, earlier than yesterday and later than tomorrow, when the sun also rises.
The sun also rises in a cloak of washed pink, when the blue finally lets go and after the black has given up the ghost. Eventually it will shine a light on the eastern-facing peaks 5,000 feet above my right shoulder as I sit.
The sun also rises on new hopes and old fears. Hopes are always new, even if they’re the same hopes you had yesterday, last week or even last year. Hopes are renewable, and like solar power, and are renewed with the coming sun.
The sun also rises on the birds that sing in the new day. Each voice different, discernible from the others. If I was a cat I’d be at my wits end figuring ways to go and catch one. A swift bite to the neck and it would sing no more. But I’m no more cat than I am prehistoric Auroch, and the birds fill me with pleasure. I can leave them to their song. What do they sing anyway?
The sun also rises on a short night of discarded dreams. Dreams, and drugs to make you sleep, but don’t. The sun also rises on tiredness, which I fight with everything I have to hand; my 2H pencil and notebook. I write.
White bulletproof shroud
Head to toe protection,
salvation
while fishermen in storm-tossed seas
knee deep and needing
breaking bread
taking water, taking wine
as you walk unhindered
undisturbed
stone rolled, risen
given
to man
to remember
to forget
to honour
to regret
White bulletproof shroud
lies in tatters
at your feet
as women weep
and men wander
and wonder
Wander, wonder
Heart
stopped
Sliced by razor
made hollow
bleached with sorrow
Hung out to dry
to die
Then I
saw your smile,
felt your kiss
The razor’s wound
internal, infernal
but never eternal
As the heart beats once again
Walking
waves breaking
white foam
flying
gulls crying
as the wind whips their voices
Behind closed eyes
salt sting
breathing
as the sea sighs its song
And laps and slaps the strand
Fickle mistress!
Ever moving
ever changing
From a shallow sigh this ocean roars
as the gull soars
lighter than the air
that carries its story
on the wings of the wind
Enclosed space behavioural patterns, what’s it called, lift behaviour? The doors close on two people who only seconds before were having a friendly chat over an espresso in the hotel bar. Now they shut up shop and silence ensues when the doors close like a pair of folded arms. The will to wish the lift to rise is strong and the relief is almost tangiable when it arrives. It seems like the lift and its occupants are holding their breath and finally let it out when the doors open, when those arms unfold. It’s a unique situation; it doesn’t happen when four people are squashed into a car. Space.
Then we have train space conservation; we do, so bear with me.
Four seats and only one of them occupied, their occupant relaxed and probably reading, playing Candy Crush or possibly, Heaven forbid, writing, with a pen and paper don’t you know. A second person arrives and sits down diagonally opposite. A shuffling of feet and space, reluctantly, is conceded. This is still bearable. The first occupant continues as before; reading, Candy Crushing or maybe writing. The new arrival starts to rummage in his bag and out comes a book, a phone or maybe, just maybe, a pen and paper. Two people sitting diagonally can share the same space comfortably; they may even swap greetings – sometimes it still happens, it really does. This sense of conviviality continues, each to their own doing what they’re doing with possibly the occasional glance out the window, looking at the black and white cows in the fields. Why are all the cows black and white when seen from the window of a train? Where are the other cow colours? Is there a law that says only black and white cows can graze near railway lines?
Then the train pulls into the next station. Both occupants look up from what they’re doing, look at the seats next to them, move their bags half an inch nearer their feet and wait. They hold their breath. Time doesn’t stand still but they wish it would; they want to remain with an empty seat next to them forever. They don’t want their space encroached upon but they know it’s going to happen, it has to.
The doors of the train open with a swoosh and people file in, looking for a seat, any seat. It doesn’t matter next to who, they just want to sit down, to have their own place where they can sit and read a book, play the telephone or possibly write. The two original occupants frown, engage in more feet shuffling and move their bags another half an inch to see if that is enough. If not they will sigh, sometimes audibly, and rearrange their space; four seats, four people. With space dramatically reduced the original occupants will have to get used to it. The two new arrivals on the other hand are as happy as Larry. They have their seat and now they can relax, coat off and a big, happy sigh of relief and then out come the books, phones or pen and paper (all four of them? Oh come on…). They’re on holiday these newcomers, look at them! Any more relaxed and they’d put their feet up (well, if the seat opposite wasn’t occupied) and ask the ticket inspector for a pina colada. The two original occupants are most definitely NOT on Holiday. Their winter has returned; it’s darker now the light from the windows has diminished in the crowded carriage. The book has become harder to read, Candy harder to crush and the thoughts transmitted from pen to paper are harder to come by. Frowns indent foreheads and half-hidden glares stared. Goodwill to all men, except those sitting next to you.
Love thy neighbour, but only if you have the space to do so.
Sleep eludes me, deserts me
It skirts my nighttime like a seige
Sleep seized from the grasp of the sleeper
Who should now be in deep slumber
As I fumble for words
(I write)
“Sleep sir, sleep!” I hear
As once again I fear
To go to bed
Lest nightmares awaken me
Awaken me?
And dreams haunt me
Dreams? Ha!
You have to sleep to dream
Sleeps eludes me, deserts me
My night perched on a precipice
A night-borne orifice
Black and deep
Like the narcotic sleep
(I crave)
Today I left my place of employment after more than 11 years. The big hole that has been left by such an absence will be filled however, as I am now studying the Cambridge CELTA course to teach English as a foreign Language. As one door closes…
*********
The last long day
I’m left static and still
and I must keep moving
just keep going
never slowing.
But now, but now
a halt has been called.
Time to take the time that’s mine,
to use, shape and mould
As a new life chapter unfolds.
I won’t be lead blindly
as I carve and scythe
and make my way
with my destiny
in my hands.
Do not step into yonder pasture,
however the grass may be greener.
Do not follow the grass-flattened footsteps
of another,
who will lead you tither.
For the fickle will change
and though you may rage
and cry against your injustice
and spill tears that are useless.
To whom will you turn
when the wild winter wind burns
your face and tears your eyes,
as you stumble and chastise
your decision taken,
your intention mistaken.
For however that distant green field
may taunt you,
do not stray across those borders,
entrapped by those hoarders,
who will suck your soul
and bleed you dry and left to lie;
choked and broken
The hours slip through time,
as time seeps through the hours;
and flowers
mark the beginning
and the end of time.
Celebration of life and death;
eyes open for the first time
or close for the last,
and tears tear the heart.
A new life now grows
for time never slows
but seeps through the hours.
The old year slipped into the new
While yesterday’s pain
is swept with a broom
Hard bristle scratch
My thoughts, my face
Dust choking
Acid soaking
The handle hands the hand a splinter
Through nail and skin
Deeper and deeper
Poisoning and malevolent
Burrowing and diving
Septicaemic
I can feel it
Arrow sharp
But not enough
To pierce my heart
So it turns on me
and burns in me
But spurs me
On.
To kickstart some creative juice flowing I decided on this little travel piece as I roll in motion with this train.
As the leaves burn brown
and rage in a riot of red
The low, winter light losing colour
looking tired and stretched
The sun’s early rising all but forgotten
another life, another time
The soltice shroud of darkness covers all
and the frost fingers;
hard and cold
grip the earth
And its frigid breath
bites the air
As the year ends in a flurry of colour
The mirror’s image wavers before me
It implores me
“Look at me”
“Look at you”
I do
And wish I did not
The mirror’s image dances in my eyes
As you chastise
“Look away”
“Look at me”
I do
Relieved that I did
The mirror’s image shows you beside me
Love unties me
Mountains slide
Oceans rage
We are
And we will remain
96 years ago the First World War, the Great War, was finally over. A generation of young men, those that returned home, were left to pick up the pieces of what they had experienced, seen and endured. They said it could never happen again. but it did; 21 years later. As terrible as the Second World War, the same as any war, was, there is something truly horrific about the trenches.
***
The ground heaves and shakes and small rivers of dirt fall, splattering my helmet and the pounding of the earth is like a fist in my back. I look at Jenkins; he’s now bleeding from the ears and nose from the concussion of this incessant artillery barrage. I look at the lieutenant; his face flares white in the explosion flashes; dark rings his eyes and he’s gaunt, like the rest of us. He’s one of us now. After two years in this hell-hole the only part of Cambridge that remains is his manners. He looks at me.
‘Don’t,” he says.
He knows I want to look, I can’t help it; George was my friend from the pre-war days. George who had the nerve to stick his head above the trench, only for a piece of shrapnel to tear it off and fling the rest of him across the trench. The trench, this devil-made wormhole. What will I tell his wife when I get back…if I get back?
A let up in the barrage and the shadow of the black Somme night passes across the trenches, leaving destruction, torn and twisted bodies, fatherless children and husbandless wives but now all was silent. We’ve been stuck here for months, barely advancing, barely retreating. The smell of the ripped earth and dank mud in which we wallow is everywhere, except when the wind blows towards us and the stench of death and decay replaces it.
‘Help…’
The voice is faint but it’s there. In the sudden and welcome silence it’s as clear as birdsong on a June morning, agony and suffering coming through in just one word.
‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ Symes; newly arrived from the train, all shiny boots, clean puttees and enthusiasm. They always arrive with enthusiasm. What the hell are they telling them back home? Five days a week killing the Hun then Saturdays and Sundays off, French whores and bistros thrown in? ‘Can we not do something for that poor bugger sir?’ he says, turning to the lieutenant, who sighs.
‘Corporal, take a look and be bloody careful.’
I take off my helmet and place it on the butt of my rifle and slowly raise it above the trench, joggling the rifle to simulate movement: nothing. No sniper fire to split the night. The lieutenant hands me his field-glasses as I replace my helmet and climb the ladder. They say there’s nothing blacker than no-man’s land at night but that’s not strictly true, especially following a barrage. The artillery will always find something to burn, even if it’s just human remains, and little fires dotted around cast an unholy light in the field-glasses. I first scan the enemy lines, looking for movement, but I see none.
‘Help…’
My vision jumps from crater to crater, searching for life and hoping for it also, in this God-forsaken pit of human misery. At first I see nothing, then I take a slower, longer sweep with the glasses. I see movement; slow, shambling movement some twenty yards away where the barbed-wire is stretched across and upon which hang torn and crow-picked corpses, like some infernal spider’s web. A slow, crawling movement catches my eye and even in the dead-light I can see enough. It’s a soldier, a German soldier, gone from the waist down, pulling and dragging himself inch by agonised inch towards our trench.
‘Well I’ll be damned. It’s a Jerry sir and in an awful state by the looks of it.’
‘What the Dickens…’ as he climbs up, taking the field-glasses from me and looks upon the awful site before us. He wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand, sighed and turns, stepping down into the trench. Not a moment too soon, as a high whistling noise is followed by chaos. The concussion from the blast is enormous, filling my head with a death-roar and I could feel my ears and nose bleeding freely. Symes is on the floor of the trench, his legs pinned down by dislodged sandbags but he’s ok. Upon hearing that whistle, the lieutenant, Jenkins and I all threw ourselves against the wall of the trench. Symes will learn, if he has time.
‘Corporal, who’s our best shot?’ but he looks at Jenkins, the Welshman is a crack shot and needs no introduction.
‘Help…’
‘Take him out Private. I won’t risk stretch-bearers to bring him in but the sorry blighter has suffered more than enough.’ He moves aside from the ladder to let the Private through. The figure is nearer now but still a good fifteen yards away. No trouble for Jenkins, who could shoot a canary in a Welsh coalmine from fifty. The first signs of dawn are beginning to pink the early clouds, which a rising breeze is scattering. Jenkins brings the rifle up to his right shoulder, intent only on what he sees at the end of the barrel.
“God speed this bullet and put that poor devil out of his misery”, the lieutenant says, to no one in particular.
“Amen,” says Jenkins, and his finger tightens on the trigger.
As if in response the morning sun throws its first rays of light through the breaking clouds and onto the battlefield. The bombardment has done a lot but not enough; the barbed wire is still in place. If we have to go over the top we’ll be torn to pieces by the German machine-gunners.
The report of Jenkins’ Lee Enfield barks out. The lieutenant raises the field-glasses but they aren’t needed. As more lights floods across the battlefield the sliding, shuffling figure shimmers and fades to nothing.
We look at each other in silence. We’ve all heard stories of ghosts on the battlefield and I guess with so many men butchered on a daily basis it was only a matter of time. I wonder, should God grant any lasting peace on this Earth, in 100 years how many of our souls will still wander here, lost in a foreign land far from home.
***
I’d like to acknowledge http://femaleimagination.wordpress.com/2014/11/11/11-november-world-war-i-ends/ for the use of the photograph.
My ever present and never diminishing thanks once again to Morgen.
I’m still unsure as to whether I should be disturbed about the fact that I sat in a pub looking at a tattoo and invented this story around it…
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and forty-sixth piece in this series. This week’s is a 436-worder by Christopher Farley.
Colours frozen in time
The tattoo was the first thing I noticed; it was beautiful. She sat opposite her friend drinking Belgian beer from a huge glass and I saw it as I walked past, making my way to the men’s room.
Her thin, white arms poked out from her even whiter t-shirt, then a waterfall of colour burst from the sleeves of the t-shirt. Three lotus flowers, red, green and pink, one on top of the other. But oh, the arm. How could something so pale and delicate suffer so much pain? I returned to the bar and pretended to look at the game on the big screen. Her friend rose from the table and headed for the toilet.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help…
View original post 661 more words
You, semicolon
A dot. A comma,
a pause slightly longer
than a breath
And instead of punctuating words
they’ve punctured your heart
You, semicolon
Half remembered, barely read
Semicolon; you ran your race,
and lost your place
And in this fast-paced world
of the modern human race
You paused once too often
and became a Winky, smiley face
;o)
The sunlight for a second
Blinked
A shadow
Its shadow
By my window whispered
Or did it laugh
As I felt its draught
And shivered
My skin crawled,
then froze
The shadow passed
for now
But it’ll come back
When night falls chill
For I will give it life
In black and white
One recent lunchtime I was sitting, waiting for my quesadilla, with every intention of jotting down some potential copywriting ideas – I completed a course not too long ago and I really want to pursue that direction on a professional level. Anyway, it just wouldn’t happen; nothing came when I put pencil to paper except the opening two lines of this. Between waiting for and eating the aforementioned quesadilla, the rest of the piece followed. I suppose you could call it a reluctant poem, as it certainly wasn’t my intention to write it, but as nothing else came I gave in to the flow.
The book is open, the pencil in hand
The eyes stare at black lines on white,
waiting for the muse to turn on the light
What to write? What to write?
Perched over a fissure, under pressure
An abyss awaits, mind contemplates
I did not intend to write this,
this poem, this rhyme
This scribbled tribute to the sublime
Gift of words; the words we use
To communicate
Our love, our hate
Pleasure, displeasure
How are you my treasure?
Spoken words may be forgotten
From the written word may be begotten
A declaration; of love, of war
Of the suffering who can take no more.
Letters by sages
Indented onto pages
A permanent reminder
Of words that can bind you
That seek and find you
And you lay open the page
As you lay open your heart
With thoughts transmitted and thoughts transcribed
As into your book you care to confide
All that you feel, and can’t keep inside
The heart doesn’t flutter;
it hammers, in my chest.
On the train,
the rolling motion,
my rolling emotions,
as the station nears.
The final stop; full stop.
Months in the waiting,
weeks in the planning
and my heart beats the seconds
that pass, too fast.
Am I the only one
alive in this carriage?
This miscarriage of humanity.
Where is the humanity?
Talk to me!
You! The Ipod girl,
in front of Ipad man,
beside Facebook boy
and Candy Crush sister.
Ah! Enough of them.
I’ve been drawn to meet you,
talk to you and kiss you.
As I hold your letter.
A LETTER!
Words on a once-tree,
the Parker Pen veins
stand out, draw me in.
As you stand in the rain,
black brolly Polly,
dark as mystery,
deep as a desert night
but not so old,
nor so cold.
Sand stinging, hand wringing
a nervous encounter,
here at the counter
of the coffee bar.
Spoons clink and rattle
And our nerves finally settle.
One hundred years on and…
A brief truce broken
A steel head awoken
And glared into the night
A firefight,
Candlelight: mourners
Apparently security means a dawn raid
An air raid,
Siren
Not silent
Blaring, uncaring
The choke of smoke
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
On whose hands the blood
That puddles the street
Beneath frightened feet
Running, fighting
Toe to toe
Door to door
Calibre counts much more
A prayer for the lost
And for those who remain;
Once again
The blinding smoke
The dust that chokes
The blood that soaks
The tears that burn
Amid the fires that turn
Earth to hell
A hell on earth
Suffer little children
As men hide among you
While their enemies’ bomb you
Poor innocent souls
As the death toll
Rises
Through wars’ devices
Bodies twisted and torn
Lives shattered and shorn
Of all hope of peace
A three day pull-out
A humanitarian hand-out
Look at me
Through your blood-shot,
Blood filled
Hateful eyes
They say security means war my friend
Do you really think
It will ever end?
Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds
Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park
![20140714_135037[1]](https://christopherfarley.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/20140714_1350371.jpg)
My Words, My World 