Change of Heart - a poem

I know that the dangers
Are untold and rife,
But I won't loose my heart
In the Labyrinth of life.
Suddenly we caught on fire,
Now we're lost in the blaze,
But together we can surely
Get safely through this maze.
Because when you touch me
I know that I'm going to fall,
I just hope you'll always catch me,
And be there when I call.
I feel like I'm going to drown
In this dangerous sea,
Until I see your blue eyes
Staring back at me.
So I'll follow you through
All the twists and bends,
And hope that whatever else,
We'll always remain friends.

Y Plant Bach a Y Aur Ddu - a poem for Aberfan

If you have never heard of "the Aberfan disaster"  of October  21st 1966, then this poem will make little sense to you. But for many generations to come, children of South Wales will be told of this awful tragedy. Although it occured 21 years (almost to the day) before I was born, growing up in the local area makes this an emotive subject. RIP to the 144 people who died that day.

Y Plant Bach a Y Aur Ddu
(The Little Children and The Black Gold)

Little children in the morning air,
You can hear them shout and play,
Laughing as they skip arm in arm,
On this, just another school day.

But a black monster is looming,
It’ll silence their sweet voices,
All because someone far away,
Has made some stupid choices.

Little children, don’t be afraid,
When the blackness takes you.
Remember that you are not alone;
It claims all your friends too.

Fathers are busy there digging,
And mothers are too shocked to cry.
The bodies are carried one, by one,
As the village begins to die.

Rosy cheeks are whitened now,
And hidden under the black.
Nobody wants to believe,
The children aren’t coming back.

For some children it’s a burden,
They will have to bear,
The lucky ones who got away,
And the ones who were not there.

Slag. Waste. Leftovers piled high.
Now a generation is gone.
The morning air is quiet now,
For you won’t hear their song.

A generation now is gone,
And a village had to say goodbye.
In a parody of the classroom desks,
The gravestones side by side lie.

Too much work to move the waste,
Now the village has paid the cost.
Children young and teachers too,
Never forgotten, but still lost.

She stands on the river bank and waves - a poem

Written June 2010.

 

He doesn't even realise he is broken, but he needs a fix of that girl,

There is just something about her, maybe her changing eyes or how her locks curl.

He doesn't pay any attention to the voice in his head that says “please pay heed”.

She is like a bandage to his wounds, surely her healing touch he will always need?

She resists at first, like she foresees something he cannot yet truly understand,

But his sweet whispers melt the ice, and she reaches out when he offers his strong hand.

Their hands clasp so tightly, but she fears the bond will not be wound around fast.

His festering wounds do not heal; her powers fade, so too his need will not last.

He sees clear what she tried to forewarn, a river deep and foaming white at the mouth.

Now he understands that to go due north things sometimes must be left to go down south.

He lets go of her touch as gently as he can, believing true he is no good.

And alone he steps into the river's cold embrace, like he always knew he should.

He struggles, and she watches on helpless as the river almost gets to swallow.

He doesn't have the strength to look back; one glance and she would truly try to follow.

Eventually he collapses; the river behind him, now but a tale of woes.

The girl breathes a sigh of sweet relief, but here between them a tepid river flows...

A bridge must be build for them! But she can only fix, and he cannot create.

So she stands on the river bank and waves with sad sighs, knowing it to be fate.

Tata The Noo - a poem

A lame attempt to write a wee verse with the inclusion of Scottish dialect. Not easy for a Welsh lass, but the lad this was (roughly) based around was a Scot, so made sense at the time. I have to remind myself what some of the slang means after all this time!

 

 

Am'no a sook who'll walk away,

But there is nowt that I can say.

Aye I could fight it all, throw a fit,

Win you over with me charm and wit;

Like yer did it me when we first met,

That isnae a time I'll eva furget.

But ya ken what's best I suppose

And that is leaving tis wild rose.

Hope ya isnae jus bein a goon

But then tis did bloom too soon.

I ken ya naw ned, nor jessie too,

Don't need a bairn nippin like I do.

Yer scunnurt wit life so stowed oot,

So yer ken ya got ta give us th'boot.

If that what's best for ya, hey, so be

I hope life's a skoosh witout of me.

Am'no bein naw dozy tat, alright?

I'll jus say tata the noo for tonight.

But only the noo, and ya ken I'll still be

A wee sook for yer witout a scooby.

Home, Sweet Home - a short story

The end of night shift approached, and a middle aged detective was preparing to hand over to his colleagues. It had been a long night, not helped by the media all dying for information about the death of a celebrity. The detective had been at the scene of the crime. A suicide. Forensics would allow them to close the case quickly. Poor guy, he was barely more than a boy. Why would someone so young and successful want to die? He had money, fame, fans, talent, youth. What could a guy like that lack?

            Oh well, time to switch it all off, the detective thought heading for his car. It was so important in his line of work to be able to leave the job behind, else it ruined your chance of a ordinary home life. His wife was good about it, after twelve years of marriage, she knew when something was eating at him and how to help him unwind and forget about it. She had made him promise before they wed that he would always be a husband and father first and foremost, not just a “cop”. The other guys in the station envied him. It was so hard to keep that perfect balance between the two worlds, but he did it. In his three bedroom suburban home his wife would be having a shower, then getting breakfast started, waking the children up for Sunday school, and keeping an eye out the window for him. When the car pulled into the driveway, she would shout to the kids that Daddy was home, make sure the coffee pot was warm and pop some fresh toast on. Despite being tired after such a long night, he'd be all smiles when his two little ones, a boy and a girl, threw themselves at him. The dog would get all excited and start barking while his wife laughed and tried to prise the children off him. After a soft sweet kiss off his beloved, he'd sit down at the head of the table where his son would bring him the Sunday newspaper while his daughter showed him the pretty new ribbon she had in her hair for church. They would eat breakfast, chatting away and laughing, give the awaiting dog some scraps, then he'd pop upstairs, shower and change, before they walked to the local church. He'd stifle his yawns throughout the service, but perk up when his children and the rest of the Sunday school kids came in from the hall and did a little reading for the congregation. On the way home, he'd carry his daughter on his shoulders while his son told him all about the bible stories they had been learning. After church, the children would change and his loving wife would take them and the dog for a walk to the park to feed the ducks, letting tired Daddy get some well-needed sleep.

            The middle aged policeman smiled to himself at the images in his mind as he reached his home. He parked the car on the street and climbed the three flights of dingy stairs to his apartment. After fiddling with the key for some moments, he let himself in. The one room home was dark despite the growing light outside the tiny windows. An empty pizza box lay on the coffee table next to a pile of newspaper clippings. “Crime rates down”, “Policeman stabbed”, “Hero policewoman released from hospital”, “Copy-cat Serial Killer Caught” the headlines read.

            “Home, Sweet Home,” the policeman whispered into the empty room.

Extract from my incomplete novel.

A rough draft prologue for the novel I am working on.

The air inside the wooden tomb became thicker as the daylight grew stronger. All the day before and all that night, the door had remained locked. No longer did the prisoner scrap at the cracks in the wooden panels with her fingernails; there were hardly any nails left now anyway, just bloodied stumps, splintered and sore. Parched lips trembled feebly in a repeated prayer, silently mouthed over and over. If there was anyone listening, they weren't about to grant the inmate's wish. No one was coming to help. And no one was going to let it end.

               Footsteps. Panic gave the weak captive a tiny burst of energy and she opened her terrified eyes. No more! No more!

               The light cutting into the dank prison was suddenly blocked off. Through the cracks in the door a dark shadow could be seen. Grating and creaking followed. The prisoner made herself as small as she could, huddling in the furthest corner of the tiny cell, but it was nowhere near far enough. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be far away from here. But it was her fault. It was all her own fault. If only she...

               The door groaned deeply as it swung open to reveal the massive dark figure towering over the captive like a judge,  jury, and the executioner. Large leather strap in one hand, with the other covering his nose, the large man stared down on the girl before him with disgust and hatred.

               “Get out,” he commanded, his voice muffled by the hand defending his nostrils from the foul smell.

               He stepped back a few paces and waiting impatiently for the girl to move. But she couldn't find the strength to crawl forward, collapsing in a heap on the prison floor instead.

               “I said, get out!”

               A heavy foot came down upon her, thrusting her face first into the foul slush which covered the floor of the wooden cell. Some splashed up onto the trouser leg of the angry man, causing an outburst of curses directed at the girl. He bent down and grabbed a fistful of her lank, dirty, tangled mop of hair, yanking her out of the chamber with a force that lifted her clean off the floor. She was dumped on the grass with a thud, rolling over onto her side in pain, knees pulled in close to her chest and her head tucked in. She made little sound as the large man spat on her, wiping the hand that had touched her on the seat of his trousers, his face distorted with disgust.

               “Ya fool thing,” he yelled at her as he wrapped the belt around his hand. “Don't know why I ev'r agreed to take care of ya, aye.”

               But his words seemed strange and far off, as if the girl was underwater. The ground seemed to be moving, spinning almost, beneath her, and coloured spots were dancing before her eyes, even when shut. She began to retch, shaking from head to toe. She was going to die, she knew it. The young girl, empty and broken, had nothing more to give, no fight left in her aching body. As her retching stopped at last, she forced her eyes open, wanting to see the sun one more time before letting go of this world. A giant figure stood before her, not the evil man with the belt, but someone else. His long blonde hair fell over his shoulders, strangely braided with bright colours, and the sun he shielded her from created a halo around him. An angel, she thought wearily, come to take me away from this life at last. And with that, her small world collapsed in on itself, leaving her to be engulfed by the darkness.

 

Haunting - extract from incomplete poem

This short extract is from a much longer poem I began work on a while ago and never completed. Should I ever resume work on this poem, it would have thirteen stanzas and grow steadily darker. Reading this now, I am not sure it is worth my while completing.

She haunts me silently, as I lie in the dark night,

And in the shadows she watches me walk in the light,

Waiting for a dull, grey cloud to enter my bright day,

Until the time I can no longer keep her at bay.

She watches, cruelly laughing, as I try to grow,

So amusing it must be when something you know

Others are oblivious to, yet not her, or me,

A truth of our lives that stops me from being free.

So she is always laughing, even when tears,

Find a way to her eyes, born of anger, and fears.

She haunts me like the ghastly ghost I know she is not.

She is not spirit left behind from body of rot.

Yet she still haunts me still, day and night, never to be forgot.