Creative writing

The writing group has started off again and here is some of their work

Jenny writes:

“One of the many conversations we had at the last creative writing meeting was about the importance of particular moments in our lives. Brian considered the pain of parting and the joy of meeting up again and for him, the station at Angoulême was particularly significant.”

The Station by Brian Wilkinson

How many more of these sad departures shall I witness –

The last hugs, the last kisses, the final waves? The sadness.

Platform Two hosts the long carriages all too briefly.

Impatient, the engine is eager to wrench my loved one away to other loved ones in another city;

They will warmly hug, kiss, smile, even laugh . . . then hurry away

To a short adventure.

 

And now I once more stand on Platform One.

Stand, pulse stirring within . . . waiting.

Wanting to see engine headlights, saying “Soon!”

The station clock, ever so slowly teasing away the minutes, long minutes. Before

She alights, smiling, beautiful. Here. Now. No words but urgent kisses.

And warm hugs.

 

Welcome words bounce between us.

Let’s leave this place for our own warm place.

To embrace another welcome of tail-wagging, kisses and joy!

 

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“Someone at the meeting said ‘You have to know when it is your last time‘ and this struck a note with Jenny, so she wrote about that idea.

No Time like the Present    by Jenny Gilbert

“You have to know when it is your last time,”

Otherwise, later, you will feel cheated.

 

You have to know when it is the Last Time

You will ever be facing each other,

In case you don’t pay enough attention.

 

What if you rush your final words –

Or you overlook some detail?

What if you turn your back too soon?

Then you won’t remember clearly

That Last Time.

 

If only the brain could alert the heart:

“Watch out, the end is about to start!”

Then what a chance and a gift that would be –

To stretch your last moment eternally

 

And spin the Present fine like silk

To catch every last detail fast

And keep each one to view later –

Then you could endlessly repeat

Your Last Time.

 

So, this Now, I know, this is our Last Time.

Our farewell.

My eyes can’t leave the detail in your face

Or your eyes.

 

I breathe in your breath

Speak to hear you speak

And it’s impossible to touch enough

Or for this, Our Last Time, to last

Long enough.

 

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A couple of poems from Anthony Kirk – Tony the Window Cleaner to his friends

Mont Buet 1st April 1987

“We made a fire that night.” “Do you remember?”

My front was hot

My back was as cold as hell

A frozen lake unwrapped itself before me

And lay solid like giant cubes in disarray

as if stuck fast to the inside of the wall

of a forgotten fridge-freezer compartment

 

“We looked up into the sky” “Surely you remember”

 

Their! Their! Hale Bopp presented itself like pieces phosphorous,

which had made its escape from the end of an old match

Dancing through the space in slow motion

like a Catherine-wheel that had lost it’s pin

 

”You do remember, don’t you?” “Say you do”

 

It crept slowly across the fabric of the night sky

Continuing on its mechanical,  melancholic return  journey back to the sun.

Leaving  behind in its wake,

bits of old cogs,

springs,

some dials,

some second hands,

and some postcards from a long lost and forgotten letter box.

 

Throwing out its sodium streaks, which  ripped through space

Like a beer stained 1980’s asteroids gaming console

in the corner smoke filled wine bar in Bordeaux

Only to makes its return in 4534

 

“ You will come and see me again?”. “Say you will “ “Please”

 

Plastic People 

 

I know people.

Real people.

Common people but…….

They are all plastic people.

Stretchy, bendy polyethylene people.

I have nothing against plastic

And nothing against people

But when you connect them together

Everything they touch turns to mastic treacle

Contaminating the world with their plastic faecal

 

We have become purveyors of plastic

Food wrapped in cling film and see through plastic

Then we throw it all in the sea

Hoping that nobody can see

Until it leaches and hits the beaches

And ends up in the stomachs

Of lots of sea creatures

 

I know people.

Real people.

Common people but…

They are all plastic people.

Stretchy, bendy polyethylene people..

I have nothing against plastic

And nothing against people

But when you connect them together

Everything they touch turns to mastic treacle

Contaminating the world with their plastic faecal.

 

Tony your tea drinking Window Cleaner Man working in the Charente and the Dordogne.

Written with my blue BIC biro ……
Sent via Tony’s Etch A Sketch……..
Saved on my Vitamin C tablet……..
Sent from my GPO trim phone……..
Tea= mc2

 


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