OTHER PEOPLE’S GARDENS
We gaze in silent envy at their immaculate flashy show.
All deliberately designed, contrived, to let us know,
Their gardens are perfect
Written for the WWI exhibition organized by a fellow writer and friend.
LAMENT FOR DOOMED YOUTH
We weep. We watch. We wait. We wonder why, When ‘for the crimes of the fathers’ It is you, who are called upon to die? You who are trusting, you who believe The cruel sweet jingles, contrived only to deceive. War will bring no glory for your loved ones, left to grieve. While beauty, youth and valour dies Our anguished screams explode above tired, foreign skies, ‘Do not ‘take up the quarrel with the foe!’ It is time to let it go! It is not your ‘battle-torch’ to hold. That banner sags; soaked in blood of battles old. Do not listen to, ‘if you break faith we shall not sleep. That archaic ‘faith’ is not bindingly, your ‘faith to keep. As innocence marches on wards to its fate Our lament sinks; drowned in cryptic, patriotic rhetoric. Listen now to the silent cries of those who lay, ‘row on row In Flanders Fields where poppies grow.’ We weep. We wait. It is too late. ‘And if any question why you died, We will tell them, it is because the fathers lied.’
With acknowledgements to the poets: Siegfried Sassoon, F.S.Flint, Wilfred Owen, John McRea and Rudyard Kipling
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This was written after a young woman, who had been begging on the streets, came to our writing group.
FRACTURED I read your shards of heartfelt prose, Your fractured rhymes, Your splintered words, Your jigsaw of disjointed thoughts. I look and see you quietly resigned To the trouble s of your aching mind; The battering torrential tides Of over whelming grey confusion. And now I look for you again And wish that I could heal your pain. But you did not return again.
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Our book, is almost ready to ‘go’ and Dawn and I are getting really good comments from reviews.We, Dawn Weeks Lacey and myself, are now hoping to help fundraising for Little Morton Hall from sales of our new book of poetry and short stories; working title, ‘A Book for Wine Time’ …wish us luck!
We have sectioned the work into ‘light rose’; easy reading and light hearted, dark red; more intense and controversial and fizzy champas; light and often totally ridiculous humour.
Here are a few of my poetry and prose contributions to the book, starting with a splash of fizz. QUIRKY WORKS. Definition of ‘quirky’: aberration, eccentricity, idiosyncrasy, oddity and peculiarity. It seems that eccentricity lurks, you know…lingers in your mind. Peculiarity endures, because it’s not the ‘normal’ kind. We ponder idiosyncrasy, because that too is ‘not the the ‘same’ and we strive to understand eccentrics and venerate their name.Gaudi’s peculiar basilica; everybody knows it! ‘Cause every flippin’ postcard from Barcelona shows it! And Edgar Allen’s raven,tap tapping at the door as a child, it scared me stiff and will for ever more.(I hope it wasn’t the window, because that wouldn’t rhyme) Swirls and dots by Jackson Pollock, Vincent Van Gogh’s starry skies Edvard Munch’s weird Scream and Alice Cooper’s Gothic eyes! Tracy Emin’s scruffy bed! (now that’s an aberration ’embedded’ firmly in my head!) And now Ground Control’s lost Major Tom! Who cares that he’s a ‘junkie’? We want to know where he’s gone!Stardust? or an Oddity in Space? Yes, it seems that quirky really works, so bring it on! Perhaps we all just pretend we’re ‘normal’ and practice much restrain, but are actually verging on ‘quirky’, you know; just a teeny bit insane!
Now a couple from the DEEP RED category.
WE ARE THE LOST BREATH OF LIFE – RELEASED
Call us what you will; Breeze or Tornado, Angel or Devil. We are Grief mourning results of Evil. We sweep over deserts, whip seas into frenzies, Cause headlands to crumble. We are a gentle whisper and a mighty rumble. Today we are your Nemesis or Catalyst. We are the all-consuming vengeful fury Of lives extinguished for persecutors’ ill-gained glory. This day we lash you with tormented, grief-ridden pain, Fueled by the last breath of every victim’s needless death. We are Justice released for those who live no longer And every day our avenging strength grows stronger; U Every tortured hour we lift failing life to fortify our power. We release tired spirits from tortured flesh. We gather simple souls in to our ethereal mass To swirl relentlessly around this crying, dying earth, Until the day there is no air to breathe and no new birth We will roam, illusive and intangible; it is our foretold fate To touch you, until the time that we may rest in peace, But on that day, for you, it will be too late.
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Giving a voice to a young man struggling with life after being in prison.
Do not continue to condemn me. Do not smear my future with your judgement; your hate. Do not dredge up the stench of some distorted revenge to influence my fate. I was not born bad; while deeds of others defined my fragile heart Their venomous words tore my vulnerable mind apart. An onslaught of confusion swayed my thinking… No one to save me from myself when I was sinking. New beginnings do not happen in a single day or night… Tortured thoughts must heal before I have clear sight. Misguided actions, like a cancer, destroy my brain… Cesspits of regretted incidents, by your venomous accusations, emerge again, Dragged from some fermenting disfigured archive. Some days it takes courage just to stay alive. I struggle. I make mistakes. But still I strive. I will not make promises I may not keep. I just pray each night that I may fall asleep. You have no right to continue to judge me… Your unforgiving mind sees only what it wants to see. I did not invite you to my life…I had no choice. And yet again I hear accusations from my childhood…yet again…even now I hear your voice.
COLOURED MEMORIES OF A 1940’s CHILDHOOD.
These short stories are of a childhood in Stoke-on-Trent. Some little snippets have been, inadvertently, given to me by friends and I have ‘coloured’ them in; if Laurie Lee can colour his ‘memories’ – so can I! The book is now printed and all proceeds from sales will be given to the RSPCA.
The stories are selling well and I’m pleased with the money going to my favourite charity. x
Scarlet is the opposite of Fannella, Scarlet has views on life and is not afraid to express them in print and vocally. However, it is Fannella who keeps ME sane! (sort of) So, some ‘stuff ‘ in Scarlet’s name is controversial and opinionated. You do not have to agree and ‘Scarlet’ does not have to care, but please feel free to comment either way.
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THIS IS YOUR LAND
Good morning, little children, there is no time to play; you need to come with me today and see your land of ‘take away’ – take a look! Silver crisp bags – here they come – cascading down your street. While sparkling shards of shattered glass lie sprinkled at your feet, Filter-tips join the fun, flitting round your toes And hypodermic needles glint; fraternizing with the rose. See, supermarket bags are waving, beckoning from bare trees. While flirtatious fumes come courting, suspended on the breeze Fawning chip wraps congregate, eager to amuse your eyes And elegant cider bottles salute; enticing wasps and flirty flies. Listen! flimsy lager cans pattering out their tinny, tinkling beat While fluffy furry vermin stroll out by day; your indulgence is their treat! Garlands of vapor trails hanging,dripping, festooning pale blue skies, Yes, stars, satellites and nuclear waste are all reflected in your eyes.
And see! Indestructible pretty debris, residing, hiding in lush green dales And oil-slicks sliding insidiously, caressing sea-birds, dolphins, whales. Yellow polystyrene tubs cruise peacefully over stream and lake; How much more invidious beauty is your world prepared to take? On devastated lonely lands life lies crying; dying. Acid rains! Nothing grows. It may be easier for you not to come with me; not to see. What more is there to show you? What more is there to say? This is your ‘Land of Plenty’ your ‘Land of Throwaway’.
This was written after a small child, in my nursery class, died at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend. I had informed the police and social services of her bruises – they let us down.
TO YOU, WHO JUST STOOD BY
Inept and ineffectual, scared even to be seen; Evasive and too cowardly to act – you did not intervene.
When her endless suffering became too much to bear And that fragile spirit crumbled with despair When the only world around her was one which did not care And all she ever felt was the dread of being there
When her sole experience was one of cruel inflicted pain And every day which dawned just brought the same When she was subjected to the violence – yet again And her stinging tears fell like unrelenting rain
To you, who just stood by and then apportioned blame May you forever feel the searing guilt And ever-burning shame! This is to you, who just stood by – and let her die.
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FOR OUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN
Welcome to this world! Your life has just begun! You’ll have fun learning to walk, but much more when you run! Chase and catch your wildest dreams and enjoy them – in the sun. Leave no words of love unsaid or deeds of passion as yet undone, Or wasted years will sail away on tides of drifting flotsam. Live every hour with honesty; be compassionate and kind. Banish regrets, they’ll waste your days – life is far to short. you’ll find. Let God’s universe amaze you – it’s a magical creation! Embrace all peoples of this earth as citizens of one nation. Discover nature’s perfect beauty in unexpected places. See the sheer joy of life in little babies’ smiling faces. Life is an enigma, be brave, before your day is done. But most of all, enjoy life! Yes, most of all – have fun! This is your precious time on earth. I wish you well, my little one.
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scarletelliott 