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griffonner's (griffonner on UKA) UKArchive
60 Archived submissions found.
Title
Expectations (posted on: 18-03-13)
Of course, there could be far worse things you'd find unexpectedly.

You lift the stone knowing what you will see: The soil will be a shade darker and there'll be wriggling things - a centipede or two, a worm, decaying leaves .... Never did you dream there'd be a key! Bright shiny golden metal? Glinting in the newly illuming light? And ... whereas the wriggling things would have fulfilled your expectations, the key only leaves you with more. © 2009 Griffonner
Archived comments for Expectations
Kat on 18-03-2013
Expectations
Another good write. I love the whole idea of this. The key symbolises so much, I feel. Really enjoyed this.

Kat x

Author's Reply:
Hello Kat. Thank you for taking the time to comment. Short and sweet this one, isn't it? And, yes, I was hoping that people would see the symbology too. Great.

*Happily*

Allen

Savvi on 18-03-2013
Expectations
Great piece, I enjoyed the fact I was left to decide where the key may go as this also makes me see the garden and the possibilities. Thanks S

Author's Reply:
You saw the garden, too, did you. I wonder if it was the same one I saw. πŸ˜‰

Thank you for taking the time to comment.

Weefatfella on 18-03-2013
Expectations
 photo 390a8c45-a359-4a79-8c64-82ba272f2b94_zps941dd6b6.jpg
Yip. Enigmatic to say the least.
Are you lucky enough G,
to know the processes that brought the amazing key idea into your head.
I think also Enigmatic.
Weefatfella.

Author's Reply:
Hi Weetfatfella. I did pen this in 2009, but I have a recollection that it was inspired after a meditation one morning: I became conscious I had accepted that nothing is ever as you expect in the physical plane. Sorry it isn't a more mundane muse. πŸ˜‰

Thank you for commenting.

deadpoet on 18-03-2013
Expectations
Like the symbolizing with the key- though I do have a key under a stone to my front door.Funny. Nice poem G. DP

Author's Reply:
Hi, DP. Thanks for your kind appraisal. I think it was the key to someone's heart, myself. πŸ˜‰

Mikeverdi on 19-03-2013
Expectations
An interesting concept, the scene is set and then you hand control over to the reader; this takes 'show don't tell' to a new level. Brilliant! Mike

Author's Reply:
Hello there, Mike. Nice of you to take the time to comment, and too for your appraisal. Yes, it could mark the beginning of a series, when you think about it.

Ionicus on 19-03-2013
Expectations
Allen, nice to see you posting again. I notice that it is dated 2009 but it has survived the test of time and it is as fresh as ever. A good representation of the expected and unexpected.
That it is left to interpretations is a clever device.

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Luigi. Yes, I'm ashamed to say that it has been lurking on the UKA server all that time with a 'don't publish' setting. I was waiting for the worm to turn! *Hangs head in shame and exits stage right* πŸ˜‰

*appreciatively*

Allen

orangedream on 19-03-2013
Expectations
Hello again, Allen;-)

A joy to read...this, and I'm really pleased you have let it see the light of day, so to speak.

It has obviously matured to perfection over the years, and I only wish I could say the same about myself;-)

Much love

Tina

Author's Reply:
Thank you Tina. That's very kind of you to comment.

Love and blessings,

Allen

PS: I know the feeling you express only too well!

stormwolf on 19-03-2013
Expectations
Delightfully mysterious.
I can see it all so plainly and I feel the questions..who put it there? when? what for?
Leaves the reader wondering.
Glad to see you posting again Allen. πŸ™‚

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Hi Alison,

Thank you for commenting. I really appreciate it.

Blessings and love,

Allen x

Andrea on 20-03-2013
Expectations
Of course it does (leaves you with more expectations)! Loved it, Allen.

Author's Reply:
πŸ™‚

Much appreciate that rather generous rating, Andrea. I was expecting much less! πŸ˜‰

Blessings,

Allen

Bozzz on 20-03-2013
Expectations
Among poets there are those of us who like to provide the reader with a solution and those who prefer to leave us to find our own. This one is clever because, in true treasure hunt mode, it provides the seeker with an answer to what lies beneath the stone - a key, but not the answer we need. This is good competition material.
Enjoyed it very much, but decided not to lose sleep - good stuff, Bozzz.



Author's Reply:
Thanks for your thoughts, Bozzz. And no, don't loose any sleep, my friend, there are too many permutations. πŸ™‚

*appreciatively*

Griffonner

ChairmanWow on 21-03-2013
Expectations
Evokes the eureka feeling very well. The treasure of possibility is where you least expect it but you still have to do something with the key...

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thanks for commenting, Ralph. You could always slip the key in your pocket for another day. πŸ™‚


Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene (posted on: 15-03-13)
What can you say? As you get older, more of these 'functions' come into your life. You could be forgiven for thinking they are making you yourself more prepared!

It is a bitterly cold morning, I'd say. And strangely, for such an occasion, Full of happy coincidences. You do really have to wonder if There is a divine purpose Behind every event in life? Paul born in the same village As the rather mind-numbing Dutchman, Is a real cause for amazement. Everyone says he was a brilliant chap. Turns out they knew him better than me. Bill tells us a humorous tale, Of when they were stopped by police. John makes me smile as he shakes Beside me with fear of the crowd. But he has no need to fear They are all hungry for distraction - For a reason to laugh or smile. It is all strange. All alien, it seems. And it is affecting me weirdly. Perhaps it is about my age? Advancing years take you by surprise; Do some unexpected things To your psyche and your brain. And now this bloody function Comes into my life quite uninvited And bloody makes my throat painful! It's an ache of the heart in reality. The man inside that pale pine casket Was the first person I'd seen - Touched - in the magic state of death. His cold warmer than expected. But it was sadly no surprise. Cancer is a bastard thing. And he would know that much more than me; I got off lightly, when compared. It is a long day, Robert, my friend. For you the last in physical form. Today you'll pass through the fire - Not that you will be concerned at all. You are now in a better place: I do wholeheartedly believe … ... It's a bit of a clichι, I understand, but please bear with me while I wipe away these damn tears.
Archived comments for Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
Bozzz on 15-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
This is a good short prose piece. Why try to present it in poetic format?..Bozzz

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to comment, Bozzz.

I don't really know how to reply to your question.
I would say that as a writer I personally uphold, vehemently, the right of the individual to free speech and artistic freedom. I guess that my simple and honest answer is "simply because I chose to." However, that might sound a tad rude if i have missed a nuance in your remark, and if I did I apologise in advance.

*Appreciatively*

Griffonner

Kat on 15-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
How good to read your work again, Griffoner.

A from the heart piece which moved me very much, particularly the penultimate stanza, and cancer really is a bastard, or that other c-word.

Loved, 'His cold warmer than expected.' = very inspired and true.

Sending you warm wishes from snowy, sunny Germany.

Kat x

Author's Reply:

Savvi on 15-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
Lovely work, I could have been in the church during your contemplation, this feels from the heart and I understand that tightening of the throat, I would say, cliche isn't a problem when proceeded by such fine writing and inspired lines. Savvi

Author's Reply:
Thank you for commenting, Savvi. I appreciate it, and I'm delighted you enjoyed the read.




Rupe on 16-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
I'm going to stick my neck on the chopping block and say that I rather agree with Bozz's forthright comments. This is a such a strong piece of writing, in terms of its subject-matter and turns of phrase, that it is almost a shame that it hasn't been submitted to the rigours of metre - which would give it that extra bit of magic true poems have, of imprinting themselves on the brain.

Rupe

Author's Reply:
Hi Rupe. Thanks for commenting. Your head isn't on my chopping block, believe me. I very much appreciate hearing your viewpoint.

Weefatfella on 16-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
 photo 390a8c45-a359-4a79-8c64-82ba272f2b94_zps941dd6b6.jpg
A very emotive and honest piece.
I have attended too many halls of departure since turning fifty.
My throat complained in all of them.
Thank you for sharing this.
Weefatfella

Author's Reply:
"Halls of departure." I like that. May I steal it? πŸ™‚

Thank you for taking the time to comment.

*Appreciatively*


Andrea on 17-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
Absolutely loved it. Very heart-rending and a great last line. Wonderful to see you posting again too. Hope you and the missus are brilliantly well πŸ™‚

x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for commenting, Andrea. It is heartwarming to know it was worthy of your reading.

Yes we're fine - though still suffering the fall-out from the loss of a friend and then the hospitalization of his wife. Such bad fortune is not deserved.

Nemo on 17-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
The old debate about whether it's poetry or prose. Here is a sequence of short bursts of thought, with, some may say, unfortunately, little in the way of imagery and no metaphor. It may be prose but its cumulative effect is poetic. To write in a predecided meter - spondees, anapests, iambs, etc., would be be inappropriate and stilted- this poem has the natural meter of speech and deserves credit for what it achieves.

Author's Reply:
I am reminded that "meter and foot are tools, not rules". That belief does not in any way take poetry away from critique, of course. I think we know, intuitively, and by hearing the words inside our head and heart, what it is we are reading. With a knowledge of the written language, we can also see where it trips and falls.

I am honoured by the depth of your consideration, and for your evaluation. Thank you, very much.

Mikeverdi on 18-03-2013
Thoughts in Sainte-Nathalene
I am not sure how or why I missed this 'Poem', I am simply pleased I have found it now. Many on this site suffer from the dreaded Big C in one form or another (including me) I am not interested in debate as to the classification of your work, it was inspired by a pain that never goes away; I lost a friend of fifty years to the same cancer I have recently. Beautifully written words. Mike

Author's Reply:
I missed you my friend, and for that I wholeheartedly apologise. Thank you for having taken the time to comment.

Cut and Paste (posted on: 05-10-09)
There is one special time in a man's life - when he looks into the mirror before him and sees what is not reflected there - as he reflects, whilst shaving his DNA. This poem tries to combine a little play on words whilst describing that moment.

Drip … drip … drip … it echoes in the tiled room. Implements of shaving are taken out and spread around: the routine of spacing and placing. The water is agitated and swirls noisily - wiggled by the blade. The sharpened metal scrapes away the hairs, rasping through, sparing but the skin that I am in. Thoughts of me … sitting watching the start of his day, beginning: in his white vest, in the kitchen, where the hot water came. Still the same: the genes are variegated, but unfurl willy nilly in the shade of the lotus petal floating in the fresh helic brew. The membrane is thin that we’re within. Tick … tick … tick … it gurgles at great volume! Incidents of living ... lately assessed … for duration. No two ever the same. A surname simply articulated confines us loosely, but we are remade to die our own special end… under duress. Pasted, anew, to once more begin this hell we’re in. © 2009 Griffonner
Archived comments for Cut and Paste
stormwolf on 05-10-2009
Cut and Paste
OMG powerful stuff Allen.

You take a simple daily men's ritual and make it have deep significance...no easy task.
Your poem demonstrated admirably the 'living in the moment' we all should strive for but seldom attain.
The last verse concludes with such power...well I am just amazed at your depth.
You know, the human body is totally replaced every 7 years...that means that 7 years down the line every cell has been remade.
If we could remember that it would give us some hope..

A surname
simply articulated
confines us loosely,
but we are remade
to die our own special
end… under duress.

Yes...we are so much more than the labels assigned to us.
Just really deep and insightful writing so well deserving of the nib
Alison

Author's Reply:
Goodness gracious me!

I didn't value this all that much, if truth be told, Alison. So it is somewhat a surprise that you have taken the time to comment in such detail, and with totally undeserved praise I assure you.

BUT... such a lovely surprise. And to see the nib! Well... who would have thought!

I am not totally happy with the last few lines, because I don't think they actually truly reflect what they should. I have the feeling that I might have forced them in order to maintain the way this thing attempts at rhyme. So I feel another tweak coming on. πŸ˜‰

Bless you for your lovely appraisal.

Allen
x

barenib on 05-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Allen - I've had a poem about shaving in my 'in progress' folder for ages, but never got round to finishing it. As you obviously found, it's a great subject to write about - the daily physical routine with enforced self-reflection, if you'll pardon the pun, as the scraping takes place. This all comes over very well in your poem and I fear that I may have to bin mine now, as you've pretty well covered it πŸ™‚
The only bit that slightly alarmed me was the 'unfurled willy' line, I was relieved to see 'nilly' swiflty following! John.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the comment, John.

Yes, I agree: that willy was a little exposed at the end of the line, wasn't it!

It's funny, isn't it? We all seem to have this reflective nature when doing this routine. Actually I've now escaped the 'routine' bit since the radiation treatment, as I had an added excuse for not shaving every day. But still, when you look in that mirror you don't always see your own reflection.

I hope you will still do your own poem on shaving. I'm sure it will bring yet another facet to the fore.

Allen

Zoya on 05-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Well, there are some moments you are absolutely alone with yourself! In such personal rituals-for rituals they are- one can be either very drowsy, or very reflective! I have noticed they deep concentration sometimes men seem to be in at such moments, one false move and you can really bleed... Literally and metaphorically both...
On the other hand reflections on life and times in life can really be one of the alternatives...
A well deserved nib, Allen!
Love,
Zoya

Author's Reply:
Thank you Zoya. I must confess to not very often having to get up at the crack of dawn, so I have almost forgotten that drowsy version. I love your take on the bleeding. πŸ˜‰ Bless you for your kind comments.

Allen

niece on 06-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Excellent poem, Allen...could visualise every scene, feel the monotony and even hear the sounds...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you dear Niece. It's always rewarding to hear that something worked on the reader. I hope it wasn't too monotonous. πŸ˜‰

Blessings to you and yours,
Allen

sunken on 06-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Hello Mr. Griffoner. Strangely, I too have a few shaving poems in draft (and no, I don't mean of a naughty persuasion - ahem). I got kinda tired of the whole ritual and opt now to shave when I feel like it. Some girls like stubble... I think. Anyway, excellent work fella. The nib is muchly deserved. I shall now wreck things completely by whacking a dirty great big smelly old Bernard on ya (-;

s
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k
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Author's Reply:
Snap! About shaving, that is. It was some actor guy who made this stubble thing fashionable, I seem to remember. So at the very least we might be considered 'in the mode' (even if belatedly) πŸ˜‰

Thank you for your kind remarks. The 'nib' always takes me by surprise (in the nicest possible way, you understand.)

Allen

Jolen on 06-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Firstly congrats on the nib and the nomination, as this piece is worthy, very. You're work is stronger than ever, and it was always strong! I'm seriously proud of you and jealous!

Love the short, punchy lines, the word play and the ending was perfect!

love,
jolen

Author's Reply:
Hello dear Jolen,

Oh my! Blushing again, am I.

(Sounds like a good title to me.) πŸ™‚

Sometimes I think it would be nice if I could see what others see in some of the things I write! I still feel completely undeserving of the nib.

Love back,

Allen


Corin on 06-10-2009
Cut and Paste
Excelent Stuff Allen and congratulation on the Great Read Recommendation. (Nibs seem rather and dirty smelly things to me as an award:-)

It reminds me strongly of this Haiku by one of the Great Masters of Haiku

First autumn morning
the mirror I stare into
shows my father’s face.

β€”Murakami d. 1865–1938

Isn't that part of what you are saying?

David

Author's Reply:
Goodness, David! I hadn't seen the nomination! Wow!



I just love that Haiku in this connection. Thank you for that. I hadn't knowledge of that before.



It certainly does reflect part of what I was saying, for sure. I remember, as a small boy, watching my dad shave in the kitchen in the mornings (in his white vest) and wondering when I would need to shave. I think that is probably something all we boys experience, don't you.



It came too quickly for me, however, as I later discovered: when I was a baby I fell in an open fire and had burns treatment to the right side of my face at East Grinstead (in the same ward as the burned pilots during the war.) Miraculously, with no visible signs until with too close a shave and my skin would become red raw on that side of my face ... and then, lately, after the radiation treatment it made it doubly difficult for a while.



I wonder if women get this with mirrors, do you think?



*appreciatively*

Allen




macaby on 06-10-2009
Cut and Paste
I suppose the only time that us men have a close up look at ourselves is when we have a shave. Maybe we will see a few more grey hairs, wrinkles or wider pores, but you have went a lot deeper with this daily ritual, reflective and philosophizing I would say. A really enjoyable poem.
regards
mac

Author's Reply:
I know that feeling only too well, Mac.
However, it is surprising the things one 'sees' in front of the mirror - after the initial shock of new grey hairs.
(In respect of the latter, it's a fact that nowadays I leave my glasses off when I go into the bathroom!)
It's so nice to hear that you enjoyed this. Thank you for taking the time to let me know.
Allen

len on 12-10-2009
Cut and Paste
I am totally convinced that the man we see in the mirror is not the man everyone else sees....We bring our own opinions of ourselves into the reflection we see...len

Author's Reply:
Please excuse my delay in thanking you, Len, for you valued comment.

You know, I think that mirrors help everyone take that look at themselves that no one else can. And it is a vision ... a sense ... that is quite involuntary. Is it us without the masks that society encourages us to wear? Or is it the opportunity to somehow feel detached from our bodies, in the most simplest of ways?

Questions, questions. Nothing is ever as it seems.

Best regards,

Allen

pdemitchell on 25-03-2010
Cut and Paste
I enjoyed the piece even though 'wiggled by the blade' and 'the genes are variegated' didn't quite work for me it was worth a re-read. Stimulating stuff. Mitch

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Mitch, very much, for reading and commenting. I very much appreciate it. I'm also pleased that you found it worth a re-read ... wanting to stick with it. πŸ˜‰

Thanks too for pointing out your 'niggle points': they were really very interesting to me.


Unworthy (posted on: 11-09-09)
Blessed be the strong man who can be true to his self (and his word)

I asked you. Would you have expected me to pass … unknowing? Was there anything else I should have done? Should I have implored you? Begged you? Lain at your feet in supplication? I was unable to distract my concentration ... from the opportunity. But now ... the ether is devoid of all activity. There is no sounding of your breath. There is no pounding of your heart. No scratching of your pen. No indication of if ... whether ... nor yet, even, when? No message. No reply. No response …. Ever? Never? Dear God this cannot be! This can not be! I will die! --- But in the dark of night ... in the silence ... in the bitter torment of my fears, of not knowing ... All I do is cry. Unworthy tears. © 2009 Griffonner
Archived comments for Unworthy
Jolen on 11-09-2009
Unworthy
Damn Allen:
That is one very powerful poem!


blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
See below πŸ˜‰

Jolen on 11-09-2009
Unworthy
Dearest Allen:

Forgive my earlier knee-jerk reaction but your poem kicked me in the guts. It's quite powerful and I feel the anguish in each line. The separation and bold font work very well for extra impact and I am so pleased to see more work from you. From my point of view, you're always true to your word and are one of the best men I have the pleasure of knowing. I don't think there's anything unworthy about you, bless you.

Sorry, I tend to go on at times, but I just wanted you to know that this really touched me.

My best to you and the missus.

love,
jolen

Author's Reply:
You do realise that my face is so red that they've just sent a message from the International Space Station to NASA warning about this serious forest fire in France, don't you?

Goodness I'll have some explaining to do when the Pompiere arrive!

*undeservedly*
Allen


sunken on 11-09-2009
Unworthy
I agree with Ms. Jolen (to be frank, it would be madness to do anything but πŸ˜‰ A very powerful piece, Mr. Allen and no mistake.

s
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k
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Author's Reply:
Well the title says it all, I guess. I didn't think it was - as the modern vernacular goes - all that. But there we are... and Bernard barking and all that! My gosh! Thank you, Mr Sunks.



*flabbergasted*



Allen

hoopsinoz on 11-09-2009
Unworthy
simply superb - stunning imagery and angst and despairing want unrequited.

Author's Reply:
No, the generosity of your appraisal is the stunning thing. Thank you so much. I'm really pleased you liked this.

Allen

niece on 11-09-2009
Unworthy
Heart-felt is what comes to mind after reading your poem...a beautiful poem, Allen...truly lovely...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
................................. where are my words? The response has taken me somewhat by surprise. Thank you dear Neice. Thank you.

Allen
x

Mezzanotte on 12-09-2009
Unworthy
So much stark emotion with so few words. The shape of the poem on the page and the bold text drew me in instantly.

made me shiver.

Best Wishes
Jackie

Author's Reply:
I am really pleased that this passed something of itself on to you.
Excuse my brevity. I'm still finding it difficult to put one word in front of the other about this.

Blessings,
Allen

stormwolf on 13-09-2009
Unworthy
Such a sad and painful poem Allen...highlighted by the short lines and spacing...as though the pain inhibits anything other than the barest expression of misery.
Very well written
Alison

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Alison. It was an old wound that has long been washed clean. But we can revisit these places sometimes, can't we? I'm not entirely sure we should, though.

Thank you.

Allen


Cry for Attention. (posted on: 04-09-09)
I don't think there's anything I can say about this.

The girl who says she's lonely stares out of cyberspace at me. Those who stand furthest from the wall, won't understand how good its feels to have a wall behind your back. I empathize with her. Dark hair cascading around her face, reminds me of someone long ago - someone I loved with all my heart. But she professes she's lonely … so I look into those big beautiful eyes and I see the big question mark. Those who stand furthest from the wall won't have the will to question what is solid and what is false. But I do. © 2009 Griffonner
Archived comments for Cry for Attention.
Zoya on 04-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
And if that girls looks
deep into your eyes
tell her how it feels
to be lonely...

Love,
Zoya

Author's Reply:
Very observational of you, Zoya!



Blessings,



Allen

Corin on 05-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
I am not quite sure about the metaphor of 'standing furthest from the wall' In the Medieval times in churches which had no seats the weakest were allowed to go to the wall to get extra support. So, although it is good to have the security of a wall, sometimes we have to venture out and stand on our own two feet.

David

Author's Reply:
Oh really! I didn't know that. Thank you.

It's interesting that you saw that connotation because yes I was using the metaphor in the sense of the wall providing powerful protection.

As usual I was trying to create more than one meaning, and was mirroring the connection between 'wall' as in protection in computers, and the protection afforded by a wall of protection around the aura.

Thank you David for taking the time to comment, and for giving me that fact.

*appreciatively*

Allen

sunken on 05-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
Hello Mr. Griffoner. This is one of those pieces, for me at least, that takes a few reads. That's not necessarily a bad thing. I need to use my brain more. Stupidly, and chiefly because of my dyslexia, I've previously employed the services of a Brian. Needless to say, Brian is now a bit fed up and just wants to go home. Ahem. I did like the poem by the way. A full explanation of this comment can be found on ceefax - page 134. Thank you.

s
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k
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keeper of the corkscrew

Author's Reply:
Thank you Sunks. As ever, I am indebted to you and the Brian. I'm a bit confused by the ceefax reference, though. On page 134 all I could find was something about Monty Python?

πŸ™‚

cat on 05-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
'Those who stand furthest from the wall' I liked this, enjoyed this very much - ty C x

Author's Reply:
Thank you Cat.

I am purring prolifically.

Allen
x




niece on 07-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
A beautiful poem, Allen...unusually short for a poem from you, ... beautiful, nevertheless!!!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you, neice. That's very kind of you. I think my pen was running out of ink, and so I thought I'd better finish it while I could. πŸ˜‰

Blessings to you and yours,
Allen
x

Jolen on 12-09-2009
Cry for Attention.
Damn, Allen! You are really on fire. Very moving and succinct. Yes, you are one very sharp cookie, no mistake, and baby, your muse is back in action!

love,
jolen

Author's Reply:


A Step Forward in Time (posted on: 28-08-09)
This was inspired by a visit to an empty house and a photograph therein. Just picked up the vibes, maybe?

The sun will be beating down on the castine, And those cigale … They'll still be chirping to a beat. There will be the sound of warm breeze Filtering through the verdant trees … And here and there … A lone leaf will flutter down, Prematurely browned By the vicious Summer heat. The lavender plants will have grown woody But will still be visited by gently buzzing bees. And in the lower field, from time to time, A fractious sheep Its baffled note will bleat . Between these – the paving stones of nature - Will be the cracks … Silences of wondrous, bewildering heat, And Light ... Sunlight ... Golden … Magnificent … Ultimately most divine … Blinding with all its might. Yet in the shady spot between house and rocks, Where the leaves from Winter, dried and brown, Create a carpet for phantom feet, There is a spooky cool That you cannot ignore. Vigorous weeds are enjoying a freedom They never had - Until, The front door closed that last and dreadful time. On the outside The door will be baking hot in the West's afternoon sun - Too hot to touch. Too hot to handle. While inside - On the cool bed, Incomplete for any travel Lies an open suitcase. It is squidging up the dusty sheet. A ladie’s pantie - vainly enticing - Its lacy edge halfway in and halfway out - hangs, languidly, over the case’s edge. Denied darkness, the room is illuminated By a shaft of sunlight … Dynamically squeezed … Speared … Through the dried wooden shutters. Nothing stirs inside. Not even dust motes. The air is motionless. There is a drinking glass Still beside the bed. Its water, Evaporated over time, Has left a ring of white To show its former level. And the pillows still display depressions Showing where their heads had lain. The house has a stillness. An emptiness. A darkened lounge with deadened TV; Kitchen with silent clock at ten past three; Staircase now too old to creak in vain. Only the bathroom tap has life. As it drips, Silently, And sadly, Once a day - To mark the passing time. Each drip a tear for what was And for what might have been … Who on Earth could say? Had he not slipped on the staircase. All those months ago … Had she not found it intolerable to stay Breathing the same air they’d shared. Had she not shivered, Cold, In the heat, When scattering his grey dust To make hallowed gravel paths After he had taken that ... One step forward in time. © 2009 Griffonner
Archived comments for A Step Forward in Time
niece on 28-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
It's been a long time, Allen and it's good to see your wonderful work back on the site...have always loved your poems...

Author's Reply:
Hello Niece. How lovely of you to take the time to comment, and in such a flattering way!

Yes, sadly it has been a long time - a long time without the muse (I think they call it.) I guess we need periods of artistic sterility, not only to recharge the batteries, but perhaps also to make us realise we can't take these things for granted. Hopefully there'll be more, but my 'pen' is still rather dusty.

Blessings and love to you and yours.

Allen
xx

Romany on 28-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
Very enigmatic and provocative poem. I can feel the heat outside and see the decay. The dripping tap is a great touch. Funny how houses seem to absorb emotions. There is a house much like this near us - unlived in for yers now as its owner is in prison! It is utterly overgrown from all sides outside, and I shudder to think what it is like internally. Such a shame - a waste of a house, and the poor house did nothing wrong!

Romany.

Author's Reply:
Hi Romany. Thank you so much for the appraisal.

I agree: people overlook the fact that everything exists for a purpose, and surely - in these days of desparate inequality - such a house, no longer a home, is a sad waste.

Consolation amid the sadness is the house I spoke of is now once again inhabited. πŸ™‚

*appreciatively*

Allen


stormwolf on 28-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
well...where do i start to tell you how this poem moved me?
The incredible imagery and atmosphere...the feeling of the house 'trapped in time'
The last stanzas explain the reason for the great sadness still lingering that a sensitive will pick up..and yes, you did tune into the vibes.
simply lovely writing
rated 10

Alison

Author's Reply:
Dear Alison, I am of course incredibly pleased to hear that this moved you emotionally. I'm just so pleased that I was able to put the words into the right order to acheive that. And bless you for the generous rating.
Am I allowed to send you a kiss? You have, after all, kind of 'made my day'. X Allen

sunken on 28-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
Hello Mr. Allen. It's good to see you back. Well done on the muchly deserved nib. The standard of the previous comments leaves me with but one option, my get out clause (or should that be paws) if you will. The beagle named Bernard, he say woof. Just humour me, Mr. Griffoner, it's for the best. Well done again and no mistake.

s
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Author's Reply:
Hello Mr Sunks - and Bernard of course. This, my friend, is totally and completely unexpected - the nib, I mean. Poppy (my kitten) who conversely has get in claws and who sits on my desk to the right, now has a concerned look on her face... I think it was the mention of 'woof' that did it!

Cheers, Allen.

Zoya on 28-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
Dear Allen,
Only you could have written such a sensitive piece on such a haunting thing as an empty house...
The atmosphere is well captured and the decay,, sadly too absorbing and compelling one to read on...
The dust, the streak of light, the depression in the pillow, the hurriedly packed and then abandoned suitcase, the dripping taps... tell all to well the suddenness of the departure of the inmates...
Even if you had not revealed the cause of it, it would have made a wonderful and mysterious read...
But, then the last stanza gives it the poignance, it deserves- elevating the poem to a standard where a nib was the least Andrea could do...
Nice to have you back!
Must confess, I had to look up castine and did not know a ballet like cigale existed!
Love,
Zoya

Author's Reply:
Wow! Zoya! Such a lovely and in depth appraisal! Thank you, thank you, for taking the time to tell me how you interpreted it. Wonderful.

My cigales can be found here (http://www.cigale.info/) - not quite as decorous as the ballet, and yet their sound becomes embedded in the mind to become associated with hot days and nights, having almost an orchestral quality. I did say 'almost'. πŸ˜‰

Blessings to you and yours, Zoya.

*undeservedly*

Allen
x

woodbine on 29-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
I have to say your critics are right this is very ambitious poem with wonderful storytelling which I really appreciate in your poem as much as in a short story but which so few poets think important enough to learn.
The only certain thing about fashion is that it must change

Congratulations on coming back with a knib.


All the best,
John
PS I haven't forgotten the story you told of your headmaster's demise.
That would make a great poem too.





Author's Reply:
Bless you John. I am very grateful for your time and undeserved of your appraisal. We always think there is a way to improve our creations, don't we.

You remembered that story about the headmaster! I guess that contained great emotion, didn't it? I will take your advice and see what transpires, but there's such a long story there - to do it justice.

*respectfully*
Allen

Jolen on 29-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
Hi Allen,
How totally glorious to see you back in Chez UKA and what an entrance!

I really enjoyed this in-depth view of the house, both inside and out (physically and spiritually) and feel you have given it a voice after it's long silence.

Congrats on the nib and nomination.
love and light,
jolen

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jolen. That was a lovely welcome. Bless you. I just hope that the stagnation is over (perhaps I should keep schtum, and not tempt fate!)

I'm glad you enjoyed this, and thanks too for the congrats. Who'd have thought, eh? πŸ™‚

Blessings and light, Allen xx

PS: Where are them there photies?

e-griff on 30-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
I think this is very good as it is - certainly the attraction for a reader is in the story and the haunting images that tell it.

However (if you will allow me to maybe appear a little churlish in the light of all the other comments here - but hell! you've been nibbed ... so ...) I feel that if at any time you took a second look at this, it would be worth examining the number of 'will' s (and 'ill' sounds) repeated in the first two verses. This may have been deliberate, but to me it became distractingly noticeable.

a few 'backwards' lines eg: A fractious sheep/Its baffled note will bleat - appear to step out of the style of the rest of the poem, (direct language) and wouldn't be hard to change, IMO.

and where much of your language is fluent and full, just a few words like 'squidged' and 'spooky' seem a little incongruous in this context.

I would also suggest pruning it. This is always hard to do - which image to lose, which key expression to let go of. But if you choose the very best images absolutely key to the story, shorten them where you can and prune the rest, I think you could end up with an even more powerful poem. It's worth thinking about and maybe playing with to test, IMO

best, and nice to see you back, JohnG

Author's Reply:
Hi John. As always, I am deeply indebted for you taking the time to comment in such detail.

I started out with a desire to make use of a particular style and feel of writing, and the 'ills' and the 'backward lines' were vital ingredients in that, for me. I was seeking the feel of "Twelve Thirty Eight".

I'll certainly bear in mind your opinions, John. Thank you.

Many thanks to for the welcome, too.

*appreciatively*

Allen

Bradene on 30-08-2009
A Step Forward in Time
What a lovely evocotive piece of writing this is Allen, I found it very moving, one I shall no doubt return to time and time again. Val x

Author's Reply:
Bless you, Val. If I'm honest, I'm really quite taken aback by the reaction to this piece! It is lovely to hear your reaction and to find that it is worthy of repeat reading for you. Thank you again. Allen x


RETURN TO THE CHATTRI (posted on: 08-08-08)
The Chattri stands high on the South Downs, north of Brighton. When I was a teenager, and up to the age of 24 years I lived in Brighton and could see the Chattri out of the window of my attic bedroom. For years I wondered what the 'white thing amid all that green' was.

One teenage angst filled day, I ventured to discover what it was. It afforded me peace and privacy many times thereafter. The stories of those injured and maimed Indian heroes from WW1, who were given the rite of passing through fire there, are truly special. I returned to it early in 2006 and sadly came to the conclusion that those soldiers are beginning to join the ranks of the 'forgotten ones' as gradually less and less interest (and money) is given to their resting place. It could benefit from a few hundred pounds being spent to brighten it back up. But, smart or not, this place does hold in safe keeping so many of my memories ... and secrets.


Chalk peeks out of the rich soil. It is everywhere: beneath each step, between each foot. Harsh and hard, soft and crumbly – all varieties … all shades of white. I’m watching it pass beneath me – white replacing white out of russet brown and between urchin tufts of untamed grass. Grey pervades the sky; the clouds roll ominously from out across the ash-grey sea. A beam of sunlight pierces the cloud over the lower valley and an unearthly torch-beam breaks through – illuminating just the farmhouse - a chocolate-box picture has come to life. It’s a bit like life this, isn’t it? I think to myself. I’m almost dizzy with the blur of it, and the bitter wind has wet my eyes, stung my ears, stiffened my cheeks, whipped my scarf across my face, tossed and tussled my hair beyond reason, and made the pockets of my jacket welcome refuge for my hands. It’s further away than I thought, isn’t it? I stop: to see if there is any sign that the horizon is, in fact, the horizon. But it is not; there is still more calcite yet to come. Still more of this dizzying spectacle. I chastise myself for stopping even though I’m not out of breath and could go on like this for hours. Finally I’m there! Way up on the Downs, at this extraordinary temple to fallen soldiers. It is forty years or more since my feet last walked here. This place is lonely yet is full of secrets - a safe place to release shadowy words into open air, and spirits into fabulous flames. I reach out and touch the white marble. I think I’m hoping for a miracle to happen. Perhaps the spirit of soldier Singh will welcome me back after all these years. But all that happens is what I might have expected: Safe within its bosom I can cry. And I do. This is still an extraordinary place. © Griffonner 2008
Archived comments for RETURN TO THE CHATTRI
orangedream on 09-08-2008
RETURN TO THE CHATTRI
Allen - this is so beautiful; a poem that led me every step of the way with you:-

'I’m watching it pass beneath me –
white replacing white out of russet brown
and between urchin tufts of untamed grass...'

Until:- 'A beam of sunlight pierces
the cloud over the lower valley
and an unearthly torch-beam breaks through' ...

I have never been there, but I feel I have now. Thank you for transporting me.

Indeed it is a truly remarkable place and I agree that the Indian soldiers, Hindus and Sikhs, who gave their lives for their King-Emperor in the Great War and who died in the tender care of Brighton Hospital, are fast joining the ranks of the 'forgotten ones'.

This indeed, is what makes this poem so special. We cannot afford to forget.

I wish you and yours a peaceful and sunny weekend. Ours is going to be a rainy one!!

Tina :-)xx





Author's Reply:
Thank you Tina. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you thought of this. I am, I think (hope), emerging from the other side of a serious period of 'block', and I find myself very unsure of what I'm writing. So it was especially welcomed to hear that you found the journey to have not been too bad. πŸ™‚

Bless you.

Allen
xx

Jolen on 06-09-2008
RETURN TO THE CHATTRI
OMG, Allen, this is, as Tina rightly points out, beautiful! And I echo her every word, as I couldn't have put it so well, myself. You inspire me so much and make me long to be a better writer, and for that (and lots of other things) I thank you.

love,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Hello dear Jolen. I find myself unable to think of what I could possibly say in reply to your comment, save saying thank you for taking the time to make it. You have removed a little of the pain that comes to me when words are so hard to find. Bless you.
*undeservedly*
Allen
x


Sounding Board (posted on: 06-06-08)
I'm not sure what you will make of this. It means a lot to me, but I rather feel it may not fully pass on the full impact my own thoughts... sadly... despite many hours of 'twiddling'. It was written shortly after the 16th May, 2008 - a day that will go down in the annals of the Griffonner life diary under the heading of 'merde'.

The title is not firmed in my mind at the moment, but it seemed appropriate because of the binaural reference. Anyway, here goes ... what do you think?




SOUNDING BOARD Burning, in the dark of night, when all the fires have dimmed. In that unbroken silence and thick soup of black fog - once the realm of my childhood fears - I welcome every licking flame, every phantom ray of energy, to burn away the unwelcome dream. Raging passion of desire consumes all rationale - for this dream is yet undreamt and touches me with such infinitesimal caresses it is as if I am paralysed; frozen with fear for what might just be lurking around the nearing corner. Turning, in the face of death, back to mightier things: considering immortal variegated Gods, and virgin white apparitions materialised with feathered wings. Seeking for their touch or blessed kiss with which to become resurrected. Leaning on the strange man’s voice who whispers in weird tones affirmations for my soul - accompanied by the amplified purr of a cat! I must love myself and believe him. Without at least this binaural raft I might be lost forever – burning.
© Griffonner 2008




Archived comments for Sounding Board
Sunken on 07-06-2008
Sounding Board
I think this is a braver write than many might realise. I could be totally wrong, but either way, it makes for a very strong sub.

s
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forever lost

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Sunken.

This reflected probably one of my lowest moments of recent times. The remarkable thing is that the fear of what I was potentially facing forced me in directions I wouldn't otherwise have explored, and for that I am now tremendously grateful. Certainly I was trying to expose the reality of the situation in which I found myself - even if with just a little allegory. Whether it is brave to to that, or not, I really can't say. At the time I just wanted to express what I felt, and the form of ... desperation (?) ... in wanting to avoid the consequences, almost at any cost!

Life is swings and roundabouts and ups and downs, isn't it. I never cease to be amazed at what can be around that 'next corner' ... in this case something that I can truly say I couldn't have imagined, not even in my wildest dreams!

*gratefully*
Griffonner

eddiesolo on 07-06-2008
Sounding Board
Deep stereo soundings...as sunk pointed out this does have a sense of an almost overspilling emotional telling that is slightly held in check-brave write indeed.

Si:-)



Author's Reply:
Thanks, Si. I think perhaps I used up most of the relevant words in my answer to Sunken. I'm really grateful for your appraisal. Believe me, at the time I could only have added the water beneath the raft!
πŸ™‚

*candidly*
Griffonner

orangedream on 07-06-2008
Sounding Board
Dear Allen - I must say that the fifth line of the last stanza came as a complete surprise. I truly believe that our feline friends do have a sixth sense. Mine, sure does.

A deeply moving piece, courageously written. Your 16th May, 2008 sounds like my 2nd November, 2001. Funny how some dates we remember forever - whether we choose to, or not.

I haven't got any sunshine I can send you this weekend so instead my wishes to you and yours for a peaceful one:-)

Tina x

Author's Reply:
Thank you Tina. Yes, our cat friends are very ... deep. Some scientific studies have been done into cats purring, did you know? The cats purr, it turns out, is actually a healing mechanism.

Thank you for the wishes... and receiving your comment brought sunshine.

Allen
x

e-griff on 08-06-2008
Sounding Board
Allen, I'm being very rude here, forgive me.

We (at least you, Tina, myself - plus others) have faced our own personal 'Waterloos', turning points, life-changing experiences - unexpected, intruding.

I myself don't relate to your style, typical of your poetry, of embroidering feelings, , allusions, indirect. Somehow, to me it is almost hiding, avoiding - eg: 'I'm saying this, but I'm not really saying it.' But that's just me, many people, of course are comfortable with the style.

You have strong emotions, that comes through. Have you tried casting off the shell of style and letting them out, letting them rip, crudely, boldly? Why not say it!

You are a private man. Exposing yourself may not be on your agenda, but the poetic talent you have might well thrive in such circumstances: clear, open, a different kind of poetry (try a pseudonym, I have πŸ™‚ ).

It's not my place to advise or tell you what to do, I agree. Just an opinion that condensed in my mind reading your remarks and reading this, in circumstances that maybe we share.

with best intentions, JohnG



Author's Reply:
John, I am indebted by your taking the time to read this, and comment about my work.



I don't think you are being rude at all. We are all entitled to our opinions, and we cannot all like one another's style. It would be a very boring world were that to be! Indeed, the school that I come from would say that it is a sign of strength to come out and openly state, straightforwardly, polite and honest opinions in the way that you have. Bravo.



My 'Waterloo', I am delighted to tell you, has actually turned itself into my very own Kennedy Space Center - opening my eyes to yet another facet of life and science that was hidden to me before, and granting me a kind of freedom that for a while seemed to be forever out of my grasp. Yes, I know, similes or allusions again! I don't apologise for slipping into that comfortable robe, it suits me at this moment of time. However, in doing so I would hate you to think that I am anything but openly full of gratitude for your input.



*gratefully*



Allen

Leila on 30-06-2008
Sounding Board
There is a strong poem, the words have strength, the desire to communicate the very deepest emotions and I feel should be read as such...with admiration...L

Author's Reply:
Hello Leila, thank you so much for commenting and for being so generous with your appraisal, it is very uplifting.
*appreciatively*
Griffonner

Bradene on 04-07-2008
Sounding Board
I missed this last post of yours for some reason, though I have been absent recently. I found it a very difficult poem emotionally to read and digest albeit a strong and honest beautifully written piece. I'm judging from some of your replies to others that you have managed to reach the place where you need to be. I admire your strength and energy Allen. Good luck Love Val x

Author's Reply:
Thank you dear Val - for every aspect of your comment: your time, the rating, and your appraisal. *gratefully*
Allen
PS: Have sent you a PM

Jolen on 14-07-2008
Sounding Board
I thought I had commented on this, but I see that I have not. For that I apologize. And for the record, I agree, it's a strong piece and should be appreciated for what it is rather than analyzed to death. πŸ˜‰ You have a unique way of presenting things that are not always easy for us to deal with and for that I too appreciate your efforts. Your piece will touch those who are open to the experience and thoughts of the less traveled road, thankfully.

with respect,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Thank you dear Jolen for your remarks and kind appraisal.
*gratefully*
Allen


This Morning (posted on: 23-05-08)
Friday the 16th ... is already gone. And it promised so much to start with. *scowls*



This morning. As luck would have it this day began with sunshine. Perhaps I awoke with a smile splayed across my face? At any rate it began - and that in itself is half the battle, is it not? And another small thing: the razor I selected was ‘made in heaven sharp’, and failed to draw blood! It slid, almost silently, crossing the rayons border - now hardly rouged - with slick ease. And on the journey, did the sun not continue to lighten up my day, and grant me some sense of hope? New green grass and trees, speeding past my wing-ed wheels, told me life goes on and on. As luck would have it - as they slid the curs-ed tube down into my larynx and such, they found something new - I thought, maybe I should not have worn any smile when I opened up my eyes ... this morning. © Griffonner 2008
Archived comments for This Morning
orangedream on 23-05-2008
This Morning
Hang on in there, Allen.

Tina x

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the comment, Tina.
I shall. πŸ™‚

Allen
x

Bradene on 23-05-2008
This Morning
Thinking and praying for you Allen. Val x

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Val. If energy and intent on my part are to go by, I should be in brilliant health! So any help from 'outside' me, would be lovely. πŸ™‚ Thank you.

Allen
x

Sunken on 23-05-2008
This Morning
An excellent piece that couldn't have been easy to pen. My thoughts are also with you, Mr. Griffonner.

s
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Author's Reply:
Thank you, Mr Sunken.
Much appreciated.

Allen

teifii on 24-05-2008
This Morning
My thoughts too are with you, Allen.
Daff

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Daff. Here's hoping that it will be nothing more than an inconvenience. Cheers.
*blesssings*
Allen


De-parted (posted on: 03-03-08)
'Pictures from outside of my head'

Sharp is the knife that cuts as fine as her finest hair, separating cutaneous junk from crustaceous time; redefining shape and form; accelerating change; closing on horizons; unknowingly preparing eyes for tears. She smiles a wistful smile; is divinely unaware her last moment of normality is entering the lens – parallel proton lines diverging into time, captured on silicon permanently - as far as the eye can see. Sharp is the knife that cuts deep inside a parent heart, dividing sinew from sentiment, ventricle from heartache. Fine incisions to part evil from perfection - cellular dissection surgically exchanging months for years. Paper gains such value from one remaining image … evaporated ink, like dried blood, smeared in that special way. Pixels are all alone - brushed, rouge, as her cheek - painted, unparalleled, tragically mirroring fading dreams. © 2008 Griffonner
Archived comments for De-parted
orangedream on 03-03-2008
De-parted
Dear Allen - I have read this through, time and time again, trying to pick a favourite line, a favourite stanza, but it is impossible to choose. Every time I read it, I get something fresh from it. And of what of next time?

A poignant and meaningful poem, expertly crafted.

Tina ;-)x

Author's Reply:
I'm out of practice with comments, aren't I. I seem to have been in hibernation for a while. But there could be no nicer comment than this to get me back in the saddle - so to speak. ~:o)

So thank you dear Tina for taking the time and for being so generous both with your assessment and your rating.

*undeservedly*
Allen x

orangedream on 03-03-2008
De-parted
Sorry Allen, me again.

Woops. Penultimate line should read, 'And what of next time?'

I shall have to take more water with it!

Tina ;-)x

Author's Reply:

niece on 04-03-2008
De-parted
An amazing poem, Allen...was very beautiful...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and commenting, dear Niece. I'm glad you liked it. *appreciatively* Allen

pombal on 04-03-2008
De-parted
congrats on the nib Allen - a poem really well done πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:
That's very kind of you - both for the congrats and the appraisal. It's a piece, I feel, that isn't everyone's cup of tea, so I very much appreciate your comments.

*undeservedly*

Allen


Sunken on 04-03-2008
De-parted
Brilliant! I was only, a few days ago, wondering where you had got to Mr. Griffonner. Good to see you back. Well done indeed on the nib.

s
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and disorderly

Author's Reply:
Hello Sunk, yeah I know: I'm being stretched from arm to arm and leg to leg with obligations on my time. That and the tail end of a 'block' are my excuses.

Thanks for taking the time to read and comment. πŸ™‚

Allen

PS: When I set my computer to a twenty four hour clock, I naturally assumed it would double the time I had each day. How wrong can you be, eh! Damn computers!

Jolen on 09-03-2008
De-parted
Any way you slice it, this is one fantastic piece of writing. Your vision is canny your wording concise and your presentation is both clever and clear. Super congrats on both the nib and nomination. They are well warranted.

Blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Hello dear Mrs Jolen,

~:o)

How lovely of you to take the time to read, and then to give me an opinion which, truthfully, is staggering. All that matters is that you enjoyed the read and that somehow I passed on to you something of the vision that was inside my heart and mind.

Light and blessings to you,

Allen


Observations in Oncology (posted on: 26-11-07)
Though sunshine streams through tinted glass and brightens this small waiting space, it is infused not with sunshine:

Dreams are dispersed; are long forgotten – those which lit his face and warmed his pained heart. What is this being? What is this nightmare given to achieve? The bitter witch mixed her mucky brew and passed the cup around ... “Oh come and drink my sticky brew…” “Forget your frazzled working life…” “Come, get sozzled right through…” “This elixir’s made just for you.” A poisoned chalice? Call it what you will. The throw of the dice? Old fashioned bad luck? And so he drank - on his way home. Released to be savouring wet salty kisses on distant shores; passion and love on a sand beach. Daydreamed good luck. Harmless escape. Never indulged into excess. But she invaded. And now the greyness consumes his being; drip by drip, by cell. First came a stabbing sudden, fleeting pain. Then deepening aches after exertion. And now hell on earth; even breath is pained. I am seized with the desire to touch him - just a simple hand upon his shoulder. Camaraderie? But it is not PC. And this sun … it shines onto his back and heats the place where the cobalt beams have redenned his ageing skin. She has almost finished stealing him. Even the life giving sun brings him pain. He will never be the same again. None of us will. © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Observations in Oncology
Sunken on 26-11-2007
Observations in Oncology


Hello Mr. Griffonner. I had to look Oncology up, I really should have known by now what it meant. I guess ignorance is bliss. The poem suddenly, and painfully, makes sense. A truly top write so far as I'm concerned.

s
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Author's Reply:
Thank you Sir (and Bernard.) I'm fearful of not expressing these experiences in a worthwhile manner. I hope that doesn't sound trite.

*barcoded*
Griffonner

πŸ™‚

SugarMama34 on 26-11-2007
Observations in Oncology
Hi Griffoner,

This is such a sad and touching piece of poetry, yet it all makes complete sense. Emotions are laid out well and the feelings are as clear as a spring stream. It pulls the reader in and won't let go until the last word has been read.
I sort of had a feeling as I read this what it was about, but had to look up Oncology and my intuition was right again.
A very well penned piece you have here, though it tugged my hearts strings tight.
with much love and light,
Lis'. xxx

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to comment, Lisa. As I've said elsewhere, it isn't the sort of poetry that one could anticipate the reader actually 'enjoying'. However, if it makes us think, and have empathy and compassion for those who suffer more than ourselves, it can't be bad. (I hope.)
*appreciatively*
Griffonner

Bradene on 29-11-2007
Observations in Oncology
Hi Allen. This piece is so revealing and that makes me so sad, wonderfully expressed and so poignantly written. I'll be emailing you soon, got my la fen books BTW thanks so much. Love Val x

Author's Reply:
Hello Val,
Thank you for commenting. In a way I feel guilty at making you sad.
Nice to hear that your package has arrived safely.
*hugs*

niece on 30-11-2007
Observations in Oncology
Allen,

You've described "The Greyness" and how it consumes an entire human existence so well...excellent poem!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Hello dear niece, thank you for stopping by and commenting. It is strange, but this man really emanated 'grey' too. *hugs* Allen

SpeedyG on 30-11-2007
Observations in Oncology
Hi Allen.

Very moving and so accurate, regretfully.

Stuart.

Got my LF package as well, thanks.

Author's Reply:
Hi Stuart. Glad the boxes arrived. I hope that the positive thoughts they contained escaped into your life. Thanks for commenting on the poem. *love to you all* Allen

woodbine on 02-12-2007
Observations in Oncology
Thank you kindly for this thoughtful and compassionate poem on the nature of disease and the unfairness of it, which is very hard to acknowledge and to find a voice to express. A friend who has Parkinsons was diagnosed a month after her first book was published as also having breast cancer and I feel very angry and helpless about this. But life goes on, with or without us.

Thank you again for writing this.
John

Author's Reply:
I'm sorry to hear about your friend, John. My own docteur asking the usual questions such as "Do you smoke?" and receiving a negative from me to all the usual culprits, simply said, "There is no justice in the world!"



I can't pretend it is an answer - because everyone sees these things through their own eyes - but it has occurred to me (in the reverse of your closing remark - with which I also agree) that just because you have/have had a serious disease doesn’t mean that you are going to die from it: it doesn’t, for example, grant you immunity from being knocked over by a bus as you cross the road, or stop you having a heart attack. Our demise from this world still remains veiled in mystery.



On Friday last I had my 'control' with the surgeon and oncologist, and I have been given the 'all clear' until the next check up in February. I was positive that the radiotherapy treatment had obliterated my cancer, and it has. But as my closing line said, none of us who have suffered it will ever be the same again. That was definitely something that didn't occur to me for a very long while into my treatment program.



I earnestly wish/hope/send positive thoughts for, a soft, gentle, compassionate, and welcome outcome for your friend, John.



*empathetically*

Allen




teifii on 03-12-2007
Observations in Oncology
Wonderful poem. Almost too effective. The picture conjured up by the contrast of the sunlight with the greyness of the illness is so telling.
Daff
PS Got my La Fenetre. Lovely as usual.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your appraisal, Daff. It is much appreciated. Glad to hear you received your book, too.
Best regards,
Allen


Morpheus Waiting (posted on: 09-11-07)
How I love the fact that I don't have to compartmentalise the genre of my poetry ... for where would I put this?

Am I mad: it was inspired by a photograph!





A room where sunlight shines all day; high enough to catch the passing wings who fall under his charming spell. White walls frame the curtainless space and beg for more than the one small patch of fabric in an ornate frame. Ha! He tells them that he is a designer! A designer of white wedding dresses … and so they flutter into this space. There is a dress. It hangs perpetual - sheathed in a clear plastic bag - from the empty picture rail, beside the bed. There is a camera on a stand and it captures images of his lies and of the poor butterflies it sees trapped by the sparkling promises that slip so easily from his plump and somewhat ugly lips. A guitar is propped against a wall, its strings silent and untuned… and a mirror propped on the chair. The mirror reflects the room's time: it is uncounted as in a dream. While bit by bit he pulls their wings apart … slipping a hooped petticoat up over white nylon clad legs, and encrusted high heels. Stage by stage they are bitten by the mendacious teeth … “you can be my beautiful model ... let me take a shot of this …” – Click! Hands that clumsily touch virgin skin; eyes fascinated by sparkling wings and pure unadulterated youthful flesh; hands that tremble uncontrolled trying to disguise their treason. Sometimes they die quietly - giving up their bodies on the bed and leaving later, virgin dead, dirtied by the dust of moths. Or else, with wings wide open, they perchance to see the lies (before the dark mantis flies) and manage to escape with innocence unsullied … virgo intactus. But this one – younger than the rest - mortified by her new greyness, ran from the bed and launched herself through the open window …. She spread her wings and fluttered, silently, into the arms of Morpheus waiting. © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Morpheus Waiting
Jolen on 09-11-2007
Morpheus Waiting
I would put it in the anthology. A rich and intriguing poem! You had my pulse racing and my breath thready. Your work is sure on form. I pray this finds you well.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Bless you, Jolen. It is lovely to know that you liked the read. Still no voice, I'm afraid. πŸ™
*whisperingly*
Griffonner

Jen_Christabel on 09-11-2007
Morpheus Waiting
I liked this, I liked this very much! It gave vivid pictures in my mind, and made me go a little crazy *laughs*.
Jennifer x

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jen. Don't go laughing too much, now: you'll make me paranoid. πŸ™‚


teifii on 11-11-2007
Morpheus Waiting
Gave me vivid pictures in my head too, but I think I'd rather be without them. It certainly does hold one.
Daff
http://www.merilang.co.uk/shop.merilang

Author's Reply:
πŸ™‚

Sorry about that, Daff. Goose bumps as well?


freya on 11-11-2007
Morpheus Waiting
Griffoner, I really like the play and extended metaphor here; from butterflies to young girls, back to butterflies, and even the play - in my mind anyway - between Morpheus and photographer: they both deliver the same fatal blow, don't they? Some complex work to describe a profoundly disturbing situation.

I loved lines like this:

The mirror reflects the room's time

mortified by her new greyness

but wondered about this, which tripped me:

the passing wings
who fall under his charming spell.

grammatically awkward?

Hesitate to offer more feed-back, but do think this could be tightened and made even more potent. It's such a powerful concept and theme, one close to my own heart, and I admire the imagination you display in working from a picture alone. I see a keen observational and intuitive skill here.

Excellent poem, Griffoner. Shelagh πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Shelagh, for such a lovely - and detailed - appraisal. I shall give thought to your remarks, and see what comes of it when I next tweak this piece.

*appreciatively*

Griffonner


REVENIR (posted on: 02-11-07)
All I can tell is that this was built on a dream (which I am extending in prose)





The light falls. A red ball into a blue sea. It sizzles to the gravel beach, and its breath rattles. The water falls on pink cheeks reddened in the eve. Wetting dried-up lines: riverbeds pain has carved through time. Cane brandy flows between trembling and aged lips, waking shades of what once has been - and will not return. Bare feet slap on sunbleached wooden planks of grey, on his lone journey down the hall silent of her voice. The lamp swings and casts eery kitchen shadows, flitting between memories that fail to be real. The door squeaks and groans to be opened again. Pots and pans, cups and saucers, mate lip to rigid lip. Dust motes fly as his wrinkly hand seeks it out. But it hides in a corner, and is safe, out of reach. The chair scrapes drag marks through the pale threadbare rug. Breath catches and blood pumps it up and he arises too. He climbs it, a tall step for his aged bones, and then it is within his grasp and he is connected. No bird flies that's made of woven palm leaf - crafted on a Grenadian beach when paradise was his... She walks in and his dreams are granted life... but there is, as always, a price to gain paradise: Breath is stilled, a body flies home to the earth and finding it, does not feel pain... it is in her arms. © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for REVENIR
Jen_Christabel on 02-11-2007
REVENIR
Intrigued how you will turn this into prose - it will be a very strange read. Nicely done, as usual.
Jennifer x

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jennifer. I think the story that this is generating is rather strange; I'm hoping that will make it a 'must read'. (o;

*anticipatingly*
Griffonner

Ionicus on 02-11-2007
REVENIR
A rich dream and an equally rich poem, nicely written.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading, Ionicus, and for the kind words.
*sincerely*
Griffonner

Jolen on 02-11-2007
REVENIR
I really enjoyed the richness of this and the hautnting/haunted quality.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Well, this guy certainly felt haunted, that's for sure! Mind reader!!!

*humorously*
Griffonner

SugarMama34 on 08-11-2007
REVENIR
Hi Allen,

Another lovely write from you, which I found intriuging. I liked the imagery throughout this piece. It held my attention from start to finish.

Lis'. xx

Author's Reply:


Lost Again (posted on: 15-10-07)
Probably will be said to require an 'acquired taste'





And so I stand here once again – this place where Angels came to rest their weary heads. Sliced from their journey, transmuted, here, between Earth’s comforting folds of green .... Among the wavering grasses, lost to all worlds but ours, we lay here side by side. Youth adorned by wild flowers - watching clouds take on daydreams through wavering stems. Golds and Blues of Buttercup and Cornflower, feathered green grassy stalks towering above. Hand in hand, fingers entwined, hearts forever twisted out of shape, lips forever tainted with ruby lust, minds forever etched by young love. The song of the Skylark twinkled. The warm breeze brought the scent of you. The softness of your breasts a memory; the smooth pathway of desire; the giddy inflation of delight. The sweet perfection gained by greedy toil - celebrated, breathless, elated, and then... is lost... again. It is a place we both know, that will never leave my heart - not even when, as surely time will allow - it is covered with terra cotta boxes, or mangled iron pathways to nowhere, or more concrete, more meaningless adulterations to real beauty; to what we had, have, shared. And I remember, as in a dream, once I watched you slowly wind a pathway up this leaden slope, with tears freely flowing, with loss not understanding, your hands frozen white, your love torn away by death, a future fear then growing inside you. You were behind the processing passage that carried me on a bier. My body swaying, involuntarily, side to side, in unison with the step of the pall bearers. Beneath a pall of printed cretonne I lay - and on top, bright printed flowers on a dark day - white chrysanthemums lay ... and I lay ... so far away from you. For we had known there, the scent of rosewood, and pachouli, saffron, and spices, camphor... and had seen around the flames - through the pyres hazy heat - their faces, chanting, mourning, but never sad to see me go. I so badly wanted to be with you; be inside your hair, inside your gentle folds... feel your breath touch my skin, your hands touch my cheek... to be ecstatically 'at home'. But then I was sad here: Alone. While you chose to flee and fly free from my suffocation; lost to my burning desire. You, brilliantly alive with youth and having expectation of new love, of rekindled fires ... but elsewhere... away from me. So the cycle nears its end? Once more round the wheel we go? This time, all I need to do, is turn, retrace my steps; fall into the waiting arms of Aphrodite; and be lost ... again. But what of tomorrow? © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Lost Again
Elfstone on 15-10-2007
Lost Again
"Probably will be said to require an 'acquired taste'"

- well, if it is, I've acquired it! This has a beautiful, poignant sensual quality to it.

I haven't time to do this justice just now Griffoner, but I *will* come back to it. You know of course that I'm probably going to say something about layout!! πŸ˜‰ Elf.

Author's Reply:
Well, all crits are welcome, so I look forward to your more detailed appraisal. But even so, what you have said is very generous, and I'm glad that you found somwething enjoyable in the brief reading. Layout: oh my God, yes! This is the third incarnation (if you'll excuse the pun), and after many trials with layout, this was the one which pleased my most - even though it requires reading with close attention to punctuation.
*expectantly*
Griffonner

Bradene on 15-10-2007
Lost Again
A beautifully written and constructed piece. A spellbinding poem. great read in my opinion. Val x

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Val, for your generous appraisal and rating. I was unsure if this should ever see the light of other people's eyes. πŸ™‚

*affectionately*
Griffonner

Elfstone on 15-10-2007
Lost Again
Well I have re-read . . . and re-read again and again. There is so much in this to just sink into; it is so expressive in a way that is hard to describe - poetry at a deeper level, yes?

But inspite of my great admiration - envy even (Lord! I hope she appreciates you; if I could find a man who would write poetry like this about/for/because of me, I would die a happy woman!!) - inspite of that I'm still uncomfortable with the layout. I've started tweaking and if I'm happy with the result - that's to say, I feel I've done something with it that is remotely worthy - I'll PM it to you for your consideration. Elf.

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 20-10-2007
Lost Again
I like this-lots to absorb.

Enjoyed sir, very much.

Si:-)



Author's Reply:
That's very nice of you, Si. Thank you. I'm very pleased to hear that you enjoyed it.
*undeservedly*
Allen

writeagain on 28-10-2007
Lost Again
I love it. I want to read it over and over and to absorb every nuance. I wish I could write poetry like this.

writeagain

Author's Reply:
Dear Elizabeth... but you do. I adore your 'Reflections'.

Thank you so very much for the generous appraisal of mine, I am warmed that you find enjoyment and interest in it.

*earnestly*
Griffonner

Jen_Christabel on 28-10-2007
Lost Again
What a beautiful piece! Nicely done!
Jennifer x

Author's Reply:
I say it all the time, but knowing this has given someone pleasure is more than words can say. Thank you for reading and being so generous with your appraisal.
*undeservedly*
Griffonner
X


Suspension (posted on: 05-10-07)


Sometimes we find ourselves in situations beyond our control. Well, I do!




Daytime. Nighttime. Sometime. There is no light to say, no sounds to help me gauge. I stare into the darkness trying to ignore the remnants of long passed images that flit aimlessly across my brain. Trying to gain that foothold to fresh territory inside my head, in that place where there is only possibility, only potential. Beyond the door. Beyond. Where there is life and light; where angels ply their trade… the game of chance is played: lives are balanced, like mine, between one heartbeat and the next; sustained by dripping salty fluid and eased with numbing additives - ‘analgesics for ill mannered pain’ - oozing into bodies that have somehow become unwound. I wonder ... Who decides which way? Who sustains the darkness and who brings light? Should I step forward one more time? © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Suspension
Jolen on 05-10-2007
Suspension
Hi Griffonner:

Your poem speaks so well to that place where we're often unsure and unable to, as you say, control the outcome of the situation. I enjoyed the way you used a bit of repetition in the beginning, and your final stanza (before the questions) is perfect, IMO. I also liked the slight and delicate rhymes used.
I am so glad to see you posting again. I think this was a 'great read'.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
I am extremely grateful for your kind and generous appraisal, Jolen. I wish I was more prolific at the moment. I have ideas, but also blank sheets of paper. πŸ™



*affectionately*

Griffonner

silversun on 06-10-2007
Suspension
Griffoner,
If I am reading this correctly, you are putting words to an instantaneous thought-process. All that is happening in the poem, though it takes a minute or so to read, is actually happening in the smallest fraction of that. There are two reasons for my thinking this: your opening stanza could be portraying one of those moments when our life flashes before our eyes, a random event from our past replaying itself in a flash and we not knowing from which part it comes. The second is in the second stanza and the line 'lives are balanced, like mine/between one heartbeat and the next;': it is almost as if this event, or life itself, is condensed into a single moment.
If that was the intention, then well done on putting such a shortness of time into words, and if it wasn't, then equally well done for making me think so.
Congratulations on the nib, too,
James

Author's Reply:
Hi James, thank you for stopping by and for your time. I appreciate the detail of your comments. We don't know one another , but you have managed to dissect me pretty quickly and discover (perhaps) that I am "obsessed" with moments in time. Much of what I write is based around those moments in time where the thought processes that take place, or the effects, are completely disproportionate to the interval of time itself. Those moments somehow transcend both time and this plane of existence ... I think. Maybe everything does.... πŸ™‚

Once again my thanks for your generous appraisal.

*appreciatively*
Griffonner

teifii on 06-10-2007
Suspension
I like this one, especially the images in the second stanza. Thy make one feel quite insecure
lives are balanced, like mine,
between one heartbeat and the next;
sustained by dripping salty fluid .
Also like the fact that, although it is partly unrhymed, it has definite metre.
Daffni

Author's Reply:
It's nice to know you liked it, Teifii, and thank you for letting me know your thoughts.
With love,
Griffonner

Leila on 06-10-2007
Suspension
mmm yes this works well for me especially liked the first 5-6 lines of second verse which have a lovely effortless flow to them...and I like the questioning ending...nice work!...L

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Leila, for your generous appraisal. The questions came at the end of the moment - almost as a consequence of the realisation of my state of being, so I'm especially pleased that they didn't seem out of place.
*gratefully*
Griffonner

reckless on 07-10-2007
Suspension
Yes, we often feel that fluid state of being or not being, sometimes as though our selves were at the mercy of random forces, or simply at the mercy of our biological make-up. And sometimes we look for the third, who walks always beside us ....

Author's Reply:


Being me (posted on: 21-09-07)
Confidence is a very strange thing. I just don't know how to put my finger on it. It dissolves so easily, is destroyed by sensitivity. Yet sensitivity is almost the prerequisite of the writer.

(Damn! I'm always guilty of generalising! I should say that I'm only speaking for myself... as the title explains.)






The wind of change blows, through the unfurling leaves. Raising, silently, steam – from moist sunlit soil that only feels this heat once each year. A light mist fogs the slanting columns of Spring sunlight, and all could be well with the world ~ only, of course, the world is far from well. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … Warm balmy air to sweeten your breath fills this tunnel through the trees, and soon it will become a refuge from the relentless Summer heat…. I feel your breath tickle my cheek, your fingers tingling my neck, trailing through my hair ~ only, of course, you are nowhere near me. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … Clean fresh air fills my lungs as I pace, panting my way up this hill … it’s just the same gas that we breath daily - the spoken air: that once fuelled the lungs of the proud Robin … that mixed inside the frog’s croak … that bore your sweet kiss ~ only, of course, it is far from being fresh. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … My virile mind maintains it’s old lie, my heart boom-booms to my step … for I am young, and fit, and full of vim … Legs of iron, lungs like silk, going on for ever – like the sun - doing exercise ~ only, of course, I am far from being young. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … So I stop and turn back, without you fearing my mortality … an old, tired man, who power walks each day, but is fearful without a plastic identity card, to tie on my toe ~ so that ... someone ... could tell you that I am ... me. It's no illusion then ... the cold hand of reality … something and nothing ... there but not there. © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Being me
Jolen on 21-09-2007
Being me
Dearest Griffonner: This poem touched me on so many levels. I think we all have moments where we forget we have aged, or don't feel like the 'we' of today, and though your poem speaks volumes, this image stuck with me today.

There is hope in the dark hours
when bravery replaced cowers.
And those things we called ours
are beside us in love's bowers.

Your piece really moved me. I'm sorry to sully it with my crap comment. I hope this finds you feeling frisky and fine.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Very kind of you, Jolen. Not at all a crap comment! Today I'm fine but sadly not frisky πŸ™‚
*appreciatively*
Griffonner

Ionicus on 22-09-2007
Being me
Dear Allen, a brilliant composition so full of sadness and regret. These line sum up the whole poem for me:

'and all could
be well with the world ~
only,
of course,
the world is far from well.'

Hoping that the gods are smiling on you and you are keeping well.
Best regards, Luigi.


Author's Reply:
Hello Luigi, thank you for your much appreciated and generous appraisal. I believe that the gods are smiling on me. Yes.

I think this is just a test that I have to go through. I shall come out the other side a stronger person for it, I'm certain. Hopefully with lots of experiences to write about too. πŸ™‚

*gratefully*
Allen

silversun on 23-09-2007
Being me
Griffoner,
Though I am not normally a fan of repetition, mainly because it doesn't usually work, I think the "of course..." at the end of each stanza adds a tone of melancholy and contrasts well with the preceding line, which only adds to their effectiveness.
A mention for the opening of your final stanza, that "without you fearing my mortality" is a special line. The inattentive reader could expect a comma after 'you', but the way you have it is far more interesting. On the surface, perhaps, it seems a simple piece, but these lines show the care in the craft:

the spoken air: that once fuelled
the lungs of the proud Robin …
that mixed inside the frog’s croak …

Congratulations on the nib, too.
James

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your appraisal and congratulations, James. Funnily enough I'm not usually 'into' repetition, either.

*cordially*
Griffonner

Bradene on 23-09-2007
Being me
My virile mind maintains it’s old lie,
my heart boom-booms to my step …
for I am young, and fit, and full of vim …
Legs of iron, lungs like silk,
going on for ever – like the sun -
doing exercise ~
only,
of course,
I am far from being young.

I can truly identify with is stanza, but then every stanza has a truth we all recognise. A really fine piece of work Allen Love Val; x

Author's Reply:
I'm suddenly speechless! But I can at least give a hug back. πŸ™‚ Thank you, Val. X

Kat on 23-09-2007
Being me
Hi Allen

This is simply a very classy write - thoroughly enjoyed - excellent stuff.

Kat x

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Kat. That's very nice of you. πŸ™‚
*agreeably*
Allen

niece on 23-09-2007
Being me
Great to see you and read your wonderful work, Allen...this one is just beautiful!!!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Hello niece. How nice of you to leave a comment - and such a generous one, too. Thank you. I hope those children are being good, and that life is brilliant for you.
*affectionately*
Allen


Retribution? (posted on: 12-02-07)
Retribution?



Do you hear it? Down deep in Man’s soul? Down, down, down, so deep that it is normally unheard, but sometimes ... sensed ... like the aroma of wild strawberries blown by the wings of a Karner Blue? Do you feel it? The hum? The cold room with one, chunky, wooden chair… and there’s leather… the aroma of electric air… the fear… the terror… the wrapping… the zapping… the buzz… the peace. Do you hear it? © 2007 Griffonner
Archived comments for Retribution?
Sunken on 12-02-2007
Retribution?
Hello Mr. Griffonner. Chilling stuff and no mistake. After the strawberries line I was expecting a nice fuzzy ending. That'll teach me to rest on my Hardy's... or is it Laurels? I always get that mixed up. Nice one Mr. Griffonner.

s
u
n
k
e
n

he means well

Author's Reply:
Thank you for this, Mr Sunken. There's not a lot I can say about this, other than I DID hear it. It was a very strange thing, and I used the strawberries and the butterfly to try and explain how almost imperceptable it was - difficult to identify ... until I recognised what the sensation really was, and that is when, of course, it became very ugly and, yes, chilling. I think your play on words was wonderful. As of course was your appraisal - even if undeserved.
*gratefully*
Griffonner

orangedream on 13-02-2007
Retribution?
Love the imagery of the strawberries and the Karner Blue. Think I saw a couple of these recently - in the butterfly house, just outside of Bedford, (butterflies I mean, not strawberries!) Beautiful.

Your poem was deliciously atmospheric and I enjoyed it.

warm regards
Tina x

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Tina... I'm like the white rabbit here... I'm late, I'm late. I hate being late in thanking for comments. I'd have loved to do an audio of this.
*frustratedly*
Allen

teifii on 13-02-2007
Retribution?
Hmm, yes, very chilling and even spooky [due I think to 'peace' going along with the other audibles.
Daff

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Daff. It was a horrible feeling, and it was nice to get it off my chest, so to speak.

Allen

niece on 13-02-2007
Retribution?
Griffonner,
Eerie and beautiful at one and the same time, I guess each mind can interpret it in it's own way...that's the beauty of this poem...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Hello niece. Thank you for seeing the better side of this.
*gratefully*
Griffonner

delph_ambi on 14-02-2007
Retribution?
Good one. I found it positive and upbeat rather than chilling, despite words like 'fear' and 'terror', maybe because I saw that as delicious fear (the strawberry imagery still being in my mind).

I usually hate ellipses, but they work here. I have no idea why. Similarly, I usually hate too much repetition, as you have at the start but again, it seems to work.

An original and striking poem that I'll want to read again.

Author's Reply:
Oh dear... me and ellipses ... we go together like ... like ...erm ... the Moon and the Earth! In fact it really should have been my middle name!

However, to be serious, I'm really delighted to hear that you found this worthy of more than one read. Thank you for letting me know.

*appreciatively*

Griffonner

Jolen on 13-08-2007
Retribution?
Griffonner:
I have missed your work, and am late now, but glad to be reading it. I hope this finds you well. It's a chilling poem, with perfect images to instill the 'ending' in us all.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:


Nightmare (posted on: 09-02-07)
One of those moments when the cold chill of realism cuts through your dreams...



I wait, breathlessly, for the morning call - to lighten and lift my mood. But I fear, instantly, the thought entering my head: that I should be alone, with only the faint echo of you, resounding, inside diaphanous dreams.
Archived comments for Nightmare
orangedream on 09-02-2007
Nightmare
What a lovely word Allen,' diaphanous'. Light, delicate and transluscent. A bit like your lovely poem.

kind regards
Tina

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Tina. I'm usually much more verbose than this, so it's pleasing to have received such a nice appraisal of these few words. I really much appreciate it.

Allen

e-griff on 10-02-2007
Nightmare
yes, i like this one - concise! πŸ™‚ A nice (familiar) moment captured in a wee poem. As it should be.

Strangely (don't shout at me, I've had enough of that) I feel 'diaphanous' (while a lovely word) is out of place with the language of the rest of the poem, which is plain and deceptively simple. let the idea rule and don't distract us at the critical moment! - that's my vote. Perhaps just 'my dreams'.

best JohnG

Author's Reply:
Thanks for your appraisal, John. I actually liked the contrast, which is why I used it. But each to his own, and there is no way I'm going to shout - I can't! I have no voice at the moment! Laryngitis or something. I'm waiting to see the specialist about it.
*silently*
Allen

royrodel on 11-02-2007
Nightmare
????????????? wtf I thought I was the only one who suffered from this.
I warm to you more than ever, at last a peer or maybe not, but you got my mornings wrapped up in 38 words, pure genius.

RODEL

Author's Reply:
Hi Rodel, an echoing of words, perhaps, but definitely not genius! I'm glad it found an affinity in you. Thanks too for the rating.
*appreciatively*
Allen

niece on 12-02-2007
Nightmare
Dear Allen,
Loved your poem...losing your loved ones is a scary thought, atleast it's better than living a loveless life...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Oh, yes, Niece How very true. As Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem goes:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.


But still scary.

*Lovingly*
Allen

delph_ambi on 14-02-2007
Nightmare
'diaphanous' is a ghastly word that no real poet should touch with a barge pole. I loved the poem until that point. Seriously. Ditch that word. You're better than this. 'diaphanous' is...well... a bit Barbara Cartland, don't you think? And here's me searching out your poems because the last one I read was so bloody good, and you go and use... diaphanous. I feel like crying.

Ha! Just read the other comments, and see I'm not alone.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 14-02-2007
Nightmare
I've just gone right off you, for comparing me with... with... that... pink thing!

Damn it, what do you want? Translucent ... nebulous ... amorphous ... I wanted four syllables, and indefinite didn't do it for me, and I still can't think of another word that fits... for me.

I'm definitely feeling like Churchill *frowns*

Author's Reply:

Michel on 14-02-2007
Nightmare
I stumbled there, too - rather thought that 'inside dreams' would work perfectly. It echoes, carries a lot of power.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for commenting, Michel, the problem is I distinctly want to defne/describe the non-solidity, the amorphous nature, of that place where one is left to 'experience' contact with the person who who is lost to you in the physical plane.


Intermission (posted on: 08-12-06)
Passing way too fast for me!

Its measured path meanders through our lives, and in its wake is nothing but destruction … and pain … and all the woes of wise men … all the heartache of mothers … and all the wizened artefacts once proudly displayed, are now laid bare to it. The seagull's cry, raucous and extreme, echoes across the deserted sandy scene and save for the lapping waves is all that’s heard. Water retreating from muddy smothered soil, offers no harbour for a Dove … this revolution. Rounded rocks … ground to infinite dust, beneath skies of measureless dimension … compute its passage in some algorithmic way. And in the frozen depths of places yet unseen are rainbows of its anticipated degradation. When we are beyond its uncelestial grasp … we're borne as dandelion seeds on air, uncontrolled by its cold, embittered hands … and have at last the measure of it; are ourselves unlimited and never ending ... … but time awaits us still. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for Intermission
scotch on 08-12-2006
Intermission
should it be 'too fast' on title? i think this has an intellectual side with soulful undercurrents...scotch

Author's Reply:
Yes, thank you Scotch. Several typos. Now corrected.
Thank you for commenting. Much appreciated.

orangedream on 09-12-2006
Intermission
'And in the frozen depths of places yet unseen
are rainbows of its anticipated degradation.'

Sometimes, I read poems and think, I wish I'd written that.
Sometimes, I read poetry and think, I wish I could have written that.

This poem falls in the latter category. A gem.

Tina x

Author's Reply:
Oh why do I do that!!!!!!

Please see below.

Griffonner on 09-12-2006
Intermission
Aw! Thank you, Tina. What a lovely appraisal.

But I have to tell you, I too have felt that way about some of your words. Take for example:

She spread her toast with honey,
how melliferous and sweet appeared those lips.


Just brilliant.

Ahem... enough of this mutual wotsit stuff... Thank you too for the rating.

*Happiliy*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 09-12-2006
Intermission
I have to agree with tina here, I too wish I could write like that.
Another excellent piece of work Allen. love Val x

Author's Reply:

flossieBee on 10-12-2006
Intermission
I particularly like the images of the second stanza. The slow, deliberate pace of the poem reflects so well the themes.

fB

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 26-01-2007
Intermission
Griffonner:

You still got it...this was a sorrowful and soulful piece that at the end left me going "OH hell Yes!"

I am so pleased to be reading your fine work again.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 27-01-2007
Intermission
Thank you, Jolen. What a lovely comment to wake up to, today. A sunbeam breaks the cloud ... Time is currently tying my writing hand to the grinstone, but it can't quieten my mind. *wry smile*
*appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

SugarMama34 on 05-02-2007
Intermission
Hi Griffonner - This is a very interesting philisophical write. There is much you have said in this that certainly makes the brain tick over on your thoughts that you have put down onm paper. I loved the words and expressions you used to bring this piece to life and to put your idea across. You are very talented and I too wish I had the ability and style to write poetry in the same way.

Cheers From Lis'.xx

Author's Reply:
Hi Lis, Thank you for your lovely appraisal. What more can I say when your words have left me with a red face? Ah yes, I know: thank you for starting my day off with a smile.
*appreciatively*
Griffonner


MAGIC MOMENTS (posted on: 28-08-06)
What on earth do you categorise such pieces as? I'd prefer 'Flash Faction'. The truth is, in such magical moments, we never forget.




It was nature's clever trick of hypnotism. As effective as a sparkling gem swaying in front of my eyes, tricking me into subjection, into subconsciousness. Every feminine wile was being conjured into the attack upon me, an army with certain deadly and subliminal power. Tick, tick, tick, tick.... The clock in the quiet room striking off the moments; moments that are slipping away from me, like the silk scarf did off her nylon clad leg. Silently, and easily, transforming itself into a dry, still pool upon the floor. When I looked up, she had leant forwards bringing her face closer to mine, and I breathed her in. Deeply. Unbeknown to me, it was how she could penetrate me, and it was at one and the same time as gentle as the softest breast, and as fiery as the most desperate insatiable need. The soft powdery essence of her perfume smoothed itself into my nostrils and then smooched it’s way down into my lungs, from where it was magically absorbed and spread through my entire body in a cascade of mellow sensations. Her breath caressed my face, moving the tiniest hairs backwards and forwards with its rhythmic tide, coming… backwards and forwards, in and out, stimulating almost every hair follicle on my body in absolute unison. My eyes were suddenly captured, stunned, by hers; the deepest pools of shadow blackened green. The shock of my immobility sending a thud of adrenaline into me, that ached into my spine, and thundered violently through my belly. I was sucked into the unfathomed depths of those eyes in such an uncontrolled way that I rolled, floated and tumbled, trembling and defenceless, down deeper and deeper into their spell. The journey stripping me of common sense, ripping away any futile barriers or foolish desire to resist. I was lost. Absolutely. Willingly. Wantonly. She moved even closer, and I felt her entering my aura, moving into my personal space as surely, slickly, and confidently, as any lover could. It did not enter my head that we were not lovers, or that this was the first moment of crossing that bridge to where there was no going back, no return. And what did it matter? I had no desire to return. No, I wanted more. I yearned for more; for any tiny morsel of intimacy, no matter how insignificant, so that I could add it to the greedy fire she had set alight in me. There was the ache, the desire, the wanting, as we imperceptibly closed at a tormenting snail-like speed through the spacious few millimeters that separated us. And then there was the first touch, one molecule of lip touching one other. It was infinitesimally gentle, and startlingly electrifying. Almost instantaneously more molecules were drawn into the point of contact, rushing in like oxygen to support a fire, and we, jointly, were accelerated, sucked inescapably into the act; pressing lips on lips, slipping tongues against tongues, sucking, sliding, exchanging, desiring, inflaming, in one endless spiral. Deeper and deeper, penetrating through any barriers that had escaped the enchantment. Tick, tick, tick, tick…. Spent moments slipping, unattainable, into the chasm of the past, but always alive in my dreams. © Griffonner 2006
Archived comments for MAGIC MOMENTS
reckless on 28-08-2006
MAGIC MOMENTS
Gosh, that was the awakening of emotion then! Isn't it funny how someone could affect someone else like that? I find that notion quite intriguing. Attraction. What is it? How does it work? Why are soem people attractive and others not? Whatever it is, this one certainly seemed to have that magic ingredient. Oh by the way it's 'morsel'. A nice, languid read this.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for pointing out that typo, reckless. And thanks for taking the time to comment. (Puts tongue in cheek as he says, 'Oh by the way it's 'some'.)

I agree: attraction is certainly mystical - pheromones apart.
*grinning mischievously*
Griffonner

Claire on 29-08-2006
MAGIC MOMENTS
Now this is a canny read. Very sweet too.
Well worthy of the nib.
Superb audio to accompany this.


Author's Reply:
Thank you for the lovely appraisal, Claire. I'm just catching up on myself, so please excuse my delay in responding. I'm really pleased that you enjoyed this.

*breathlessly*

Griffonner

niece on 01-09-2006
MAGIC MOMENTS
Griffonner,
What an amazing piece this is...and what an excellent writer you are!
Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Now, now, neice, you have me blushing here! How fortunate I am to have someone as amazing as you to comment and make my day burst into life with such sunshine!
*radiantly*
Griffonner


NAKED (posted on: 28-08-06)
Ultimately, nothing can change the truth.

Naked I stand. No fear, pretence, or disguise. No smoke screen, embarrassment, or shame. No lies. Head held high. What would be the point of being different? In the end, nothing matters save what I truly am, and of being comfortable with that. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for NAKED
orangedream on 28-08-2006
NAKED
Oh I like this one, Griffoner. So much said in so few words. A true art.

Enjoyable and memorable.

regards
orangedream

Author's Reply:
Hello orangedream. Thank you for your comment and generous rating. I think the last two lines are the most difficult part of life.

*Smiling wryly*
Griffonner

Zoya on 29-08-2006
NAKED
That exactly is exactly how it should be. I strongly believe in standing by my convictions and hate to hide behind any thing- even words...
Sometimes it is not liked by others, but I am comfortable because, my conscience are clear. And ultimately for your peace of mind that is what matters. For isn't it the peace of mind, and a sound sleep that we seek at the end of the day. To walk with head held high, to go from this world with your head held high...
A very simply and brilliantly expressed piece of work.
Thanks for sharing,
Love,
Zoya

Author's Reply:
I'm glad you agree with the sentiments of this piece, Zoya. Thanks for commenting, and for the very generous rating.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

niece on 31-08-2006
NAKED
Lucky indeed is the person who can live without disguises, fear, pretenses, et al. You've put it all so well, Griffonner...an excellent poem...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Hello niece, Thank you for your lovely comment.

I'm sorry I've taken a while to respond. πŸ™‚

Light and love to you and your family,

Griffonner

scotch on 31-08-2006
NAKED
i like theme...scotch

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Scotch. As themes go, it can't really get much simpler, can it? But of course not so easy to stay in that state of body, mind and spirit - not at least with all the distractions of the modern world.

Welcome to UKA, by the way. Nice to see a new face. *smiling*

Griffonner

RDLarson on 04-09-2006
NAKED
How gentle and how true. Ancient truth and lasting truth, well-said and exactly right way to write it.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your kind comment, and very generous rating. It was just a state of mind. *smiles*
Griffonner

eddiesolo on 05-12-2006
NAKED
Hello Griffonner,

Sorry I'm late on this one...hangs head in shame.

Wonderful, so much told in few words.

We are what we are, me I'm a tall, slim sex god...ahem.

Take care.

Si:-)


Author's Reply:
And look at me! Somehow I didn't see your comment, Si.

My turn to say sorry.

Thank you for the wonderful appraisal.

*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Jolen on 13-01-2007
NAKED
Wonderful Griffoner: I love 'NAKED" and there is nothig so wonderful as being comfortable with one's ownself, and others loving the real us.

I hope the new year is good to you and yours.,
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jolen. And, of course, I reciprocate your greetings and blessings,
*Lovingly*
Griffonner

69-96 on 18-10-2007
NAKED
As a statement it is perfect, though as a fact it is doubtful. We cannot live life without others nor without. The best of this is your "Being happy with who I am" Good stuff.

Author's Reply:
Thank you, 69-96, for that comment and generous rating. It is much appreciated.

*comfortably* (-;

Griffonner


LOVER'S BLOCK (posted on: 15-08-06)
So you think the sheet of paper is blank, do you?

Paper stares at me, its ashen face bleached of ink, its emptiness a hint that I shan’t kiss you anymore. Woven woody fibres, pressed hard and tight, await my nib's caress, but I can’t touch you now. Creases in the corner, like laughter lines, mock my aching heart that lives dιclassι, here. And in the emptiness that’s there, unwritten are the words that reverberate inside my head. ...but daren't ever be spoken. © Griffonner 2006
Archived comments for LOVER'S BLOCK
woodbine on 16-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
A tautly crafted poem that would make an excellent song. My inclination if it were a song would be to point it up with some irregular verse for a song audience by changing the ending to something like:

haunting every thought
are words I rue the day
I ever said
...invisible to you.

For some reason songs call for more rhyme and repetion than poetry

Author's Reply:

woodbine on 16-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
A tautly crafted poem that would make an excellent song. My inclination if it were a song would be to point it up with some irregular verse for a song audience by changing the ending to something like:

haunting every thought
are words I rue the day
I ever said
...invisible to you.

For some reason songs call for more rhyme and repetion than poetry

Author's Reply:

woodbine on 16-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
I can't apologise enough for rewrtng your work in a late night senior moment. IT is a very good poem. and I am very conntrite.
John

Author's Reply:
Ah! At last! Someone else with senior moments! I was beginning to feel quite a freak!
Absolutely no problem, John. Thank you for the compliment.

*Affectionately* (in a manly way, you understand.)
Allen

*smiling broadly*

orangedream on 16-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
Just beautiful! Wonderful imagery. Particularly like the first two lines (along with the rest you understand):-

'Paper stares at me,
its ashen face bleached of ink ...'

Regards
orangedream

Author's Reply:
Thank you so much, orangedream. That is very kind of you.

*smiling*

Griffonner

niece on 18-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
"Lover's Block", what an unusual concept, Griffonner...beautifully described...great poem!
Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you, niece. Yes, a little different. I was thinking of doing a series on paper, as I have been exploring several other ideas. Glad that you liked it.

Kind regards, light and love, to you and your family,
Allen

Bradene on 20-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
Allen Wonderful work... really enjoyed listening to it. love Val x

Author's Reply:
Thank you dear Val, that is extremely kind of you.
(Isn't it amazing how we, most of us, don't like the sound of our own voices? So you'll understand me saying that I wish I shared your appreciation!)
But I DO appreciate your kind comments and generous rating.
Allen
X

Zoya on 27-08-2006
LOVERS BLOCK
Very well crafted, work of art!
Yes, blank paper does speak to you, invites you, to write on, yet you have a writer's block...I believe, there is a love relationship between the writer and the paper, and a writer does touch the sacred paper like a lover, caressingly...
I even love the smell of paper, do you?
I like the analogy...
And the way you call it 'lover's block'.
Sincerely,
Zoya


Author's Reply:
Thank you, Zoya. Very kind of you to comment in such a way. I appreciate it.

Yes, I love the smell of paper, too. My wife even has a perfume which I love, and I tell her it reminds me of a particular type of paper!!!!! Nuts, of course. But aren't we all.

Cheers

Griffonner


Tell her that I love her (posted on: 11-08-06)
Love conquers all (and spellchecks can sometimes be a waste of time!)

She sits beside me as I type, but no-one can see her – we are alone. She smiles when I type her name, and broadcasts a loving smile. There is a serenity to this woman – a peace that is rare to find, an openness too – a big heart; bigger than her halo of golden hair. She does not always join me - leaving me here to the magic of my Dyn, sometimes to the pain of a stubborn empty page, or my tears of empathy. She once asked me, “What is the point?” and although I said we never know, never, the absurdity was me telling her such things! Some days we listen to the music. I can see her absorb melody like wine… no, like nectar… enriching, delighting; for her it is like manna from heaven. And when some beautiful chord of sound brightens up my room, she says it, six little words that I know she so desperately wants to hear. Yesterday, as the sun was setting behind the surrounding trees, she cried. Had I not turned and looked at her, I would not have known, there were no audible sobs, just sad green eyes and wet alabaster cheeks… and drips; salty drips that made the floor tiles wet. I did not need to ask the reason, for there was anger in the air around us. What she – they - had endured, beyond all reason, beyond all sanity, beyond, was spilled across the screen; a vermillion slash of cruel words that questioned her ending, and thus her beginning. And so, I defended her – for her... ...her beloved tochter. © Griffonner 2006
Archived comments for Tell her that I love her
Abel on 11-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
I am speechless at this piece, Griff...superb and perfect...

Ward

Author's Reply:
Ward, I don't know what to say! So I'm speechless too! I thought it might be academically interesting to others, and that's about all. How lovely that you appreciated it too. Thank you for letting me know.

*Appreciatively*

Griffonner

Kat on 11-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
I have to join in with Abel, and the speechlessness (and awe). This is written with such love, purity and integrity. And for a very deserving lady.

It's very good to 'see' you, Griffoner!

Kat x

Author's Reply:
Thank you so very much for such a nice compliment, Kat.



And ah! Very astute of you with parentheses! I must remember that I, a mere mortal, play among Gods!



*Lovingly*



Griffonner

orangedream on 11-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Purely and simply, a beautiful poem. Every word, every line a gem.

I am richer for reading it.

Thank you Griffoner.

Regards
orangedream

Author's Reply:
No, thank you for reading, Orangedream. And more thanks for telling me what you thought. I'm pleased you enjoyed it.

*Respectfully*

Griffonner

littleditty on 11-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
a beautiful poem full of love and stories - well done Griffonner, Nicky x

Author's Reply:
I'm still tongue-tied that other people have enjoyed this, Nicky. You are really kind.

*Gratefully*

Allen
x

Jolen on 12-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Ohhhhhhh my soul! what a tribute, what a poem! So deserving of the nib and a joy to read. Wonderful, wonderful work.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Jolen, thank you for your lovely comment. I am really delighted that you have found enjoyment in reading this.

*Lovingly*
Allen

red-dragon on 12-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
My umpteenth time of reading and trying to find a suitable comment. Such a gentle poem with a deft touch of zeitgheist. Well deserving of its nib. Ann

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Ann. I'm struggling for things to say to the comments. You've made it a bit easier for me because I just love that word 'Zeitgeist', but disregarding that, it was lovely to hear from you and I am honoured by your appreciation of this piece.
*Respectfully*
Allen

Emerald on 12-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
It is strange because I read the gruffness of tone, mixed with the love. Life is strange and we meet those that connect with us is some way, yet we still get hurt.

Emma


Author's Reply:
Thank you dear Emma, I didn't mean to have a gruff voice. Maybe it was from all the shouting at my computer I've been doing recently! Thank you too for your rating; very generous.

*Smiling*

Allen

HelenRussell on 13-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Like you, I've been away for a while, but you haven't lost any of your tremendous talent for pouring so much meaning and emotion onto a page.
With each new piece of yours that I read I am truly in awe of you.
Sarah xx

Author's Reply:
Hello Sarah, Thank you for popping in and leaving a comment and very generous rating. Do you know, you have me blushing bright red?

*glowingly*
Allen

eddiesolo on 14-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Allen, this is perfect.

Top write and well done on the nib.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:
You are very kind, Si. I'm still gob-smacked by the reaction to this piece (to use some relatively modern vernacular). Thank you very, very much.

*gratefully*
Allen

niece on 14-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Dear Griffonner,
Great to see you back ... and your beautiful poems as well!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
And so lovely to hear from you, dear niece. Thank you for your kind remark.

*appreciatively*
Allen

Ionicus on 14-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Dear Allen, nice to see you back in top form. This is truly a sparkling gem. A highly enjoyable read.
Regards, Luigi.

Author's Reply:
Luigi, you've no doubt already seen that I am a little taken back that this had a more wide appeal than I ever anticipated, so forgive my jaw hanging open at your generous appraisal! Thank you for letting me know your thoughts, and thank you too for the wonderful rating.
*Happily*
Allen

wfgray on 15-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
An absolute marvellous poetry that made me turn around to look at the lady who was spent the last sixty two years at my side. A wonderful poem and a delihtful read. Will

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Will. That's a lovely compliment . I'm thrilled that you had enjoyment from reading it.
*Smiling*
Griffonner

Bradene on 17-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
What more is there to say, they all got here before me. But I would like you to know this is a piece I shall read often . It's lovely. Val x

Author's Reply:
Hello Val. Thank you so much for popping in to tell me what you thought of this, I really appreciate it.

*Happy and smilin'*
Allen

Griffonner on 20-08-2006
Tell her that I love her
Well, as you know, I don't have enough confidence in my Yiddish pronunciation, seau... oops... so... I gave the English ending. *grins*

Thank you for taking the time to comment, cher Deborah.
LLHXXXXz
Allen

Author's Reply:


BUT FOR THAT... (posted on: 24-02-06)
I have, in a somewhat egotistical way, described this as my version of an eternal truth!

Time goes on forever. When we are young, we can keep up with it. When we are middle-aged, it slips ahead with subtlety. When we are getting old, we slow down, time speeds up. But … Time goes on for ever. Each moment is precious. When we are young, we do not understand their value. When we are middle-aged, we mistake their importance. When we are getting old, each one is grabbed as if to keep. For … Each moment is precious. There are not enough hours. When we are young, the time ahead is never ending. When we are middle-aged, we close our eyes and look the other way. When we are getting old, we cannot evade the truth… that … There are not enough hours. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for BUT FOR THAT...
Jen_Christabel on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Cracking, just wonderful a ten from me :o)
Jennifer x

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jennifer. I'm glad you liked, and thank you too for such a generous rating. I don't think this is everyone's cup of tea, I think it needs another stanza that reflects that when you are young you don't even want to know about this! ~;o) Griffonner

Dargo77 on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Griffonner, a very profound piece. Having been young, middle age and now getting on a bit, I found it all rang true with me.
Regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:
"Having been young, middle age and now getting on a bit...." Welcome to the club, Dargo! *Grins mischievously*
Thanks for the comment, too.
Griffonner

Bradene on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Absolutely 100% agree with these sentiments. Well written Love Val x

Author's Reply:
Strikes a chord, doesn't it? Mind you, I wish the revelation was the reverse!
With much love, Griffonner

I-Man on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Hi Griffonner, just popped by after reading your comments on my first two stories. I have to admit, I've never really bothered so much with reading poetry, but I have to say I liked this a lot - I guess my tastes are evolving. πŸ™‚
You've caught the essence of aging and how a lot of people's perceptions change as they get older. The emphasis works well too. A 10 from me.

Author's Reply:
Thand you, young man. That is very kind of you. " I guess my tastes are evolving." ... We'll have you writing poetry in no time at all. You'd better start thinking of rhyming words for stun phaser, durinium, and Trimantium πŸ˜€ Thank you too, for the very generous rating.
Griffonner

Kat on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Hi Griffoner

Another gem from you! This is something that should be etched in stone, nay... marble! Loved it.

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Hello, Kat. I hope that the lump of marble won't be needed for another 120 years in my case. *Remark off stage: A lad can dream!*

Glad you liked.
*Appreciatively* Griffonner

Gerry on 24-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Griff, I agree with Dargo--a very profound piece of writing...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:
Thank very much for the comment, Gerry. I much appreciate it.
Ciao, Griffonner

BlueyedSoul on 25-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Such truth wrapped in such delicacy, yet the reader is forced to the brink of reality. When I read this I kept putting myself into each group, remembering the past, aware of the present, and imagining the future.

Brilliant as only you can do it!

~BlueyedSoul

Author's Reply:
You've no idea how much I appreciate your comment, BlueyedSoul, because, there was I thinking that this was, if anything, too 'bareboard' and rather clinical. And then came that final paragraph of yours, and my face has now gone all red; what a lovely thing to say. Untrue, but lovely. Just the thing for what started as my melancholy Sunday morning. Thank you.
*Gratefully*
Griffonner

niece on 25-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Griffonner,
I just loved this...it's so true, each and every word. Wonderful poem!!!
Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Neice. How lovely to have heard from you. It once again made me think about the 'wonder' of the internet's immediacy, and I send best wishes to you and your family, and thanks for your much respected appraisal. *Hugs* Griffonner

eddiesolo on 28-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Hi Griff,

Wonderful write.

A very honest read, just loved it.

Si:-)



Author's Reply:
Thank you, Si.

Honest?

Absolutely!

:o)

I'm there wishing for more time and wondering where all that which has gone, went to????

Thank you for the rating, and for telling me what you thought of this.
*inquisitively* Griffonner

HelenRussell on 28-02-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
So cleverly constructed, one of the best poems I have read for a very long time, and a meaning that I think will stay with me forever.

In awe at your mastery
Sarah

Author's Reply:
Sarah.... What can I say? I'm just delighted that you found it worth reading, and then, worth commenting upon.

It is a piece that is all about time, so, it is nice to think the meaning of my words will stay in your mind for as long as time itself. That's a very great honour really. Thank you.
Griffonner

Lare on 03-03-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Ahh...what truth. I am at that age where everyday is a day that life teaches me something it taught me long ago in my youth so long ago forgotten...but now...I respectfully pay attention...and...give thanks that I am still here to receive my daily lessons...

You have done it well with this one, Griff...um...but in one of your earlier replies to a comment by Tai-Li you said..."I managed quite a bit of walking today, so things are gradually returning to normal I hope :o)"...is everything okay?

Lare

Author's Reply:
Oh, dear! Talking about age: I appear to have fallen foul of the reply trap! See below for my real response!

Griffonner on 03-03-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Hello, Lare,

And thank you, as always, for taking the time to place such a nice comment.

As for this body of mine... I recently did something quite stupid, inconsiderate of a fraility that I live with, and caused a problem disc to slip out - again! The problem is that time, whilst being a great healer, is also a great disguiser and memory wiper - or is it that in the interim we disregard the lesson learned? Also - according to Griffonner's Final Law of Existence - the larger the proportion of time that you have experienced the longer it takes to correct a failed body function! Anyway, whatever, it appears to have gone back into position - FINALLY! - and I have vowed not to make the same stupid mistake again. Make a note of that, will you?

I can tell you I was making that vow well before there were any signs of a reasonable recovery... with every crossable part of my anotomy (that didn't hurt) crossed. *Big grin*

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 07-03-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Hello dear Griffonner! I am thrilled to be back and readiing your fine poem. This is clever and as usual, so deserving of your nib.. I love those 'but, for and that's', you know it's not as simple as you make it look. lol..... I am, as ever, a fan.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Thank you, dear Jolen. That's very kind of you. You are very generous in your appraisal.
*Hugs*
Griffonner

Zoya on 21-04-2006
BUT FOR THAT...
Time goes on for ever
But
Always in forward gear,
What has gone by never returns...

Each moment is precious
For
What is will not be tomorrow,
What will can never be predicted...

There are not enough hours
That
Can be seized in a moment of time,
Squeezed in to the short span of life!

But
For
That
Life
is
Life...


Author's Reply:


PATHWAY TO THE TOP (posted on: 17-02-06)
“Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master. For this reason mastery demands all of a person.” Albert Einstein

“Do you remember the pathway… to the top?” His words bore all the hallmarks of a Master’s illimitable perception. They were measured, calculated, aimed and fired so that they thudded hard into me. And although, mercifully, I did not feel the searing, fiery pain as their razor-sharp tips penetrated my psyche, I soon came to realise that his arrows had imbedded themselves inside of me, and that I would indeed, one day, feel the pain. ----o---- The stone steps spiralled upwards. Each rise stretching the sinews of my young legs, making every tread a newly discovered plateau of land, which had in fact been conquered rather than simply reached. Along the relatively short, though arduous journey in the narrow confines of the stone tower, I experienced a strong sense of confinement and solitariness. I could barely see five steps ahead, and if I turned, five below. Such light as there was, penetrated through some narrow slits high up in the thick stone walls, the dusty atmosphere of this ancient place was emphasised by the illuminated motes of dust that flurried in and out of the confined sunlight above me. The walls were cool to the touch of my hands, and the sound of my steps echoed in the solid silence. I tried to climb up as quickly as I could. What drove me on was love; or at least what I thought was love. What is love to a ten-year-old? To me it was Marie – who smelled of strawberries, had pristine white socks, and red leather sandals. Oh, and blond hair … my one and only blond girlfriend, ever. Eventually, I reached the top of the steps. The muscles in my thighs were crying out in pain, and my whole body was experiencing a bout of trembling from the exertion. My lungs burned from lack of oxygen, my heartbeat was banging away in my ears, and there was a pain in my back as adrenaline surged through my small body from all the excitement and anticipation. There, ahead, was the doorway out onto the ramparts. I stood for a few moments, trying to get my breath back. I didn’t want to make my appearance while gasping for air! On the tiny, stone landing, the air was heated by the thick, wooden door that was hot to the touch. She had said it was always unlocked. She would wait down in the churchyard for me, to carry out my task. This was the demonstration for my Marie that I was fearless. It was also, I had inwardly decided while on the way up the tower, a demonstration of my adoration. All I had to do was burst out onto the top of the Church tower and prove it all to her. Oh, foolish boy! I never questioned – not for one moment – why I should need to carry out this task. ----o---- Seven proud, white knights they were. Standing defiant against the foe. At home, I was the proud owner of a complete set of twenty-four soldiers. In camouflage. Some of them standing with rifles lodged against their shoulders, looking down the barrels to take aim or fire, others flat on their bellies with their rifles set out ahead of them. When everything had been set up, these little lead men found themselves arranged behind empty matchboxes and cotton reels as battle commenced. The battles were unplanned: a huge index finger would appear from their sky, and amid a cacophony of various, mimicked sounds of gunfire I’d learned to make, it would randomly flick over those who were chosen to die on the Axminster killing field. In the main, there were very few who survived. Strange, how a child’s mind will choose to place his soldiers in patterns: in chevrons was a good arrangement to offer a more difficult target for the rolling cotton reel weapons of mass destruction. ----o---- The seven of them stood, bold as brass, in a chevron pattern. Their whiteness contrasting with the fine, brown, sandy tilth of the prepared killing field. Considerable care had been taken in making sure that their alignment was geometrically correct. Against them, just ten yards away, stood their two enemies. It was three in the afternoon when battle was set to commence. Marie and I were alone. We took up our positions and rolled our balls towards them, down the pub’s skittle alley. They were doomed, those knights. Defenseless. The wooden balls our hands released towards them, clacked against their hardness and sent them crashing one into the other – like a line of dominoes they fell. And that was where and when I fell … in love with Marie. The girl with blond hair, blue eyes, and on that particular day, dusty white socks and dirty red sandals. The girl, however, who still smelled of delicious strawberries. Love! What was that love? Holding hands and walking around the village, mainly. And the day before, my parents had taken her with us, to visit Weston-Super-Mare. We shared the ecstasy of smooth creamy ice creams, built some fantastic sand castles, and behind my father walked hand in hand out, what seemed miles, on the huge expanse of beach. We’d gone so far out, that they put out a call on the tannoys, to warn us that the tide was turning, and we were to get back to the safety of the beach quickly. Her eyes were blue. Did I say that? And her dad owned the pub where we were staying on our holiday…. ----o---- We parted company in the Churchyard. I left my damsel waiting for me to fulfil my challenge, sitting on the stone tomb of one Reginald Nash. She was wearing a pretty white dress with a pale pink lace trim around its edges. Reginald was privy to the fact that before I left her side, I breathed in those strawberries, and with butterflies dashing around my belly, tasted for the one and only time, the sweet softness of her rosebud lips. Such a brief touch. Such an innocent kiss of beginning. The door creaked open and the sunlight burst through the widening gap like a flash of lightening, and momentarily blinded me. Out in the fresh air, I cautiously moved over to the castellated parapet. There was no danger; even the lower parts of the wall came well up to my chest. My body was wet with perspiration, and my short trousers were sticking to the front of my thighs as I moved towards the edge and looked down triumphantly. Marie was nowhere to be seen. ‘Marie!’ I called. And I called out that name time and time again, for perhaps the two or three minutes I moved around the four sides of the tower, and looked down for her. I was so proud! I had fulfilled my task, and wanted her to see me standing there … her Prince. But she was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t answer my call. I returned through the door and stood listening on the landing, to see if I could hear footsteps - her footsteps - echoing up the staircase. There were none. I walked back out again to take another look. As I did, there was a flapping and fanning of wings as a large black crow swooped down over my head and landed on the parapet. It sat there looking at me, raised its head a little, and let out a loud, evil caw. The crow and I became involved in a staring match. I had never realised how big crows were close-up. And his feathers had a sheen that was sometimes blue and sometimes black. But at the same time, his beady, black eyes were very penetrating, and their steadfast watching of me very disconcerting. Fear, however, was only a fleeting emotion. Much more important was to get him out of the way so I could look back over the wall and down into the churchyard again for Marie. He was brave, I’ll give him that. There was no way I was going to look away first. No way! And, you know, I could not but admire him, both for his beauty and his bravery. But, of course, he finally gave in, turned his eyes away, and literally fell off the wall, outwards into the thin, warm air. I ran over and watched him gracefully swoop and glide his way down to the churchyard. He sat on top of a large white gravestone next to where Reginald Nash lay at rest, and looked back up at me. I felt sure he was saying, ‘Come on, then. Follow my lead. Come and find your Marie.’ I didn’t, though a sense of desolation had begun to sicken my belly. Instead, I walked around the four sides of the tower, looking down for her. She was nowhere to be seen. The next morning, out of my bedroom window, I saw her holding another boy’s hand. I returned to my bed, and cried myself back to sleep into the pillow. ----o---- It was not an uncommon sound. Nor, was it unwelcome. Long, glorious peels of bright, cheery bells … only a few notes, but used in wide variations to make different, repeating melodies. In thinking about it though, I just realised, that I haven’t heard church bells ring like that for many years. When my friend died on the first day of July, for maybe half an hour, there rang a long sorrowful bell toll from the little church in the French village; just two bells, their tones exquisitely contrasting with one another and as they have for hundreds of years on such occasions, so eloquently telling their sad message to all who heard. But, back then, the peels the bell ringers created with such skill, were a joyous sound, and a great fascination to me. So much so, that the leader of the Church Lad’s Brigade to which I belonged, promised to arrange a visit up the tower to see the bells in action. The steps here, were on massive ladders of oak that rose one sub-floor to the next, until, finally, you were standing in the airy belfry. I remember the steps themselves were firm and solid, every one of them. But the thick and dusty floorboards creaked, when you walked on them, and in the otherwise silent church, their squeaks and the sound of our steps echoed off the stone walls. The bells, of course, hung silent. They were, I decided, majestic. That was the only word I could ascribe to them. It was the vicar who showed us around. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young vicar, who, I suspect, had not long before been ordained. He was immensely proud of the bells, and took great pains to explain to us – myself and a friend – how everything worked. He did this, using every ploy imaginable to demonstrate to us that he was hip… I think that would have been the appropriate word. He almost certainly saw this as a recruitment opportunity. Sadly, he was mistaken; I only had eyes – and ears – for the bells. My association with the Church was the result of my father wanting me out of the house on a Sunday afternoon. In a thick, cheap woolen, short-trouser suit that itched uncontrollably, I, along with my compatriot lads, clomped up and down the church hall, learning Discipline. Other than that, rather typically, we also learned how to play ping-pong. I have often wondered why the leader did not show us the bells himself. It’s curious. More so, when you consider the event that took place but a week or so later…. It was probably at a time of year when it was getting on for winter, as I remember it was dark outside, when the leader and his ‘friend’ took me into the bushes around the side of the hall. One of them, the friend, held my arms locked behind my back, while the leader proceeded to nervously attempt the undoing of my fly. I remember being frightened. Of course! I hadn’t a clue what was going on, but whatever it was, I decided that I didn’t like it. The leader’s hands were shaking, or should I say trembling, obviously in some kind of weird anticipation … and I was extremely fortunate on two counts: the first being that the leader had so much trouble with my fly (thank God for button flies and thick woolen fabric!) and so strong was his desire, that instead of freeing my virgin penis – as I imagine was his intention – he instead began a strange rubbing… no, grinding of his genital area against mine. This part of the event I remember, very well, and with distinct displeasure. The second fortunate thing being, that just as the grinding had started, the bell ringers began arriving for their practice session, and a couple of them took a short-cut via the side of the church hall. I remember the sick feeling inside of me when all this was going on, and when the leader hissed a whispered threat at me to keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me, I did actually experience an involuntary spasm of ineffectual vomiting. I never went back inside the hall. I ran straight home. I never told anyone what had happened. I cannot imagine what my father would have done had he known that while he and mum enjoyed an afternoon together, the leader of the Church Lad’s Brigade and his mate, were abusing and attempting to deprave his son! But what excuses I came out with to avoid going back again! Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me there. Amazingly, I still love to hear church bells being rung in celebration. ----o---- "So, just what top are you talking about?” I asked him. I hoped, even before I made the sounds of the words, that the speed of my response and the tone of my reply would surprise him, and give me the upper hand. How foolish am I! He was way ahead of me. When he replied, "Life is a series of uphill pathways, my son," it came to me and I realised, that in that brief interlude between his question and my reply, he had been there all the time … inside my head, reading my thoughts, seeing my sights, hearing my sighs, feeling the touch of Marie’s soft virginal lips. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for PATHWAY TO THE TOP
HelenRussell on 17-02-2006
PATHWAY TO THE TOP
I momentarily forgot this was 'faction' and found it to be entertaining at first, revelling in similar memories of climbing stairways and looking down from the top, and the innocence of those first infatuations. And then the later section chilled me when I realised it wasn't pure fiction.
A very brave write.
Regards
Sarah

Author's Reply:
Thank you so very much for reading, Sarah. And even more for taking the time to comment. C'est la Vie, as the French say. When I wrote it I felt that it would be wasted as an experience, if I kept it behind closed doors. *Indebted* Griffonner

niece on 18-02-2006
PATHWAY TO THE TOP
Griffonner,

I experienced a mixture of emotions while reading your work...just like childhood memories would be with all it's joys and heartaches!!!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Niece. There were certainly a few emotions there, weren't there. Thank you for your kind comment.

Griffonner

Kat on 18-02-2006
PATHWAY TO THE TOP
Dear Griffoner

This is such a finely written and expertly paced piece of prose - with so much within (a lifetime?) and I love the way you have used the Einstein quote to give this a great organic feeling.

Super work - thank you for sharing.

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Hello, Kat. Thank you for the lovely appraisal. It was a delight to share it with you.

Griffonner

Emerald on 18-02-2006
PATHWAY TO THE TOP
I think what struck me in this was the liking still for Church bells being rung. This was a great tapestry of words and experiences - You captured well that feel of childhood and all its joys and pains.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:
Hi Emma,

Thank you for that: I was actually quite concerned that I might lose that feel of the child in the recall part of the piece, so I'm really pleased that you think I managed it.

Griffonner

Andrea on 18-02-2006
PATHWAY TO THE TOP
A very accomplished piece, Griffoner.

Author's Reply:
Why thank you, Ma'am. That's very nice of you to say so.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner


CALAIS' SUNSET STRIP (posted on: 10-02-06)
You hold onto the memory, and feel yourself being pulled...

I watch the kite skip and flip in a cold northerly wind. It bites at my cheeks, and gives my ears a nip, tussles my hair ruggedly - with as much abandon as the long yellow ribbon of the kite’s wriggling tail. The young boy is nothing. Featureless. A grey outline in front of a weak winter sun. His glee borne on the wind like a seagull’s cry, but, in indiscernible French. His feet rattling the cold pebbles of Calais’ sunset beach. Watched by an adult male with suave scarf buffeted and dragged about his neck. Hands dug deep in comfort's pockets, his face lit with pride, he bends his knees in unison with the highs and lows of flight - barely disguising his paternal delight. Tears form in my eyes, and I don’t have to question if the wind brought these too, for all those years ago, I’m remembering right now, on Hilly Fields we, two kids, would launch my kite to fly… just my gleeful dad and I. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for CALAIS' SUNSET STRIP
Jen_Christabel on 10-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
What a joyful piece :o)
Memories can be such wonderful things to recall, and especially when written in verse.
Jennifer :o)

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jennifer. What a nice word to have described this with. Thank you, again.
Griffonner

Apolloneia on 10-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Excellently written I think! the penultimate stanza and especially the lines: "Hands dug deep in comfort's
pockets, his face lit with pride,
he bends his knees in unison
with the highs and lows of flight -" are sheer poetry. Very well done Griffoner..

Author's Reply:
You know what, Apolloneia? You picked the very lines that I remember this by. *Cheerfully* Griffonner

Bradene on 10-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Beautifully written. I saw it all. loved the gentleness of the rhyme. Val x

Author's Reply:
I guess, Val, just half a minutes observation condensed into a few words. I never cease to be amazed at what we can 'see' in just an instant. Thank you for taking the time to comment, and too for the generous rating. X Griffonner

niece on 10-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Griffonner,
Loved the imagery here...it was very touching! And in this day and age, when most men like to spend their time behind a pile of office files without realising that chldren don't remain children forever, it is truly nice to see a father take time off to spend with his son(or daughter)!
Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Hello, dear niece. Yes, I know what you mean. My dad had loads of time when I was very young, and then, when his time was stolen by fiscal needs, he encouraged my interests and supported me in them - for which, of course, I'm eternally grateful. *Tearfully* Griffonner

HelenRussell on 10-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
What a wonderful childhood memory filled with imagery and emotion in a way that did not distract one from the other.
Regards
Sarah

Author's Reply:
I'm really pleased that you saw it that way, Sarah. Thank you for your valued remarks. Griffonner

red-dragon on 11-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Another remarkable poem, Griffoner, that arouses many memories; I am truly amazed it doesn't have a 'nib'. Your writing is, quite simply, alive. Ann

Author's Reply:
Ann, you have no idea how that word 'alive' has such special meaning for me right at this moment of time. Thank you, thank you, for such a lovely appraisal. *Thankfully* Griffonner

Yutka on 11-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Griffoner, you captured in a beautiful and your own unique way a memory that holds true to many and brings out the emotions: the time together with a loved one, even more precious for us now in an age where time is treated as a commodity.
Yutka:)

Author's Reply:
How lovely to hear from you, Yutka. Thank goodness that we are each different, eh? I love the freedom that is given to us as writers, not only to express ourselves - which is of course a prerequisite - but in being able to experiment with styles. Thank you for the very generous rating, too. Griffonner

Dargo77 on 11-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Griffonner, a superb piece that deserves full praise. A favourite read and a nomination are in order. So surprised this took so long to be awarded a nib!
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:
Dargo, this from someone who writes such gems as " as we once sang before breakfast" is really a very respected and valued appraisal! Thank you. And thank you too for the rating. *Appreciatively* Griffonner

e-griff on 11-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
something from you that is very good, IMO.

A simple scene, described simply. Emotions, simply. restrained.

It would be so easy to overegg this, but you didn't.

Hooray!

Author's Reply:
Oh, thank you e-griff... hahaha... it had to happen sometime, didn't it. *Smiling broadly* Griffonner

woodbine on 12-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
I got here too late to nominate it for the anthology, but consider it nominated twice. But not too late to say I admire the boldness of introducing the focus of the poem with the line: The young boy is nothing.

John

Author's Reply:
John, what can I say? It just came to me. That's the truth. There wasn't really any boldness on my part. I felt however, that doing it this way gave me a more effective 'shadow', if you will, to the phantom of myself in that memory. I hadn't realised that it had been nominated. I don't know who by, but thank whoever it was, and your kind self for the intention. Cheers. Griffonner

Emerald on 12-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Memories are such a part of poetry - however we use them - I can see this - but in the picture of my memories. I enjoyed reading this.

Emma

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Emma. I'm delighted that you enjoyed reading this.

Griffonner

RDLarson on 13-02-2006
CALAIS SUNSET STRIP
Your poem took me on a time travel both forward and backward. I see myself as child running running to raise the kite, I see myself as a mother, watching as the kite soars for my own child, and still into the future, as yet unknown a child grasps my hand as we run down the beach the kite pulling us upward. Powerful, truthful and real. It's some kind of magic as well as good writing.

Author's Reply:
I hadn't given as much thought to the imagery of kite flying before. There are certainly some interesting simile to be seen in the act, aren't there. Thank you for making me think about it in a new way, RD. Thank you too for the kind appraisal.


FINAL HORIZON (posted on: 03-02-06)
A specific instance of certainty...

Like motes of dust in my childlike eye we float, weave, glide and fly - in and out of a slanting sunlight beam. There are no words that need be said, for every moment was once an horizon; one of innumerable divisions that advanced day by day, hour by hour, and then passed by. I spin to the tune of the cosmic breath, glinting now and then in someone’s eye, and for this moment, however long - who can say – share this duet with you. Hand in hand, heart in heart, step in step, we spin our giddy pirouette - never wanting this mortal bliss to die. Hour by hour, blink by blink, sigh by sigh, the thin line between earth and sky thickens, and in the awful depths of a man’s despair my tummy trembles, my heartbeat quickens. Yet there is a calm, cool understanding, that this horizon was always there - while we danced with our eyes diverted. While we pranced along our streams of life with thoughts of our deaths averted, the unstoppable sand trickled softly away displacing itself both in time and space, ready for the moment when, with a twist, all time and space becomes inverted by some magnificent intercessory hand. Now that a veil of diaphanous and gaseous mist rolls over this point of separation, and the sky is lost in bright translucency, all I ask, my beloved, whilst I change to sand, is that you hold my cold and trembling hand and in these final moments of preparation believe with all your heart in our constancy... ...and in our certain perpetuation. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for FINAL HORIZON
Dargo77 on 03-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
Griffonner, I sincerely hope many other site members take the time to read this excellent piece of work. The flow in this poem is magical.
Regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Dargo. I am really pleased that you found merit in this. It took a long time to 'tweak' and every time I read it, there is another one to be made. When will it end? (I guess you know that feeling.)
*appreciatively* Griffonner

Bradene on 03-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
This is truly wonderful, I listened to it as I read and it was as though you were talking to me. The rhyming patten and rhythm was just right for the mood of the poem A great experience. You do this so well . Love Val x

Author's Reply:
Thank you so very much for your comment and rating, Val. As I said, this damn thing seems to suck me back and forward for tweaking, and for some reason won't leave me alone... even when I am quite 'solid' in my personal satisfaction with it (at the last time of reading!) I have just reached the understanding that this thing will never end, will never be completed, so decided to submit it at this stage... or perhaps... maybe if I just change....
*Decisively...?*
Griffonner

niece on 04-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
Beautiful, Griffonner! Deep thoughts which you've described so well!!!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
I'm pleased you enjoyed it, Niece. Thank you.

Kat on 04-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
Hi Griffoner

This is very beautiful and captures that 'specific instance of certainty' so skilfully - a delight to read.

Just one wee thing: what do you think of 'advanced' instead of 'pranced'?

But, no matter, a gorgeous read - thank you.

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Kat. Yeah, I know. Pranced is an unusual word, really, but I stuck with it because it referred back to the dance allusion. Thanks for the suggestion, though. *Affectionately* Griffonner

RDLarson on 07-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
Don't ever finish it -- it is meant to go on forever. A treasure of words.

Author's Reply:
Ahh! That's lovely. Thank you for those kind words.

"it is meant to go on forever" - how true... how very true.

With thanks,

Griffonner

Elfstone on 07-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
Fine work again Griffoner. This poem rewards several readings - so much in it, so much to gain from it. I particularly like the second last stanza - seems to fit my rather morbid mood at the moment. Elfstone.

Author's Reply:
Hi there, Elfstone. Thanks for commenting, you know I very much appreciate that. Sorry to hear about your morbid mood... evidently it strikes us all at some time or other, but then the sun comes out again. I wish for you that your sun starts shining right away. Regards, Griffonner

Abel on 08-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
"(B)elieve with all your heart in our constancy...
...and in our certain perpetuation. " Oh, my, what a fine ending...the rhythm permeates your wonderful imagery, written in a style more exception than rule these days. Thoroughly enjoyed this one, G.

Ward


Author's Reply:
Hello, Ward. Thanks for your kind appraisal of this piece, and I'm so pleased that you enjoyed it. Nothing can be better that to know that enjoyment came of reading something that you have written. Thank you again. Griffonner

Jen_Christabel on 09-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
I thought this was mighty fine.
I loved these lines....

all I ask, my beloved, whilst I change to sand,
is that you hold my cold and trembling hand

Beautiful flow to the whole poem.

Jennifer xx

Author's Reply:
Why, thank you, Jennifer. I'm delighted to hear from you and to know that you liked my poem.

teifii on 09-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
A wonderful parade of images. I like the rhythm and the unpredictable rhymes.
Favoutite couplet --all I ask, my beloved, whilst I change to sand,
is that you hold my cold and trembling hand

And don't change 'prancing'. On first reading that was what stuck in my mind.
I wish I could make audio work.
Daff

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Daff. "unpredicatable rhymes" - Ha, I love that! They were almost accidental, weren't they? I wish! Wouldn't it be lovely to write write something and have all those rhymes magically appear. I promise 'prancing' is staying - it is all part of the dance; the exaggerated part, where the couple use dance as spectacle. *grinning broadly* Griffonner

ClareHill on 09-02-2006
FINAL HORIZON
This brought tears to my eyes, what more can I say? Absolutely magical.

Author's Reply:
Hello Clare, how nice of you to tell me that. Thank you, and thank you for the generous rating too.
Kind regards, Griffonner


CLOUDS (posted on: 20-01-06)
A revolution; a time for change. And brother, it has taken far too long to arrive.

I looked out of the window. The sky had a strange appearance; above was an ominous grey cloud that stretched from the east to the west – as far as the eye could see. It had a straight, but fuzzy edge – like an advancing wave – and beyond that, ahead, towards the never ending north, was blue, blue sky. I wondered if it was a mirror of my life? Of where we are going? Sometimes, there is just such a boundary between love and hate, sadness and happiness, light and dark. In the coming of the night, when the sun slips lower and lower behind the threatening rain-clouds, and then, briefly, lights up your life from that tiny gap near the horizon, before descending, finally, in magnificent redness… Those brilliant moments can be worth a lifetime of tears. Once, I watched such a sunset; watched the sun’s magnificent and defiant farewell display. Spilling, first, impossible blue-pink edges to the clouds. Sky-Blue-Pink we named it… And then, with linear advance, deepening the blend of red until, like blood smeared over cloudy mountains, it was torn away, to fresher pastures; into other people’s lives. In the umbra of that moment, with the colour of your skin exaggerated by its redness, I saw again that I loved you. And in the rouge reflection in your eyes there was nothing but beauty; on your blooded lips, nothing but sweet softness. In your words, nothing but truth. And then, when the sun had disappeared, and we were left in the greying twilight, left beneath that dark grey cloud … I sensed her presence. She, who paints the trompe l’oeil of the friendly mother-in-law onto her crocodile’s snout. She with the fire-lit eyes and the burning passion of hatred. Her overpowering, oppressive, weighty cloud pressing down upon our love, and like that cloud’s edge, through the window, a wave, waiting to douse the flames of our passion and our love. A wedge waiting for a niche into which to be driven. We were young enough to disregard; to brush away the bitter words, the jibes, the cutting remarks, the interference, the disharmony, the arguments, the ‘show offs’. Yet, did we? For her presence was unbroken, her ever present need unspoken but shown in acrid plumes of smoke that arose from behind us, spat from narrow jealous lips, and hammered in by her beak - like a tattooist’s pen tap, tap, tapping into our irritated flesh. She is even less subtle now: Age may appear, at times, to have mellowed her attacks, but then again, she speaks: to make hideous noises about you; veiled remarks, accusations; pulls faces behind your back. Grants you unrequested, and undeserved, rites of a slave. Lies with accustomed ease, stabs with practiced pecks, and blindly turns a son’s love to dust. Out of the window I see the grey cloud rolling back; exposing more northern sky. Having passed the border between the grey cloud and the blue sky, I am tearing myself away from her. I am freeing you and I. After all these years, finally ceasing to turn the fabled, and very bruised, cheek once more. Her apron strings are severed, and hang, useless, from her hands. I have finally found the justification and the strength, to turn the key that opens up the cage, and together we are free to fly under that bright and blue, blue sky, that extends onwards in all directions, forever. © 2006 Griffonner
Archived comments for CLOUDS
Dargo77 on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
Griffonner, I found this to be first class. If I had to pick a favourite section of your excellent poem, the following lines would be my favourites:
'After all these years, finally ceasing
to turn the fabled,
and very bruised, cheek once more'

So worthy of the nib, a nomination and a Fav. Read.
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Dargo. I am honoured by your comments. Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know your opinion of this piece. The first comment after I return from several weeks absence, and such a lovely one. Cheers, my friend.

red-dragon on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
Grifoner, almost two poems in one, here, I think, yet you build your picture up with consumate skill. I have missed your poetry, so it is good to see you return with such a strong and vibrant offering! ann

Author's Reply:
Yes, Ann. You've seen straight through me again! I even considered making two separate sound recordings. So lovely to hear from you, and I'm delighted that you enjoyed. *appreciatively*

Lare on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
Hi Griffoner...what a beautiful and poignant way to create a magnificent painting of nature and clouds...and...life. Clouds have the natural ability of being inspiring...this poem accomplishes all the ingredients that make up life's new beginnings...beautiful beginnings...in beautiful textures...in glorious clouds...

Lare


Author's Reply:
As usual, Lare, you overwhelm me with your words. Thank you

Bradene on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
wow. A brave and somehow beautiful piece. The images you paint are undoubtedly beautiful but there is also an ugly sub text that you bring off with such skill A great piece of writing Well done. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
Ah, Val. Thank you so much for that. You know I greatly appreciate your appraisal. Thank you.

Author's Reply:

Elfstone on 20-01-2006
CLOUDS
Griffoner I have so many responses to this piece that I hardly know what to say. This is such an obviously personal piece that perhaps better to say nothing, but I wanted you to know that I had read and that I continue in my profound admiration for your writing.
Elfstone.

Author's Reply:
I should really just try and paint the picture of me sitting here - having read your comment - at my PC, with my jaw dropped... with my mouth wide open. I don't think I have the words to respond except to thank you for your words and your kindness.

Kat on 21-01-2006
CLOUDS
I can so relate to the feelings expressed in your wonderful and heartfelt poem, Griffoner...It seems like you have a good handle on the 'situation'...My best wishes to you and yours.

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Hello, Kat. Thank you for reading and commenting. As ever, you are very insightful. *Appreciatively*

niece on 24-01-2006
CLOUDS
Griffonner,
So nice to see you back---and your poem is sad, but lovely! Sometimes it is very difficult to explain some things, and yet we keep hoping thing will change, but it never does!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
It is great to be back, dear friend. Clouds can be the tools of daydreamers, can't they? But this cloud - which I saw in real life, while I was away - was so unreal, so strange, it literally placed the whole concept in my mind.

One of my favourite sayings (accredited to some bloke called Griffonner, or something) is that nothing ever stays the same. Unfortunately, in concurrence with your remark, that doesn't mean that things always change for the better! In this case, one thing will never change for the better, but my love will. *grins*

Ionicus on 24-01-2006
CLOUDS
Dear Scribbler, what an excellent piece. The imagery is absolutely superb. It is only when the poem progresses that we understand what the 'ominous grey cloud' stands for and the longed-for freedom is hinted at by the lines:

'and beyond that, ahead,
towards the never ending north,
was blue, blue sky.'

The hate-love relationship between son and mother, protective yet interfering, and the severing of the apron strings shows how the emotional conflict is finally resolved.
Well done Monsieur.
Best regards, Luigi.

Author's Reply:
Luigi, thank you so much for that. How nice of you to let me know your opinion of this, and in such a insightful way - you even translated my pseudonym! Cheers, my friend.

HelenRussell on 24-01-2006
CLOUDS
Griffoner,
I started reading this expecting something all together different, but when the tone changed I was sucked in even more.
I could understand every image, every emotion that you were pouring into it, particularly the severing of the apron strings. Finding the strength to do so can be hard, but so worthwhile in the end.
A 10 from me for expressing this so vividly.

Sarah

Author's Reply:
Thank you so much for your comment, Sarah. And for the rating; that was very generous of you. I am empowered and encouraged by your assertation regarding the benefit of cutting the strings. It is, nevertheless, a really hard thing to do for a sentimental old sausage like moi! *Appreciatively*

Yutka on 24-01-2006
CLOUDS
Hello Griffoner,
When I heard your voice I really felt your poem coming alive. Great work.
Yutka:)

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to comment, Yutka. I respect this, very much. I am delighted that you found this piece worthy of such a wonderfully generous appraisal. You do me a great honour. *Blushing*

Leila on 26-01-2006
CLOUDS
Now this is a very interesting poem, a poem of contrasts and you achieved that well and the resolution at the end. You could pick out verses of this e.g verse 2 and it would stand alone. You packed a lot of emotion into that second last verse and the last line is excellent. It would be really interesting to make two separate poems out of this...but I ramble...well done on the nib and the top 5 spot...L

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Leila, for such a helpful and detailed comment.
It is interesting, because I did look at this at one point with a view to making it three separate poems - and in my mind's eye I saw them like movements in a concerto. When I tried it out, though, I realised that there would be no way that I could ensure readers would make the connections, and for me, the simbiosis between the moods was at the heart of it.
Thank you again.

skinnyscot on 26-01-2006
CLOUDS
this i think is the best piece of work i have read on this site. I love the picture you paint and the story you tell. A very sad yet common tale. I am so glad that the hero has the power to cut those apron strings and get on with living and loving. A mothers love is indeed a very powerful tool and weapon. thank you so much for this, I have, and will enjoy reading it again and again

Catriona

Author's Reply:
Catriona - what a lovely name, thank you for your kind remarks.
I am a great believer in things having their own cycle, and believe that the poignancy of a poem - or a piece of prose, come to that - can have more efficacy when it matches something in the cycle of the reader. Sometimes that is down to nothing but luck, or so it seems. Yet I am sure there is a 'group mood' or perhaps 'fashion' (for want of a better expression) that causes there to be a greater empathy at times.
I don't believe that love can ever be a power for negativity or destruction. But the idea of love, having passed through the mind of man (or woman), now that's a different ball game!
Lots of love and thanks for your valued appreciation.


A Nightingale Sang in Tesco's Square (posted on: 02-12-05)
I first put this forward at the time of the post-Tsunami charity drive, last January. I used it then in an effort to raise donations. But now I've revised some of it, I thought it deserved a seasonal airing: ------o------

'I don’t know… you come home from your firm’s do – obviously a little merry, had a few too many drinks – and THEN ... you insist on a glass of wine with the sandwiches no less! … I know it’s Christmas, but you're getting older and you can’t take it like you used to ... You need to take more water with it!’ Damn cheek! I thought. ‘Well get your coat on. We planned to do the final shopping this afternoon, and that’s just what we’re going to do. I want to get everything back here so I have time to get ready for the party.’ Oh yes. The party! I supposed I would have to put up with her Aunt Lizzy and the other vultures again! What I couldn’t understand was why I couldn’t find the sleeve hole in my jacket …. ‘I’ll drive,’ she announced, once we were outside. I slumped comfortably into the passenger seat, and closed my eyes. I certainly didn’t feel in the slightest bit merry – in the alcoholic sense of the word, that is. The best course of action seemed to be to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the peace and quiet while she drove the car. (She never speaks while she’s driving.) So, to cut a long story short... a little later, there I was, minding my own business – to use a well worn cliche - just pushing a trolley through the entrance to Tesco. For a welcoming change this was not a feat requiring much dexterity or determination, as, for once in my life, I had chosen a chariot without even one wonky wheel. Come to think about it, that fact alone could have been a portent for this being a very special moment in time. And herald too, the fact that I was about to experience one of those super important instants in life; one of those that don’t come along too often. ... Rattle … rattle … rattle … No, not bottles of Christmas spirit in the trolley, since I hadn’t even entered the store at this point: It was a Salvation Army collection tin being thrust in my general direction. … Rattle … rattle … rattle … A tambourine started. I must confess my first reaction was to scuttle into the heaving throng; a throng of other pre-Christmas lunatics who had also chosen to engage in the Xmas shopping battle at such a late stage. But then she began to sing…. ...Sleigh bells ring, are you listening… From the moment I heard her vocal chords skipping through the words and notes - like water tinkling its way prettily along a pebble-lined river bed – I was astounded by its magnificence. …In the lane, snow is glistening… In retrospect I just don’t know what got into me: here was an opportunity to stop, stand still, and feast myself on the spectacle of a nightingale … no, an angel ... singing in Tesco’s square, and yet my wife’s need to shop, her female genetic drive to be the bargain hunter/gatherer, and to thrust herself into the unsavoury soup of fellow nutcases, all simultaneously grasping for the last parsnip, was stronger than my artistic and emotional need. … A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight … We have probably all had this egotistical thought at some time or other, I reckon. Normally I would have discarded it for its obvious absurdity, but at that moment, I actually imagined that I alone had recognised this girl as being the answer to Simon Cowell’s prayers. I’m right, aren’t I? I bet at some time or other you have, while walking along the High Street, been passed by a vision of loveliness that you immediately knew would be the next Claudia Schiffer ... if only you really were a fashion model talent scout. Well, anyway, I didn’t stop. My wife evidently didn’t share my blinding flash of talent recognition, and so I followed my leader and allowed her to hustle me forward, the pair of us becoming swallowed up in the heaving mass. However, even in the wine and spirit section - the most distant one from their entrance doors - the babble of sound that accompanies this annual swarming of humans, around the nectar of beers, wines and spirits, couldn’t drown out her dulcet tones. Even there, amid the tinkle of glass, and the satisfying clunk of cases of Heineken being dumped onto already groaning trolleys, I could hear her voice. It was like the fabled call of a mermaid.... ...Oh the weather outside is frightful… ‘She really has a good voice, don’t you think?’ I ventured to "She who Must be Obeyed". ‘Mmmm,’ she responded absent-mindedly, whilst checking her yard-long shopping list. ‘Now, have I forgotten anything...?’ We hurried - well, I did really, and as I had assumed my usual role of being the master-trolley-pusher, I was able to dictate the pace - towards the entrance. Unfortunately, by the time we reached it, the accompanying band and my angel singer had disappeared into McDonald's for a well-earned break. But, fate had decreed that it was not to be the last I was to hear of her, as, once we had unloaded this trolley-full into the boot of the car, we headed back for a second foray, this time into Marks and Spencer. In my mind's eye, as I recount this to you, I can see her standing there, microphone in hand, smiling slightly nervously to someone she recognised, as the opening chords of the next carol were struck up by the gaggle of musicians behind her. For just one brief moment our eyes met, and I was suddenly convinced that we had met before - a long while ago. She even smiled at me, but I fancied it was all an illusion, we were, after all, generations apart. ...Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more… And all through the vast, enlarged and refurbished M&S her voice tormented me with tit-bits of ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas’. Apart from the first few lines of the carol which I knew very well, the remaining phrases were just enticing, enchanting vagaries, which danced through my mind as mysteriously as legendary elementals flitting amid flowers – their silver wings and the prettiness of their dresses dragging a sparkle trail behind them … while we searched for suitable socks, gloves, hankies and other last-minute gifts to further burden the already sagging Christmas tree. For some reason, the refrain ‘… gather near to us once more…’ echoed through my head and tumbled my tummy. And it continued to do that throughout the following restless night, when her voice echoed through my head in replay. It stood at the periphery of my senses, in that no man’s land where memory of sound is neither real or imagined, neither truly heard or spoken. …Gather near to us once more… ‘God, you were fidgeting in bed last night!’ exclaimed my spouse, dumping, rather noisily, a plateful of toast on the breakfast table. ‘What on earth was wrong? I suppose it was all that booze you drank, yesterday?’ …Through the years we all will be together… My angel was already fading from my mind’s eye as the milk poured over my Crackle Pops. Did I really think I’d met her before? ‘It was that girl singer with the Salvation Army…. She was inside my head singing a carol all night,’ I answered bravely. ‘I wondered why you had been so generous. But after last night, I can’t say I’m actually very s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e-d!’ …If the Fates allow… ‘Generous?’ I asked, amid the torturous jungle drums that munching crispy Crackle Pops produced inside my hung over head. ‘A fiver! My god, a fiver! It was pretty obvious! You couldn’t keep your eyes off her!’ …Hang a shining star upon the highest bough… ‘What do you mean?’ There was a pregnant pause while her eyes investigated mine across the table. ‘You fancied her didn’t you?’ she accused. ‘I wondered why you put a fiver in the collection box and then afterwards ... at the Party…’’ She spat the 'p' out with venomous invective. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, she was young enough to be my granddaughter! She just had the most amazing voice,’ I interjected quickly. She continued with her investigative stare. Then, suddenly, she laughed out loud. A laugh that somehow delivered an ‘I'm sorry for you’ message. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’ ‘Remember? ... Remember what?’ ‘You spent the entire evening talking to her... ogling her bottom, and other… bits! Imagine, your own favourite nephew’s girlfriend!’ Her investigative look had by then metamorphosed into her dreadful accusative stare... eyes wide open like a Maori preparing for battle…. ‘What? … Who? … When?’ My innocence being absolutely genuine, as I had no memory of the party whatsoever. Gordon’s girlfriend? No, it couldn’t be. I met her when I bumped into them in the ‘Green Jacket’ pub, last week.... And that's when it all came together: that's where I'd seen her before! And, now that I came to think about it, I did vaguely remember a rather curvy brunette at the party. She had a rather attractive laugh... like water tinkling its way prettily along a …. ‘Ohhhhh!……’ The sound came out of my mouth in a long, low, extended form, and completely without prior thought. I suppose it was more of a groan really. Maybe she’s right ... I’ll take some more water with it in future. … And have yourself a merry little Christmas now…
Archived comments for A Nightingale Sang in Tesco's Square
niece on 02-12-2005
A Nightingale Sang in Tescos Square
Griffonner,
The ending took me entirely by surprise...I was thinking of past life, etc...Excellent !
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you Niece. I have one, as you anticipated, in the pipe-line πŸ™‚

Jen_Christabel on 02-12-2005
A Nightingale Sang in Tescos Square
A might fine read there Griffonner :o)
Deserved nibby!
Jen x

Author's Reply:
You are very kind, Jen. I'm really grateful for your comment, and appraisal.
Ciao

Jolen on 20-12-2005
A Nightingale Sang in Tescos Square
Oh Griffonner !
How happy I am to be reading your work again. Congrats on the nib and you sure are a story teller. Now there's several questions I have but the main one, is "like water tinkling its way prettily along a …." tinkling its way where?? LOL
This was fun and familiar.....lol

Happy Holidays dearheart.
blessings,
JolenImage hosted by Photobucket.com


Author's Reply:
Thank you, Jolen. I'm glad to have you back reading again, and so very pleased that you enjoyed the story. Have a happy holiday too. I'm back at our UK home at the moment, and missing France with a vengeance!! But it is just for the hols. Thanks again for your comments. Speak with you again soon.


THE WISH (posted on: 11-11-05)
Just some of my cellophane ribbons...

Like cellophane ribbons intermingled in a fluid cosmic breeze, they ripple and cascade over and around the far off glistening stars. These are the strands of my memories that have left this mind, and which, now travel on forever, never dying, never ceasing to exist. Speak a word and hear your voice reverberate off valley walls. Echoes that continue - though diminishing - until you cannot hear them with such insensitive ears. But the sound? It is there. Transmit a picture by modulating a simple vibration. Then detect its progress: some of it reflecting down from the heaviside layer, much of it, however, continuing on, outwards and onwards to join cellophane ribbons. In a caldron, pour seven trillion mixed free atoms. Add to this the kiss of the creator’s wish, one single strand of DNA, and hey presto: the mixture will coagulate, and it will form… her… She will change, you will change, and after so many changes - at a molecular level - one or both of you will need… another kiss... will feel tired... will seek the comfort of the caldron once again. Seven trillion mixed free atoms seeking new employment…. But the wish? Ah! That goes on for ever. © 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for THE WISH
tai on 11-11-2005
THE WISH
What a lovely cosmic concoction you conjure Griffonner! And so romantic you make it too. 10 from a star gazer Tai

Author's Reply:
Thanks for such a nice appraisal, Tai... and the rating. You are very kind.

Kat on 12-11-2005
THE WISH
Beautiful, magical writing, Griffoner!

All the best to you.

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Kat. I appreciate that, as it was a step into a new realm for me - trying to combine the scientific with the mystical.

Dargo77 on 13-11-2005
THE WISH
Whoever chose this as a Great Read... got it dead right.
Wonderful poem.
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Dargo. That is very kind of you. As I've said, it was a step in a different direction for me, so I'm especially appreciative of you having taken the time to comment. Cheers.

teifii on 14-11-2005
THE WISH
Wonderful image - cellophane ribbons. Cellophane is so much nicer than plastic. I envy you the availability of scientific knowledge to incorporate. And you do it so well.
Daff

Author's Reply:
Thanks for your comments, Daff. There will be those who would question the concept of vibrations going on for ever in the scientific world. The idea, they would say, is fine, but in practice how would you create something sensitive enough to detect them? And there, swiftly moving over to the mystic side, I would rest my case. πŸ˜‰

niece on 15-11-2005
THE WISH
Dear Griffonner,
Such beautiful thoughts and words!...and what a lovely poem!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you, dear niece. I'm really pleased that you enjoyed this. I tried my best to make words describing less emotional things as 'smooth' as possible.

karenuk on 15-11-2005
THE WISH
Lovely - enjoyed the audio too πŸ™‚
Karen xx

Author's Reply:
Lovely to hear from you, Karen. Thank you for your kind words.

BlueyedSoul on 15-11-2005
THE WISH
I am a confirmed Griffonner devotee...i feel humbled even speaking to you....you are one awesome soul and your work is incredible....as always....and you are so gracious.

~Cindy (gushing)

Author's Reply:
Cindy, Cindy, Cindy... whay can I say. It is lovely to hear from someone who enjoys my writing... I just wish I had the same opinion of myself! You are very kind. I am very unworthy. *Blushing*

Abel on 18-11-2005
THE WISH
Simply beautiful, Griffoner. I can't do it any justice. Really an 11...

Ward

Author's Reply:
That's really kind of you, Ward. I've always wanted an eleven! *grins broadly*

Jolen on 20-11-2005
THE WISH
Oh Griffonner, What a beautiful piece, and the poem is damn fine too!! LoL, sorry, had to take that one... Simply wonderful and very worthy of the highest praise...

I wouldn't mind that 11 either.. for the poem, silly boy!!!!

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Hi Jolen, I'm so please you like it. *mischievous grin*

Lare on 24-11-2005
THE WISH
Your words, Griffonner, are like fine pieces of silk woven perfectly to form near perfect thought. Simply put, my friend, a damn fine piece of writing which could only be perfectly capped at the end, "But the wish?
Ah! That goes on for ever."

Just me, Lare

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Lare. You grant far too much esteem to my words. I thank you for taking the time to give me your appraisal, and it is great to know that you found enjoyment in reading it.
Griff

Elfstone on 02-01-2006
THE WISH
Only just beginning to catch up with reading in here - December was a tough month :-((. I'm sorry I missed this gem when it was posted, I am a great admirer of your work and this is no exception.

Elfstone.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for such a lovely comment, Elfstone. I'm away from home at the moment, so my visits to UKA are very infrequent. This was a smashing thing to find. I'm really pleased that you liked it.
Griff


When there was morning light (posted on: 21-10-05)
In retrospect, I should have phrased that her existence weighted the balance in favour of good ... but then it wouldn't have been the same, would it?

Across the darkened mushrooms, almost crisp, loving words and thoughts were shone. Halcyon days that are lost in the mist of time - words breathed into a thick air. A touch - reached across the table of life - just moving the quiff on a schoolboy's brow. Her hand an eiderdown of love and care. Lips imparting secrets there. Lost, now. The smell of smoke on a light Summer's day drifting in and out of rooms. The scales of life adjusted by her existence, balancing the bad with good, she brought - with her smouldering tea-towel - laughter into my mother's dour front room. Her smile a marshmallow of fun and play. Sunshine in every day - with her. The thud of fear in my trembling belly. One or two words too many .... A child, barely grown into early teenage years, prematurely speaks with men, and puts - with quite some unassuming ease - a foot firmly between his pair of lips. Her pain a needle ever in my mind. Sorrow at last defined - but way ... ... too late. © 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for When there was morning light
red-dragon on 21-10-2005
When there was morning light
Exquisite in its embroidery of fine images. Deserving of a nib IMO. Ann

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Ann. What a lovely thing to say. I'm really pleased you enjoyed this.

karenuk on 21-10-2005
When there was morning light
Some beautiful imagery and use of vocabulary there. I especially loved 'reached across the table of life' and 'smouldering tea-towel' and ' foot firmly between his pair of lips'. Very clever poem, but also flows well and never seems contrived. Beautiful work!
Karen xx

Author's Reply:
Thank you Karen. Well, if there is one thing you can be assured of it is that this wasn't contrived; every word was the God's honest truth. Thank you for letting me know what you thought.

Kat on 21-10-2005
When there was morning light
Hi Griffoner

A beautiful poem, very skilfully evoked. Particularly liked your imagery and especially:

'Her hand an eiderdown of love and care.'

and

'Her smile a marshmallow of fun and play.'

Cheers

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Kat, for that lovely appraisal. It is terrific to hear that you enjoyed it.

shackleton on 21-10-2005
When there was morning light
Enjoyed your poem, Griffonner. I love anything which alludes to halcyon days. Your poem has an ethereal quality to it. Good stuff! Take care now.

Author's Reply:
Me too. Halcyon days are the only things that are completed and round; I think because they have been assimilated and understood (as best we can understand this experience.)

Apolloneia on 22-10-2005
When there was morning light
Must agree with Tai-Li in regard to symbolic realism and indeed beautiful imagery here and I can relate to halcyon days too. One of your best I think. Nicoletta πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:
*bows down to floor and kisses Nicoletta 's virtual feet*
*big grin*
*blushing face*

rania on 22-10-2005
When there was morning light
I could only resound what other have commented already..
Beautifully written and so magically read as well..

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Rania. I'm really pleased that you liked this. Thank you for letting me know.

I must confess that I wasn't satisfied with my stupid voice on the recording and have written out a thoursand times, 'I must do better'.

Elfstone on 22-10-2005
When there was morning light
Again I am late and again it has all been said; this is outstanding work. Have I just discovered you in a 'purple patch' or is all your work of this quality? (Making a mental note to dip into your page.) We can all learn from you Griffoner. Elfstone.

Author's Reply:
I'm the one doing the learning, Elfstone. But I'm really pleased to hear that you liked this.

tai on 23-10-2005
When there was morning light
Hi Griff, a lovely memory, portrayed in your usual fine language. Well done on the GR and Nomination.

9 from me.

Smiling

Tai

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Tai. (And I wanted to say how nice the new hairdo is.)

niece on 23-10-2005
When there was morning light
So beautiful and so visual, Griffoner...loved the imagery!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you so much for your appraisal, Niece. I much appreciate it.

Sunken on 23-10-2005
When there was morning light
Well done on the nib Mr. Giriffonner. I can't really add anything to what's already been said. I just wanted to say that it is truly worthy of that there nib. Congrats.

s
u
n
k
e
n

also available in autumn

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Sunken. I very much value your appraisal.

RoyBateman on 23-10-2005
When there was morning light
Really lovely - not a relationship that's often written about, and that alone makes it unusual and gripping.Very well written indeed, and though it's obviously very personal you convey the mood superbly.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, I'm really very grateful, and so pleased that you enjoyed it.

skinnyscot on 25-10-2005
When there was morning light
This is lovely, it so easy to write about those whom we love, but you have done this with great dignity and respect, which shows through your command of vocabulary, and beautiful imagery ie, 'her hand an eiderdown of love and car' thank you for this journey into your childhood
Catriona

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Catriona. She deserved respect and dignity, so it was easy. *Smiling*

teifii on 25-10-2005
When there was morning light
I think it's all been said, bit I must add my appreciation. The imagery is wonderful and it flows beautifully as well. The enigma at the end is perfect -- keep 'em guessing.
Daff

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Daff. I very much appreciate your comment.
With much respect, Griffonner.

littleditty on 26-10-2005
When there was morning light
Thank you Griffonner - how beautiful - xxxlittleditty x

Author's Reply:
No. Thank you, littledittty - for telling me your impression of this piece. It has, to some extent, surprised me how well this has been viewed, considering that there is a great deal hinted at, and very little explained, within its lines.

Jolen on 06-11-2005
When there was morning light
Well hell dear!
Everyone here said all of the things I would say. Congrats on both nibs, they are most definately deserved. This is so very moving and once again, I would reiterate, your imagery is wonderful and fresh. Which, as you know, is rather hard to do at times, but you brought us some very fresh images, graceful, sweet, moving and so eloquent. An excellent poem.

Blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Hi, Jolen. Nice of you to have stopped by and commented... such lovely words, too. Thank you. I'm really pleased you liked them. *hugs*

Lare on 21-11-2005
When there was morning light
Hi Griffonner...thank you for sharing this. A very beautiful write. I agree 100%...words and vocabulary are woven perfectly to paint very nice imagery...and the mention of halcyon days was a perfect droplett of rainbow to bring a nostalgic smile...very well done...

Lare

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Lare. That was a lovely appraisal to start my day with *smiles* I'm so pleased that you enjoyed the piece.


So then you held my hand ... (posted on: 10-10-05)
... and showed me the heavens …

------o------


… so then you held my hand and showed me the heavens … I had never seen before ... never seen so many stars. We watched their progress across the velvet sky - as mystical, dark, and deep, as your sparkling eyes - and waited for the miracle that we knew would come. An electric air surrounded us, charged by a million volts that crackled, fizzed, and waited to be breathed. … I knew there would be angels somewhere close at hand … Their feathers gently fanning a divine sensation. A harmless flame against our skin, setting light a bright new star which bore our names; just yours and mine. A million lustrous butterflies – as soft as down - descended into our bellies and lent their pearlescent wings to our trembling hearts - waiting to be joined.             … I did not fear the passing of such ecstasy … And when the shooting stars had all spent their million sparks and I thought I knew you in every way - the layers of passion peeled away, understood - my eyes opened upon a velvet soul, ever young, that was larger and deeper than the heavens, brighter than stars, and it joined with me - waiting to be born. © 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for So then you held my hand ...
Bradene on 10-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
wow! Griffoner, this had me reaching for my blood pressure pills Lol. Wonderful poetry, superb imagery. A masterful piece all round. Love Val xx

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the comment, Bradene. I'm really pleased you liked it.

skinnyscot on 10-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
If only someone could write like that for me
Stunningly beautiful
rated 10

Author's Reply:
Your wish could be my command, skinnyscot
*cheeky grin*

chrissy on 10-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
I loved this. Beautifully written with too many glorious images and words to single any thing out. The whole piece just flows.
chrissy

Author's Reply:
You don't have to single out anything for me, Chrissy. Just getting feedback is manna for my heart. Thank you for commenting, and I'm really pleased that you found enjoyment from reading it.


niece on 11-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Dear Griffonner,
This was just wonderful...like a beautiful dream!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
So pleased you liked it, Niece. Thank you for letting me know. Love can be just as inexplicable as a dream sometimes, I think. Also as multifaceted.

red-dragon on 12-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
I echo all the above - a sincere poem that is beautifully written. Ann

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Ann. I much appreciate you having taken the time to comment, and I'm really pleased that you liked it. *smiling*

Apolloneia on 12-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
I wouldn't change a thing, this is a poem full of all those beautiful thoughts that special people or just special dreams inspire poets. Excellent flow and there is a feeling of calmness in this. Nic

Author's Reply:
As you know, I really appreciate your appraisal. You have made my day, Nicoletta. Thank you.

Gerry on 13-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Griff, this was a superb poem and brilliantly narrated.
Well done...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the comment, Gerry. You do me a great honour with your adjectives.

eddiesolo on 14-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Wonderful write Griff.
A real pleasure to read and hear this piece.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Si. I very much value your appraisal, and I'm really pleased that you enjoyed this.

BlueyedSoul on 15-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Hello Griffonner,
This is the very first piece I have read on here that has moved me to tears...such passion and intensity....I adore this one.
Thanks for moving me .....heart,soul and mind.
~Cindy

Author's Reply:
Hello Cindy,

I am honoured on two counts, then; firstly for being your premiere port of call, and for your precious time in telling me what you thought. I'm truly appreciative on both counts.
*honoured*
Griffonner

tai on 16-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Beautiful. Simply beautiful Griff.

10 from me

enraptured

Tai

Author's Reply:
Thank you so very much, Tai. I'm really grateful for your generousity.

rania on 19-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
Wow..The poem is absolutely enchanting..And hearing you read it yourself only makes it more captivating..
So eloquently written and read;)



Author's Reply:
Thank you, dear Rania. Once again I find myself saying that you are very kind. You know, especially, how nice it is to hear that a reader enjoys your work. *hugs*

Elfstone on 19-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
I've only just caught up with this G and I'm so glad I did; it is beautiful, just beautiful. One of the best poems I've read in nearly 2 years on this site. Elfstone.

(I haven't used/listened to the audio facility here yet, but I think I am going to wait this time for the 1.7mb download [which on my computer will take, oh, 2 or 3 days maybe!] to listen to this). E.

Author's Reply:
I am so very pleased that you enjoyed this, E. I am sorry that my audio has its faults - I was a little too close to the microphone. I plan to re record it when I get time. I do hope the days of waiting will be rewarded with at least a little pleasure. πŸ˜‰

karenuk on 28-10-2005
So then you held my hand ...
That's beautiful and romantic. For me, the poem read better without the single lines, but I'm sure other people preferred it with the lines. Oh, 'your's' should be 'yours'. But anyway, apart from my petty niggling, it was another magical piece of writing and contains some lovely description and lines I wish I had written, especially 'crackled, fizzed, and waited to be breathed.' and the last 3 lines of the second stanza.
Karen xx


Author's Reply:
Thank you, Karen. I have edited the error of my ways. Glad you liked it otherwise.

Jolen on 06-11-2005
So then you held my hand ...
OH Griffonner,

I just got back from a pc crash, and what a joy to come back to such beautiful work as this. I about melted with your stunning imagery. And your read? OH my goodness, what a voice. mmmmm

Thanks for making my day more beautiful.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
I just logged on and saw your comment. Thank you for making my morning start in such a lovely way.


TIME WAS.... (posted on: 30-09-05)
Sometimes life can seem very cruel.

-----o-----




She looked at me with sorrowful eyes. There was something in them that told me she thought her time was coming to an end and was searching my soul for some confirmation. I glanced away quickly and busied myself with the rake, scratching haphazard lines in the grass and pulling the early fallen leaves into rows of little banks; line after line of gold and hazel on the emerald green lawn. It was difficult avoiding that eye contact. We had known one another for a lifetime. We had grown to love one another very deeply. She trusted me implicitly. Avoiding this conversation between our eyes made me feel mendacious. It wasn’t a nice feeling. I glanced at my watch. It was just after two in the afternoon. Our appointment was for half-past-four. How was I going to avoid this silent communication for another two hours? That’s all it ever would be: silent. Mainly because most of all she wanted this illness not to exist. Failing that, she wanted to have faith it was going to go away. And finally, at the bottom of the pile of deviations from any frank admission was the hope that the end was still way out of sight - way over the rainbow. It wasn’t. I knew that, and when I once asked her how she felt about it she remained silent, turned, and walked away from me. Not only ignoring my question, but clearly telling me, in her own inimitable way, that she wished the subject never to be raised again. I honoured her wishes; even on our visits to get the progress of the disease checked out. I’d bring the cards confirming our next appointment home with me and leave them available for anyone to read, on the hall table. I didn’t bring them to her attention, knowing she would become aware and on the appointed day would acquiesce. There would be no charade or game play – if for no other reason than because she hadn’t the energy for such things. She would not avoid those appointments; she would meekly place herself within my hands, and let me guide her towards more well-meaning advice as to how the inevitable could be delayed – if at all possible. Until today. It hurt me greatly: imagining how my life was going to be changed when the time came for her to leave. There was no getting away from it, this illness was terminal. There was no known cure – not anywhere… anywhere in the whole, wide, world. I wondered how she viewed it? Did she see herself as I thought I might in her position: hurtling towards a sheet of glass that sympathetically grew thinner day by day, so that, at the appointed time, when she collided with it – her destiny – it would break softly, like a bubble, and let her gently through to the other side? My raking moved me gradually away from her. When I had moved about fifteen meters, I stopped raking and lifted myself into an upright stance so as to straighten my back. Then I leisurely looked up at the sky whilst slightly arching myself backwards. These actions were all delaying tactics. I would have to look at her eventually. I couldn’t avoid eye contact for ever. When I straightened, I lowered my head so that I would be looking directly at her, and fixed upon my face as natural a smile as I could conjur. She was just sitting there looking at me. I wasn’t sure if she was squinting or pretending to be asleep, but I could see the sparkle of her glassy eyes from between her almost closed eyelids. Her facial expression didn’t change to acknowledge my smile, or for my having looked. ‘I think I’ll go and make a cup of coffee.’ I announced, feeling a little embarrassed. Again there was no reaction. The illness had slowed her down. Gone were all signs of her vitality. She didn’t eat at all well; just nibbling at little bits and pieces on her plate, then pushing around the remainder as if she could rearrange it so as to disguise the reality of how much she was leaving. She would look tired all the time, even though she tried to disguise that too. She had done that when I said I was going out to rake the grass: going ahead of me, sauntering nonchalantly out of the patio doors with a slight swagger. But I could see that her gait was false - there was a very slight pause between her steps. Through our years together, she often stayed close by me. We gained great comfort in one another’s companionship. But in the recent weeks, she hardly left my side. I wondered if it was because she was fearful of dying somewhere on her own, alone? It was the reason, I supposed, which most explained her behaviour. But I never made comment about it, thinking this to be more kind … to just accept, and to be there for her. Back inside the kitchen I picked up the kettle and filled it at the tap beneath the window. I could see her in the garden. She had hardly moved. Her head was now just slightly tilted down, and there was no sign her eyes were even partly open. Seeing her weakened like that brought me tears, so I feigned a huge sneeze in case she should get up, come indoors, and see watery eyes. She didn’t come. It was just as well: this time the tears were a little difficult for me to control. Through them, I saw, by the kitchen clock, time had advanced: It was now half-past-three. My stomach turned over, and I felt a rush of adrenaline flush itself through my body as I realised there was only another half-hour before we should leave. I took our drinks out into the garden, placing the creamy one down beside her. Then I sat on the wall beside her chair and began sipping my hot, strong coffee. ‘Nearly time to go. We’ll just have these drinks and then get going… Okay?’ She opened her eyes and looked directly at me again - with that look that caused me to avoid her gaze an hour or so ago. This time I didn’t glance away. This time I cowardly smiled at her from behind my cup. She closed her eyes as if simply luxuriating in the warmth of the sun. She didn’t answer. I was certain that she felt her time was coming. She had hardly spoken a word for the entire day. Her condition was much worse.
-----o-----
When we arrived at the clinic, a male receptionist told me to take a seat while he took her into the other room. She didn’t look around. It was as I knew it would be: acquiescence right to the end. I had brought her here and so she would simply accept that it was what was needed; what was best. Her absolute trust was destroying me inside, and on top of that I was incredibly nervous. Half-past-four in the afternoon. Only another half-hour and the family would be arriving at home. My two daughters would be getting off the college bus right now, then they'd walk the short distance home from the stop. The receptionist returned with the surgeon. ‘Would you like to come in, Sir?’ I got up, and walked hesitantly behind him through the doorway not knowing what to expect on the other side. She was laying on the examination table. A young lady wearing a white coat was gently smoothing her shoulder. ‘I thought it would be better for both of you… if you were present.’ He said. 'Yes...' I answered weakly. Not at all sure it would be better. God, this wasn’t what I had imagined at all! I wasn’t sure what I had imagined, and now that the moment came when we were both facing this final parting my mind sought to find reasons why it should be stopped. I walked slowly towards her. Her eyes were fixed upon me. I looked down at my watch again, as if I could find some reason, by way of the time, to have this thing stopped. It was, however, in the end, just a nervous reaction. We had gone too far along this pathway to stop it now. When we had discussed this… this euthanasia… I don’t think any of us realised the reality of our coming face to face, second by second, with those final moments before all life would be drained from her body.
-----o-----
He was standing close behind her holding the syringe up to the light. A tiny fountain of crystal drops spurted and sparkled into the air as he adjusted the volume of clear liquid. It was then I realised I had been thinking I could hide behind this man; he would deliver the injection away from my sight and thus obviate me from ever having direct knowledge of her final moments. For another time that afternoon, I found myself seeing cowardice inside of me. She looked up at me. As he prepared to inject the liquid, I bent down and placed my hand gently onto her, kissing the top of her head and murmering, 'It'll be over soon, little one.'
Just as I lifted my lips away from her, she momentarily struggled and let out one awful, never to be forgotten … squeak. It is the only word I can find to best describe the sound she made. I shall never forget it; it will always ring in my ears. Just as I will never forget the feeling of her instantly going limp and relaxed beneath my fingers. It was all over so very quickly. As quickly, the tears returned to me. They returned refuelled with all the vitality that she had lost. Great sobs racked and shook my body. I just couldn’t stop them. It was embarrassing. So bad, that they took me into their staff room and gave me a strong cup of sickly-sweet tea. ‘With a dash of whiskey to calm your nerves,’ said the surgeon, kindly. Eventually I did manage to recover control of myself sufficiently to bid them farewell.
-----o-----
The drive home was through a haze. I probably shouldn’t have been driving. We had been fortunate to find someone so close at hand who would carry out this deed. I managed the two miles without mishap, and as I locked up the car I could see my eldest daughter looking out of the kitchen window. There was a look of foreboding on her face. I realised that she was looking to see if there was anyone returning with me. I took a deep breath, and walked indoors. My family stood facing me in a line across the Kitchen. My wife took one look at my red-rimmed eyes and broke down in tears. The two girls instantly followed suit. All that I could manage to say was, ‘ I’m sorry … but … she … has … gone ....’ We moved together and as a family hugged one another. I can’t remember another time when we had done that; hugging one another in our diminished circle of four and blubbing like babies.
-----o-----
Though we’d love one, my wife and I haven’t yet acquired another cat. And if we did, I don’t think I could go through such an event again: ‘Bows’ was an irreplaceable and very special friend that I … we … all loved so very much. © Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for TIME WAS....
Griffonner on 2005-09-30 11:34:25
Re: TIME WAS....
I feel privileged to be the first one to comment on this beautifully written and so very, very truthful story.


... and I so appreciative that it was you, Tai-Li.

It goes without saying that you have my most sincere sympathy for the loss of Yang-Li.

*Time was... and time will be... again... as ever*

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-09-30 12:27:11
Re: TIME WAS....
Griffoner. what a great all rounder you are. I thought from the start it was a dog perhaps, I never imagined a cat. Obviously this must have been a real experience for you to have written so convincingly and so beautifully about it. The fact that you are a poet shines all the way through your writing, it was beautiful. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-30 13:11:42
Re: TIME WAS....
And such a lovely appraisal is all the better for having come from you, Val. I am truly honoured. People think that I sometimes use rather trite language in thanking my readers, but I can assure you I am just that way - very appreciative. Writing is something of nothing without readers.
Thand you.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-30 13:14:05
Re: TIME WAS....
That was nice of you, Tai-Li. But there was no need for you to have told me that, I knew it in my bones.
*Grins broadly*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-30 23:01:00
Re: TIME WAS....
Griffonner,

I know this feeling all too well, I have been there with my dog.
I am so sorry for your loss and I understand that our loved ones are not always of the two legged kind. I just love your writing, and this is another reason why, you can move me beyond words.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-10-01 00:11:42
Re: TIME WAS....
Shucks, that's real kind of yah, Joleen...

Ooops... Got Baltimore on the brain...
*big grin*

Thank you dear, Jolen.

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-10-01 11:43:00
Re: TIME WAS....
ROFLMAO

Baltimore is my FAVORITE next to ball-me-more.


lol

Author's Reply:

soman on 17-10-2005
TIME WAS....
Very touching, poignant. I too had similar experiences of my own, thrice over : first with one dog, then with another dog, then with a cat. Not euthanasia, just normal termination, but no less painful for that reason!

Soman

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Soman, for your comment. I am much obliged. You will understand that I used the word 'euthanasia' is a chiche for termination. Whatever we call it, a sad, sad thing to have to resort to... even knowing that it is intended to be 'humane'.

karenuk on 25-10-2005
TIME WAS....
Oh dear, that's all too familiar. We have pet rats (& a gerbil, cat & dog) & as you probably know, rats don't live very long. We currently have 8 & most of them have tumours. I have lost count of how many times I have walked home from the vets with an empty pet carrier, crying. I cried when I read your piece too. I'm sorry to hear about your cat. Our dog is getting old too & I know we'll all be devastated when...

Karen xx *hug*

P.S. Should 'conjur' be 'conjure'?

Author's Reply:
Thank you, Karen. And yes, you are of course quite correct about the spellin' error πŸ™‚

Lare on 23-04-2006
TIME WAS....
Hi Griff...dang...you have really put a lump in my throat with this one. As you have written about Bows...my wife and I are reminded that this fate inevitable will fall upon our cat, Spot, as well. Spot was a stray that hung around the house we once rented. We took her in unconditionally. Spot recently went through a very life threatening episode(s) with hypothyroid, kidney disease among a few others...she barely made it...but she did. She is totally an indoor kitty now that we are in a condo. She is slowly getting back to "normal"...seems to be in kitty content land. But...we have been told by 'the one who wears the white coat' that because Spot is an older cat now she is not far off until...

This is a very heartfelt piece, Griff...a subject difficult to reopen...I would venture even more difficult to write...but this you have done in a beautiful, magnificent way...thank you for sharing this...this is precious...

Lare

P.S. How are you doing, my friend...haven't seen you for a bit...are you okay?


Author's Reply:


Consummation's colours (posted on: 23-09-05)
I remember the day.
It is a day no-one can forget.

-----------o-----------




Strands of golden web abound, and silver ties here with there. There is a settling of old bones - yet not as old as might have been; the days, scythed away, silently. The rouge has drained from the skin; has dripped relentlessly from the open wound of disease. And even though this blight was there the spirit still maintained your life. Now, pallid grey-blue’ish tones suck my eyes to see him - He with his lowered jaw, and lids, and I see the face of the Christ hung from the cross… elongated. Violet heralds the advent of his life’s certain moment - and though I do not want its touch to come upon my dying dad, I wish it not to more delay. The cold blue mist of silence descends on the Friday ward. The air is stilled and dust motes stay suspended, as is life itself. Now his occult breath is easy. Colours mist my tearful eyes - selfish tears of my sorrow for too much time spent divided; not wept for him who gave me life – he is beyond the need of them. Britain never gave him gold for inhaling it’s wartime dust - making weapons for the devil. No medal to pin on his chest - there is… …just the touch of my pale-pink hand.
Archived comments for Consummation's colours
karenuk on 2005-09-23 10:30:21
Re: Consummation's colours
Stunningly beautiful poem, sad, moving and the best kind of tribute.
Karen xx

Author's Reply:

red-dragon on 2005-09-23 11:13:34
Re: Consummation's colours
I, too, am awed by this. You have conveyed you loss so eloquently. Ann

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-23 12:05:15
Re: Consummation's colours
My Dearest Griffonner,

What a heart wrenching piece you have here. I felt as if I were there with you. I am so very sorry.
I must tell you that your language here is very well done, the imagery is superb. Thank you for sharing.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2005-09-23 13:10:50
Re: Consummation's colours
Awesome work Griffoner

love ailsa

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-09-23 14:05:38
Re: Consummation's colours
This is so poignantly beautiful, it made me cry .. of course.. I never knew my father, being 10months old when he was killed having never set eyes upon me, but I still weep for him every 10th March. A beautiful poem and a fav' for me, worthy of a nib I think.

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2005-09-23 19:54:14
Re: Consummation's colours
Yes indeed--a very fine poem...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 20:47:57
Re: Consummation's colours
Thank you, Karen. Albert Einstein was quoted as having said, 'Sometimes one pays most for the things one gets for nothing.' I think that applies to the loss of a loving parent. I emphasise 'loving'.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 20:53:46
Re: Consummation's colours
Dear Tai-Li, thank you for your very kind appraisal. It is a case of the yin and yang again, isn't it? Within the duality of unbalanced parentage, one exists to attempt a balance with the other. Maybe the balance isn't perfect, but the scales tip just a shade towards the light and that eases some of the pain.
*Bisous*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 20:55:14
Re: Consummation's colours
Dear Ann, I hope you realise how wonderful it is to hear someone use the word 'awed'!
*Blushing violently*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 20:59:26
Re: Consummation's colours
The event is long since flown. The sorrow I speak about, is not. I will always carry that with me. But his passing was a blessing for him; an unavoidable blessing.
*Gratefully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 21:09:35
Re: Consummation's colours
Dear Ailsa, Thank you so much for your wonderful words.

These word 'awe' and 'awesome' remind me of another Einstein saying:

'The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.'

I remember that day, and yes, with awe. I considered adding another stanza, which would have told that my dad took ten days to pass over. It was a very slow change from the state of living to the state of death. It allowed me to come to terms with the fact that it was going to happen, and also allowed me to see that in a very strange way it was a much more beautiful end than just suddenly dying with the click of a finger.
*Tearfully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 21:14:30
Re: Consummation's colours
Dear Val, Thank you for the honour of making this a favourite of yours. I'm sorry that it was so emotive for you. It goes without saying that I understand the importance of a special date.
*Gratefully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-23 21:19:14
Re: Consummation's colours
Thank you, Gerry. I am appreciative of you telling me how this came across for you.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

shackleton on 2005-09-23 21:29:04
Re: Consummation's colours
A little bit special, Griffoner. Very moving. We honour the wrong people. Take care now.

Author's Reply:

Corin on 2005-09-24 02:19:46
Re: Consummation's colours
DEar Griffoner,
I found this very moving - too moving. It brought back the death of my Mother, me just sitting there, holding her warm hand under the blankets. I walked out of the ward looking back because some prescient feeling made me think I might never see her alive again - I did not. WE arrived back from holiday about 6 hours too late:-


Bless you Mother, honour to you and love.
Old age, hard life and long enduring
Has surely earned this rounding with sweet sleep.

Easy to count your eighty years of life,
But hard to tell those marred by war and want,
When Depression impoverished the poor;
And War brought fire, ruin and blitz;
And Death took Mother, Husband, Father;
Leaving you a baby daughter and a son,
But no means to comfort your great loss and theirs.
Though I was there, I know not how the strength
To bear such blows came from one so bereft,
Or how our childhoods, happy and secure,
Were wrought amid such hardship and such need.

Bless you mother, honour to you and love;
Farewell; now loose my too reluctant hand;
You shall go quietly into that good night.

August 2002




Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-24 02:40:14
Re: Consummation's colours
Dear Corin,

Your own words are pretty wonderful. You were very lucky to have such a wonderful mother.

Though I was there, I know not how the strength
To bear such blows came from one so bereft,
Or how our childhoods, happy and secure,
Were wrought amid such hardship and such need.


The answer, as I'm sure you know, is a very simple one: Love. There is not enough of it in this world.

Blessings to you, Corin, and to your mum.

*Lovingly*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-24 02:42:52
Re: Consummation's colours
Thank you Sackleton. You are dead right there. Not only do we honour the wrong people, but often we are expected to honour for the wrong reasons. With much respect, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-09-27 11:09:10
Re: Consummation's colours
A sad yet wonderful piece.

Si.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-28 00:45:19
Re: Consummation's colours
Thank you, Si.

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Futant on 2005-09-30 19:24:39
Re: Consummation's colours
Quite an innocent piece.The ending I think was was great yet sad.And the emotion in this piece is naively deep. A brilliant piece.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-30 21:18:37
Re: Consummation's colours
Thank you, Flutant. I'm honoured.
Ciao,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:


The Field (posted on: 19-09-05)
Bertrand discovered that love, once discovered, changes everything.
Your life. Your dreams. Your emotions - even your mind: Love can be exquisite. Love can be tender. Love can be passionate. Love can be fleeting. Love can last a lifetime. Time changes love, just as time changes everything.
But most of all, Bertrand discovered, love is enduring and in the end, love is all.

________________________________




The field is high on the opposite side of the valley and is clear to see from Bertrand's bedroom window. Viewed on a summer’s morning, lit by brilliant sunlight, it appears as an oasis of lush green grass amid the darker verdant trees. Throughout the day it remains magically illuminated. In the evenings, it is the last place to prepare for slumber as the final straggling sunbeams lose their way through the surrounding maze of leaves and branches. Bertrand had taken notice of it, drunk in its beauty, sensed it had an air of mystery, long ago; even before the house was finished. Looking through the window-opening that the builders had left exposed to the elements, Bertrand pictured the field as a secret and special parkland carpeted by a layer of soft, smooth, cultured grass.
***
The tarot cards meant nothing at all to Bertrand; all aspects of the Arcana were a complete mystery to him. One by one the woman collected them from the green baize tablecloth, and picking up the last, which she called ‘Temperance’, she gripped his right arm and said earnestly, ‘You will find true love. After enduring some test … perhaps an illness.’ Her touch was fiercely cold, surprisingly so. And one of her nails felt sharp like a needle piercing the underbelly of his forearm. Though he didn’t show it, it was so painful that his whole body tensed, and when she took away her hand, he wallowed in the sensation of blessed relaxation. It was like the yin and the yang; the pain had to come first, so that the relaxation could follow. How absurd. How predictable. How stereotypical, he thought. If she was a real clairvoyant, she could have thought of something more original than ‘true love’, couldn’t she? They were seated at the edge of a darkened room. It was a cold room. He sensed a slight chill coming off the wall close to his right shoulder; it felt as if it was tiled, but there was too little light to see. Bertrand was aware that they were not alone, but she was the only person he could see and even her with not much clarity. She reminded him of someone, but the only light there was in the place, flooding powerfully down in a narrow beam onto the table, left her features submerged in shade beneath her wide-brimmed hat. The effect emphasised the hollows of her face, distorted her image, made recognition impossible. In her black eyes he could see reflections. He studied them intently, trying to identify the objects they were reflecting. He saw tiny images of people, dressed in green and blue gowns. He watched them move around like miniscule people on a pair of doll’s house televisions. When the woman leaned closer in, across the table, her eyes appeared to grow larger, and he could see these little people wore masks over the lower part of their faces. But this did not raise questions in his mind, nor did it surprise or concern him; what did, was the fact that he could not see the reflection of his own face. He could not understand that. Where was Bertrand? How could he not be there? His mind flicked back to the last time he experienced anything like this: it was a very long time ago, when he had been at a funfair with a group of teenage friends. He only went into the Fortune Teller’s booth, because everyone else decided to have their fortune told. Fabien had encouraged them all. ‘It’ll be a laugh … It’s only ten Francs!’ he said, excitedly. In fact, for Bertrand, it became a quite different experience than for the rest of them. For immediately he had entered the booth and they made contact with their eyes, he found himself really attracted to the woman. She was, he thought, perhaps ten years older than himself. He had looked across the narrow table, over her crystal ball, and into her sparkling brown eyes. In them he saw the tiny reflection of his own face, and seeing himself mirrored like that - taking in her features - was disconcerting to him, because he imagined that to someone older, like herself, his youthful fascination would be glaringly obvious. There was a definite chemistry between them; their eye contact lingered for far too long. So much so he had looked down to break the contact, and then became further embarrassed to feel his face flush. When looking down at the table top, he was surprised by her dry looking, reddened hands and the heavy, gold wedding band. He had imagined her hands to be as soft as her face, but what lay before him were hands that he imagined to become prematurely aged, by washing and cleaning for her husband, and already, perhaps, she might have several children. He had not intended taking ‘Madame Zara’ at all seriously, and his vision of her domestic life somehow made that even less likely. Still, after all these years, even though he could not remember her words, he could picture her quite clearly … delicious poppy-red lips, small retroussι nose, smooth unfurrowed brow, framed by a red scarf tied about her head, and the plump peach-smooth temptations that caught his eye each time he looked from her eyes to the table. He remembered how he had again blushed, when he sensed her observing his fascination of them. They were swelling enticingly from her cleavage and he… he was then a young man full of masculine virility. She had a strong coffee-like body odour that he found very sexy, too. In fact, now that he had gone over the event in his mind, his memory of it was so complete, that he could also recall the smell from outside her booth: of crepes cooking in the adjoining stall, sweet and smoky, after all those years filling his nostrils again with the scents of citron, cinnamon, Benedictine and sickly-sweet chocolate. But this woman … this woman with the tarot cards … she was very strange. In contemplating this assessment, he found himself thinking his impression of her was perhaps only to be expected. She was a seer, after all and they are not ordinary people, are they? He also found himself wondering how old she was. He shivered with the cold. Here, sitting at her table, the air was full of a heady, deep, sweet, chemical, and aromatic smell. Somewhere deep in his brain there lay a name for this, but try as he might he could not bring it to mind. Bertrand looked down at her hands. They were brightly illuminated, rested palm down on the table, and it was clear to see that these were young hands. Despite their incongruously cold touch, they were smooth, beautiful, and well manicured. How could these rounded nails have pierced the skin of his forearm? They were too much like Marianne’s to have done that. Marianne’s hands were small, perfect, interfaces with her world. They had been the epitome of passion: replicating flickering flames, simulating the touch of a feather, or stroking, enticing, exciting, and igniting desire. They had also been strong and firm hands; holding, moulding, and guiding their two children through childhood years. Bertrand recalled their loveliness, when, looking into his eyes, she caressed his cheek with the back of her velvet fingers in a silent, but oh so communicative confirmation of her love. With her hand in his there was always magic. There passed between them sensations that went far beyond simple physical contact. It was as if their contiguous skins exchanged an occult magma which flowed backward and forward between them, amortising, melting, and dissolving them into one. And there was such a feeling of completeness when they held hands; it was a sensation like being … at home. In his mind’s eye he imagined raising Marianne’s hand and kissing it where he always had, on the soft gentle mound behind her knuckles. He felt it yield perfectly against his lips, making the whole giving experience both wholesome and satisfying. There had been a whole lifetime of different hands. Bertrand had been mesmerised by Marianne’s eyes. In them, he found mysterious pools of infinite depth. They enchanted him. Entreated him to descend down into their secret vaults, where, spellbound, he could again, in yet another way, be dissolved inside of her. Her eyes were the portals to her inner being and he learned to recognise the almost imperceptible changes in them. To read them. To read her. He could even see them now as she looked back at him; they were truly indescribable … not jade alone, not emerald, not of any describable viridity, they were simply her own unique combination of all creation’s greenery. Their first meeting had been at a friend’s party. She was talking to Fabien and Colette, who had just become betrothed. From the very moment he walked into the room she managed to besot him, turning her head toward him just long enough, for him to see her interest. Bertrand manoeuvred himself across the room, staging from guest to guest, joining conversations for the briefest of periods, intent solely on getting to his hosts and an introduction to this gorgeous woman. Finally he was beside them and Colette introduced her to him as, ‘…my dear friend, Marianne.’ Later, he confided to Fabien, that his breath had been caught by the very sight of her, ‘I could not breath … I could do nothing but stare into her eyes. Oh, Fabien! What fabulous eyes!’ Fabien joked about his friend’s fascination, saying, ‘Then you are lost, my friend…. Absolutely lost!’ It was true, he had been lost. Lost to those eyes which magnetically grabbed his attention to the point that he was embarrassed by his inability to look away, even for a second. Later, his face flushed with embarrassment, as, for one brief moment, he had caught Colette watching them and whispering something to Fabien with what he thought was a knowing smile. He thought that they and everyone else in the room, would be witnessing his obvious infatuation. Regardless, he returned his attention wholly to Marianne, to be even further bewitched by her. They did not leave one another’s company for the entire night. Very quickly it was proven not to be infatuation. It was instead a complex all-consuming love. From the very first moment he met her, he and his life became changed. And from the very first moment he discovered, that she returned his love, he further changed, because then Bertrand wanted everyone to witness his fascination; witness his adoration; witness his love for her. Love! It had been a kaleidoscope of emotions and devotions … a rainbow of sensations. Like those of wanting to protect, when he became warmed inside with an energy of pure tenderness, and would be drawn to place his arm around her to comfort her and hold her near. Or the feeling of a hot, fiery, fierce protectionism, when he would have been prepared even to die for her. Or then again, of the gut thumping excitement of wanting to possess her, as a surge of another love energy, powerful and exciting, grew uncontrollably somewhere deep in the very core of his being, demanding that he, they, should discover and rediscover the sweet oblivion of physical bliss. Theirs had been a love that included the most satisfying feeling of sheer joy and delight just to be with one another. To share all that … in silence, in laughter and in tears, they had been truly blessed. He judged they had not cried together often, but had laughed together very, very often. He said to the tarot woman, ‘I already met my true love. You cannot prophesy that.’ ‘Oh, but I can! You will see … you will see … you will see….’ Her words echoed in his head, becoming fainter and fainter. The little people in her eyes turned and disappeared, as too did the image of her. The bright floodlight faded and total darkness crept all around him. He was left with only his imagination as to what might be before him. Was she still there - the woman? He was about to stretch forward and bravely feel for her, when he became fearful of what he might find. Imagination, being creative, can conjure up both good and bad, and he worried the fearful darker side might lay before him. For a fleeting moment, ideas of what could be there, not pleasant things, caused a paralysis of his arm; it would not move. He fought with his mind to control the situation, to avoid his fear of this unknown, and to bring images of good things into his mind … of Marianne, alive and vital…. Memories of them sharing a warm summer’s day on the beach near Sainte-Anne, walking hand in hand, feeling the soft warm sand beneath their feet and between their toes…. The children had run on before them, just a few metres. Gisθle giggling and shrieking in the delight of their game. She caught Philipe’s hands and they went off, whirling each other around like spinning tops, before running in different directions, giddy, and tumbling safe into the sand. Were there memories more pleasant than that? At that moment, he could not think of any. The sand was so warm and the breeze so refreshing in the freedom of that quiet Martinique beach. But sensing a quick movement - like an earth tremor in the night - he was, in a flash, unwillingly transported back to the darkness; rudely torn from those pleasing dreams. The sudden shock made his heart beat madly in his chest. He neither knew what time, day or place this was. Then he remembered the clairvoyant, the tarot cards, and her parting words. Bertrand concentrated on calmly taking quiet, deep breaths until his heartbeat normalised. He waited, listening. No sounds but his heart. No light, save for the fleeting and translucent phantoms of a freewheeling mind. There was almost total silence. With trepidation he said out loud, ‘Hello..?’ His voice sounded weak and distant. He called louder, ‘Hello…?’ ‘Yes, Papa, I’m here.’ He felt a hand gently stroke his forehead. ‘Just rest.’ He fought to understand the situation. He was certain it was the voice of Gisθle. Where was he? He felt the sensation of bedclothes on his left arm and he tried to move it, but there was something attached and it felt strange and heavy. He felt incredibly weak, even the effort to move his arm was immensely demanding. He was confused, dazed, and alternated between the beach with Marianne, Philippe, and six-year-old Gisθle and the darkness where a grown-up Gisθle spoke with him. In one longer perception of the darkness – a recognition of time and space – he ventured, ‘Where am I, Gisθle?’ Reassuringly, she replied at once, ‘You are back home, Papa. Back home from the Clinique St-Antoine.’ Her reply only added to the confusion in his head. A hospital! How could he have been in a hospital? He opened his eyes, and in the dim light looked up to a chrome drip stand. The tube snaking downwards from the bag of clear fluid, and disappearing from his sight. He guessed it went into his left arm, but had not the desire to find the energy to move his head and see. And then, suddenly, Marianne asked, ‘Would you like a drink, darling?’ He recognised her voice instantly. He had been thinking that his mouth felt exceedingly dry, ‘Yes, I’m so dry. I’d love some water.’ Marianne opening the picnic basket brought the two children running, ‘Oooh… Lemonade!’ cried Philipe. ‘Now wait a moment you two, let me give Papa his water first. He’s very thirsty.’ ‘ I want water, like Papa,’ declared Gisθle. ‘Papa, are you awake? Papa…?’ Bertrand opened his eyes to see the adult Gisθle leaning over him. Her smile reassuring. ‘Here Papa. Some water.’ She cradled his head and lifted it off the pillow a little. He felt the glass at his lips and the cold water trickling, first beneath his tongue and then onto the back of his throat. How strange it was to feel the cold progress of the water, slinking all the way down into his stomach, where it spilled into a pool of coolness that he had never sensed before. But never before either, had a sip of water been more satisfying. He relaxed, and sighed.
***
Bertrand was in the comfortable softness of a morning bed, when he first woke to the fact that he had recovered consciousness and should now open his eyes. He luxuriated in the sensation of being warm and wonderfully at ease. A feeling that was increasingly rare for an eighty-year-old, and he wanted to prolong the perfection of the moment for just a little longer. He moved his left arm. It felt unencumbered. In his mind's eye the images of his expectation for the new day were backlit by a pink glow, as the sunlight permeated through his eyelids. He also sensed a very subtle breeze upon his face. He imagined that if he opened his eyes, he would find the sunlight blinding as it reflected off the white bedroom walls; that the window nets on both sides of the room would be swaying gently in the breeze; that through the net at the front window he would be able to see the field, across the valley, on the distant hillside. There was a security to be drawn from those certainties. When Gisθle turned off the light and closed the door behind her the night before, the air had been warm. In his gradual return to full consciousness, he had lain listening to the constant chatter of the cigales. With his eyes wide open it took several minutes for them to accustom themselves to the darkness. When they had, he had seen stars ... thousands of stars. Not all at once, of course, as the nets obscured and diffused their light. But, by making tiny movements of his head on the pillow, he discovered, that each new position allowed a new extra-terrestrial sparkle to appear through another gap in the net. He and Marianne had watched the stars, late into the night on summer evenings…. Before drifting off to sleep last night, he had imagined the field as it would be now, in bright sunlight. Should he now open his eyes and compare what he saw with what he expected? Could he postpone opening them any longer? He decided that he could. In his continuing imagination he was in the field and walking up its gentle slope past the trees that obscured its upper end. Walking towards a young woman, who had long blonde hair and long, slim legs. As he drew close, he felt a sense of anticipation with butterflies in his stomach and a quickening of his pulse. She was wearing a summer dress; white, with a print of small pink flowers. She was bare-foot. The pristine white lace edge around her neck, arms and legs, emphasised her tanned skin just as Marianne’s dress had, all that time ago at the party. But this woman was amorphous, and try as he might he could not see her face.
***
There was little difference between his imagination and the realism of what he was now seeing with his eyes. Betrand’s bedroom was unchanged. He glanced around at the white painted walls and ceiling, oak wardrobe, white crisp bed linen, and white net curtains – which were indeed billowing very slightly in an invading breeze. The comparison was good. But the field … that, he could not see. It was later in the day than he imagined. The sun had come around and was lighting the nets at the front so brilliantly, that they diffused and blurred the view beyond them. Yet, Bertrand was comfortable with that, because he had absolute confidence, that if he were just to walk to the window, were just to draw aside the net, then there would be the view, the trees, and the field, just as he had known it to be for over fifty years. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, as if for one long, slowed blink. When he opened them again, he was in the field, and he could feel the heat of the sun on his face. His feet were cool on the grass. He could not remember how long ago it had been since he last walked bare-foot through grass – it was a very welcome, and invigorating sensation. On the distant hill, appearing through the forest of green, was the upper part of a white painted house. He could see two figures at the window. He was quite unconcerned to recognise it as his own bedroom window and the figures as those of Gisθle and Philipe. He had never seen his house from this place … always it had been the reverse – of seeing this place from the house. There was then a mournful cry. ‘Oh Papa!’ Gisθle’s voice echoing off the sides of the valley. For a tiny, infinitesimal moment he felt his heart heavy and sensed a great surge of desire to go to Gisθle to comfort her. But then, from behind, he heard a voice call out to him, ‘Bertrand!’ He turned … and he smiled. He smiled the broadest, most happiest of smiles. There was Marianne. Her face more beautiful than he had ever remembered. She was radiant, and young. She was walking towards him with her hand held out for his. Bertrand took her hand and kissed it on the soft gentle mound behind her knuckle. It yielded perfectly against his lips, as always.
Archived comments for The Field
ruadh on 2005-09-19 11:46:54
Re: The Field
This was a delightful read and very cleverly done. I think you could start it from "The tarot cards..." without losing anything. Great read.

ailsa

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-19 13:58:48
Re: The Field
Thank you, Tai-Li. You know how much that means to me. It is I who am honoured by having you read, and even more by knowing that you enjoyed it.
*Blushing from your appraisal*
Bisous,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-19 14:04:50
Re: The Field
Ailsa, how lovely of you to comment. Nothing delights me more than knowing that someone enjoys something that I've penned.

The only part of this story that is true, is the existence of the field and my observation of it even before the house was finished. Not all that many years ago, but I wanted to include that truth because for several years I would look at the field and know that it was telling me something. What it told me was this story, bit by bit, drip by drip, over about two years I suppose. I needed that para. A purely selfish part of an otherwise unselfish story.

Thank you so very much for telling me what you thought.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-21 19:40:17
Re: The Field
Griffonner,

Congrats on a well deserved nib, and man! What a story!!! I loved it, as I know you knew I would :o)

It kept me glued to it all the way to the end... As a good story will and I think your ending was very well done.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-21 20:47:49
Re: The Field
Thank you so much, dear Jolen. I am never sure how people will react to my work, but I am absolutely delighted that you enjoyed it. Thank you too, for taking the time to tell me.
Light and love and hugs,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Hello, sweetie! (posted on: 09-09-05)
This is the story of a love affair. I'm not absolutely sure that we always recognise love - not even when it is left on a plate in front of us, so to speak - and when you are six or seven, well ....

(1482)


--------------------o--------------------


'Hello, sweetie!' she would say. Behind her glasses there was a lovely twinkle in her eye. I was too young to recognise what it meant. Touch wood, I have never had the feeling there was anything about my body that displeased me. When I was young, it didn't matter much how it performed - just as long as there wasn't blood issuing forth. All kids are the same about blood: a scrape or a fall is tolerable, just as long as when you look at where it hurts there is no sign of the red stuff. But she? She had definite reason to complain. Yet she didn't. I can hear her now, 'Come and sit by yer... ' she'd say and then pat the counterpane beside the chair which was permanently alongside her bed. And that is the point of this wonderment I have about her. I can remember her voice almost as if she is in the room with me now; its lilting Welsh accent - the valley accent they called it, back there, where much of my family come from. But it was more than that, being her voice. You see, I can't classify my memory as being something of my body. It can't be seen, and comparisons about it can only be made subjectively, but I have to confess it is something which displeases me. Largely, because it doesn't seem good enough. In my mind's eye, I'm confused about the layout of her cottage. This is because I was to gain intimate knowledge of it many years later. Today, to get to where her bed was, you would enter through the kitchen door, and move on into the only other downstairs room - the one with the staircase in it - and there, tucked neatly beside the narrow flight of steps, was her single bed. But in my mind's eye, back then, the front door did not lead into the kitchen. Instead, it led directly to her bed. Sadly, there is no one left alive who could verify that it has, or has not, been changed. So what of this wonderment, then? She smelled of home. It was a warm, sugary, creamy-soft smell. Perhaps there was a hint of vanilla in her perfume? If I didn't know better, I would have said that it was a very motherly smell. And she always seemed ... soft. Yes, I know that these are hardly picture forming descriptions, but they are the ones that are painted indelibly in my memory. The sense of softness about her, is highlighted for me by the fact I always seem to remember her wearing a soft, pink, knitted, fluffy bed jacket. The jacket was worn over an equally soft nightdress, made from brushed cotton. Her illness made her painfully thin. Her frail wrists, appearing pale and sinewy from under the sleeves of her nightdress. And she had soft, gentle hands, with very long, perfectly manicured, artistic looking fingers; fingers that would hold a book, or my hand, as if it were the most fragile and important thing in the whole wide world. I remember it was my dad who taught me the importance of hands. His were well manicured. He showed me how to push back the quicks at the bed of the nails with a thumbnail. It used to hurt. Still does. But he instilled in me that it was an important part of grooming. For most of my adult life people have remarked about my hands, or my nails, which are a shade longer than the average man's and always well manicured ... just like hers. For a young boy of six or seven, having any female wanting to give you a kiss, was to be endured only under duress. Like the kiss of aunt Lizzie, with her whiskers tickling the side of your cheek. Her kiss was worst of all. But manners told you, to only wipe the cold and slimy area with your sleeve, when you were well out of her sight! When Miss Colebrook kissed me however, there was need for much more compliance, much more cooperation, because she being bed-ridden and so immobile, it was necessary for me to do almost all of the work of a kiss; stretching over the edge of her bed and manoeuvering my cheek towards her lips. And, wonderment again, I didn't shrink away from her. Far from it. I actually found her kiss Hello and her kiss Goodbye as enjoyable a part of visiting her as our shared love of reading. Though I didn't realise it then, I loved her. And what I didn't recognise, all those years ago, through the eyes of a young child, was that the twinkle in her eyes was a sign that she loved me too. 'Can I go and play with Miss Colebrook?' I would ask. Sometimes the answer was an immediate affirmative, but more often I was made to wait around while she was made ready for her day. I don't remember if she had a nurse who visited, or whether some neighbour aided her. A child doesn't ever think of the practicalities of such a life as hers. I would simply sit down, near our door - for a quick escape when the time came - and impatiently start turning the pages of a book that I planned we would both read; not actually reading anything, sometimes just moving ahead through the story to a point where there was an illustration of some kind or another, and then quickly closing its pages for fear of learning something of the story out of place. My great-aunt Jessie's house was like a magnet to my grandparents; it was where we would stay, when they took their annual, or biannual trips back 'home' to the valleys. They weren't particularly memorable to me for their fabled greenness. What I remember most, was my fascination for the great buckets of slag that swung from overhead cables, their contents moving ever upwards from the coal mines, destined to be spilled high up at the very peak of the enormous grey slag heaps that overshadowed everything as we approached our village. I would look out for those overhead cableways as we neared our destination, they told me that we would soon be there, and that maybe we'd be in time to go see Miss Colebrook before tea. She lived next door to aunt Jessie. Was it by magic, that when I arrived by her bedside, she would have some book or story ready to grab my interest? I don't remember the passing of Miss Colebrook. I'm sure it must have happened when I was back in London. No one ever told me she was gone. Maybe this was the adults' way of sparing me any grief for the loss of someone special? She simply was never there again. Never there to read to me, never there to kiss me hello and goodbye. To some extent, after her demise, aunt Jessie became the focal point of my visits to the Rhondda. She had been the headmistress of the village school, and had specialised in art. So there were always paints, paper and brightly coloured crayons available. Her love was harder than Miss Colebrook's. Aunt Jessie could freeze you solid with one of her well practised stares. But, underneath her stern exterior, there lay a heart that truly loved children, nevertheless. The change in those visits was mirrored by the fact that, inevitably, I changed too. I was growing up. I began to prefer the company of my mates during school breaks, and I seem to recall a girlfriend or two whose existence helped sway me from missing out on trips back to the valleys. It was a very long time before I returned. It was after my father died, and it was prompted by a peculiar twist of fate: one where my mother moved back to that village - and bought what had been Miss Colebrook's cottage. Aunt Jessie still lived in the big house next door and when we stayed with my mother, my own two daughters were the ones asking, if they could go out to play with someone. That someone, was great-aunt Jessie. She still had copious supplies of art material with which to entertain enquiring young minds. I have been reading a biography - "Rachel Sarai's Vinyard" by Deborah Rey - in the past week or so. In it, the central character discovered who her real mother was, only after years and years of being brought up by a sadistic pseudo-mother. As a child she had, for a while, experienced a loving relationship with her real mother, though it was not until some thirty years after that person's death, that she discovered the truth of who that woman had been. If not for my relationship with Miss Colebrook, I would never have known what that might have felt like.
Archived comments for Hello, sweetie!
span on 2005-09-09 11:40:44
Re: Hello, sweetie!
I loved this,
maybe because I love old ladies maybe because it is really good.
I felt like I was there, and very happy to be so.
Not sure about the closing line?

I think the poignancy of, 'discovering the truth of who that woman had been', is enough?
Span x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-09 12:09:16
Re: Hello, sweetie!
Thank you ,Span. I'm delighted that you enjoyed this.
As for the last line: well, therein lies the poignancy for me. But thank you so much for your suggestion. It is very kind of you.
Ciao,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-09 23:52:03
Re: Hello, sweetie!
Hello, sweetie!(just having a bit of fun)

So very worthy of the nib, and a very gripping tale, of what many can relate to. I loved this one, and found myself so into the story at times, I didn't wish it to end. I can't wait to read that book By Deborah Rey as well. I am glad to read this. Thank you for sharing another wonderful piece.

Blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 00:46:50
Re: Hello, sweetie!
Thank you Jolen. What a wonderful appraisal. I am truly honoured by your comments. And until I read your message, I hadn't even noticed the 'nib' - where did that come from? *Looks around cautiously*
*Happy*
Griffonner


Author's Reply:

jer364 on 2005-09-11 09:16:00
Re: Hello, sweetie!
I was totally involved in the events from the very beginning. The observations were spot on, particularly the flicking ahead in the book to the next illustration and the way remembered settings vary from the actual place. I was moved by the gentle way the whole situation was revealed and the overlay of the adult perspective on the childs memory.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 10:57:23
Re: Hello, sweetie!
Thanks for taking the time to comment on this. It is strange how out minds 'short cut' settings sometimes, isn't it.
Ciao,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 12:17:47
Re: Hello, sweetie!
I am sure that Rachel is, Tai-Li. She will know, however, that while there is now no mother to love her, she does now has a very dear friend and admirer who - though he cannot ever make up for her loss - would dearly wish to be able to.

Bisous,
Griffonner


Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 12:19:55
Re: Hello, sweetie!
"she does now has" - I needs to go bak to skool a bit, I fink... Wot I ment to say was "she does no have" of cors.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 21:09:29
Re: Hello, sweetie!
I think that could well be true, Tai-Li.
*hugs*
Griffonner


Author's Reply:


LOOK AT ME! (posted on: 09-09-05)
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth....


------------------o------------------


Is this what you wanted?

Was this what you had in mind,
when, in your mind’s eye over all those
laborious months, you imagined me?
Did you set out to guide and free me,
or, control, mould and rape me?

Look at me!

I am riddled with guilt;
a melange of ill-fitting bed companions
make up my conscience;
I swing like a pendulum, round and round,
never leaving this orbit
wherein lay the comprehensions of
the guilt of being a child,
the acceptance of my self for what I am,
the guilt for having a strong adult will
and the desire to have a life of my own.

Look at me!

There is no plateau on which to rest.
No equilibrium of a safe harbour
to return home to.
No sense of my free will where you’re concerned,
just the constant see-saw to your whim;
the never ending care: to be, to say,
to do, the things that will not be taken the wrong way -
used against me, ridiculed.

Look at me!

I vacillate. Oscillate. Up and down.
Depressed. Compressed.
Eager – like a demented puppy dog -
to discover something, that I can do for you,
that will make you see me for what I am.

Look at me!

Lessened by my duplicity
that seeks not to say these words
within the range of your being.
You wicked, selfish witch!
Can’t you see that I am your salvation?

Archived comments for LOOK AT ME!
karenuk on 2005-09-09 09:39:52
Re: LOOK AT ME!
That was really good, very angry and bitter, a really emotional poem! I especially loved the rhymes & language you used in the 'I vacillate' verse. The image of the pendulum jarred a bit though, as you say 'round and round' where surely a pendulum swings back & forth?

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-09 10:29:13
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thanks for your appraisal, Karenuk. It was very kind of you to take the time to comment.

When I used the word 'pendulum' I was thinking as in pendulum dowsing and psychometry, where a circular motion means something completely different to a swinging one. Do you know what I mean?

*Appreciatively*
Griffonner





Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-09-09 19:45:26
Re: LOOK AT ME!
i loved this Griffoner .. So much raw emotion in this. A really well expressed piece. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-09 21:20:14
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank you, Val. I very much appreciate your having stopped by. Someone told me today that it takes a lot of courage to put such words on paper, let alone publish them. I don't want to think of it that way; I want to think of it as expressing the truth. A disturbing truth, maybe. Poets are emotional beings, I feel. We vent our emotions and our feelings in words, in the same way as composers do in music.
That's all I've done.
*Appreciatively*
*Hugs*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-09 23:56:06
Re: LOOK AT ME!
So we are twins I take it? holy hell but this one did me in..... I will be taking this as a fave, as I wish for one, I had written it, and two because I lived it.

The only thing is that I hate that selfish witch thing, as I for a moment thought you were talking about me. lol....... Just teasing again. Wonderful writing and a very moving piece of truth here.

My best to you and thanks for this.

with great respect,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 00:40:38
Re: LOOK AT ME!
First I have to thank you for the honour of 'favourite read' - I am honoured, believe me.
Secondly - just for one moment, can I be corny? - There is room on my horse for two, or three, or more (it seems). *Broad grin*
*Full of brotherly love*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2005-09-10 11:08:29
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Griff, this was powerful stuff--I liked it...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 11:24:24
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thanks, Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Elfstone on 2005-09-10 14:33:56
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Goodness me, this one packs a punch Griffoner. It seems complex and in places dense, and plangent with bitterness and regret. It needs to be reread and I don't have time to do it justice now, but I wanted you to know that I'm drawn to this and impressed by it. Elfstone.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 14:50:25
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Hi Elfstone, I can't disagree with a word you said. What I will say though, is that I have lived what these words describe, progressively, since I was about 8 or 9 years of age; so that's over 50 years.

One day, when the time is right, I will tell the whole damn story. I'm too caring a person to do it now.

*Truthfully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-09-10 20:11:01
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Sounds a lot like my brother talking to the love of his life (well, so far. Hopefully he will fully recover one day). It hurts when they can't see, I know. Wouldn't change a thing. Cheers. Nic.

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-09-10 21:17:19
Re: LOOK AT ME!
griffoner, i like this one. and i think that short chorus works fine.

i'm not too sure of the final two lines though. once you've said them then the spell is broken and i think the poem is stronger with the protaganist held down and raging. also, that 'can't you see that i am your salvation?' is a touch moralistic in tone and also talks of/leads onto bigger issues.

small things department. i agree with karen, when i think of a pendulum it usually has a poe attached to it, sometimes it is the film version with vincent price. and that pendulum is def going back and forth and getting lower and lower. on top of that, i ehm didn't quite follow your explanation to karen.

best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 21:56:28
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thanks for your comments, Anthony. I much value your input and suggestions, and I'm chuffed with your overall impression.

When I said the Karen:

When I used the word 'pendulum' I was thinking as in pendulum dowsing and psychometry, where a circular motion means something completely different to a swinging one. Do you know what I mean?


I was alluding to the fact that in pendulum psychometry different types of motion of a free pendulum are said to represent constrasting things. The same technique and the same variations in motion are also used as indicators in dowsing with a pendulum. In such situations it is not at all uncommon for a pendulum to follow a circular or elliptical motion.

That analogy suited the way I wanted to colour this part of my poem.

I hope that I've made it clearer.

*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 22:02:55
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank you, Nicoletta.

I admire your skill so very much, that I cannot be anything other than delighted to have such a nice appraisal from you. I hope your brother recovers soon πŸ˜‰

In my case I have just reached the plateau where there is less pain.

Ciao, Griffonner





Author's Reply:

Frenchy on 2005-09-10 22:03:04
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Memories.... bitter sweet memories.
Nice one griffoner.
Take Care,
Dave.
ps without duplicity a writer is dead "lol"

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-10 22:05:49
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Cheers, Dave.

LOL@

ps without duplicity a writer is dead "lol"


Very droll,

πŸ™‚

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-09-11 11:55:52
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Hi Griffonner, Very honest write indeed. That is marriage for you! The last stanza is fabulous. Hope it helps!lol

9 from me

Smiling

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 12:12:22
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank you for this, Tai. I have sent you a little PM.

*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 2005-09-11 18:01:23
Re: LOOK AT ME!
What an excellent poem, Griffoner. Full of raw emotion described by exquisite lines.
Truly loved it.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-11 21:11:25
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank so very much, Ionicus. That is very kind of you to say.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2005-09-13 05:49:18
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Anger and rage well said, I really enjoyed reading it..love Erma

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-13 10:48:23
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank you for letting me know what you thought, Erma. I was in two minds about posting this.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 2005-09-14 11:12:12
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Ah I see. Yes, that makes sense ;_0
Karen x

Author's Reply:

Abel on 2005-09-14 17:27:21
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thoroughly enjoyed this honest, intense work. Very well done, Griffonner.

Ward

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-14 20:26:03
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thank you, Ward. Thank you for your appraisal. I'm very grateful.
Ciao, Griffonner



Author's Reply:

Sunken on 2005-09-15 18:15:58
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Well done Mr. Griffonner. I was in a pretty good mood before I read this, now I feel like picking a fight. I can't afford to get another court order though, so I may just pick a scab instead. Top stuff.

s
u
n
k
e
n

also available in beige

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-15 22:18:48
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Well, my friend, you have brought a smile to my face, and I much appreciate that. πŸ˜‰ Very drole, and very kind, Sunken.

Griffonner

*Who was originally available in youthful guise.*




Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-09-17 14:06:22
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Wow! All the things I never managed to say. Thank you for doing it for me.
Mine lived to 100, the last 12, with me, and I'm still reeling.
But for some reason for me 'You wicked, selfish witch!' lets down the rest. I can't work out why; perhaps too cliched. I really don't know. Very good telling poems though.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-17 20:14:39
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Oh... my... God! 100?
I think you have just taken over the World Title, Val. You deserve it. No, you deserve more!
My story pales into significance.

The penultimate line: Ah, yes. There was a special personal reason for it. It actually means something to me, even though I admit it is something of a cliche.
*Awestruck*
Griffonner


Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-09-20 10:53:20
Re: LOOK AT ME!
A very powerful, open piece, well written.

Si:-)



Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-20 14:08:08
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Thanks, Si. Glad you enjoyed.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Futant on 2005-09-21 19:34:55
Re: LOOK AT ME!
This is great. Full of raw emotion, the anger especially is strong and seems to dominate the piece. Overall a brilliant piece , the last line ties the piece together.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-21 20:55:31
Re: LOOK AT ME!
Hi, Futant. Thank you so much for your appraisal. I'm very pleased that you found it worth my time to write... very therapeutic putting emotions into words sometimes, don't you think.
Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Unrequited email (posted on: 02-09-05)
What happens when friends are not reuinited?


---o---


I wanted you…
The hand that softly laid in mine.
The kiss that devoured my lips
And sucked the breath from my world.
The breast pliant and proud beneath my hand
Trembling in desire, impatient to feel…
I wanted you.

I told you that…
My voice silenced and unneeded.
My lips dried with excitement.
My heart beating like a tom-tom.
My fingers tapping out a veiled message
Leaving you to decide whether to hear.
I told you that.

I remembered…
And refuse to believe you don’t.
Across the seas my words sailed
Without a ship, without a sail.
Zoomed across your desert, over the fields,
And even though you clicked upon delete,
I remembered.

I needed you…
For God’s sake don’t you understand?
I was wrong when I said solong…
When I kissed your lovely hand
And pulled it to me one last final time
Slipping it up me, to my knickers…
I needed you… so much.
Archived comments for Unrequited email
Jolen on 2005-09-04 15:47:37
Re: Unrequited email
Dear Griffonner,
My goodness! You took my breath away with this. A very sensual and stirring write...... About unrequited email or love lost, it's still amazing! Wow!
This was beautiful. Poignant....
Blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-04 18:42:07
Re: Unrequited email
Thank you, Jolen. Thank you for telling me your thoughts. Always valued.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

stolenbeauty on 2005-09-07 20:37:50
Re: Unrequited email
I Loved this piece, I thought it had a good message and a really strong ending - which I always love! I think the way you chose to lay out the stanza's was perfect for this particular poem. Thank you, Celia x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-07 22:35:26
Re: Unrequited email
Why, no... thank you, Celia... it was a lovely to hear from you, and I am delighted that you liked this.

Welcome to UKA, by the way. πŸ™‚

*Happy*
Griffonner



Author's Reply:

karenuk on 2005-09-16 12:05:16
Re: Unrequited email
That was very good and an excellent title too. The email angle felt very fresh in this poem and added a new slant to those old-as-time feelings of unrequited love.

I thought this line 'Leaving you to decide whether to hear' was extremely effective and made me think. It seemed to change the tone and mood perfectly at that point. Similarly, the line 'And refuse to believe you don’t' fulfils a similar role and just as well.

I am not sure the repetition of 'sail' works, to be honest though. Also I think 'so long' is two words and 'knickers' didn't seem to fit the tone of the poem.

But overall, I loved it πŸ™‚

Karen.





Author's Reply:
Hello, Karen. Something strange going on with my email account and browser today. Sorry... Either that or old age is creeping up on me faster than I thought. So ignore what I said earlier.... no, better than that, I've erased it πŸ™‚

Griffonner on 2005-09-17 22:20:29
Re: Unrequited email
Thank you for your very erudite appraisal, Karen. It is lovely to hear that you loved it overall. I think you are probably right about the 'sail' and 'sailing', but you know, I wanted that last word of the penultimate line to be somewhat incongruous: I had hoped that I would dupe the reader as to the narrator's gender by the use of an image of masturbation that I hoped would be misconstrued in the first stanza, but had to make it clear otherwise at the end. Oh what a tangled web we weave, eh?
*Grinning broadly*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

allieuk on 2005-09-30 21:24:51
Re: Unrequited email
Mmmmmmm. Breathless. I've been here too. Like my velvet thoughts, a person slips into you at night through the www and you're never quite the same. πŸ™‚

Allie

Author's Reply:
Hello, Allie. Thank you for this comment... a very poetic one if I may say so.
*grinning broadly*

Bearz on 19-10-2005
Unrequited email
I found this poem kind of close to core of something I went through recently - the crazy pointlessness of unrequited love- the knowledge that the lover doesn't care is a quiet devastation that takes its own sweet time to heal. Your poem expresses both the heartbreak and the anger of those moments. How do we forgive this terrible rejection? Yet, haven't we rejected others? It is almost a twisted validation of our worth to know that not only do we get our heart broken, but we are capable of breaking the heart others' too. I would still rather be the dumper rahter than the dumpee. Ha. Sad to say I have done both. and the rationale I feel when I have dumped someone only make being dumped all the more bitter - why? because I know how little they care compared to me. Someone said it is a cruel world, but maybe if we got our wishes, it would be an even crueller world. I admit being a little confused by the gender of the narrator, but ultimately the message is louder and stronger than any plot twist the writer hoped to impart. Good poem Griffonner!

John

Author's Reply:
Hello, John. Thank you for commenting on this. I found your analysis of the dump/dumper status very interesting. The gender of the narrator was female. Ciao, Griffonner


Death by misadventure (posted on: 29-08-05)
I penned this some while ago. It concerns one particular instance of Man's inhumanity to his fellow man, that took place somewhere in Iraq.

---o---




One morning comes. Eyes stay blinded to a brand new day. Brain begins boot routine, losing the threads of dreams, Connecting the strands of consciousness to the forefront As blood runs cold… The whump of adrenaline hits... Sickens the stomach and churns the wrenching gut inside… This morning has come. Did prayer fall on deaf ears? Were wishes lost, scattered to the bloodstained dusty floor? Were the pleadings unbalanced against unjust law? The food comes. Mouth opens, but the throat gags at the thought. No words are said. The ears hear hardened clomping boots Connecting with the stone. The chest prodded by a plate. A grunt in some foreign twang, and footsteps recede. Rapid hands lower a platter to the floor in haste Then seek to staunch the flow of unseen clear vomit. Desperate synapses flood the brain with endorphin Struggling to gain control of a shattering shell. The water comes. Lips suck, anxious to wet a tarnished tongue. Hands shake. Water trickles down an innocent chin Connecting childhood with these imprisoned adult hours. Gunshots in the distance bring out the slightest hope... Then just the heavy thumping beat of a fearful heart, and The rasp of a coarse blindfold across covered ears. Thoughts fleet to and fro through dear long lost living patterns: A wife. A family. A home. Some warm comfort. A captor comes. Rough hands hoist the trembling frame to stand. A warm trickle snakes down a cold thigh. No control. Connecting, convulsive, esophageal surge aborts. One more silent prayer leaks into the ether. The walking stops, and unknown voices ignore this soul, This father, this husband, this child, this frail life force. Inevitability. The real culmination Is recognised, and the spirit stills the body. The moment comes. Is bent towards the floor on sore knees. The prayer comes. The long tremulous dialect sings. Connecting thoughts; eons of time filled with phantoms scenes. The blow comes. It is short and blunt and doesn’t hurt. The blood comes. Squirting purposelessly into dead air. The sound comes. It resonates – not to severed ears. The end comes. On far off soil a beauteous flower Unfolds its gentle petals to face a golden sun. The moment comes. The ax man feels the chilly Karma Heavy on his heart. Chaos enters memory Connecting awful sights with awful sounds, awfully. Eyes show the burning need to cleanse away the sight, Oscillating from side to side to avoid the truth… Laying soiled, but triumphant in termination. Still. Calm. Unconcerned. Spirit rises on silver chords Trailing behind the long awaited son’s return. The piercing gaze: of perpetual gentility… The loving: the understanding hand on shoulder… Connecting: happiness; the friendliness; loving folk… The understanding: no hate; no guilt; no wrong; just love… The feeding: chocolate drizzles on thick clotted cream… The smoothing: coloured swathes of cloud softly caress… The memory... Lives. Years. Ages. Tribes. Races. Friends. Kisses… The purpose: pure, advancing, never ending, life… And finally... communion.
Archived comments for Death by misadventure
Griffonner on 2005-08-29 10:15:06
Re: Death by misadventure
There is a saying: 'I do hate clever clogs' πŸ™‚
Seems very appropriate in view of the rest of the line in question... he he he.
Merci, dear Tai-Li. You were right, of course.
*Appreciatively*
Je t'embrasse.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

steadyeddy on 2005-08-29 11:57:35
Re: Death by misadventure
fantastic story of life and death ,, I liked this a lot ...

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-29 15:26:05
Re: Death by misadventure
Thank you for taking the time to comment, my friend. I am delighted that you liked it... really. πŸ™‚
*Smiling*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

littleditty on 2005-08-30 12:10:00
Re: Death by misadventure
I love the narrative style of this piece - how you have written it. i need to read it again after a few sups more of the morning coffee -very interesting for me Mr Griffonner - i will study this -thank you xxxlittleditty x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-30 17:14:50
Re: Death by misadventure
It's OK, Littleditty. I just hope it stands up well after the coffee and the second reading. Thank you kindly for letting me know how you found the read.
*Caffeine saturated myself, right now*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-09-04 15:51:04
Re: Death by misadventure
Griffonner,

Once again you give eloquent voice to some very grim realities, and the ending of this fine piece is perfectly executed, if I may use that word. Very powerful and provocative writing, Thank you for sharing.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-04 18:48:01
Re: Death by misadventure
Blessings... That's lovely, Jolen. Thank you. Blessings... things we very often don't see that we have. Such events as this one, need expressing so that the inhumanity is not blurred by the avalanche of news about such dastardly acts.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 25-10-2005
Death by misadventure
Difficult subject matter, but handled very well. Some really excellent stuff in there. I loved these lines -

It resonates – not to severed ears.
The end comes. On far off soil a beauteous flower
Unfolds its gentle petals to face a golden sun.

The severed ears bit is just slotted in there almost as an aside, it feels, but it makes you re-read it and think 'Ahhhh, I see...'

I'm notexpressing myself too well here (blame my hyperactive 9 year old who won't shut up!!) but I hope you know what I'm trying to convey!

Karen xx

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 26-10-2005
Death by misadventure
I do, Karen. And it is lovely of you to have appraised this. Thak you.

Author's Reply:


I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy. (posted on: 26-08-05)
I keep telling you:

Things aren't always what they seem!


-----


I didn’t take a lot of notice of him at first. I just accepted him as one of the neighbours. Hmm, well maybe I was just a weenie bit nosey; you always are when it's someone new in the neighbourhood, aren’t you? But I’m not one to get involved with people - if you know what I mean. My type never are; we tend to shy away and hide our lights under a rock, so-to-speak (or should that be ‘hide our lights under a bushel’? ... Whatever that is?) Anyways, in comparison, as I was sayin', I really didn’t take much notice of him at first. I think he’d been here for 'bout a month when I realised he was a serial killer… Yeah, I did say, ‘serial killer’… And, no, I’m not exaggeratin': when I woke up coughin' and splutterin', there he was, with this huge plastic canister on his back, sprayin' toxic chemicals all over the place. The smell was waftin' right over to my place, and it was crap! I’ve heard that there might be some real bad side effects to be had from the ova'spray of these chemicals, y'know; they reck'n that male sperm counts are droppin' year on year - just 'cause of residue pesticides in the enviro'ment. I tried not to breath it in and tucked myself up tight, tryin' to get back to sleep. But it was no good, the smell of those darn chemicals was choking me, I just had to get up and out o'the place. I went for a little meander, round about, for an hour or so. When I got back I could still smell the foul stuff. It wasn’t quite so bad, but, you know, I could even smell it the next day! Horrible muck! I got angry, 'cause of that. I don’t like gettin' angry. It ain’t good for me. Come to that, it ain’t all that good for anyone 'round me either – when I’m angry; I do tend to go ‘off on one’. I thought I done darn well: not lettin' it get at me. I just made a little note about this guy. I decided he needed watchin'. So that’s what I’ve been doin', and every day I’m seein' somethin' new about him that I really don’t like. Yesterday mornin', he went off in his great big motor. Roarin' down the road. Cloud of bluish smoke billowin' out of the exhaust pipe. I watched him come out of his house... It’s the stone built one, over there. I’m goin' over there now. Comin'? Yeah, the one with the swingin' seat out on the porch. I watched him packin' his armory into the trunk. Y’know, he had enough ammo to fight a darn war! Then I watched him come back in the afternoon. He screeched to a halt… You can see the black rubber-burns in the road over there… Look… And then he hauled these two carcasses out of the back; one at a time hung over his shoulder with a rope bindin' their hind legs together… Drippin' blood down his path… Yuk! And then, while he was dealin' with carcass number one, his dog… Yeah, that black'un… it came and stretched itself up into the trunk. I guess it was attracted to the other body… Anyways, he came out for the second one, saw the dog, and went mad at the poor mutt… Hit it on the snout with somethin' he took out of the trunk… Must have hurt real bad, the dog whelped real loud, and ran whinin', out the back somewhere. Frankly, I don't mind admittin' I was a bit afraid. Can you blame me? You never know where these sort of people will stop, do you? I think I’ll have to take some action… Strike before I’m struck at, I reck'n! … I could be next! Every night, at a quarter-to-twelve, he goes to his bathroom… Yeah, that’s the end room on the right… The one with the windows thrown open… He leaves them open like that, 'til he goes to bed… I’ve watched him do it every night since I’ve had him tagged. Just a few more minutes, and he’ll be closin' those windows. He’ll put his hand out and hook under the bottom of the right-hand frame, pulling it away from the wall and swingin' it back round to close… Aha! Here he comes…Yeah… Hand out and under the other frame… and now… GOTCHA! I’m real quick, aren’t I? Man, he didn’t see me comin' … He he he … Coil back a bit, then spring forward, mouth open, fangs ready, and bite … But I’m out o'there just as quick… Just in case he thought of fightin' back! He he he, that’s the advantage of surprise… an' bein' able to climb stone walls, helps! He deserved it! I guess you could say, I didn’t like the guy. ©2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Kazzmoss on 2005-08-26 10:04:01
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Great story! Loved the way it assumed you were seeing what the main person was seeing and asking questions - Kazz

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-26 10:11:50
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Cheers Kazz. Glad you like it. Thanks for the rating too.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-26 17:22:01
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Well, you know what they say, Tai-Li: variety is the spice of life. πŸ˜€
I always think it is nice to turn that corner and be comfronted with the pleasantly unexpected - assuming that you were pleasantly surprised, and pretty quickly turned back to that peachy pink complexion again? πŸ™‚
Also, many thanks for you rating too.
*t'embrasse encore*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-08-27 14:05:10
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Don't usually read the prose [have to be selective or I'd live on tne computer -- and poetry is my love] but I was lead here by your poems. I like the story, like the way one is there with the narrator and loved the ending. Trying to picture the narrator afresh.
By the way, I had assumed you were British for some reason and so thought the dog had taken to tree climbing.
As Bernard Shaw said -- Two nations divided by one language.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-27 17:10:03
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
He he he... I am British by birth, Daff. Well, actually 50% Celt (welsh) 25% English and 25% French (also Celt) - Not that my language skills reflect that fact!
Thank you for reading, and commenting.
*Grinning broadly*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

RichardZ on 2005-08-29 01:18:02
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
The use of colloquial language was just right. Managed to get character across without being too hard on the ears(eyes?).

Also, loved the "Come follow me, and I'll tell you a story," style you employed.
Worked very well for me.

Good piece mate. πŸ™‚



Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-29 10:22:45
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Thanks for letting me know your thoughts on this, RichardZ. Glad you liked it. πŸ™‚
*Happy*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Frenchy on 2005-08-31 17:57:14
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Hi Griffoner,
Made me think of Edgar Allan Poe. Please don't ask me why! I just hung on in there right till the end.
TrΓ©s Bien,
Dave.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-31 18:25:05
Re: I guess you could say, I didn't like the guy.
Hey, thanks French. Just to be mentioned in the same breath..... πŸ˜‰
How're you doing? Enjoying the Summer...finally? πŸ™‚
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 25-10-2005
I guess you could say, I didn
I liked that, good twist, good characterisation & very different to most of your work.
Karen xx

Author's Reply:
Hehehe, I have my moments, you know! πŸ˜€


REMEMBER? (posted on: 22-08-05)
Well, do you?

Will you?






Take just one look. One, long, lingering look. But do me a favour? Take off your rose coloured spectacles, your nationalist flag, your preconceived ideas, your sense of specialness, your ego: Simply be.

One kiss. One more kiss. Just one.
One life. One breath of air. One desire.
Once alive, no going back: It is begun.
Past time was destined for the funeral pyre.

See me as I am: Beyond the face and the greying hair. Beyond the uniform of garment labels, tags, names, and logos. Beyond the touch of my hand; the smell of my after-shave; the taste of my kiss; the sound of my voice; the marque of my car.

One bird. One on wing. White Dove.
One peace. One lone pleasure. A flower.
Unstoppable. Irreversible. In love.
In absolute awe of ultimate power.

Understand me, please. Accept me as your brother or sister. My gender is not important. Nor the colour of my eyes; the colour of my skin; the colour of my persuasion; only, of my intent. My sword is raised in salute, not in challenge.

One thought. One whisper. Pearl sheen.
One wish. One bright sparkle. A star.
Wherever you go, I have earlier been,
Two arrows loosed to travel high and afar.

So we meet again beneath this sun. Once we were part of the same star; our tips dipped in the pool of golden light. Our shafts stressed ready on the great archer’s string, and then... Awakening to our individuality with that sickening thud in our premature bellies. Remember?


© 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for REMEMBER?
Bradene on 2005-08-22 12:36:43
Re: REMEMBER?
Beautiful Griffoner, where is the nib for heaven sake?? Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-08-22 15:39:17
Re: REMEMBER?
Griffoner, You have just described the 'collective' us, that I do believe in and remember. Beautiful work. Worthy of a nib, imo.. I wish more of us would not only 'remember' but carry this to infinity...
Thank you for this.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-22 19:16:28
Re: REMEMBER?
Thank you, Tai-Li, I'm so pleased that you saw the theme behind this. πŸ™‚

I am blushing again, both from your endearments and from your appraisal.

*Hugs and kisses back*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-22 19:17:58
Re: REMEMBER?
Thank you Val. You are very kind. I'm so pleased that you liked this.
Kind regards and best wishes,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-22 19:19:59
Re: REMEMBER?
What can I say, Jolen? I am now blushing all over again for your terrific appraisal. Thank you. Thank you.
*Fondly*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2005-08-22 21:11:39
Re: REMEMBER?
Griff, I liked this--a good message for all...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

BaBy_PoeT on 2005-08-23 01:47:24
Re: REMEMBER?
Griffoner i really liked the way you have layered this out.
also the 2nd, 4th, 6th stanzas loved them very much.
i understand were you are coming from and i think you have done it well

take care
keep up with the good work
xXx...:::...BaBy_PoeT...:::...xXx

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-23 10:38:38
Re: REMEMBER?
Nice to know you liked it, Gerry.
Cheers.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-23 10:44:41
Re: REMEMBER?
Hi, BaBy_PoeT. Some people don't like the 4th. They think it is 'staccato' when compared with the rest. And yet, that 4th contains the 'giveaway' to my meaning. I find it fascinating to write things that can be read in different ways, though.

Thank you for your kind comments,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

BaBy_PoeT on 2005-08-23 15:18:34
Re: REMEMBER?
well everyone has their own opinion.
and i think it all works out well. thats my opinion.
take care
xXx...:::...BaBy_PoeT...:::...xXx

Author's Reply:

Warhorse on 2005-08-23 16:35:27
Re: REMEMBER?
Hi Griff,

I was interested in the format of this very telling piece of writing. A sort of statement, then thought process going on as you wrote.

The sort of technique, or close to the format of American Folk blues format, Question and answer guise.

The message for all is clear, love thy brother or sister. But thew subtle invective, demonstrates you
skill well done.

Regards

Mike.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-23 17:24:21
Re: REMEMBER?
... close to the format of American Folk blues format...

I hadn't even seen that viewpoint, Mike. πŸ™‚
Thank you for pointing that out. I'm pleased that you liked.

Kind regards,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-08-24 00:16:00
Re: REMEMBER?
I too think this should have had a nib. Great write and with so much meaning.

Well done on the anthology nom.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-24 00:39:14
Re: REMEMBER?
Thanks, Si. Nice to be appreciated, eh?
And you too for 'The Bitter Poet'. πŸ™‚
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Kazzmoss on 2005-08-24 11:36:50
Re: REMEMBER?
What an amazing poem, really different. I like the way it was written, the verses and the paragraphs. It didn't fall into any catorgory that I knew and I liked it for that. It was very refreshing and simple in its honesty as it asked the reader for that too. - Kazz

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-24 13:07:49
Re: REMEMBER?
That's me! Different to the end!
I'm delighted to hear that you liked this, Kazz.
In the end, I believe, everything leads back to simplicity.
*Gratefully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-08-24 17:13:25
Re: REMEMBER?
I love this. Interesting format too. My first thought was -- why didn't you break the prose sections into lines as they do read like poetry. But I tried it and you're right. It's better how you have it.
I especially love
One thought. One whisper. Pearl sheen.
One wish. One bright sparkle. A star.
Wherever you go, I have earlier been,
Two arrows loosed to travel high and afar.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-24 17:48:48
Re: REMEMBER?
I broke it up into two sections deliberately, Daff. In the prose sections the individual is speaking to the reader directly, and in the rhyming stanzas is the story of a life being created and of the following birth - with the last two lines of the final rhyming stanza merging with the idea of two souls meeting again in life, which follows through in the final piece of prose.
I have to be honest, people read into this peace a multitude of meanings - which is fine, but I think the reason why it would not have worked in an alternative construction is because of that underlying pattern.
I am honoured that you looked at the construction in so much detail. πŸ™‚
*Happy you liked it*
Griffonner


Author's Reply:

Abel on 2005-08-25 19:47:44
Re: REMEMBER?
Simple and wonderful.

Ward

Author's Reply:
Ward, I am guilty of not looking back at some of my older submissions....SMACK!... that was me ensuring my wrist is suitably chastised! So, I'm not in the position of having to apologise for being tardy in thanking you for your very kind comments on this piece. I very much appreciate people taking the time to comment, so please forgive me.

Griffonner on 2005-08-25 23:02:48
Re: REMEMBER?
Simply wonderful comment, Ward πŸ™‚
*Gratefully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-08-26 11:51:53
Re: REMEMBER?
I must admit I am not an avid poetry reader but after reading this masterpiece,and that is what this is imo, I will be.

And yes where's the nib for this..
Great read.

Mike

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-26 17:40:01
Re: REMEMBER?
Wow! Thanks, Mike. "Masterpiece!"
*Blushes violently*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Rosco on 2005-08-29 15:44:08
Re: REMEMBER?
Your handling of words here is inspired. Not only individual words and phrases are supberbly chosen but the form itself interrupts the usual gallop of the mind with an arresting realization. Mystical thinking is rarely this well articulated with the possible exception of the Upanishads.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-29 21:13:47
Re: REMEMBER?
Thank you for such an appreciative appraisal, Rosco. I am astounded that you should make a comparison with the Upanishads. You are too kind.
*Appreciatively*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

skinnyscot on 22-10-2005
REMEMBER?
This is an excellent piece of writing. I love the language, the poetry and the way you have set it out. It makes for a very interesting read and one i enjoyed very much
rated 10

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your wonderful appraisal, skinnyscot. That's really very kind of you.

Lare on 24-11-2005
REMEMBER?
Hi Griffonner...this is a superb piece of writing. This should be framed and hung on the wall for all to see...for all should read this. If a 'nib' is a good thing...then this definitely deserves the 'nib'...(by the way...just what is the 'nib', I honestly don't know...)

Lare

Author's Reply:
Lare, you are terribly kind. I'm really delighted that you enjoyed this. "The nib" is the aware of "Great Read" that appears top-left of your submissions is some God thinks that you desrve the honour πŸ™‚


Peace (posted on: 15-08-05)
Mankind's midas touch?


In some far off place Where light comes in clean and unseen shades, And clouds of embryonic dust Crystallise in huge gigantic plumes, There lies the alchemy we seek - Virginal, pure, and so far free Of our touch.
Archived comments for Peace
eddiesolo on 2005-08-15 10:29:30
Re: Peace
Wonderful piece, as I sat reading I so wanted to be in this Eden.

Well written.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-15 12:45:12
Re: Peace
Thanks, Si. Exactly. Sometimes the tumult can get on top of you, can't it?

Ciao,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-08-15 17:02:09
Re: Peace
Dear Griffoner,

Your words sweep the reader up, and lift us on the way to this 'peace' ..... I would have loved to stay. Thank you for this. Great images, and so very serene, just as the name suggests.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-15 18:49:41
Re: Peace
Hi Jolen,

Thanks you for your lovely comment.

If you've ever seen some of those Hubble telescope pictures like this part of the so called Eagle Nebula "Pillars of Creation"
(http://imgsrc.hubblesite.org/hu/db/2005/12/images/e/formats/large_web.jpg) - and there are some full sized .tiff images that can't be seen via HTML which are truly breathtaking - then you will get an idea of what was in my mind.

(But maybe we should clear up our own back-yard before we even think of going off to contaminate such a virginal paradise, eh?)

*Hugs*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-08-15 18:56:27
Re: Peace
You got that right dear..... I am with you all the way there. I wish people would learn it's our home, and take better care.
*hugs*
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Elfstone on 2005-08-15 21:18:29
Re: Peace
Loved this Griffoner. In a very few words you manage to conjure up a sense of wonderment and serenity. A friend gave me a 'Hubble' calender last year and it was full of marvellous photos of space clouds - truly awe inspiring. Elfstone.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-15 21:34:47
Re: Peace
Cheers Elfstone,

I'm pleased to have brought a little peace into your life. *smiles* There was a little double entendre in the last couple of lines, though.

Thank you very much for your comment.

Ciao,

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Leila on 2005-08-16 09:42:06
Re: Peace
What an amazing image and a thoughtful poem...touch can heal but it can destroy...wishing you peace...L

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-16 09:55:19
Re: Peace
Hi Leila,

I found it to be a really inspiring image. It has given me a tremendous number of ideas. I'm glad you spotted the double meaning of the ending.

And congratulations again on your selection for the 2005 Anthology.

Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-08-16 11:11:17
Re: Peace
Thought-provoking poem, I liked it Griffoner.
Nicoletta

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-16 12:28:06
Re: Peace
Nicoletta, coming from you that is praise indeed. Very much appreciated.

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-16 19:20:41
Re: Peace
No, thank you, Tai-Li.

*Respectfully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2005-08-17 20:38:40
Re: Peace
Griff, I copied some of the fantastic images from the Hubble. I have them on the wall above my monitor. The pictures help me keep my feet on the ground.
Nicely done indeed...

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-17 22:55:58
Re: Peace
Yes. Very inspirational, aren't they.

Thanks, Gerry for stopping off and commenting. I very much appreciate it.

Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-08-18 22:34:35
Re: Peace
very nice work, griffoner.

your poem reminds me of a mountain i saw up on the faroe islands this summer, at the bottom right a quarry had been dug and it disfigured the mountain. i spent a lot of time trying to figure out ways to repair such damage but anything i came up with would only be superficial.

best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-19 13:05:11
Re: Peace
Thanks, Anthony. I haven't seen the blot on the landscape that you refer to, but I can imagine it. Sad, sad, sad.

Kind regards,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-08-27 13:54:28
Re: Peace
Lovely little piece, says it all in so concise a form.
When I think how hell bent we are on destrying our lovely plant, I could despair. And then I think maybe somewhere out there remains some untouched beauty. Well, it does, as we see in the picture, but sentient beings are needed for beauty to have meaning.
Anyway I really like the poem.
Re Anthony's quarry -- I think nature wil deal with it and do a good job but unfortunately we are doing worse than quarries so she has her work cut out.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-29 00:23:40
Re: Peace
Hello Daff,

If you are a believer in a divinity, then perhaps we have to accept that in the beginning of everything there is beauty - certainly love. In a way, even if someone is a non-believer, the value in things remains; the truly valuable things, the things that have endurance, are usually of beauty and love. *He says with his fingers crossed*
Anyway, I'm delighted that you liked this.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Lare on 28-01-2006
Peace
Ah yes, Griffonner...always just beyond our reach, it seems...always just beyond our reach...but...we keep reaching. Your imagery is very nicely sculpted...

"Where light comes in clean and unseen shades,
And clouds of embryonic dust
Crystallise in huge gigantic plumes"

Wow...your paper is your easel...your pen your brush...your canvas your poetry....well done...very well done...

Lare

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the kind comment, Lare. I'd almost forgotten this piece.

With positive thoughts for your mum...

Griffonner


CHRISTIAN'S DAY (posted on: 08-08-05)
I wanted to create something that reflected the specialness that knowing Christian Trimouille was to me. It has taken me quite a few weeks to come to this. Starting off as a poem, it metamorphosed itself, gradually, into these 1,235 words that are basically a record of that day.

------o------


Old stones surround us in this ancient hall, stacked haphazard shapes, one on top of the other in uneven rows. Rows that sometimes blend; what regularity they have interrupted by some larger specimen here and there. It occurs to me that these golden stones are like the years - dusty, interlocked, related, combined, broken yet completed. It is a thought that befits the moment. The sunlight streams through the lofty coloured glass, and sends a hue of green across the scene - auroral in the meandering incense fume. A curl of vaporous grey-green that lifts itself higher and higher like some part developed ectoplasmic apparition; the one, perhaps, that in the secrecy of my mind, I wish for at this time. For a moment, the reason why I'm here returns to mind and I cast my eyes towards the floor; a grey stone floor worn by the passage of time, smoothed by uncounted and forgotten souls, and an uneven resting place for quietened feet. There is a simplicity about this place. Yet a solidity. We sit on thick, solid oak planks, polished and smoothed as the floor. They are simply suspended by being set near each end upon two small pillars built of smaller stones; like those I use to build our garden walls, with small irregular stones set in light beige-grey mortar. Cobwebs hang around the higher parts of the windows, and in some corners where the wooden ceiling meets the walls. Dark, dusty, drapes swathed by passing time. They emphasise the magnificence of the place. Is there a ladder made that is long enough to reach them? I find myself wondering how old they are. How many years have they hung there... tantalising. An expectant hush comes and goes in here. Whispered notions spoken in one another's ears. It is a gentle babble, a soft one, broken now and then by the quick spark of kisses given cheek to cheek, into air, as friends and neighbours meet. There is a reverence in the air. Perhaps it is only shown by these whispered words, and the attempts at quiet movement - the curtsies, the genuflection, and the crosses drawn. And when an occasional sharp sound echos across the hallowed nave it is abrasive to the atmosphere - even to those who feel that they may not belong. Two mellow bells start to chant a mournful peel to tell this world there is sorrow here. No further than the distant hillside, in and out of the local fields, around the village houses, their ringing a soulful message, even to those unaware he has left us. Their sound enters the open doors behind me, and brings yet more people; so many, it seems as if there will not be enough places for them to sit. The increased babble is softened by the plangent organ that now fills the space with its gently resonant voice. All these noises and their cause, as in the past, a salve for sickened bellies and feared minds - a ritual for a short lived forgetfulness. A measured dose of some well practised opiate that nullifies the concept of our own mortality, and in its place swills the eyes in tears, chokes and tightens the throat, and gives us but a vague anticipation of our own very far off salvation. We wait with our heads and eyes avoiding a backward glance, in case Christian appears - his spirit risen, and his body defeated by the final but painful interlude that came into his life to steal him away. And when it took him, it took with it all the things that he had become to us: The friend, the wise man, the neighbour. The comrade soldier, the helper, the father. The grand papa, a voice in the village Chorale, a workmate, and for Simone the loving husband. And then suddenly there is a momentary fluster, and he comes - triumphant, but silent... followed by his family, who, with much dignity, walk the walk they always feared. Honours are to be given here today. The simplest expressed by those like me – who have nothing else to give but their presence, their respect, their condolences, and their love. He is led by the Mayor who proudly carries the leading pennant, one of three, each representative of something Christian himself honoured by his involvement during his life. A quick succession of strong arms bear him in and up the aisle: four loyal friends carrying out their deed of honour, carrying and placing him - still, and lifeless inside his oak casket with bronze handles - onto two very plain and spindly trestles. And then these same bestow upon him another honour – one that would have brought tears to his own eyes – as they set about carefully covering him in the Tricolore. Then begins the eulogy for this man - my friend and neighbour. Led by his daughter, who struggles with her grief-strangled voice and much determined tears, to speak about her beloved Papa. Prayers are given here today. A mystic mix of French and Latin that have served their purpose through the years; practised by heart by the well practiced, and observed pragmatically by those of us who are not so well versed in their incantation. Next, there are many silent tributes spoken by each and every member of the congregation, who, in time honoured fashion, unconfused, file up to his coffin and at it’s head briefly stop to pay respect to him… and seated beside him, to Simone, who with great dignity, and red rimmed eyes, accepts the touch of those who care, and who in their own way mourn for him too. The priest showers him with holy water, the four friends once more take up his weight and carry him out. More carry the many flowers, the priest his simple cross, and then, finally, we, carry our lightened hearts into the sunshine of a Dordogne summer day. Lightened, that is, by our sense of having somehow recognised the majesty behind Christian’s life; of having witnessed his passage into the hands of his God; and of having given something of ourselves to him in these last moments of his day. Behind the hearse we walk. Not in ordered columns, but in our own selected space. A slow paced journey through the hot, quiet, reverential streets. The sunlight reflecting off the stone walls of the houses, sends a golden glow to highlight our procession… We march with solidarity of purpose: To witness Christian’s return to the soil. We enter through the tall iron gates, and up the gentle slope. The scent of freshly cut grass and many flowers fill the air. There comes a hush as we form a half-circular group around the grave. No one speaks. Even the birds are silent. But as his casket reaches the bottom of his newly created grey marble home the silence is broken by a hollow thud, and that is swiftly followed by the swish of the lowering guide-ropes being withdrawn. He is now at rest. There is a sudden fanfare of bird song, just as the priest recites the oft spoke words of dust to dust, and amid the rattle of the symbolic earth that we each throw down upon him, I hear his voice once more say the few words of English he would sometimes proudly speak to me, “Sank you very mooch!” It is the end of Christian’s Day. © 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for CHRISTIAN'S DAY
thehaven on 2005-08-08 11:01:29
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
This reflects excellently on the passing oif a much loved friend and is told with grace and style.

Mike

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-08 11:55:51
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Thanks, Mike. πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-08-08 16:14:31
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
That's really beautiful -- a lovely tribute to Christian, who must, I think, have been a lovely man. Very moving.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-08 18:20:24
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Thank you for that, Daff. I was beginning to wonder if I was living on another planet? Now... of course... I am... but that's not the point. And yes, he was(is) a lovely man (I refuse to believe in nothingness).
*Kisses*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

chrissy on 2005-08-09 08:05:12
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
The origins of this work in poetry are very clear. There is a flow to the words that is very poetic.
I loved the description of the place and people.
An excellently written tribute to some one you must have cared for very deeply.
Extremely well done.
chrissy

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-09 09:50:11
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Thank you, Chrissy.

Christian was an exceptionally brave man, one that I respectected greatly. I am so pleased to read that you felt the poetry came through, I was hoping that my readers would sense that.

I think that sometimes there are very special and unusual connections between people; connection that are hidden and which manifest themselves in some very magical ways.

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-09 10:02:36
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Aha! You saw that!

I might have guessed that you would.

Thank you Tai-Li, I much appreciate your comments.

*Je t'embrasse*
Griffonner





Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-08-09 16:58:37
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Dear Griffonner,

What a beautfiully eloquent and descriptive piece, you have managed to take us there with you. I could feel the bench's hear the birds, see the church, and hear the prayers........ I loved the way you gave voice to this and I know that Christian is certainly touched by this, I do believe he heard it all....

thank you for sharing such a personal and painful bit of reality.... He lives on because of the love of you and others.....
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-09 20:31:39
Re: CHRISTIAN'S DAY
Thank you so very much for those words and thoughts, Jolen.

Author's Reply:


When we are gone (posted on: 08-07-05)
A week ago I lost a friend; to cancer. The day or two before his funeral, these words come to me when thinking about how his wife will miss him...




She will remember him, won't she?
When she opens up the cupboard door
To set the place for tea.
One less setting, one empty chair.
Twisting excruciating in her belly,
Cutting across her throat...
He will not be there.

She will remember him, for sure...
In the quiet when she cannot sleep -
In that enormous bed.
The pillow uncrumpled and clean.
No point in anticipating his soft touch.
No breathing beside her...
Where he would have been.

She will remember him, I know...
When the grass is growing much too long -
In the garden, alone -
Beside the smart new sandstone wall.
One more job accumulating without him...
When she will give anything
To have him... that's all.

She will remember him, and cry...
When we have all gone after the day -
When he is lowered -
Back to the rich and ginger grime,
And the house reverberating spoken tears
And our nervous laughter,
Gives memory... time.

But most of all... she will remember him... won't she?

© 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for When we are gone
Jolen on 2005-07-08 07:36:08
Re: When we are gone
Griff,

I am very sorry for the loss of your friend and my sympathy for his family.


This piece actually moved me to tears, it don't get better than that, imo.

Wonderful rhyme as well.

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Hazy on 2005-07-08 12:43:19
Re: When we are gone
What a very sad poem, Griffoner - sorry to hear about your friend. It's always the people who loved them who suffer the most - whatever the circumstances of their death. I hope she has close friends and family to support her through such an awful time.

Take care.

Hazy x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-08 19:29:56
Re: When we are gone
Thank you Jolen. These are very trying times. Thank you for your kind thoughts and appraisal.
Griffonner.

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-07-08 19:31:02
Re: When we are gone
A wonderful poem for your friend Griff it brought tears to my eyes. the last stanza in particular I found very poignant. great read indeed. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-08 19:32:27
Re: When we are gone
Hello Hazy, thanks for dropping by and giving your thoughts and words. Sometimes the world manages to tear the living heart out of us - or so it seems.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-08 19:38:25
Re: When we are gone
Thank you for your kind comments, Val. He died on their wedding anniversary. I know what you mean about the last stanza, and it is hard to imagine the 'coldness' that will come after over 45 years of being together as man and wife. But as she said this afternoon, '...it is a coldness that I must experience and overcome.'
*Morosely* Griffonner

Author's Reply:

LenchenElf on 2005-07-09 22:08:20
Re: When we are gone
I'm so sorry for your loss and hers, it will be so hard for her when the silent times come. Thanks for sharing your poem Griffonner.
all the best
LE

Author's Reply:

BaBy_PoeT on 2005-07-09 23:23:21
Re: When we are gone
firstly I'm sorry for you and your mates wife.....i know how it goes and feels when you lose some one to cancer....it takes ages to get used to that empty space...when i was 5 i lost my granddad and even tho the house was full it felt empty for ages...and in the last 3 yrs I've lost a few close family and reliz aswell...so yeh hope your alright and my best regards to you and your mates wife.
the poem was really sweet and good
take care
xXx...:::...BaBy PoeT...:::...xXx

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-07-10 10:01:30
Re: When we are gone
My condolences, death is hard to come to terms with, and those feelings of sorrow. You captured so well, the emptiness we can feel - in the everyday run of life - mowing the lawn - one less place at the table. Excellent and heartfelt work and well deserved nib.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 11:18:56
Re: When we are gone
Thanks for stopping by and taking the time to comment. And thank you too for your kind words, BaBy PoeT.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 11:23:28
Re: When we are gone
Hello LE.
Yes, the silence started for her on Saturday. The funeral was last Monday. But on Saturday her daughter and her family left to go back home to Paris. She said to me that she knew the house was going to be 'too cold' without him, but she knew she must 'endure the cold', it was 'necessary' for her to. I thought her words were rather poetic.
Thanks for kind words.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 11:48:54
Re: When we are gone
Thank you Emma. I didn't say it (foolishly) in my intro, but I deliberately left out her name from this - though I had originally used it - because these things are metaphors for all of the kinds of simple events that trigger the sensation of loss. He died on their wedding anniversary, and when you have been together for over fifty years...

Your comments on my little piece were really uplifting. Thank you again.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 11:51:49
Re: When we are gone
PS: You'll notice that I gleaned that it was 'over fifty' years from my brief conversation with her on Saturday...

Author's Reply:

Leila on 2005-07-10 13:09:35
Re: When we are gone
You captured that feeling of emptiness in every verse and especially so in the last two, this poem will stay with me for a while...L

Author's Reply:

Frenchy on 2005-07-10 17:26:48
Re: When we are gone
I still miss the laughter and the soft voice of the friend I lost to the same illness. I hope your friend finds peace of mind in the months to come. Take Care of her and yourself.
Dave.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 22:10:18
Re: When we are gone
Thank you for that appraisal, Leila. I much appreciate it. *Appreciatively* Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-10 22:12:27
Re: When we are gone
Thank you for your words, Frenchy.
Cheers, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-07-12 20:00:02
Re: When we are gone
Nail on head with this one Griffonner! I missed it before, and kind of wish I hadn't found it again!

A great read indeed

Sadly, still missing him

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-12 21:41:11
Re: When we are gone
Thanks, Tai. Yes, sometimes poetry is prompted by the less happy events in our lives, eh?

Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-07-30 15:26:58
Re: When we are gone
What a sad time for all concerned, but especially for his wife. I think in time to come she may take comfort from your poem, which is lovely -- well worthy of the nib. I hope you will show it to her when the time seems right.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-06 10:21:47
Re: When we are gone
Ah, Tai-Li. As ever, you see right through me. Do you not? Yes, this is one of the trilogy of pieces that will be translated into French. I never mentioned names in this one, so it shall be read and fit in place for those who feel it suits them.

If she is ever ready to see its understanding, she will.

*Astonished by your clairvoyance*
Bisous,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 23-10-2005
When we are gone
A beautiful tribute. My condolences on the loss of your friend.
Karen xx

Author's Reply:

Lare on 30-11-2005
When we are gone
Oh my, Griffonner...this really touches home with me. Two years ago this February my dad died suddenly on a Friday morning of a brain hemorrhage. I continue to call her every night...we have talked through the tears, frustration, confusion, anguish...the loneliness. And now, my mom's Alzheimer’s disease is beginning to take away some of those emotions...and now I cry for her. Your very last line, "But most of all... she will remember him... won't she?" really hits home because that's the question I ask myself every day. I wrote a piece about this...if it is alright perhaps I could post it sometime...I don't want to get too mushy here...In any case...this is a wonderful and very touching write which I very dearly hold this close to me...

Just me, Lare


Author's Reply:
Thank you, Lare. I saw her on Thursday. She was just about to go shopping, as I was returning home. I asked if she was feeling better. She said yes. There is no need to explain or clarify the specifics of my question, it goes without saying... there is a opening of my heart when I kiss her hello and hold her hand; a great affinity between our beings.

Of course, I have seen her in between times: Once, as if my words were prophesy, one day when she had a neighbour having a go at cutting the grass, and then on another occasion when she was planting the flowers from Christian's grave, 'to save them from the winter's frost.' And about six weeks after the funeral when we sat in the sun together and she was showing me the photos of the flowers and the plaques on his grave. (Different culture between us: she is French, I am an English Gaul.)

I knew she would never forget him. After so many years together, she couldn't fail.

For a while she seemed to close herself away, but now, five months later, she is beginning to find a way to carry on.

The loss of a loved one is always hard, but it hits us all in different ways. In some ways it is one of Life's greatest tests, I feel.


A brand of DNA (posted on: 01-07-05)
Music can be more than the food of love.



The room was silent. The cool grey light of a cloudy April day lay beyond the window's glass. My keyboard had finally stared me out, and I slunk away from it, eyes cast downward, beaten by my inability to find the right beginning to Chapter 11.

On the way to the sofa my right hand grabbed the remote control, and as I descended - almost in free fall into the welcoming cushions - I pressed the right buttons.

Her voice reverberated around the room. I had turned up the volume to make it so.

I rested back on the sofa, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to blend with her sound. I could not visualise her. Indeed, I did not want to visualise her. She was just the vehicle through which the music was delivered, and though important she could have had any appearance, it was only the sound that she made that was important.

The sounds were so moving, that I cried. Tears squeezing themselves from under my eyelids, sliding themselves flat through the tight gaps, percolating as globules between and around my eyelashes before trailing themselves down my cheeks. I sat quite still, allowing the emotion to happen. At my age tears find familiar paths; Life has given them flooding rights to imbrue the dried-up riverbeds hidden amid the creases of my skin.

Now the man joined in. Both their voices playing harmoniously with my soul. Their voices, conjoined by such things as quavers and semi-quavers, tumultuously bumped my emotions into reverse, and now I felt my heart opened up and expanded into some ethereal plane that reached down into the physical and allowed me a glimpse of something completely uplifting but at the same time absolutely untouchable.

When he sang alone, it could have been my grandfather. His strong tenor voice reminding me of that string of DNA that otherwise would have been forgotten. It was a minor miracle, this music. The tears came again, just as they had in 1965 when such music had conjured up the mood for the spectre of my Grandfather's spirit to reconnect with me. It had burned its way into my heart then, and branded my with a wound that could be re-opened on occasions like this.

I knew this plastic man. I knew what he looked like. His photo giddily spinning around inside the CD Player. But it was my grandfather's face that was in my mind's eye, standing lonely in the center of a theatre stage drenching his audience in such rich sounds. Perhaps someone, somewhere, remembered being in that audience; was old enough to have a record of those sounds zapped into the synapse of their brain?

When the room was returned to silence, I stayed with my eyes closed watching the image of my grandfather fade into the blackness. He had done it again: Had walked into my life and reminded me of his magic. I wondered if the music had the same effect on 'he' and 'she' who were zapped into the plastic of the CD, or did they, like well practiced magicians, have something fleet of hand, fleet of vocal chords, with which to cunningly mesmerize their invisible audience?

I turned off the HiFi, and returned to my keyboard. I read the lone line at the head of the monitor:

Chapter 11 - William Strange, tenor. (1898 -1964)

I began typing...

My grandfather had a special gift...


© 2005 Griffonner
Archived comments for A brand of DNA
eddiesolo on 2005-07-02 10:41:08
Re: A brand of DNA
This a great piece I really enjoyed reading this!

'My keyboard had finally stared me out,' I loved this line, it has happened to me so many times.

Top write.

All the best,
Si:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-02 14:31:58
Re: A brand of DNA
Thanks for your comments and appraisal, [b]Si[/b]. It is much appreciated.

There should be a new expression for virtual writer's block, shouldn't there? πŸ˜‰

I always say that what computers save - in the rolled up balls of paper torn out of the typewriter in frustration (and I remember that, like it was yesterday) - they make up for magnificently with the spurious blank pages and crookedly printed pages that come from the printer!

Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-07-06 12:39:39
Re: A brand of DNA
You have a wonderful way with words Griffoner, all of them mesmerized me to the end and I loved every one of them a great read. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-08 10:04:48
Re: A brand of DNA
Hi Val... And thanks for popping by to tell me what you thought of this. I'm delighted that you enjoyed it. *Blushing* Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Where the acorn grows (posted on: 20-06-05)
This was inspired (kind of) by my reading 'The battle of the trees' in Robert Graves book "The White Goddess"




On the last day I went walking through a forest;
Speaking to the trees.
Great strong trees that listened to my fears,
And rustled some soft applause…
For they understood.

The powerful mighty oak gave me first a leaf
Showing Autumn’s sleep,
Then an acorn to plant where I wished
To see new life full flowing…
For just a short while.

The aged wind, it blew a kiss onto my cheeks
Drying away tears…
Caressing through my grey tussled hair…
And then it too was taken…
Fast and fleet away.

The silver birch bent low, down towards my tired head
Passing me his seeds…
A million in one catkin, he said…
Then wept, as they all were dead -
As I soon would be.

I lay me down to take my last and final breath
Beneath a dark sky,
Shaded by the understanding trees...
And proudly walked head held high
Straight towards the light.

Now, each day I plant a kiss on my children’s lips,
Whilst they sleep at night…
And guide my lover each and every day
Towards life’s new beginning…
When, too, comes her day…

...where the acorn grows.

© Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for Where the acorn grows
Bradene on 2005-06-20 12:05:32
Re: Where the acorn grows
I loved reading this. I love trees and the idea behind your poem. I felt the last stanza was really beautiful.

Now, each day I plant a kiss on my children’s lips,
Whilst they sleep at night…
And guide my lover each and every day
Towards life’s new beginning…
When, too, comes her day…

...where the acorn grows. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-20 17:45:55
Re: Where the acorn grows
Well, I didn't get the style of 'battle of the trees' - that is truly a bit 'deep' - but I tried, and it's so nice to discover that someone enjoyed my attempt. Thanks for letter me know, [b]Val[/b], and thanks too for the very generous rating.
*Chuffed* Griffonner

PS: *Thinks: Is chuffed still in the vernacular?*

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-07-02 22:53:19
Re: Where the acorn grows
*sighs*

Wonderfully descriptive with an overwhelming feeling of peace with what must come to us all.

Beautiful work.
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-05 00:27:30
Re: Where the acorn grows
Thank you, Jolen.

I hoped that this would be filled with complexity about time, I think I may have managed to get some way towards my target.

'It' is surrounding me at the moment. You have heard the saying that 'they come in threes'... Well sometimes in more than three πŸ™

I much appreciate your appraisal.

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-07-30 15:03:40
Re: Where the acorn grows
Beautiful poem. I love trees and would like to pass on under them when my time comes. And you have done them justice.

I like the post script ...where the acorn grows.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-07-30 19:03:05
Re: Where the acorn grows
Thank you for that kind appraisal, Daff. I'm delighted that you enjoyed this. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-25 18:56:11
Re: Where the acorn grows
Belated thanks for your comment, Tai-Li.
The trees are such very ancient symbols, aren't they. I just couldn't resist the temptation to use them.
Your comments, as always, greatly appreciated.
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 25-10-2005
Where the acorn grows
Sad and haunting...
Karen xx

Author's Reply:
πŸ™‚ Thank you for your comment, Karen. Much appreciated.


TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT (posted on: 13-06-05)
It is all about paragraph five.

Oh, and with just a soupηon of fiction thrown in for good measure...





For a whole week there had been grey clouds, miserable rain, cold winds, and damp air. Each morning at the house on the hill, the younger man had risen early to light the wood stove, sometimes collecting kindling and firewood from the stack at the back of the house while still in his pyjamas. When the others appeared, the house would be warmed, and their breakfasts would be taken in comfort. How strange therefore, that on this particular day the change was so spectacular. So instant. The morning air was warm, the sky was magnificently blue, and there was a definite sense of optimistic expectation in the air. At any moment of time, a myriad events have come and gone. At twelve-thirty-eight that day, the reality of various personal expectations would fully materialise. I wonder what it must be like to be the engineer of that moment… the creator of it? ––-o––- In the brilliant sunshine, the family at the house on the hill were eating an early lunch, seated in their front garden. The younger man had poured the wine, some of it had dribbled down the side of his glass. The green garden furniture had become hot in the sun, and the circular ring of wine left from his upraised glass dried visibly; transformed itself from liquid to invisible gas right in front of their eyes. But none of them saw it happen. The food was good. Plentiful. Fresh. As it always is in this countryside. Coming from the local farms. Cooked by the younger woman, whose mastery of the kitchen was legend. They ate slowly, savouring the flavours. Potatoes from soil to plate in less than three hours. Cream from farm to mouth in similar time. Wine of the region, carefully prepared, respectfully stored, aged, and allowed to breath before exploding pleasingly upon the tongue and slipping velvet-like down ecstatic throats. A multitude of sensations from plate and glass. The older man walks into the house and returns with his new camera. Digital. Complicated. Too complicated. He had earlier shown it to the younger man, displayed it’s zoom capabilities, explained that it would take video shots, and then sat reading the instruction manual to find out how it did these things. Now, after lunch, he was ready to practice. The other three posed as people do when they know a photograph is about to be taken: Turning their best profile towards the acquiring lens, smiling their most sincere smiles, apparently ignoring the camera – but holding their stomachs in. The man with the camera studies the image on the tiny camera’s screen, and says that he thinks he’ll take another one… ‘just in case’… and dutifully they assume their posed positions once again. The second image also excludes the younger man – all that can be seen of him are his knees. The cameraman turns, and takes a picture of the garden, and then the front of the house. Then he quietly turns back again and quickly presses the button to capture the three of them unprepared. This time the younger man’s thighs also enter the scene. There is the sound of a siren. They all stop, and turn, and look down the drive, waiting to see if… ‘What was that?’ Exclaims the older woman. ‘It sounded just as if a baby cried…’ They all listen. Intently. But it is gone. A small red Sapeur's vehicle slowly passes by. The cameraman does not record this image, though he sees it on the screen of the camera. Instead, the electronic miniaturisation inside his camera ticks up to, and past the moment, and the time-stamp 12:38:00 is forever lost. –––-o–––- In the darkened hallway of the Dubois family home, a young man lifts himself from out of the chair and paces towards the bedroom door and back again. He is trying to calm himself. Trying to control this body that has the habit of being in control of itself. He sits back down again, and listens. The mumbled sounds from the other side of the heavy wooden door, have ceased. All he can hear now is the slow ticking of the old grandfather clock in the downstairs hall. He breathes deeply: In… Out… In… Out… Just as he has been helping his wife practice in preparation for this day. His mind skips back the nine months to a July that is passed and gone in all but memory. To a dark oak bed set in the cool bedroom. The windows are open but the shutters are partly closed to provide shade. A breeze billows the white net curtains at the front window, and bellows out the ones at the rear. In between it wafts over their entwined bodies, cooling their fire-hot skin, vapourising body fluids on the way, and later, it spreads their gathered molecules, like seeds, among the blaze-red geraniums in the garden. No one saw them fall from the air. No one heard their tumbled landing. No one saw the petals of the flowers swaying from their impact. He remembers the passion. The sudden rumble of lust inducing hormones that flooded his body and sent him into the spiral of desire; where he was spun uncontrollably, sucked magnetically towards the center. And once there, at the very core, where every fibre of his being was sprung like a coil, he remembers being shot through the black hole of procreation and spread in a gush of fluid that was hidden to the breeze. The fluid that imparts his half of the code. A code so complex that in it’s finite detail it is beyond the understanding of mere mortal men. An algorithm containing a secret of time itself. Her skin… Her soft, smooth, olive skin. The gentle curve of her smooth breasts, slipping seamlessly from her slender neck roundwards and downwards to culminate in the darker puckered skin from where protrude those proud and glorious nipples he had kissed. Her lips… moist with the flavours of other kisses, plump with excitement, rouge with desire, parted, open, inviting… The clock chimes the half-hour and breaks his dream, smashes through the reminiscence. And though, afterwards, his mind flickers back through time to those bedroom moments, it does not stay there. Instead it flicks through the days that followed. The weeks during which her belly had become home to the fruit of their passion… their longed for child. And he remembers the sleepless nights, when in the deep black hours he had sat rubbing her aching back… And last night, when, in the slate grey hour before dawn, in the still pool of ascending day before the birds could exercise their wings and trills, when her rhythmic pain had first begun… And then he was back again… Here... Now... Waiting. His wait ended just as the grandfather clock’s large brass hand had not long started its upward climb; When the new born girl whimpered in Docteur Roget’s strong, but gentle, hands. For Elizabeth Dubois is was a relatively quiet beginning, made not long after the moon had arrived at twenty degrees Leo, in opposition to Mars. Grandmama Dubois looked at her watch, and mentally recorded Elizabeth’s time and date of arrival into her ancient family: April 18, 2005. 12:38 pm. –––o––– Sometimes people wonder at the cruelty of life, forgetting for those moments the heavy sweetness that is contentment, the giddy exaltation of fulfilled desire, and the soft downy mellowness that follows a cordially shared glass of wine… or perhaps, of vodka. It is understandable. Though time is everlasting, it is nevertheless measured in portions, gathered in blocks, experienced one metered moment after another. What has passed before is gone. What is now is the reality. What is to come is complete mystery. For Daniel Viscont, the metered moments have not stacked as high as he desires. And he has high expectations for them reaching almost to the stars. It is nine in the morning, and already Daniel has weeded between three rows in his field. He trudged a little wearily from his farmhouse at eight, and with his hoe leant over his right shoulder he headed for the field that had been planted-out ten days before. Today, he thought, the weeding will not be such a pleasure; Today, everything will seem like a chore. Despite his feeling tired at the start of his working day, he planned to weed the entire twenty rows before sundown. Marguerite met him at the end of the third row, with a bottle of water that she had just brought from the supermarket in their battered grey Citroen. He drank deeply from the bottle, and was surprised by his thirst. Their talk was of the last evening’s meal. The one they had shared with their daughter, husband, and two grandchildren. ‘Perhaps it was the Brandarde?’ Suggested Marguerite. Adding, ‘It was a little too salty for my taste.’ ‘Perhaps…’ Ventured Daniel, drinking another mouthful and swilling it around his thankful mouth. ‘Well, I must get on if we are going to finish this lot today…’ He said, whilst raising himself back to his feet from sitting on a pile of logs stacked near the road and walking the few meters to the beginning of the fourth row. Marguerite didn’t kiss him goodbye, nor he his wife. It was their ancient routine; her coming from the farmhouse in the mornings to bring him water, sometimes with a slice of cake or a couple of madelines fresh from her oven. It was a part of the normal working way on their farm. In the afternoons, after the midday meal, she would join Daniel in the remaining work of the day out in the fields. In the humdrum task of weeding, Daniel has discovered one small secret of time; a key to turn the repetitive task into the actions of an automaton, while inside his mind relives phases of time itself. This morning, for some strange reason – though one that escapes his observation – his mind travels backward to his life as a boy on his parent’s farm at Mayrac. And during the fourth and fifth rows, he has relived a typical childhood morning in immaculate and finite detail. It is as if the pathways of his brain have reached a point where there is a shortcut back to earlier days... to the very beginning. The sixth to eighth rows see a series of other memories flood back; of people and things from years gone by; his grandparents, his children, their christenings, his grandchildren, they all file by, through his mind’s eye, while he works. They are all happy, fondly remembered moments. It is eleven-forty-six when he stoops rhythmically down to pull another weed from the ginger soil and feels slightly dizzy upon arising. It is not just any weed. It is the final weed… of the morning. It is special. It holds this moment dear within it’s short life, for now it plays a leading role in the scene. It’s importance magnified to those who know the story, to those who can see the act in play. It bleeds its molecules into the calloused dry fingers that grasp its weeping stem. He does not feel their wetness. He does not feel them permeate his skin and join with him inside. He mumbles to himself that it is the heat that makes his head to spin. ‘Time to head for home’ He says, and begins his marvelous journey. As he rounds the copse of small trees where formally his garden ends and the farm begins, the pendulum in the tower of the Church of St. Nathalene, across the fields, swings low, and he hears it’s bells begin their marker for a morning passed. It is twelve noon, and he is a few minutes later than usual. He stops for a moment, props his hoe against the garden wall, and stretches his back. Hands on hips. Arching backwards and looking up at the clear blue sky. Then closing his eyes, looking for a moment at the brilliant red light that illuminates his retina through his eyelids. The blood of life, he muses. The juice that holds the key to time itself. The moment passes. When he opens his eyes again and glances to the door of the farmhouse, for one tiny moment he sees not his wife standing there waiting, but his grandmother, Elise. He blinks Grandmama Elise away, and blinks back Marguerite. She is a little late with the meal, so after a quick splash of cooling water over his face and hands, he decides to spend a rare few minutes resting in the sun – sitting on the old bench set against the southern stone wall of the house. From there, he can see across the fields and trees and on to the hills beyond. In the distance he sees something sparkle on the tower of the Church, and he squints his eyes to see against the light. It is twelve-forty-one when Marguerite comes to fetch him for his meal. But she is too late. He went with Elise, just three minutes before. When she had held out her hand for him, he had heard the thud in his chest. It was a sudden unexpected sound, like that of a bird that has flown into a pane of glass. Similarly, as a bird would settle to the ground, he settled slowly down upon the bench, shaken, dazed momentarily… but then, just as he had when he was a small boy, he took Elise’s hand, rose up, and walked off with her. There was no-one to see them go. There was no-one present to say goodbye. They spoke no words to one another. All that could have been heard was the twittering of the birds, and the sound of a welcome breeze blowing through the nearby leaves. Elise simply held out her hand, and Daniel took hold of it, in complete faith. His metered moments stacked to completion at twelve-thirty-eight precisely. –––o––– Madame Spit struggles to move the planter. It is heavy. Weighted with the rain of recent days. Too heavy in truth for her aged bones to handle. But she is a proud old lady, and she grits her teeth. Her skinny hands wrap themselves around the earthenware handle. Her fragile wrists appear from beneath the grey woollen sleeves of her sweater, and as she gasps for air she sees the age-spots smudged over their wrinkled skin. Gathering her energy for the next explosive pull, she sheds two tears for the fact that things are no longer easy for her to do; that her independent life might soon be impossible. The tears are not allowed full reign. She permits them only to leak into her eyes and slightly mist the view. She tightens her throat, and stops them in their tracks. Blinks them away. Takes a deep breath and throws her weight backwards. It is ten-twenty-seven. The moment in time, when all those years ago, in a hot shady Spanish shed, Manuel Lσpez Covas first rolled the red clay between his hands. Strong, fine hands, that were stained the colour of his medium. Brown muscular forearms flexing and tensioning the tendons that led to his craftsman’s fingers fashioning the second handle for the pot. From his brow, trickled a fine bleed of sweat, through and around his bushy eyebrows. For a moment he stopped. Looked up. Brought his left arm up to his head and spread out the sweat in a thinner layer between forehead and forearm. Then resuming, twitched his nose… trying to dislodge some sweat that had trickled down the bridge. It stayed there regrouping itself before the final plunge downwards through thin air… splat onto the clay. His fingers kneaded the sweat into the clay, and in the magic of his blending, in the secrets of the clay’s crystalline structure, there was implanted a code. A code of such complexity that it defied mere human understanding. A code that set the strength of the bond between handle and pot. An unalterable pattern of molecules at the boundary between the body of the pot and the new handle, wherein lay the secret of time. From that moment on, from that day forth, well past the final breath of Manuel Lσpez Covas, well after it’s long journey up through the mountains and into France, it’s crystalline clock ticked. At ten-twenty-seven precisely, the handle and the pot part company. A bond of fifty one years, and exactly seventeen days is broken. With great dignity, with absolute silence, the handle released it’s grip on the parent body, and allowed both itself and Madam Spit to fly. Backwards and into the air, like a swimmer plunging backstroke through the waves she goes, her hands releasing the handle to it’s own trajectory. Her arms accelerating upwards, thrown up over her head in a vain attempt at restoring balance. But they move in wishful thinking. No one can stop this moment. No one can stop the tick of passing time. No one asks why. No one is watching. No one sees her flight. No one sees her fall. No one records the moment with their eyes, and her eyes only record the vision of the bright blue sky above her while she flies light and free through the April air. Her grey skirt billows for a moment in mid air, and the soles of her shoes see the full light of day. Her hair wisps over her face, and the air is in motion… just like her. Madam Spit’s flight is longer than some might imagine, if, in their wildest dreams, they created this moment in the cobwebs of their mind’s eye. For she was at the edge of her terrace, itself more than a metre from the sloping ground below. Time even for her to hear air rush past her ears… before the thud. And time too for her body to rotate through ninety degrees to face across the verdant valley, and see the far off trees… before the darkness came. In the quiet of her garden, the birds flit playfully through the trees, and the leaves on those trees rustle in the fleeting wind. One or two of last year's, brown, dried, discarded leaves, are blown gently to cartwheel toward her house, and one, with veins as prominent as those on the back of Madam Spit’s hands, stops and lodges itself in the shady place between her body and the soil. She sleeps. She does not see it. she does not feel it. Mercifully. It is ten-thirty-eight. And from a dream of happy youthful days, of a boat ride with her parents in Amsterdam, of the taste of a sweet-filled pancake on her tongue, of a growing sense of discomfort in her hip as it is pressed against the hull of the wooden boat; and with her father saying, “Wij zullen gauw weer samen zijn Ή …” she wakes. It is a slow awakening. A slow drift back to a warm Dordogne day. And until she moves, she is at rest, believing she is sunbathing on a soft sun-lounger. When she stirs, the pain is agonising. Jolting her consciousness back to the present; to the unpalatable present. She remembers flying. She remembers the handle, which is now laying, dead, on the grass, a few metres away. It is eleven-forty-four. She has crawled nearly all the way to the open door of her house. It is tantalisingly just beyond the reach of her outstretched arm. She calls out again – in the vain hope that someone, somewhere, will hear her cry. But her voice is now dry and cracked. She has broken it with her repeated earlier cries – several from the sheer agony of the pain in her hip. No one hears her call. There is no one who can hear her call. The proximity of the door inspired her to new heights of determination, and she manages to grab the cill of the doorway and pull herself to the threshold, a distance of perhaps thirty centimetres, but the fastest travelled thirty centimetres of her twenty metre crawl. A crawl interspersed with bouts of sleep… or was it coma? She was unsure. No one sees her sleeping. In her house, the telephone rings… and rings… and rings… It is five-past twelve, and finally she reaches the hall stand. She pulls on the white cable that hangs from the socket on the wall, and cringes, praying at the same time that the telephone will not crash down upon her head. The Sapeur-pompier’s small red vehicle arrives at twelve-fifteen, and the normally fiercely independent, fiercely private, Madam Spit, is never as happy to see strangers inside her home. With Madam Spit once more asleep, dozing, aided by a single injection of a minute potion of clear liquid, the image of the Sapeur’s vehicle first appears and then disappears on the screen of the old man’s camera. In the corner of the camera’s screen two misty figures walk hand in hand as the white numeric figures arrange themselves at 12.38 pm. The cameraman blinks at the camera screen, and records, inside his mind, the images of 12.38 pm on the 18th April 2005 as fantasy. © Griffonner 2005 Ή We will be together soon
Archived comments for TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
angel2 on 2005-06-13 08:23:43
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
This is m first comment on this site and I have tosay this piece is stunning!My only gripe would be the occasional over use of adjectives.Aten for me

Nick

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-13 10:39:14
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Thank you very much, Nick. What a lovely first comment - both for my piece and for your commenting initiation on UKA. I am honoured.

Overuse of adjectives... yes, of course you are right. But in my defense, it now stands strong and proud, fat and full, plump and juicy, when I read it, and there were versions of it that were contrastingly quite skinny. If you get my drift? (I know, I've done it again, haven't I? But my tongue was in my cheek when I did *big grin*)

I rather felt that I wanted lots of white space in this - between the paragraphs etcetera - so that the reader would be given time to digest a rather rich narrative. I wanted it to be almost poetic in structure, and I read it as though it is; slow and full of hidden meanings.

Once again, thanks for your lovely comment and rating.

Best regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2005-06-13 14:54:32
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
This story started out great, then better and better. As my Grandpa use to say."This here is a mighty good piece"...love Erma

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-13 15:32:10
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Thank you so very much for that, Erma. Very kind of you. Sometimes I think I see a theme developing in the pool of the written word: There was I with Daniel Viscont in my mind's eye, and his grandma Elise appearing to him, and there you were with Doolittle and your narrator saying, ' He was lookin to his right like they was someone a settin aside em.'. Shall I say, "Great minds..." ? Cheers, Griffonner


Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-06-15 15:52:21
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
This certainly reads on many different levels - metaphysical for sure, and you have some great imagery within. A very fine piece of work, Griffoner!

Kat πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-15 16:12:28
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Thanks very much for taking the time to comment, Kat. It is very kind of you - as is your appraisal. I very much value your appreciation.
Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-06-16 00:18:57
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Interesting story. Nice ending. But I have a few niggles with it, I dunno what's up with me! I found some of the adjectives off putting and they slowed the piece down too much in places, and here's me who over uses them all the time!!! I also got a bit sick of reading the words camera and cameraman... I know they are needed. I dunno what to suggest apart from rewording the sentences or adding more in between those words. Like I said I dunno what the hell s up with me, I don't do crits... not that this is a crit. I'll just leave now shall I... byeeeeeeeee

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-16 00:35:23
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
No... don't leave! Thanks Claire, for taking the time to stop by and tell me what you thought.

I wrote this in a particularly different style. I wanted it to read like poetry, and I wanted it to be bursting with richness. And I wanted loads of white space between the paras; places where the reader could digest what had just gone before, before embarking onto the new. I wrote it how it sounded when I said it aloud in my mind's ear.

There are one or two things that I'm not happy with. Largely academic rather than majorly reconstructive. So you are not alone in wanting to have niggles. Heck, there are always some, aren't there?

Thanks for your input. Kind regards, Griffonner


Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-06-16 22:35:13
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
I enjoyed this .Deserves the "great read"

Mike

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-16 22:47:29
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Mike, I'm really proud to have you say that. Thank you so much, both for the kindness of your appraisal, and for your time in telling me.

Appreciatively, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

LenchenElf on 2005-06-17 00:37:13
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Rich, lyrical, loved it, thanks for sharing this piece
all the best
LE

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-17 10:03:18
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Thank, LE. I'm pleased that you enjoyed this, and grateful for your telling me. Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-18 21:36:31
Re: TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
Lai-Li, I am sorry that I didn't see your comment until now. You have no idea how much your appraisal means on this piece (I mean that in the nicest possible way.) I am very happy that you liked it. Thank YOU for reading it.

*Thankfully*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 31-08-2009
TWELVE-THIRTY-EIGHT
thanks for pointing me at this, Allen. I read it with enjoyment, it had a good feel to it. I'd read about the 'remarkable things' book, so I had the principle. Ingenious and nicely moody/mysterious ... and back to the sapeurs-pompeurs (who last year kindly removed a hornet's nest from my chimney).

I can't really see how this story set the language of your poem at the moment, but I'll go back and read it again and see ...

Author's Reply:
Maybe you don't / won't see it. But it was what I started out trying to employ in this new poem. I guess the best excuse I can muster is that I never said I succeeded in my attempt to employ it! Maybe next time. πŸ™‚

Bye for now,

Allen


Lust on my tongue (posted on: 22-04-05)
This started as a whimsical play on words, and then, when it was finished, the cold hand of realism touched my soul... In more ways than one is this a double edged sword... in the meaning and in the ways of understanding...



She stands before me… the Red Temptress…
Straight, firm, slim, with her easy curves,
And smooth skin that my fingers easily slip upon...
She knows the effects that she can induce in me…
Oh yes, she knows.
I get the taste... her kiss on my tongue…
Remembering the smooth velvet;
Her intimate and personal intrusion in my mouth.
It is all so easy for her to beckon me
Into her spell.
There is a moment… contemplation…
Where I climb from the sticky goo
Of my lust, and with wooly thinking, lust instead
To be free, be single, and be independent
Of thirsty need.
That’s when I daydream… of what could be…
But the moment she is cast off -
Like an oiled jerkin in a northerly storm -
I tremble with the fear of being without her…
Frozen… alone.
Magnetically... I walk to her...
Knowing I am lost with each step…
Letting go… wanting her to grasp my heart…
Shaking with anticipation of my desire…
And yes, she comes...
There is no resistance on her part,
She flows to me, smooth, quick, and free
And in the sense of her a fire is lit…
I swallow and my mouth is dried, my tongue singing,
And down she goes…
…my darling vin rouge…

© Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for Lust on my tongue
tai on 2005-04-22 10:30:07
Re: Lust on my tongue
Very sexy Griffonner. I love the twist....yes, that vino collapsico can be a naughty persistant temptress indeed, but we have only so much to give before she takes too much for us to live.

All the best

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-22 11:18:40
Re: Lust on my tongue
Thanks for the comment, Tai - I liked 'we have only so much to give before she takes too much for us to live', very nice. I hasten to add that this really is a play on words, and I don't have a problem with the demon drink. (smiling all the way to my signature), Griffonner

Author's Reply:

red-dragon on 2005-04-22 12:58:46
Re: Lust on my tongue
Bewitching! Why is it that nobody seems to lust after dandelion and burdock? It's just not a sexy drink! Ann

Author's Reply:

LenchenElf on 2005-04-22 13:01:24
Re: Lust on my tongue
Cleverly done and a very enjoyable read πŸ™‚ Thanks for sharing
all the best
L

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-22 13:24:43
Re: Lust on my tongue
I do lust after dandelion... especially when she has that bright yellow tu-tu on πŸ™‚ But burdock... Hmmm... I'm just not into fellas. Cheers, Ann - for the witty comment, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-22 13:26:25
Re: Lust on my tongue
No, thank [b]you[/b] LenchenElf... for taking the time to comment and tell me what you thought. I'm glad you enjoyed. πŸ™‚ Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-04-22 14:25:29
Re: Lust on my tongue
Ah sweet seduction...... how tasty it is...Quenching of thirst on many levels... And this poem too is one that to me speaks of many levels within seduction. The ending is brilliant.

blessings,
jolen

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-22 15:58:42
Re: Lust on my tongue
Hi Jolen,

You said:"The ending is brilliant."

... as is "Handcuff me baby, treat me rough;
Ride me bare back in the buff"
πŸ˜‰ --- It is possible that you might know Victoria Wood (UK comedy personality) who wrote something a few years ago that your peom reminded me of. The two things are completely different of course, but the lines in question went:

"Not bleakly, Not meekly. Beat me on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly."

Thank you for letting me know what you thought about 'Lust on my tongue'. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-04-23 11:44:57
Re: Lust on my tongue
Ahhh, the beguiling effects of wine - enjoyed this lustful taste.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

Frenchy on 2005-04-24 21:13:33
Re: Lust on my tongue
How come I missed this one earlier on. Great suspense and such a lovely twist! Brilliant play on words and the workings of most men's minds including mine! lol.
A lover of Bordeaux,
Dave aka Frenchy.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-24 22:19:35
Re: Lust on my tongue
Hi Emma, Thanks for the comment... The lustful taste? Well, it very nearly got there, but not quite (grins cheekily) Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-24 22:21:57
Re: Lust on my tongue
Thanks, Frenchy. Glad you enjoyed the vintage. πŸ™‚
Kind regards (after yet another wet Dordogne day), Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Frenchy on 2005-04-24 22:30:21
Re: Lust on my tongue
Gordon Bennet! I would just love to drink a fresh glass of Dandelion and Burdock lemonade.Haven't seen anything like it in the shops for over forty years! Beats Coca Cola by miles!

Author's Reply:

Romany on 2005-04-24 22:48:25
Re: Lust on my tongue
Very sexy! Does your 'darling Vin Rouge' have to be the drink though? I was thinking it could maybe be a metaphor for some lucky lady?...

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-25 11:00:00
Re: Lust on my tongue
Hi Romany,
Thank you for popping by, reading and commenting on 'Lust on my tongue'. Hehehe... No, no other woman in my life than Lady Griff, and if I had to describe her I would concentrate on her green eyes (or have them concentrate of me). The very idea! (Shhhhh!)
Kind regards, Griffonner.

Author's Reply:

steadyeddy on 2005-04-26 18:26:11
Re: Lust on my tongue
brilliant mate I loved it,,you have a fantastic way with words,,

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-27 11:47:39
Re: Lust on my tongue
Thank you, Steadyeddy. Wow! What greater appraisal can a writer have than such as this from his fellow scribes! You aren't so bad with words yourself. Ciao, my friend.

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-04-29 14:03:05
Re: Lust on my tongue
Griffonner this is a brilliant piece of work,a double edged sword indeed a great read IMO Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-29 22:02:52
Re: Lust on my tongue
Thanks for your appraisal, Val. I'm really pleased that you enjoyed it, and delighted that you stopped by and told me. Cheers, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Abel on 2005-06-15 20:14:04
Re: Lust on my tongue
Brilliant piece, Griff. Love the images, the flow. Enjoyed this,

Ward

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-16 00:11:24
Re: Lust on my tongue
Thank you, Ward. That's very nice of you to take the time and let me know. Regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 25-10-2005
Lust on my tongue
Hee hee! Good thing it was wine or I'd have told you off for only fancying slim women, ha!! πŸ˜‰
karen xx

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 26-10-2005
Lust on my tongue
The minds of men, eh! πŸ˜€

Author's Reply:

BlueyedSoul on 30-11-2005
Lust on my tongue
Had to comment when i saw the title of this one. Hence, i am now inspired to continue my kiss series...i like it, i love it, yes i want some more of it...hehe. Sexy and hot as i see it.

~Always Cindy

Author's Reply:
You are too kind. Thank you for your kind rating.

littleditty on 30-11-2005
Lust on my tongue
Hi Griffonner - came back to this via the recent comments box and liked it even more than the last time - so i am going to tell you that this fruity, leggy little number is going to get me pressing the button up there to match the colour of the poem -red hot - xxxlittleditty x

Author's Reply:
He he he... Was it THAT hot. Must have a been a more spicy vintage than I thought!


A dream well spent (posted on: 04-04-05)
Devotion... It is a mysterious and mystic thing...

I am not a catholic, but I recognise that he devoted his life to his faith, and in return I can only give two-hundred-and-fourty-nine words about the moment that took place on April 2nd 2005, at 2137 hrs...





Even Maderno’s fountain slowed, or so it seemed, Its waters somehow falling more slowly Like the tears of the small Italian girl with olive skin Who wept for him and held aloft her thoughts: “Grazie” - Beneath her feet the cobbles of St. Peter’s Square Glistened, newly clad in trodden drops of coloured wax, Dropped from chromatic candles lit and burned in hope… Burned in memory… burned for Giovanni Paulo. Had their flames burned in vain? Carrying unanswered prayers, Upon the heated air, high above the pilgrim crowds? Or had the truth been something yet unthought - Wherein, in some far off distant comprehension A white robed, bearded deity, placed his kind hand Down on Giovanni Paulo’s furrowed brow, And said, “In your dream I heard you call my name, But I left you sleep.. Left you to dream your dream of life.” The devoted ones below, crowded in the square, Their faces solemn, salty wet cheeks, voices stilled, Waited for a sign that resurection would be delayed, That earthy molecules would hold themselves together… For just a little longer… Or yet in more realistic terms That Giovanni Paulo would be comforted by their presence, Given courage… thanked for his own devotion… Aided in the overture of his magnificent journey. But the knowing ones in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran Saw that the monument to Pope Sylvester II became wet… Waking to a brand new dawn of unprecedented light Giovanni Paulo smiled upon the memory of a dream well spent… © 2005 Griffonner I have been asked, elsewhere, for an explanation to the penultimate stanza: And the knowing ones in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran Saw that the monument to Pope Sylvester II became wet… The superstition(?) is that the monument to Pope Sylvester II becomes wet as a sign that a pope is about to die. It is said that when the late pope was in hospital (as he was quite a number of times during his life) those nuns and priests in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran - where that monument exists - feared not for the outcome of his hospitalisation, because the monument remained dry.
Archived comments for A dream well spent
Gerry on 2005-04-04 16:16:33
Re: A dream well spent
Griffonner, nor am I a catholic, however I had a lot of admiration for this guy. He will be difficult to replace.
Nicely done.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-04 19:45:47
Re: A dream well spent
Hello Gerry, thanks for stopping by and reading, and thanks too for taking the time to comment. Naturally, I agree with your views about the Pope. Thank you for your appraisal of my poem.

Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-04-04 21:19:14
Re: A dream well spent
I enjoyed your well-written poem Griffoner. In Papal terms, he was progressive...

Kat πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-04 22:40:41
Re: A dream well spent
Thank you for your comment and appraisal, Kat. I'm really pleased that you enjoyed it. - Yes, progressive: I heard an interview today where the priest in question said that he hoped that the cardinals would seek to retain the late pope's progressive style, and not choose to plunge back into "old ways". Kind regards and best wishes, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Dargo77 on 2005-04-04 22:48:30
Re: A dream well spent
Griffonner, very well written piece of work.
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-05 00:30:37
Re: A dream well spent
Thank you very much for that comment, Dargo. It's nice to hear from readers who appreciate what you've written and take the time to tell you. Cheers, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-04-14 10:43:39
Re: A dream well spent
I'm not a catholic either, but I can recognise a good man when I see one and a great poem too. This is a great poem, IMO Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-14 20:05:57
Re: A dream well spent
Thank you, Val. That is very kind of you. I'm so pleased that you liked this. It means a lot to know that you did. Kind regards and best wishes, kisses even, Griffonner (grinning broadly)

Author's Reply:


Retrospective journey (posted on: 28-03-05)
Those of you who have read my poem 'Changes' will find that this short piece of prose gives a greater insight into the motivation behind the second verse...



The road stretched on forever. A dark grey asphalt ribbon that rocked the car as a hand on a cradle; a little side to side, mostly up and down, just like the succession of stepping hills that formed one tenuous horizon after another - each set at a slightly different angle, and each having a unique contour of its own.

In this part of Sussex, and in this trajectory, climbing the broad hump of the downs led through a landscape that appeared almost infinite. The grassy fields to either side, perhaps one could say of monotonous green, could not be employed for their distractive content for fear of my veering off the road. So, rather like a rabbit caught in headlights, I continued to stare straight ahead, my tired eyes remaining locked into the almost automaton driving gaze that had destined them to become red and sore towards the end of my long journey home.

Gently bounced by the soft suspension, bored by the repetitious vista ahead, lulled by the hum of the engine, blanked by the hiss of the tyres on the road, I was in danger of slipping into another world. A dangerous thing to do if you are driving. But the mysterious rhythms of the journey were almost hypnotic and so I found myself compelled to break the spell somehow. I chose to do it with the question that had been burning inside my mind for the best part of a week. The words rat tat tatting their way into the world:

'I know you had to go there… But, dad... somehow it just doesn’t seem real?'

Before he had chance to answer, the brilliant sun, appearing from behind the last of those asphalt horizons of the western climb, smashed it’s way through the windscreen and poked its fingers into our eyes. Involuntarily, my foot padded itself a little harshly onto the brake pedal, abruptly slowing us down and lurching us forwards toward the brilliant light. It was an inauspicious moment, but that is when he chose to answer me, and in my panic to retain full control of the car I didn’t catch all that he said. Only the last few words registered in my brain, ‘… no alternative.’

Frenziedly grabbing for the sun visor with my right hand, I positioned it to place my eyes in umbra and restore a sense of calm inside the cabin. But for a while the mood was broken, and I sat there in silence, composing myself after the adrenaline rush.

I began thinking back to earlier days when we had been together. Though there were undoubtedly many of them, there were not that many that had burned themselves indelibly into my memory.

The one which was most clear in my mind at that moment, was when, one evening, I had taken the time and had walked from my house to dad’s favourite pub. It wasn’t very far; perhaps just four or five hundred yards from my home, yet I hadn’t made the journey before.

The spring loaded door had taken me a little by surprise as it yanked itself closed, twisting me slightly as my hand was still clutching the large brass handle and my attention was concentrated on my dad’s face. He was the only person in the bar, apart from the barman, and his face lit up when he saw me. His cheeks sometimes had a roseate glow to them, as though he had been in the sun too long, and they were like that on that evening.

I walked to the bar and pulled on a tall heavy wooden stool, the one next to his, dragging it so that it was a little closer to him, and as I did so he said, ‘This is a nice surprise, Son.’

He didn’t often call me by my name, preferring ‘son’ – unless he was being serious, or angry with me, and then my name would be spoken with that very authoritarian voice he reserved solely for such occasions. I like to think that there weren’t many of those angry uses… well no more than normal throughout the time of a child growing up. We none of us want to think we have been particularly difficult to raise, do we? I answered him with something akin to, 'I thought I’d come and buy you a drink.'

He delighted in that moment. I just know he did. He didn’t speak it, but I remembered my realisation at the time – from his body language - that he was proud to be drinking with me. There was that smile of his, the one that was accompanied with a twinkle in his eyes, and a certain swagger – if you can swagger on a bar stool – but it was there all the same, a kind of body sway, and put together these things said that he was happy… and that he was proud.

He would have had an Indian Pale Ale, or a Worthington-E – one or other of his two favourites – I couldn’t remember which. And I… I had my usual after-work double Scotch. The barman gave him his pint with a friendly, ‘There we are, Fred…’ confirming that they were on first-name terms.

I took a sip of my Scotch ‘n water, and I remember dad saying that he didn’t know that I drank Scotch. In thinking back it seemed weird that my dad didn't know my drink... and I remember feeling, guiltily, that the barman had probably shared more intimate - manly - moments with him than I had. I regretted that.

In the car, even the smell of the bar came back to me in those moments: A slightly dusty, beery acrid smell, with a soupηon of stale cooking and the faded scent of tobacco smoke in the background. For several moments the scent of it invaded the car… over-riding the smell of the leather interior, and adding more realism to the memory.

It wasn’t much of a memory of that evening. It was perhaps only a three or four minute segment from our lives together, and it stopped at that point, not far from where it would have run out of steam in any case, because I had come to the junction at the top of Coledean Lane and my attention was refocused on the act of driving. Back on the main road again, I looked across the car at him, and saw him in profile staring straight ahead. It seemed to me that he was, himself, far away in thought, and my own thoughts returned to other times we shared together.

I next remembered him in the garden of our house in East Sussex, near Eastbourne…

It was a large garden, and I remember that on this particular Sunday, before setting off to pick him up to come to us for lunch, I had set a white plastic garden chair out on the grass, under the trees, quite a way from the house. It was for him.

When I got back home, after he had said the usual hello's to my wife and daughter, I left my mother nattering in the busy kitchen and took him out into the garden and sat him on that chair… with a couple of cans of beer. It was one of those nice, sunny, warm, bees-buzzing kind of days, and I remembered him having that smile on his face again; the one that indicated not only that he was enjoying himself, but that he also appreciated what I was doing for him.

I also remembered my four-year-old daughter with him that day: She was clutching her teddy-bear, ‘Fred bear’, under her right arm, the hand of that arm up at her face and it's thumb stuck in her little rosebud mouth... her other hand clasping his... Children have such perfect tiny little hands, don’t they? So new. So fresh. So innocent. Gladly given in a simple act of loving someone else by just holding on.

He had bought her that teddy-bear on the very day she was born, and that, believe me, was an act demonstrating his absolute delight at the prospect of having heard that he at last had a grandchild; dad never went in toy shops, that would normally have been something he would have expected my mother to do for him. But on that particular day, he had overcome the many obstacles there were to get to the toy shop on his own, and to have personally selected that teddy bear... the one that would ever after be remembered with his name.

I glanced across the car at him again. He turned to me and smiled. It was that same smile. He was happy to be sharing the journey with me.

Strange... Well, not really... I guess that when I was younger, though we had times together as father and son, moments like those I remembered seemed to be infrequent… no doubt because of his one-man business demanding so much of his energy and time... time and effort that earned the pennies to feed and clothe our little family unit… So that is probably why these moments remained so clearly in my mind; brief flashes, a few frames taken from the film of life as it had played up until that moment...

The sign ‘ Uneven Road Ahead’ flashed past almost unnoticed as I pondered on the rarity of those times together, but for several following minutes the loud road rumbled past beneath the car, the seat springs creaked more enegetically in response to the dips and troughs of the distorted carriageway. The air became charged again. Motes of dust sparkled in the stream of lowering sunlight that flooded in under the edge of the sun visor, and I could feel a spell beginning to reform inside the cabin.

It was then, I think, that I realised other important aspects of those memories that had briefly replayed in my head: They were both of events that happened whilst my dad was ill. He had developed emphysema. But they were unique moments for other reasons, too: The first was the one and only time that I had gone into a bar and drunk alcohol with him on my own; just the two of us. The second, was not that long before… before he had…

'Dad, I didn’t hear all you said… Tell me again… I know you had to go there... But, dad… somehow it just doesn’t seem real to me?’

He didn’t answer.

I turned briefly, to look across at him…

He wasn’t there. The seat was empty.

He had been scattered in a crematorium garden, in Eastbourne, a week before…

Through the glass wall I passed.
One moment driving a country road,
The next engulfed in sudden tears…


© Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for Retrospective journey
Jen_Christabel on 2005-03-28 11:42:27
Re: Retrospective journey
Excellent read, with a degree of sadness that makes this piece truly thoughtful.
JayCee

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-28 12:42:33
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you JayCee... As I was saying to another UKA author, when I got to the end of the writing of it I was filled with uncertainty of its value. So it is especially nice to hear that you liked reading it.
Cheers, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-03-28 14:16:09
Re: Retrospective journey
This is a very moving account of the passage of time. Full of thought and those special details that follow us through life.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

freya on 2005-03-28 17:01:30
Re: Retrospective journey
Allen: I have copied, as with Changes. Will report back, but have to say I always find your prose reflective and evocative. Thanks for the bite in the sea of thought! Look, I'm actually leaving a comment of sorts; your flea must be a Jungian trained magician! *smile*. Where to for the pic? Shelagh

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-28 17:41:40
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you for your appraisal, Emma. It is very much appreciated. (grinning broadly) Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-28 17:45:41
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you for the comment, Shelagh. Have sent you a PM. Ciao, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-29 23:02:55
Re: Retrospective journey
I enjoyed reading this very much Griffoner and I can relate to it as well. All the best to you.

Kat πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-29 23:18:45
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you, Kat. You really are lovely... taking the time to let me know that you enjoyed it. Thank you very much. Kind regards, Griff

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2005-03-30 00:17:17
Re: Retrospective journey
I enjoyed reading this piece. It was so well written that it held my attention to the end. I usually have a problem with long pieces. I didn't realize this one was long...Erma

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-30 10:21:01
Re: Retrospective journey
You should have taken me to task, Erma, for having described this piece, in my intro, as being short!

Sorry to have misled you. But I'm delighted that you managed to hang on and enjoy the ride... and thank you for telling me that you did.

Kind regards,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2005-03-30 10:33:25
Re: Retrospective journey
A cold shiver went down my spine when I got to the end of this - not many stories evoke that reaction in me. You've recounted this in such a quiet, gentle sensitive way. It's beautifully written.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-30 13:10:21
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you for that wonderful appraisal, shangri-la. You are very kind. With best regards, (blushing) Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Dargo77 on 2005-03-30 14:53:29
Re: Retrospective journey
Griffonner, what a truly great read. Enjoyed this one with a passion. A Hot Story for me.
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-30 20:27:17
Re: Retrospective journey
Wow! Thank you, Dargo. I'm truly honoured. Thanks again, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Leila on 2005-03-30 22:19:06
Re: Retrospective journey
What a moving and sensitive piece of writing...I am so glad I stopped by and journeyed a little with you...L

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-30 22:59:59
Re: Retrospective journey
...and I'm so pleased that you found this piece worthy of your reading, Leila. Thank you so much for giving me your appraisal. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2005-03-31 11:31:09
Re: Retrospective journey
I was totally absorbed by this poignant and great read. Excellent story. Love Val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-31 12:04:16
Re: Retrospective journey
Thank you Val, I'm so pleased that you enjoyed it.

Kind regards and best wishes from a smiling Griffonner

Author's Reply:

steadyeddy on 2005-04-05 16:59:05
Re: Retrospective journey
I dont read to many stories, but I'm glad I read this ,coz I thought it was fantastic,my hats off to you .thanks for a good read

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-04-05 23:37:39
Re: Retrospective journey
Hi steadyeddy, Thanks for popping by and then reading/commenting on this. I'm delighted that you did, and that you found it a good read. Kind regards and best wishes, Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Changes (posted on: 21-03-05)
I was looking at moments of unexpected powerful change in life. I doubt the result does justice to the magnitude and significance of the events...




Through the glass wall I passed.
Unknowing. Unfeeling. Unseen.
The journey was without event -
Just the soft hormonal plunge
that stole laughter and gave tears.
And the tears that fell were void -
Without reason, without cause...
Yet they full filled my eyes,
Blurred my vision and thoughts,
Wet my trembling hands…
Hands that sought to give myself comfort
By caressing my automaton face.
No-one would understand me.
No-one would provide me solace.
In that place, behind the clear wall...
I was alone. I was lost. Depressed. Pressed.

Through the glass wall I passed.
One moment driving a country road,
The next engulfed in sudden tears.
Where was the road sign that said,
‘Danger: Depression Ahead’?
There was none. There was one
That said, ‘Uneven Road Ahead’
But I took no heed of its warning,
Driving on oblivious to innuendo
Or the subtle double entendre.
No-one would excuse my error.
No-one would give me back
My memory. My sense of self.
My sense of where I belonged.
In that place, behind the clear wall...
I was no longer in control. Possessed.Taken.

Through the glass wall I passed,
One moment self conscious,
And the next so self confident
That embarrassment was a thing
Of the past… passed and gone.
My child was unaware, and laid
Herself down on the supermarket floor,
Intent on winning the argument…
Of having the proscribed chocolate.
A woman said, ‘Is that your child?’
And I answered with confidence,
‘I’ve never seen her before in my life!’
No-one would deny my motive.
I never saw it coming. It just happened.
I won. The chocolate stayed in Tesco’s rack.
In that place, behind the clear wall...
I was given new strength. Revitalised. New.

Through the glass wall I passed,
And found myself in heaven…
There was no warning. No signs.
Just the soft blending of our lips,
And the duet of beating hearts.
Nothing was the same. All was changed.
Just she and I would share this...
No-one else could feel this passage to
A place where scent and sound and touch,
And sight and taste and thought,
Were interchanged. Intertwined.
The glass stood beckoning. Teasing. Defiant.
Like a rush of oxygen into a fire.
I plunged headlong behind the clear wall,
And on the other side...
Was heaven.


© Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for Changes
KevTheRev on 2005-03-21 08:40:21
Re: Changes
Epic! First class work. You make the whole subject so fragile, the glass...

Bravo..

Kevin

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-21 09:53:17
Re: Changes
Thank you, Kevin. I doubted the solidity of this piece when I had 'finished' it, but it has grown on me progressively. I'm pleased that you enjoyed it, and thank you for the too generous appraisal. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2005-03-21 12:21:36
Re: Changes
Wow now this is poetry. I think this is one of the best pieces I have read in a long long time...Wow...Erma

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-21 13:02:26
Re: Changes
Gosh... Thank you for taking the time to tell me of your appraisal, Erma. I'm delighted that you enjoyed this... and so generous with your rating too... I really, really, appreciate it. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2005-03-21 16:21:11
Re: Changes
Superb, immaculate, an outstanding piece.

Author's Reply:

chrissy on 2005-03-21 18:00:20
Re: Changes
I've kept coming back to this piece of and on and the more I read it, the more I like it.
There is an underlying strength here, a use of language that is very sound.
The message of the poem is clear and concise and it was very accessible.
An excellent read in my opinion.
chrissy

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-21 19:59:34
Re: Changes
Thank you, Shangri-la. You do realise you have me blushing here, don't you? (Grinning broadly) Griffonner



Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-21 20:03:38
Re: Changes
Ah, but without the beauty of things like 'No stream stumbled and splashed between it's grassy cows-lipped banks' πŸ™‚ Kind regards, and many, many thanks for your kind appraisal, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

len on 2005-03-22 10:57:12
Re: Changes
I had to read this twice..I like the matter-of-fact way you used to express strong emotion...len

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-22 12:08:37
Re: Changes
Thanks for that, Len. I hope that you read it twice because you wanted to, and not because you had to - to understand it. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 2005-03-22 16:21:55
Re: Changes
Fantastic! A magnificent poem and so powerful with the expressions of self-doubt and renewed hope during a period of, perhaps, a middle life crisis.
It was a pleasure to read it.

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-03-22 18:56:09
Re: Changes
I agree - a fantastic piece of writing - kept me enthralled and engrossed from start to finish

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

Mehitable on 2005-03-23 00:23:08
Re: Changes
I know I really like this poem and there are lots of facits to it that I think I completely understand. But it is a poem to read lots of time before you get the entire feeling and content behind it - so, I've posted this comment and voted, but I'll come back in a week or so when I've really got to grips and have something constructive or at least intelligent to say (even if it's just "great poem"). In the mean time, just wanted to say I like the poem.
x Mehitable

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-23 00:31:33
Re: Changes
Cheers, Ionicus... middle life crisis... and one half! I'm really please that you liked it. And thanks so much for taking the time to tell me so. Cheers, again, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-23 00:35:20
Re: Changes
Hi, Emma. Thank you so much for telling me how this piece came over to you. You are very kind. Best regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-23 00:37:31
Re: Changes
Thank you kindly, Mehitable. Thanks for the vote, and I really look forward to knowing your considered opinion. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-03-23 10:22:46
Re: Changes
Hi Griffonner, Great read, great insight! 10 from me.

Enjoyed the journey very much indeed.

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-23 11:38:29
Re: Changes
Thank you so much, Tai. I am astounded by the reception of my humble words... I've written a piece of prose to elaborate on part of this poem, it is on my web site, but I think I might risk posting it here later in the week. Thank you too for the generous rating. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

woodbine on 2005-03-26 18:24:15
Re: Changes
Well done. I have read lotss of poems on depression and written one or two, but rarely if ever had the journey so lucidly described. Yours seems if anything more mysterious than most. I'm glad it had a happy outcome.

Best wishes,

John

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-26 23:34:19
Re: Changes
Thanks for reading and commenting, John. I reallt appreciate it. Cheers, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Abel on 2005-03-28 23:19:21
Re: Changes
Very fine work...about a place I've been before. Wonderful treatment of a very difficult subject.

Ward

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-29 14:27:00
Re: Changes
Thank you so much for the comment, Ward. It is much appreciated. Regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-08-07 18:42:29
Re: Changes
EXCELLENT.

Nicoletta

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-07 20:57:13
Re: Changes
If only! Many people criticised me for the third stanza in this. I do know that it was an abrubt change of concept, but as I tried to explain by revealing the link between my piece of prose 'Restrospective Journey' - these were about things that in looking back I see as having been major stepping stones along the pathway of my life... at my age I do not feel my cheeks blush from revelation. *said with a wry smile upon my face*

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-09 21:09:18
Re: Changes
You are most kind, Tai-Li. I'm so pleased that you enjoyed this. That's my problem - I'm always showing my soul.
*Makes note to keep macintosh firmly buttoned up*
Smiling, Griffonner

Author's Reply:


TWO SIDES (posted on: 07-03-05)
Some people can see another side of everything...

'I miss you… I love you…’

The problem with John was that he had always been at odds with authority. It must have been in his very nature, because from the very beginning he had objected to being told what to do; it wasn’t an attitude that he adopted as he grew older. It wasn’t either that he was a rebel. In his own mind he was just a staunch supporter of free will; of having the freedom to do as he, himself, willed, rather than to having his will subjugated by another’s.

‘I’m really grateful for what you did…’

Ultimately, of course, he had been destined to experience one major example of having to bend to the will of another.

‘She needs to know about the ring… the one that I moved and she couldn’t find…It’s meant to be a sign…’

It had been a morning like any other: Crack of dawn start. Crawling out of the bed while the sky refused to admit that day had started. Scraping his face with a steel knife, and paring off the unwanted keratin. Standing in the cubical and being bombarded by heated molecules of hydrogen and oxygen. Rapidly consuming some flaked dry-milled corn saturated in a small pond of water, lactose, fat, protein, minerals and vitamins. And then setting off the process of hydrocarbon combustion to propel him at abnormal speed towards the place where he worked. You will not be surprised from his description of that morning routine, to learn that the place John worked at was described as a laboratory, and that he worked there as a Chemist.

On that particular morning however, he did not go to the laboratory. On the way to it, he was forced to do as he was told and to deviate from his intended course.

His mind was performing brilliantly these days; even more brilliantly than it had. It was his own assessment of his mental abilities, and it wasn’t based on conceit. He was, after all, a brilliant scientist. Hadn’t he been awarded the Nobel Prize? If his peers thought he was brilliant, then there was no reason why he shouldn’t, was there?

‘It is my birthday next week…’

He could see her clearly. Sitting there. Her hands clasping and unclasping themselves on her lap. Her blonde hair framing her face; the curls of it like the waves of the sea frozen in motion, splashed around her shoulders, and contrasting with the black of her jacket. Her eyes… her beautiful eyes, rouged around their rims from the crying. The very heart of him was cut down to size by the sorrow, and he was so desperate to do anything to change her mood, to make her happy again.

‘I love you…’ He repeated. 'I will always love you…’

There was a smile on her face at hearing that, but there were renewed tears – appearing as if by magic, sparkling, and trickling down her cheeks.

‘John! This form of communication is not authorised.’

He opened his eyes… The voice had brought his attention back… It was all so different. Different to what he was used to. What is more, he was surprised that he had no interest in how it all worked. He settled himself down a little into the bed, and luxuriated in the downy softness of the big plump pillow.

The sun was shining in through the windows, and it bathed everything in dazzling light. Everything was white: White bed clothes, white bedding, white bed frame, white tiled walls and floors, even white netting billowing out from the white coloured window frames. When the nets blew apart he could see the brilliant blue sky.

He knew someone was still looking after him, sitting at the white desk around the corner; he could hear them shuffle papers every now and again… probably the charts, he thought.

He was so relaxed. He couldn’t remember being so relaxed for a very long time. He wanted to close his eyes… but he refrained; he would only think of Angela again, and if he thought of her he was bound to think of those tears silently slipping over her peachy pink skin.

Instead, he went back over the events that led to him being here. It was strange really, because in the moment that it took there was just a feeling… What was it like, now? It was like a kind of paralysis of his mouth, and a quickening of his thought processes. Yes, that was it. That was the dead giveaway, because the very instant he felt that, something clicked in his brain and he was absolutely certain that he had felt this sensation dozens of times before. That was strange… really, really, s-t-r-a-n-g-e… because how could he have remembered such a thing?

The car was approaching the lights at the junction of Pearl Street and Pacific, when it happened. There was no warning whatsoever… just that sensation in his mouth and mind. He had kept himself fit. He hadn’t been a smoker. Only drank in moderation. And all those justifications went through his mind. But it was happening again. And of course it did. As it would. There was no avoiding it. He didn’t feel a single thing when the car collided with the back of the truck. Nor when the Buick slammed into the driver’s side. That was a blessing; no pain. Until now. That, of course was why he was here: To recover.

He turned his head to look at the far window, and then conjured up a vision of what lay outside – beneath that blue, blue sky. As he couldn’t walk to the window, that was all he could do, conjure up things. The vision was of the well kept grounds that he’d glimpsed when he was brought here. But it was a slightly different vision than the one he’d had the last time he did this; this time he had improved the colour of the grass, and he’d added new flower borders too… all along the pathway down to the lake. It pleased him. He just loved the construction of antirhinum majus axiom, how those petals were formed, and the depth of colour... Especially the contrast between the deep crimson colour and the green of the grass.



It was all so real to him… digging the rich, easy flowing, soil with his trowel, and then gently settling the plants into place… And the path… the pebbles… the way they…

‘Well, now John. Are you feeling more settled?’

His attention was abruptly brought back to the bed, and the person in the white uniform who was smiling down at him asking the question.

‘How long will I be here? … How long will it take?’

‘Time is irrelevant, John. In a way, it is entirely up to you…The more you relax… Do relaxing things… things you enjoy…’

–––o–––


‘I am being drawn over here…’ John Edward pointed towards a some chairs at the end of a row. ‘I am looking for someone who knows… Now I remember these things from when I was at High School… They were called periodic tables, if I remember correctly…I’m hearing a “Molly” word… what is this that this person is supposed to know?… I’m seeing atoms… and a pair of scales…’

A youngish woman, sitting in the next-to-last chair, meekly lifted her hand.

‘You know what this is?’

She nodded in assent.

‘Well I’m glad you do…I’ve never had this symbology before!’ He quipped.

The audience laughed.

The studio assistant arrived at the chairs and aimed a long pole with a microphone on the end towards the woman.

‘It’s 42’ She said into it.

‘Ah… that’s why I’m being shown Zaphod from the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy!… Forty-Two what?… What’s that all about?’

’42… The atomic weight of Molybdenum’

More laughter from the audience, as John raised his eyes to emphasize the strangeness of the link.

‘It seems to me,’ he went on, ‘that this person knew a lot about atoms…’

The woman nodded again.

‘Who is the “A” person… I’m getting “anf…”, “ander…” something like that beginning with “A”? … No, wait a minute… Angels… It’s “Angela”… you have an Angela?’

‘It’s my name.’

‘Ah, right… This science person is sending a red rose for you… When I see a red rose it means love… This person loves you very much…’

The woman began to cry. Quietly. It wasn’t a new experience for John Edward. The tears were all part of the thing. They usually were cleansing tears… sometimes tears of happiness. He continued.

‘You did something for this person… I can’t understand what I’m being shown… but I understand that this person is grateful for something you did… at the end…’ He concentrated his thoughts for a moment. ‘It’s a man… a man to your side… a husband, brother, someone to your side… his passing was an impact… I’m feeling something that crashes, BANG! … There was no pain…it was all over before that…’

The woman remained staring at him through glassy eyes.

‘The passing was recent… just days… He wants me to tell you about a ring… He’s moved it… He’s showing me a bathroom… and a shower cubical… and the ring… it is on top of the shower door… there’s a ridge… its lodged there… he want’s you to know that. There’s something about it being a sign… And his birthday is very near?’

The woman gave short smile, and then let out an audible sob.

‘He’s telling me that he’d do anything to stop you crying… He want’s you to be happy… Like he is… He says he is very relaxed…’ There was a long pause while John Edward concentrated on his mind’s eye again. ‘He’s showing me the red rose once more, to send you his love… They’re pulling their energy back… I’ll leave you with his love… Oh… I just heard someone say his name… It’s John, the same as mine.’

–––o–––


‘Angela, now that the gallery readings are over, we’re sure that our audience would love to know what it was that you did for John? The thing he was grateful for?’

‘My husband… John…. He was a Chemist… I put his trowel in the casket with him. He loved gardening so much…’


© Griffonner 2005
Archived comments for TWO SIDES
Emerald on 2005-03-07 10:40:12
Re: TWO SIDES
Good story, was a little unsure at first of the direction it was going, but enjoyed the read and it kept my attention.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-07 16:48:11
Re: TWO SIDES
Thank you, Emma, Glad you enjoyed it. I had quite forgotten it was being published today. Thank you too for the wonderful rating.

(Smiling)

Griff

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-03-08 11:51:35
Re: TWO SIDES
dear griff, i enjoyed this one too. it had a very nice feel to it. it certainly deserves more reads. best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-08 12:53:11
Re: TWO SIDES
Thanks for taking the time to comment - and read, Anthony. I'm pleased that you enjoyed it. As for it deserving more reads, well, I haven't discovered that secret yet.
(frowns perplexedly)
Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

bluepootle on 2005-03-08 23:14:40
Re: TWO SIDES
I liked the simplicity with which you told this. No overcomplications, just faith in the story, which gives it an easy quality for the reader, allowing them to concentrate. Good stuff.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-09 13:23:33
Re: TWO SIDES
That's very nice of you, bluepootle. I'm appreciative of you taking the time to comment, and for your appraisal.

Regards, Griff

Author's Reply:

fitbin on 2005-04-22 13:59:08
Re: TWO SIDES
I enjoyed this, very evocative and interesting.


Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-06-15 16:36:15
Re: TWO SIDES
Fitbin, you must think me very rude for not having thanked you for your having taken the time to comment on this piece. I don't know how I missed it. πŸ™

It seems such a long while ago now, that you have probably written me off as an ignorant old wotsit. I deserve it. You deserve my most sincere thanks for your kind appraisal.

Thank you agin, Griffonner



Author's Reply:


Vengence? ... What ME? (posted on: 14-02-05)
Families eh? They can drive some people to distraction...



I’m just on my way to the dump. Got some stuff I don’t want hanging around…

It was a joke. A family joke. Only I was the one who didn’t get too much of a laugh out of it.

The sharp pain had stabbed at my chest, and in a completely involuntary reaction I had slapped my right hand onto my chest. Now, would you have thought that an extreme or unnatural reaction? No, of course not. You probably would have done the same, wouldn’t you? Yeah, of course you would.

Then Beryl… clever, clever Beryl… asked, ‘Who was it who had “I told you there was something wrong with me” engraved on their tombstone?’

Around the table – with the obvious exception of myself – the entire family had suddenly displayed remarkably bad table-manners as they guffawed and snorted their way through the envelope of laughter that followed.

The pain disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived, and being one of those people – some may say lucky people – who always has useless information instantly at their disposal, I retorted, ‘It is reputed to be the epitaph on a New England gravestone, actually… and it is supposed to say “See, I told you there was something wrong with me” .’

In a sense it was a futile retaliation on my part, as straight away Beryl’s father, Frank – who always manages to get a dig in at his son-in-law at some stage of a family get-together – then added fuel to the subsiding merriment by sniggering that there was… ‘nothing wrong with Henry that a good dose of reincarnation wouldn’t cure!’

‘How’re we goin’ to cure him then, Dad? Poison?’

More laughter. More discomfort for me. But, as the saying goes, I took it all in my stride; It wasn’t a new experience having the family make fun of me. The sad part is, that until three years ago I’d never had a days illness apart from the odd cold. Oh... and once... some kind of tummy-bug that had progressively caused everyone in the family to take up sentry duty outside the bathroom door. It certainly isn’t my fault that over this last few years I’ve had a succession of illnesses one after the other. It has been driving me mad!

Of course I’ve always known that she loved me, but anyone would think from Beryl’s attitude, that I actually wanted to be ill. Which patently isn’t true.

This latest problem started when a palpitation attack woke me in the night a couple of months ago. Like everyone, I’ve had the odd palpitation before, of course. But this time was different. Very different. For a start, for the first time ever, I had heart-pain with it. It was a very frightening experience, and although the pain went away after about a quarter-hour, the palpitations didn’t stop for more than an hour or two over the whole of the next two days.

Despite the fact that the tests carried out at the hospital failed to diagnose any particular cause, even Beryl knew for a fact that these attacks were not just inside my head: On one occasion, at around two-thirty in the morning, I became so angry about the affliction that I screamed out, ‘Why me, God? … Why this?’ … and then had grabbed Beryl’s hand and thrust it onto my chest, saying, ‘OK… now tell me if I’m … huhh … imagining that?’ Even my speech was affected when the butterfly heart-beats kicked at my lungs mid sentence. Beryl had felt the …bomp…tick..tick..tick…BOMP... pattern, she couldn’t have failed to, and on that occasion grudgingly took my hand in an attempt at showing me some kind of compassion.

Compassion has never come easily to Beryl… Not with Frank as a father. Frank is one of these automaton characters, who emerged from his youthful stint in the Army indoctrinated with the regime of the barracks, and has never let it go. He is hard of heart, hard of tongue, and quick to plunge the knife into the enemy’s chest. The problem is that Frank long ago lost track of who were his enemies and who were his friends. And although he had never actually risen above the rank of private, his sergeant-major bellowing around the house was a creditable impersonation that had forced his family into absolute compliance to his selfishness for the ensuing thirty years. So Beryl, never having experienced compassion, simply had no model from which to learn how to have any of it herself.

On the other hand, if Frank is unwell – or Beryl – then it is expected that the entire household, however many, should be in total 24 hour attendance - forming a constant chain of people ferrying bits and pieces to and from their sick-beds. And somehow, if the chain should break for even a moment or two, in Frank’s case he can always start it back up again by the use of that one-twenty-decibel mouth! Would they call the doctor? No way! Not unless they were at death’s door... Frank would bellow something like he had half and hour ago, ‘What do you think I need a doctor for? … I’ll get over it… All it needs is a bit of mind over matter… I've got guts, me…’

They’re at it right now… vomiting away: There’s Beryl’s mum making the umpteenth trip up the staircase at the beck and call of them both - the poor hard-done-by woman. And when she’s too exhausted - if it goes on that long - I suppose it’ll be my old dad who’ll have to stagger up and down.

Me? I wont be here. Got to go to work. Someone has to earn some money… Life has to go on…

I wouldn’t be surprised if Beryl hasn’t somehow found the energy to ‘phone the kids. Reinforcements for the tiring support chain… Will she have remembered, though? Does she remember anything that other people tell her these days? … She’ll be wasting her breath there anyway; they’re on holiday... Both of ‘em... So when she and her Dad have finally worn out the assembled company, they’ll be on their own.

Just like you can love people but not like them, so you can understand people but not forgive them. I don’t like or love Frank, that’s for sure! I loved Beryl, but more and more mowadays I find myself not liking her, and I’ve really found it hard to forgive her. So I just went about dealing with some castor beans in the shed. My shed. The one place that I’m allowed some solitude. It probably isn’t too pure, but it's obviously effective, they’re the only ones who gorged themselves on the apple crumble. Crumble… hehehe… Some crumble! New recipe: Ricin crumble… hehehe…

‘I’m just off to work, Ma… Yeah, yeah… They’ll be alright, don't worry… You’ll see… Everything'll work out OK... See you later…’

All I have to do now is dump this bin liner of bean mash in a rubbish skip, buy a bottle of whiskey at the supermarket – for my lone celebration, later - and go to work…

Its funny that she should have joked about poisoning me, though... Don’t you think?
Archived comments for Vengence? ... What ME?
Jen_Christabel on 2005-02-15 04:20:05
Re: Vengence? ... What ME?
Serves 'em right! I know how the poor buggar feels - constantly ill whilst everyone else is springing around like sheep! Great read.
JayCee

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-02-17 01:34:59
Re: Vengence? ... What ME?
Hi JayCee,
I just loved your comment, and love you for taking to time to make it in the first place. Thank you. Oh, and thank you too, for the rating. Glad you enjoyed.
(Smiling)
Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Upon our dreams (posted on: 14-01-05)
There are not words sweet enough, nor yet again sour enough - with which to start and stop a thing like this.




Upon our dreams ride the little ones…
Wide dark pools of innocence for eyes,
Their cheeks given by the softest cherubim,
And mouths that know only the sweetest of fruit.

All are born like this…

Upon desire are they created…
The greatest gift to start afresh, new,
A slate wiped clean of trash, untried, untainted,
With minds that know only the truest thought.

Gifts born from our bliss…

Upon our care are they cossetted…
Wrapped in our arms, held tight in our hands,
Showered with our love, swamped with our indulgence,
They take what we give with absolute trust.

That love should persist…

Upon our moments of frenzy…
When we endeavour to provide, to give.
To tuck away for the later unknown hours,
They stare, wide eyed, taught by our ignorance.


Reality missed…


Upon the tide of retribution…
When the atmosphere is asthmatic…
And the forests stripped, soil shaved and laid bare,
Burgers and buns stuffed in their tiny mouths.

All are killed like this…

Archived comments for Upon our dreams
teifii on 2005-03-08 17:34:33
Re: Upon our dreams
All too true, I'm afraid. O like the varying chorus line and the twist in the end.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-10 23:23:17
Re: Upon our dreams
Thank you for the comment, Daff. I really appreciate you having taken the time. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Jolen on 2005-04-24 22:24:25
Re: Upon our dreams
These kids today........... What a disservice we have done them..... All too sad and true.

I enjoyed the way you broke this up, like the passage of the innocence to the ignorance..
blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-08-07 18:05:31
Re: Upon our dreams
You've written a very deep and multi-layered poem, a very good poem, Well done, Nicoletta

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-07 20:45:57
Re: Upon our dreams
Thank you for your comments... but this is not in the same league as 'Places and Hours' for example.

Author's Reply:


Spoken (posted on: 31-12-04)
There are times...

--------o--------


Ah but would the time be once again…
When her hair would hang beneath her waist
And pain would not greet my morning step.
Would that I could see the anticlockwise motion
When there was eternity ahead…
And fewer friends were cold and dead.
For in my mind are hidden tears
And aches abound within my very soul
For time that so cleverly plays hide and seek
Implodes, and then so simply disappears.
Archived comments for Spoken
chrissy on 2004-12-31 06:55:19
Re: Spoken
A wonderful poem, very well written. The whole thing is so simply stated and yet there is so much there. Brilliant.
chrissy

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-31 07:30:52
Re: Spoken
Thank you Chrissy. I am learning to use fewer words πŸ˜‰ Oh the temptation that I had to overcome to extend this! Wishing you a happy and gratifying new year, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-01-01 17:34:32
Re: Spoken
dear griffonner, i think there are some nice things in this. i like 'the anti-clockwise motion/When there was eternity ahead' and the notion of time playing hide and seek. best wishes, anthony

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-01-01 17:39:21
Re: Spoken
Thank you for taking the time to comment, Anthony. I'm glad you found something nice in this. Kind regards and compliments of the season, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Dargo77 on 2005-01-02 06:41:23
Re: Spoken
Griffoner, I see something in this, that I feel will lead to greater things.
Best regards,
Dargo

Author's Reply:

deepoceanfish2 on 2005-01-02 07:12:28
Re: Spoken
Griffoner,

Must agree with Anthony...thtas a stunning line!

'Would that I could see the anticlockwise motion
When there was eternity ahead…'

This is not a 'pretty poem'...it is a gripping poem. Well done.

Regards,
Adele


Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-01-02 10:54:16
Re: Spoken
Thank you for your appraisal, Adele.

I'm so pleased that you found it 'gripping' and worthy of rating. In my mind's eye, at the time, the motivation for writing it wasn't very pretty, either.

(winking)
Kind regards,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-01-02 11:01:37
Re: Spoken
Dargo,

Thank you for your kind comment. I much appreciate your appraisal.

Kind regards,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-08 17:42:19
Re: Spoken
A very sensitively written piece. If you have been trying to say more with less, I'd say tou were succeeding. Especially like
For time that so cleverly plays hide and seek
Implodes, and then so simply disappears.

Daff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-03-10 23:26:06
Re: Spoken
You found me out... spot on, Daff. Trying to be less verbose! Thank you for your appraisal. Kind regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-08-07 18:36:40
Re: Spoken
Your poetry has depth, this poem is magnetic and I like that.
Nicoletta

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-07 20:49:40
Re: Spoken
Mine are simple words and simple thoughts, though often, as in this instance, straight from the heart, but it is all surface.

Author's Reply:

Lare on 28-11-2005
Spoken
Wow, Griffonner...this is absolutely captivating. I felt totally wrapped in a different dimention as if hidden senses were being awakened. I especially focused on "Would that I could see the anticlockwise motion
When there was eternity ahead…"...whew...if that isn't enough to make one sit up...I don't know what is...very, very well done...

Just me, Lare

Author's Reply:
Thanks, Lare. I'm really very appreciative of your comment. I'm an innocent abroad really! Just a simple poem, eh.


A touch of insanity (revised) (posted on: 27-12-04)
OK... OK... I know... This festive season is best when it's a happy time. But when you think about it, birth and death are the only two certainties in everyones lives - Christian or otherwise... and I'm not trying to make this Christmastide morbid, I'm merely reporting what enters into my eyes and mind.

------o------




Cold... Cold stone. Grey. Green. Flaked, pitted, and old. Is this, you could ask, as good as it gets? Some had egos as massive as their memorial, others had little, but their stonework came only from copious amounts of sweat and labour - often leaking from blackened skin, deep, deep, underground in the coalmines of south Wales. In the cold daylight of my maternal homeland - where the sun is quite accustomed to being wrapped in soft grey mist - damp fittingly settled from the air so that everything was dipped into it's chilling juice. We stood side by side, in Risca Graveyard, not in memory, but in respect. In fact, I'm not actually certain about the 'respect' - it was more with some kind of reverential pity. Some of those around us had memorials evidently as big as their egos: Huge marble and granite edifices arising from the unkempt earth, teetering upward at various angles, and bearing somewhat pretentious worldly claims within their epitaphs. One of these monsters, so completely covered in a tangle of obliterating ivy, towered above us and sent a cold thrill through our bodies. Had some divine wish resulted in it alone having had it's shape disguised and it's identifying scripts buried beneath the tangle of the appropriately parasitical plant? Other, more meagre, reminders of long since departed loved ones, were evidently built from the blood, sweat, and tears of patrons who had themselves long since made the final journey. The wet grass an uninviting cushion for our shoes, lay uncut, untrimmed, uncultivated, and uncared for. Rather than tread upon its messy carpet, we trod instead only upon the straight and narrow pathways that traversed this haven of death. In consequence, perhaps, we left in splendid isolation some who had hoped for fame and popularity even in this place. There was at the time of our visit, one small, newish, shiny black marble stone, that bore part of the family's surname - 'Strange', and I knew with the certainty of the soul that hereabout lay a sprinking of ash that was the last vestige of a departed relative. How close a relative I wouldn't know... did not want to know... for there was a much more down-to-earth, less ethereal reason for my visit: The yellow tape. Yellow tape, more garish than sunlight, more tainting that the unkempt grass. More defiling than the choking ivy, more out of place impossible to be... Placed by people obsessed with their teflon pants, their desire to remain in office, in power, in control... Yet ultimately destined to rest their own bones in just a place like this - Risca graveyard. 'Not in my graveyard' I can hear them say as chalky skeletons bearing allegiance to some dead political party on the other side of the veil... but with voices silenced by the muffling earth... and God's great divide. A simple sign on the gate might have said: 'you enter here at your own risk, some gravestones may be dangerous'... but no, defile, defile, defile by bureaucratic idiocy... and the result is there for everyone to see.
Archived comments for A touch of insanity (revised)
Griffonner on 2004-12-27 03:11:23
Re: A touch of insanity
I apologise that at the present time (Monday 0800) for some reason the image that belongs with this article is not showing. This link works perfectly well, so if you would like to see the image, use this URL:
http://griffonner.free.fr/graves1.jpg
Regards, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

deepoceanfish2 on 2004-12-27 14:37:31
Re: A touch of insanity
Griffoner,

I come from a long line of 'cemetary people'...we used to picnic at the family plot when I was a child. Now, My partner and I study old graveyeards and churches as part of his work as an Archaeologist, to which I add my poetic contribution. This is a moving statement, one which I can well identify with. Loved this line:

''Not in my graveyard' I can hear them say
as chalky skeletons bearing allegiance to some dead
political party on the other side of the veil... '

An evocative read.

regards,
Adele πŸ™‚


Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-27 14:59:16
Re: A touch of insanity
Thank you, Adele. I appreciate your appraisal and your rating... and from one so eminently qualified makes it all the more valuable. Regards and best wishes for the new year, Griffonner

Author's Reply:

sirat on 2004-12-28 05:30:37
Re: A touch of insanity
I like the idea of a reflection in a graveyard and I was held by this, but the language became over-elabourate at times, to the point oif constituting a barrier to enjoyment. This huge sentence, for example: "One, so unique, so covered in a tangle of obliterating ivy, that it begged the question as to if this was some kind of mystic symbol... some divine manifestation that it alone should have every aspect of itself choked and silenced, it's true shape disguised, and it's identifying scripts buried beneath the tangle of grey roots, stems and dead leaves?
"the question as to if" is a clumsy construction ("the question as to whether or not" perhaps?) and the grammar is convoluted but I don't think the overall sentence is a question and therefore I don't think it should have a question mark at the end. There are other passages that are equally clumsy. I would prefer plain English, but maybe I'm old fashioned. The ultra-elabourate language suggests to me the lack of anything substantial to say.


Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-28 05:48:12
Re: A touch of insanity
Thank you, sirat, for taking the time to comment in such depth.

Author's Reply:

glennie on 2004-12-30 18:31:07
Re: A touch of insanity
This touched my soul. Sirat correctly pointed out a few weaknesses which could be easily corrected but I still think it deserved a 10. Glen.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-31 06:39:16
Re: A touch of insanity
Glennie,

I thank you for your comments, and, too, your rating. As you will see, I have revised the article in an effort to improve its construction. I think that initially I had adopted a writing style rather reminiscent of the over-flowery epitaphs to which I was making reference! I hope in the process that I have been able to retain the 'feel' that caused me to want to write this.

Sirat correctly pointed out some weaknesses, and I took them on board and have thought at some length about the direction that I could take to make changes. In retrospect I think his suggestion that "The ultra-elabo[u]rate language suggests to me the lack of anything substantial to say" was a little unnecessary, but that's another matter, and I'm sure it was said with good intent.

I am very much obliged to you both for having taken the time to give me your advice and direction.

Wishing you a happy and gratifying new year,

Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Belle de nuit (posted on: 26-11-04)
Some say: 'A precious fragrance, as magical as an Arabian night!'

Ah... but there is more to it than that.



She walks upon a carpet of a zillion stars
as she wends her milky way towards my bed.
I do not hear her velvet feet tread on the crystal dust;
I only imagine that I feel her breath wash across my skin...
yet in the breeze that stirs the window nets
I sense her very essence, her very own scent…
Heaven sent.
Archived comments for Belle de nuit
Emerald on 2004-11-26 07:37:13
Re: Belle de nuit
Very beautiful almost magical poem, I enjoyed to read.

Emma:)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-26 08:37:01
Re: Belle de nuit
Thank you for your appraisal and rating, Emma. And, so extraordinary for me, done in so few words!

Griffonner (winking)

Author's Reply:

Dargo77 on 2004-11-30 13:13:07
Re: Belle de nuit
Wonderful gentle poem that makes me want to read more of your work
Best regards.
Dargo

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-01 04:28:01
Re: Belle de nuit
Thank you for your kind appraisal, Dargo. I don't need to tell you what such a comment means, I'm sure... but thank you once again.

(Smiling)

Griffonner

Author's Reply:

karenuk on 23-10-2005
Belle de nuit
Beautiful poem again. The sound of the words is perfect, a kind of breathy whisper.
Karen xx

Author's Reply:

Lare on 03-12-2005
Belle de nuit
Griffonner...you're indeed a romantic. You words are so soothingly hypnotic...and I like this poem a lot...it puts the reader on a plateau of tranquility...thank you for sharing...

Just me, Lare

Author's Reply:
Romantic! Me!

Okay. I give in. You've got me.

"Grins mischievously*

stormwolf on 23-08-2014
Belle de nuit
Hi Allen 😜
This poem was displayed on the new front page. What a beautiful sensual piece. Where have you gone?
Just lovely work
Alison x


Author's Reply:


Where the white cat sits (posted on: 08-11-04)
I wonder if he knows the answer? All cats have that inscrutable look about them sometimes. You know the one… Where they look at you, through squinty eyes, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you get that distinct feeling that they are looking right inside you… at your very soul?
--------------------------------


He suddenly asked, ‘’Ow many years do you ‘ave?’ He quite took me by surprise. I sensed that there was a hidden meaning to his question, and he found me without words; completely unprepared. I even think that I must have looked a little stupid just standing there looking at him with my mouth ajar. How many times had he and I bumped into each other? Hundreds. And yet he’d never ventured to even pass the time of day before. Now, here we were, face to face, and I on the receiving end of six little words, spoken in his broad French accent, that had opened up a quagmire inside my mind. At sixty-one I hadn’t reached that heady number without a struggle. In fact you could say that I had kicked and screamed all the way. Time just goes by too quickly for me; it always has. I saw it coming of course, even when I was quite young; subconsciously, you understand. When I was seven… or was it eight? … I said to my parents, ‘I’m going to live ‘till I’m a hundred-and-ten.’ And I meant it! But time, there’s never enough of it for me. And looking back… as you are want to do as the mathematics advance… I never seem to have achieved enough; at any stage along the way. Do you know what I mean? My wife tells me that I do an awful lot. Well she would, wouldn’t she? She’s biased. But I’m not. I’m just confused. So, after he asked the question, almost instantaneously I found myself facing a dreadful realisation. It came, I think, from a combination of things: One: The fact that, as an adult, no matter how high the accumulated digits indicate, you still feel a younger number. Two: Whilst everything else is unpredictable, there is an end to the cumulation; one number will achieve eminence above all others… eventually. And, three: We are living in an age when everything is possible, anything achievable… almost, so there is always something left that you want to do, want to achieve, want to experience. Plus of course, there are always regrets to haunt you; Things you cannot go back and rectify. I also think that the fact that I have never looked my age, has a bearing on things too. It is beginning of course... the noticable degradation: The growth of forests of hair from unnatural places, like my ears, and the gradual deforestation in more accustomed human places, at my temples for example… and all that with a sprinkling of new frosty grey to add emphasis of Nature’s intent. But most of all, adding weight to all this realisation, is the fact that I have a somewhat wonky memory. That’s my considered opinion of it, anyway. It isn’t, by any sense of the imagination what I would describe as being photographic. I imagine photographic to mean that inside your head you can see, re-live, an event in such clarity as to describe peripheral things. My wife has one of those; she can say what she was wearing on a particular day in the distant past, and incredibly can add things like, ‘…and there was this birthday card that had three bears on the front of it.’ Now I ask you! Isn’t that photographic? To be able to remember peripherals like what was on the mantle-piece of the room at the time! Oh, yes, of course, I see things, but they are sketchy little clips interspersed among static milestones along the pathway of my time. By no means clear. And if I close my eyes a television screen doesn’t spring to life to replay the events according to my will – as I imagine happens in some other people’s minds; I just see phantom translucent ghosts, devoid of any solidity. No, I’ve discovered that I’m inflicted… Is that the right word? … In some senses it could be said to be the reverse… It depends on your viewpoint… On your appreciation of the 'art'… Yes, I’m inflicted with this memory that really comes to life through words; When I’m putting pen to paper, digits to keyboard buttons, and there are symbols spewing out onto the real or virtual paper, then the memories or imaginations come out in my written words. It must be a miss-connection in my brain, don’t you think? Like those people who see what they hear, or hear what they touch? It hit me rather hard. A thump in my belly. A sickening thud. I remembered back to a morning - I guess on my forty-fifth birthday – when the awakening to a new number, as moderately high as it was, had the same effect on my equilibrium: Disturbed me greatly. Made me actually come over in a cold sweat. Forty-five! Where has all the time gone? I probably felt as I do now, that I’m only a kind of thirty-five… I realised that the days were going to keep on coming, for how long I couldn’t say of course, but perhaps twenty, twenty-five, or even in accordance with that childhood affirmation - forty-nine years worth, and yet I couldn’t see with my frame of mind that there was ever going to be satisfaction; a feeling of time well spent, of something special achieved from it all. I was trapped at this pseudo-age of around thirty-five, when time stretches out ahead in abundance, when the world is my oyster, with so many adventures still to be sought out, to be obtained, to be enjoyed, and yet the great abacus was determined to make the beads all move over to the left regardless of whether I was ready or not. That abacus was able, with mystic powers, to cut the legs right from under me… with benign prostatic hyperplasia… with arthritis… and who knows what that’s yet to come! And even if it wasn’t with these genetically predetermined encumbrances, then at some points, at the end of a particular day, or midway through cutting a plank of wood, it arranged that you would stop, recognising that you don’t have quite the same energy that you had yesterday, and that tomorrow… And, you can never, ever, get enough of your loved ones, can you? I was frightened by the thoughts. In some respects, the whole damn thing could have been a waste of time… My life… If it wasn’t for… ‘I have thirteen years.’ He added, whilst sitting, serenely, majestic, on the top of the black compost container at the end of the garden… and somehow incongruously incorporating a weighty sense of achievement to what might otherwise have been a ludicrously immature claim. ‘Well, I’m sixty-one, I’m afraid… Not a lot of years really, only about… ooh… twenty'odd thousand days? ... They’ve gone by very quickly ... and I’m afraid that I can’t bring a lot of them to mind… it’s my impediment, you see: My wonky memory… At least, I guess that’s the answer you wanted?’ Absurdly, I flushed with embarrassment at my verbosity. (It’s another of my impediments.) He didn’t answer. For just a brief moment of time, it occurred to me that thirteen, in cat years, meant that he was older than me. Perhaps as old, in human terms, as sixty-five or so. It was quite amazing that he could have survived, remained in control of his existence, achieved those years, with his own very much more disabling impediment. At my answer, as if to indicate it’s insignificance, he nonchalantly tilted his head down and to the left a little, and gave two long and deliberate licks to his front-left paw. Then he hauled himself upright, shortened himself into an exaggerated arch as he athletically stretched out his spine, leapt down from his sitting place in a display of what can only be described as incredible agility for one of such years, and turned his back on me. In between the licking and the stretching, there was an instant when his eyes took on a different shape, a different meaning. The look, however momentary, made me feel that he was sorry for me… Or was it pity? It was stupid of me. Could I honestly have expected him to answer me? No way… I’ve know for a very long while that he is deaf.
Archived comments for Where the white cat sits
Emerald on 2004-11-08 03:36:13
Re: Where the white cat sits
Hi Griffoner, I enjoyed your story, the last line was great.


Emma:)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-08 05:11:41
Re: Where the white cat sits
Good morning Emma, Thank you for taking the time to comment. Glad you enjoyed. πŸ™‚ Griff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-08-19 16:34:15
Re: Where the white cat sits
Yes, Tai-Li, I do agree πŸ™‚

Sadly, I think we are in a minority. Either than, or I did with this, what I did with MiMi and confused (or bored, my readers πŸ™

Je t'embrasse,
Griffonner

Author's Reply:


Fred Dibnah (posted on: 08-11-04)
Well... I liked him, so I thought I should say something...

A likeable fellow, don't you think? More than just a steeplejack climbing... heart-stoppingly lofty chimneys... or imposing red-brick satanic mills. What an exponent of guts was he! What a bastion of fearlessness! I never met him in person, but of his many TV and radio appearances, that I was privileged to witness, he often made my palms sweat; Turned my stomach upside-down. Laugh? Yes, he made me laugh, too. A certain element of childlike charm... coupled with that indefatigable Englishness... Lancashireness, really... ...made him special. Not for nothing, his MBE. He often made me wonder: Would there be anything that was too high, or too daunting, for him to climb? Apparently not. He has climbed the final ladder without faltering. Adieu, Fred.
Archived comments for Fred Dibnah
Bradene on 2004-11-08 05:40:30
Re: Fred Dibner
A lovely tribute to Fred... My husband admired him greatly and was very sad yesterday to read of his passing. he was more than just a steeple jack, his knowledge of architecture and engineering was immense. He was the epitome of the self taught, a great man. Love val x

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-08 06:03:36
Re: Fred Dibner
Hi Val, Thanks for stopping by and for rating this tribute. I imagine there are a lot of people who appreciated this man. He could be abrasive sometimes too, but underneath, at the core, I sensed that he was a true-person with very little 'side'. Kind regards, Griff

Author's Reply:

potleek on 2004-11-08 13:06:57
Re: Fred Dibner
I liked the gentleman too, thank you for sharing this.
You often hear the saying "we will never see the likes of him again." I don't think we will ever see the likes of him again...Tony

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-08 13:24:42
Re: Fred Dibner
Sadly, I think you are right, Tony. Thanks for popping in, by the way. Griff

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-08 13:50:56
Re: Fred Dibner
Sorry, Tony... I didn't thank you for the rating. Merci much πŸ™‚ Regards, Griff

Author's Reply:

tai on 2004-11-10 08:17:08
Re: Fred Dibner
I enjoyed your poem Griffoner, Yes Fred was a character indeed. I loved his accent, and his sweet gentle humour.

Take care

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-10 09:27:53
Re: Fred Dibner
Once again, Tai, I'm thanking you for taking the time to comment. Thanks too for the rating.

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2004-11-14 08:01:39
Re: Fred Dibner
Well written piece and a fitting tribute.
To me Fred was part of the British culture like Morecambe and Wise and Les Dawson.

Great.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-14 09:33:29
Re: Fred Dibner
Thanks for popping in, Si... Yes, and they've gone too. (Ahem... old? me?)

Regards, Griff

Author's Reply:

Archie on 2004-11-14 15:28:54
Re: Fred Dibner
If someone who had never heard of the bloke was wondering what was so special about him, I'd say read your poem. You've got it exactly right.
My only criticism - his name was Dibnah.

Archie

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-14 15:39:22
Re: Fred Dibner
Thank you Archie. It seems many people often made this mistake... I guess he won't mind my error, as it was the one and only Fred that I referred to. πŸ™‚

Author's Reply:

ShadowChaser on 2004-11-15 16:07:42
Re: Fred Dibnah
I had a friend in primary school who was a complete train and traction engine nut and that's how I came to know about Fred Dibnah....I always think of my friend whenever I hear Mr Dibnah's fine accent and it fills me with sadness to think that his like will never be seen again. A scholar of the 'old school' and a true original. Many thanks for sharing this piece - a fitting tribute, I think :o)

Author's Reply:


The Nightmare (posted on: 05-11-04)
Yes, I've changed the title...

After reading this, you may remember an event in recent times - the work of terrorists - and a media story about a particular couple... I sometimes wonder about myself..! Out of the horror of this event, as with others, my mind is drawn to write what is basically a fiction about the characters, almost intuitively. Perhaps it is the way my mind deals with the trauma and unease that I feel about the way the world is going?


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There was a flash in his head. Brilliant, blinding, and penetrating. His eyes blinked opened to the virgin light of day. There was barely enough to see, but around the edges of the wooden shutters he could make out the cool greyness that announced night was over. At first he just lay there enjoying the sensation of the cosy warmth of his bed. But then, as his brain stepped up a gear, his whole body jerked itself to attention with the realisation that it was Thursday the 20th November 2003. Pleasure hormones were released somewhere inside his body, and he almost tingled all over with pleasurable anticipation when his mind reminded him that this was the day they were going to arrange the first, most important, foundational step, towards their wedding. He almost leapt from bed.
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Bzzzzzzz… Bzzzzzzz… It took only two buzzes of the ‘phone to wake her. Her sleep, at best, had been patchy and intermittent throughout the night. There was so much excitement within her that she had felt, as she went to bed, that her heart would fairly burst. How could she sleep when just so few hours away lay the key to their future together? It never occurred to her that it could be anyone else on the end of that ‘phone. He always rang. Every morning. To wake her with the sound of his voice. He had, ever since they were old enough to understand… that they were in love... that they were soul mates. She picked up the receiver with hardly a second’s delay, and with absolute confidence spoke the words, 'Hello darling…'
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The sound of her voice brought bright light to his day. As always. As it had ever since he had first met her. A moment that he remembered well, even though some of the surrounding data was blurred. They were in Yildiz park. Taken there by their parents: It was her laugh, her enchanting laugh. The sound of it, on the wooded slopes of the park, added to the magic when they had first encountered the wondrous nature of chemical attraction… pheromones… embedded genetic preferences… whatever it was that made one human being recognise another in that very special magnetic way. She had been hiding herself from her younger brother, crouched behind an old oak tree. And he, playing the same game with his brother, Erol, had chosen a similar tree some way away. Between them, was a gap through which each was visible to the other. They glanced towards one another; a glance that, though seconds long, seemed to last for minutes. Even now he could remember her eyes, clear, sparkling, and strangely penetrating. How old were we then? He wondered, as he inspected his freshly washed skin. Maybe twelve or thirteen? He was angered by his inability to be precise. He always wished that he could remember such important things with the crystal clarity that she could. Her with her photographic memory that sometimes put him to shame. But then... whatever… it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that they had met, and that they had fallen in love. He splashed rinsing cold water over his face with cupped hands. What was it that made them each seek out further hiding spots that progressively drew them closer together? Until they were behind adjoining trees giggling quietly with each other as they frustrated their siblings? He grinned with the memory. He also felt the tingling excitement, that came from deep within his belly, radiating downward to his groin, and he shivered from the experience of it.
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She was still so excited that her whole body was brilliantly alive. The sensation was painfully sweet. She too had been remembering their history, as she washed and dressed. It started, for her, a little later than their hide-and-seek meeting in Yildiz park. It started from when their parents had introduced themselves to one another, later. And she, standing beside her father, protected by his powerful arm draped gently across her shoulder, had blushed at the realisation that there was another reason why she enjoyed this boy’s company – other than just the thrill of the game. There was another thrill, and she felt it renewed as it coursed through her body when he looked across from his parents side – their eyes locking with one another’s again with the unnerving accuracy of heat-seeking missiles. She never thought of herself… themselves… lucky that they were born to less orthodox parents; to parents who were less controlling than those of their Muslim friends. This, because their parents had became friends after that Yildiz meeting, and so it seemed a natural course of events had allowed their love to blossom and mature during the years that followed; albeit under the watchful and guiding influence of their loving parents and families, of course.
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Hand in hand they walked along the Tarlabasi Bulvari. He clutching the leather document folder that contained the results of their last night’s work. She almost skipping foal-like beside him as she kept up with his rather faster gait. Neither of them had eaten breakfast, so they stopped to buy a simit each, for later, from a perspex-walled blue coloured cart stationed on the corner. They walked on, excitedly discussing their application; the future they saw together, in London, when he took up his job at his uncle’s wholesale kilim business; the plans that they had, after their wedding, to have children of their own. A home together. A life together. At the ornate doorway of the Consulate, he held the door open for her, and she walked ahead. The blinding flash was accompanied by a deafening thud and a violent swirl of air. At first, as all the oxygen was greedily consumed by the explosive combustion of chemicals, he was blown inwards by it. Then, as new air rushed in to replace the consumed, it tore across his prone unconscious body rippling the flaccid skin of his face with the tearing power of its reversal.
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His eyes blinked opened to the dim and dusty light of day. He could barely see, but around the edges of his vision he could make out the cool greyness of the dusty floor. People were bending over him. He felt dampness between himself and the cold marble slabs. They were saying something, but he could not hear above the roaring sound that permanently boomed in his ears. He struggled to understand; To read their lips; To comprehend what was a dream and what was reality. Where am I? Why am I here? What has happened? He had no answers to any question that he struggled to form in his troubled mind. A fog had descended into his brain. Now they were moving him. Lifting him into a seated position. Propping him against one of the columns... That was the moment when he saw her dress. Her best dress. It was white, with small yellow daisies printed here and there. Now the upper part was stained… red. It was still covering her headless and legless torso, and still in her left hand was the small paper bag containing the simits. That was the moment that he comprehended that this was his awakening to a nightmare. A nightmare that would only end, when life itself ended.
Archived comments for The Nightmare
tai on 2004-11-07 06:44:50
Re: The Nightmare
Hi Griffonner, this was a compelling and tragic read. I recall a couple who were parted in this way in the Bali Bombing, and also in that same bomb a young surfer was killed, local to my area, who also left a grieving girlfriend behind. Life can be so very cruel.

Great story, well presented.

Tai

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-07 11:03:18
Re: The Nightmare
Thank you for your comments, and your generous rating, Tai.

'Life can be so very cruel.' You said. Tell me about it! Every day... every day... (scowl)

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-11-07 11:10:11
Re: The Nightmare
What a moving piece and written so well. I can't say much more apart from this has touched me a lot.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-11-07 11:52:19
Re: The Nightmare
Thank you, Claire. I'm pleased that you appreciated my words, and at the same time saddened by their content of course.

Author's Reply:

Skeeter on 2004-11-26 12:12:09
Re: The Nightmare
A very sad read, but a touching one. I particularly like the scene setting at the beginning, how you have brought a human element to the so frequent atrocities that occur.How it seems to be that we reduce people to mere numbers, (xxxxx killed in such and such, xxxxx murders last year, xxxxx children die in Africa); so reductive. It pays to remember that behind every death there is a story, like yours, rich in detail, and experience, real people with all their hopes, dreams and fears; joys and sorrows. But beware the poliotics of fear!! They want us all to be afraid, s much as possible, tpo control us better. They will tell any lie. Look at the other day, how the Home Office put out a fake story about the 'security services' foiling planned terrorist attacks on Heathrow, etc. Lies and misinformation, apparently. Government propaganda of the worst sort, designed to cause fear in order to better drive their draconian policies of social control through. Maybe we shoiuld celebrate human life more, whatever we experience of it, and refuse to be cowed in spirit by the bastrads, be they terrorists or lackeys of a Big Brother government. Thanks for the read, enjoyable and thought provoking.

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2004-12-31 09:03:39
Re: The Nightmare
Skeeter, you are going to have to forgive me for somehow not observing your comment earlier. I really don't know why. I realise it is unforgivable because you have taken the time to write this to me, but I do ask your forgiveness... even if for no other reason than because, from what you say, I can see that you and I should be drinking buddies; we patently have the same ideas. πŸ˜‰
With kindest regards and best wishes for this new year, Griffonner

Author's Reply: