Culm Valley Writers

Thursday, 31 July 2014

An Unexpected Blessing.

Four's just right, we'd said. You, me, two beautiful girls.

He tumbled in, ten years adrift, on a cold December day,

snow outside, stifling within, a screaming hullaballoo of a boy.

"My little brother," whispered Jo in awe.

"Happy Christmas baby," murmured Ali, as

together they lay the teddy beside him.

Monday, 14 July 2014

Unexpected Blessings

Walking in lamplight snow,

my daughter's tiny hand

curls in my palm.

Working. Searching.

Shattered sleep.

Myopic attention

on apparent affection;

leaving fatigue,

pale with questions.

London day in sunlight,

my grand-daughter

trots beside me,

her small hand

wrapped in mine.

Sunlight catches a snow crystal

in the dark of night.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

An unlikely gathering:
dad, step-dad, children, partners, me.

Clouds to horizon stretch,
parting,
sunshine reigns.

Picnic to delight
and share
in grassy cliff-top hollow.

Offshore dolphins
play
to spectators' joy.

Swifts wheel
on insect prey;
butterflies float.

Our unexpected blessings.

© Helen McIntosh
All rights reserved

As I take a moment

to look deeper

to see what’s really happening

- at shape,

line, texture,

balance, proportion,

the shadow and the substance -

I pause, looking away

- taking stock

paying relaxed attention -

when a metaphor ignites understanding:

I connect with it; it connects with me.

I am blessed:

an unearned, unmerited

moment of grace.

To Be

Nothingness. Ages pass.

Continents divide. Dinosaurs come

and go. Then,

through happenstance

or serendipity,

a fluke perhaps,

am here. A sentient being.

Briefly mortal.

A minute part of life’s

churning whirligig,

feeling its pain and wonder.

Why?

I know not, only that

I am grateful for this

unexpected blessing.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

WW1 Field doctor

Mud

Rats, more mud

Deafening mortar sounds

Ever haunting silence and screaming

Rotting gangrenous smells luring the grim reaper in

a toxic cocktail of fading hope

Dreams of England's green and pleasant land

Farmers, bank clerks doing their duty

Butchers trusted to use their skills to scythe the fetid limbs

Oxygen of respect

We see the same moon

Feel the heat of the same sun

Share the same Christian name

You face impossible choices

I will never contemplate

Like selling my body to eat or

give my father a decent burial

Your small flicker of hope

waiting for the oxygen of respect

When you will stand equal in the world

and in the minds of men

I will never meet you

Or know your grinding face of poverty

Yet I hear your loud knock

On my strong secure Western door

"Trust me," said the Butcher

"Ears flat," said Dad, "then gently backwards."

"Ouch! I can't. OUCH!

"Poor darling," said Mum.

"Bash the rails apart with an 'ammer" said Fred.

"Get the Fire Brigade," said George.

"Sod off," said the boy.

Trust me

'Trust me' said the Butcher,

As he sharpened his best knife.

‘This’ll only hurt a whisker,

And you'll thank me all your life.'

We hid behind the chitterlings,

Looking on with fear and dread,

Barely hiding our own jitterings,

As the butcher laid him dead.

Monday, 16 June 2014

The Cleaver Cobham Players present the mad, comic opera, ‘Pusher’ (not recommended for minors)

I know Thursday night is traditionally billed as 'Mistakes Night',

with most of the cast coming on late, drunk, half-dressed, or a combination of all three;

but Bill Weston, come the first performance, entered stage left - not right -

bearing a syringe, whispering, with some menace,

“Trust me, I’m a butcher!”