Happy Christmas! {Haiku}

Happy Christmas to 
Everybody reading, 
See you all next year.



             Chris.

Hester's Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray my heart, your love to keep.
Your arms to hold me through the night,
And keep me safe till morning's light.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray my heart, your love to keep.
Your sense to guard me through the night,
And keep me safe till morning's light.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray my heart, your love to keep.
Your blood to warm me through the night,
And keep me safe till morning's light.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray my heart, your love to keep.
Your kiss to heal my soul, my  pains.
Oh cleanse my deeds, my love,  of their foul stains.

 If,  I should live another day,
I pray your hand in mine to guide my way.

Haiku

To  think just one thought
And say it with clarity.
Beautifully simple.

This time of year

A much lower sun,

shadows are a lot longer

at this time of year.

             Chris

Haiku

Haiku

#1

Elegant cadence 

Hot rain on corrugated 

Metal roofing 

#2

Your face in shadow

Is a dusk breaking into

Perpetual dawn

I remember her saying........

No more than a Tweet’s

worth of words, she said. That means

me using my head!

             Chris.

Counting with fingers?

Write what you know. Count

on your fingers, one to five

then one to seven

             Chris.

First Haikus

Sex & Death

It has been said that
Marriage is the death of sex.
Try being single.

Season's Greetings

Holy birth of child,
Ugly, frantic, shopping hell,
Happy Christmas all!

Christmas Truth

Does she still believe?
Who is kidding who this year
About Santa Claus?

Free!

Twenty Seven Years
In a chalky island cell
Nelson Mandela

Sharon

It’s too early!

Oh not again-WHY?

Really don’t need to wake now

I need sleep and how!

             Chris

Only three lines

Not a lot of room

to get all the words written

needs to be precise 


             Chris

Well you did ask! V11

I don’t need this stress!

You asked my opinion.

Bum looks big in dress

             Chris

Well you did ask! V1

You did ask for my

opinion. Now just stress.

Bum looks big in dress 

             Chris 

Thanks for the advice John!

“Write it down” he said

or soon it will go from head

then that thought is dead

              Chris

The Last Day of November

Low hung sun bright white
Silver birch flame leaves crackling
Before the first snow

Sally

Classical Haiku (Haiku)

First: 5 Syllables

second: 7 Syllables

third line 5 again

             Chris

The Trooper

On this battlefield

no one wins. Smell of acrid

smoke and horses breath

             Chris

Footballers

It’s a pound a stride.

How much from Taxman can hide?

Not a game I see

             Chris

Not there

Old man sits on bench

haven’t seen him for a while

missing wave and smile 


             Chris

New opportunities

The bubble has burst
final nail in coffin- ME!

As one door closes..........................................

             Chris

Flight of Icarus.

Flies on wings of dream 

now he knows father betrayed 
wings burn to ashes 

             Chris 

     

Doomsday Clock

Two minutes midnight

blind men shout let creatures out 

show unbelievers 

             Chris.

Problems.

It’s not you, it’s me

all better in the morning?

No, still a problem.

             Chris

Winter Rides

Other motorbike

can be COLD this time of year

but riding I like!

             Chris.

Wikipedia

Research has been done
Used Wikipedia? NO!
Really? Don't think so!

               Chris.

Santa

Bearded man in RED
Who comes when kids are in bed
Were the reindeers fed?

                                    Chris

My Haiku

I've learnt something new
It seems like a bit of fun
That's one Haiku done?


Chris.

Haikus by John

“English” (American) loose Haiku
3 line

autumn winds
the bamboo in my garden
is broken



Opening lines of Shakespeare Sonnet 18 converted to haiku
Classical 5-7-5

shall I compare thee
to a sumer’s day thou art
more lovely and more


A Northern Seascape.
Classical 5-7-5

horizon sea shore
chill winds from the arctic dune
grass pricking ankles


An Essex Marsh-scape.
Classical 5-7-5

shipwreck bladderwrack
wrought iron rib marsh mud bound
the sanderling’s home

Sex and Death.

Death and sex, or sex and death?

It’s not just a way to re-produce and it’s not only when a body takes its final breath.

Humans are the only species to have sex for pleasure, so I've been told,

I wonder if animals really would do it for pleasure,

Or even just to keep warm in the cold?

All sex is not always good or magic.

And all deaths are not always bad or tragic.

In days of old, sex could be a last request,

Before the not necessarily guilty’s final breath?

In the shadows, a figure lurks.

It’s a skeletal figure clothed in a black cloak with a hood,

It is the Grim Reaper, long associated with death;

So the outcome is NOT going to be good! 

Barbaric times.

No prison sentences or fines.

Sometimes no argument or a fair trial.

Death for simply owning a cat?

Wouldn't have fancied that!

The majority are Guilty? “Off with his head”

Maybe hung, drawn & quartered. Definitely dead.

On a large pole, is displayed their head.

But nowadays, offenders who kill don’t get a ‘proper’ sentence,

The public are outraged and it’s said,

“Bring back the rope, Prison is too good, they should be dead”

Sex with the ex, not long after wishing their death?

VERY VERY DANGEROUS! I heard it from an old friend,

Don’t worry; it’s not originally from my mind,

Those thoughts you might not find.

It’s best to be honest and kind.

‘Making Love’ couples normally say,

It’s a better & more acceptable saying and a more loving way.

Right now its autumn, and on the ground,

So many leaves can be found,

Walked through or run over by tyre,

It is a very distinctive sound that I can admire.

And are the leaves dead when off the tree?

They aren't alive, until they get blown along on the ground,

Then they look very alive to me!

But when they settle on the ground, under them microscopic life can be found,

Probably created by the creatures having sex, under the tree,

If you want to look very closely, you will see.

So there is a cycle, from sex comes life,

You may not even need a Husband or wife,

Then eventually there is death, but lots of people boast about having sex,

But as soon as you’re born, you’re dying.

 Guess what, some people are lying.

Chris.  

Last night (no Sex and Death)

She said “I feel like a round bird, sitting on her perch”

I heard that and thought, that’s a good line,

Then I needed a word to rhyme,

But the only one at the moment is birch.

Her mate was on the outside also perched on high, but looking in.

He did get there later, but he did join us, good for him.

We talked lots and listened more,

She talked about old days and glory.

I said “have you ever thought about writing it, it sounds a good story”.

She then had an open mouth and a look of surprise, maybe shock,

Then a massive eureka moment, with a massive smile and gave me a long, long grateful look.

Hopefully, she’ll write about herself and her life experiences,

and hopefully, eventually end up with a book?

I hope I helped, the inspiration is there,

I cast the line, has she caught the hook?

Chris.

I Don’t Know

I don’t know how to tell a joke,

About a girl who knew a bloke.

I don’t know when it all began,

Her name was Liz and his was Dan,

Friends tried to say but no one can

Exactly when it all began.

I don’t know who they thought they were
The girl with him and him with her

And did they even really care

That what they did was just not fair.

I don’t know what was in his head,
Apart from tits and sex and bed,

And did he think about his wife,

And how this ‘fun’ would wreck his life?

(He could have bought a garden shed

And read a girly mag instead!)

I don’t know why he felt the need

To play away and sow his seed

With someone who he hardly knew

Who may have herpes, thrush or flu,

Who wouldn’t sew or clean or cook

And prob’ly never read a book

I don’t know where it all went wrong

Or whether it went on for long

But when the sex and lust grew thin

He decided she was rather dim.

And then he thought about his wife

And what meant more to him in life...

BUT…

I DO know I don’t want him back,

From husband role he’s had the sack.

He’s had his way, now that’s for sure,

The exit’s there, he’s shown the door.

So now there’s just the dog and me

And there’s a reason now you’ll see

I don’t know how to tell a joke,

About a girl who knew a bloke!

The Worn Carpet

One Day, somewhere near the beginning

“Nada nada nada”

“Hu?”

“Nada nada nada”

“What?”

“Don’t put it there . . . nada nada”

“Will you speak fucking English?”

He shuvs her out of the way a little

“Come on? Move it over by the door”

He tickles her

“Owch Owch”

He lifts her up, wraps her legs around his waist and holds her there.

The carpet roll falls on the floor

They kiss. They do more than kiss. They . . .

It’s New Years Eve, years have passed by

You’re working.

I’m working.

No champagne. No kisses. No sex.

No sex?

It’s New Years Eve.

Aren’t we supposed to be together?

What will people think? Why is it like this?

Don’t you love me anymore? I will phone in and say that I’m sick. I don’t care. I want to be with you.

Of course . . . it’s important. But can’t I be with you? Can’t we make this happen?

It’s a wonderful thing . . . what we have. It’s a wonderful thing . . . what we have found.

People search years to find what we have and they never do. They never do find it.

They remain lost.

You’re working. I’m working. I guess that’s decided then.

See you next year.

Oh . . . I nearly forgot to say . . .

You do? I know you do . . . it’s okay . . . I understand.

They’ll be other times.

My love for you stretches beyond mountains

Beyond seas

I don’t blame you. I understand. It wasn’t easy. There was a lot riding on it.

It was important to you.

Years Later Again.

Over the rooftops and up through the stars

The moon giggles at us you know.

Higher and higher

Faster and sleeker than ever before

Into the distance

Out in the open air

What joy it is to sit upon threadbare

It’s a trick – but wait. It’s not really a trick because we can fly.

And everything in the past, in the distance, becomes insignificant in comparison...

The Worn Carpet

George shuffled his weary gait down King Street.  He hadn’t intended to come here, but the Soup Kitchen on Dover Road was closed.  That is, Dover Road itself was closed.  There were barriers at the end and the police constable, fresh out of Hendon, had moved him on.

There had, in fact, been a gas leak, but George did not know this.  The young officer had not given him any details, or even recognised that the old man in the ill-fitting tweed coat and mismatched belt may have needed redirecting to the west side of the city where there was another shelter.

George had ambled off, numb to the feelings of sadness and loneliness that seeped through him.  It wasn’t just a warm meal and the possibility of a bed for the night that he would miss, but the fleeting feeling of camaraderie – a sense, for just a moment, that he wasn’t totally alone.

He was not numb to the cold.  November had started chilly, but the last few nights had been bitter, and George tried to clench his arthritic fists to get some blood flowing into the ends of his naked fingers.  Sometimes the scrunched newspaper that he used to stop his feet slipping in his shoes acted as a buffer for some of the cold in his toes.  But it had rained today.  When he had found the shoes the right one already had a hole in the sole and the left had long since worn through to keep it company.  The paper had soaked through and now caused his toes to freeze still further.  He didn’t want to take it out.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken off his shoes.

He stopped outside number twenty two.  What had brought him here?  He had barely thought of the place since those first agonising months on the outside.  When he had stepped through the low door in the dull light of that January morning, there had been no-one there to greet him, to take his clutch of sad belongings and put them in the boot of the car as Evan’s wife had done.  She had kissed him, held him to her.  Well, he was a nice lad, but even that miserable bastard Joe Keen had been met that morning.

No-one had met George.  One or two had visited him in the early days, but not her of course.  Not really surprising.

The street looked more respectable nowadays.  Even in the dark he could see that the paint was no longer peeling on the houses, that the tiny patch of gardens out front were well kept. Modern blinds replaced shabby curtains at many of the windows along the road. 

How long since he had been here?  Twenty five, thirty years?  He couldn’t even remember what year it was when he had been driven away in the back of the car.  He knew it was 2013 now.  Sometimes he read a paper at the shelter or if he found one in the park, discarded in a bin along with the sandwich wrappings and the half-drunk cups of expensive coffee of weekday lunchers.

Number twenty two did not look as if it had fared as well as some of its neighbours.  In the garden, propped lengthways against the overgrown hedge, was a Sold Sign.  Its time had come.  Already the skip in the road outside was filling up.  On the top, as he peered closer in, was a carpet.  It was hessian side up, but he turned over one corner of it, and there it was, that hideous blue and gold swirl they had both hated so much.

They had laughed about it together in the early days.  It had been a good quality carpet, but not to their taste, even in the garish seventies.  They would replace it when they had the money.  But they never did have the money; there was always something else to spend it on.

George was cold and suddenly so very tired.  It wouldn’t be the first time he had slept in a skip.  Aching and stiff he made several attempts to pull himself over the low side.  The carpet had been roughly rolled and slung on top, and was loose enough to allow him to edge himself between the folds, sleeping bag like.  Where to place his head took a little engineering, but George was not used to comfort.

Odd that the carpet had remained in the house all this time.   In itself it hadn’t been the source of his troubles.  That somewhere along the way,the rot had set in, the bickering had started, the contempt had become ingrained, was not because of the carpet.  But those expensive hideous swirls had somehow launched him into an oblivion from which he had never returned, not fully.

Even at the time, as it was happening, he didn’t really know why.  Even as his hard, angry fist fuelled by long suppressed rage made contact with her soft, yielding upper lip,  even as it cracked her glasses and shattered her cheekbone, he knew this was not the way to behave.  How long had that dark angry man been lurking in the shadows of his respectable façade? Since childhood?  He didn’t even care about the bloody coffee stain on the long hated carpet, but it had been sufficient to finally draw the monster out.  Yet for a long while before that evening, George had been aware of his existence without ever acknowledging him.

“You think I’m going to buy another fucking carpet, when you can’t even look after the one that you’ve got!” 

George closed his eyes, and the shame he carried with him, his only possession, suffused him.  He wondered fleetingly where she was now.  He wasn’t comfortable, and he certainly wasn’t warm, but he was too depleted to move.  He would be moved on in the morning and he would walk back down the street and he would never return.  With something akin to hope, as he sank into the last sleep of his existence, George wondered if the shelter would be re-opening tomorrow.

Sharon

Pi

There was that familiar click as the key revolved the mechanism and the door latch gave, it whispered warmth, coffee, a leather sofa, sexy chrome legs leading all the way up to the surround sound cinema display, and a kingsize leather framed bed. That day, the day that mattered more than any in his entire life, familiarity was suddenly out of focus. He walked like a phantom into his own, their, apartment and walked through their life, a black and white figure, visitor from another time come to a future he never thought would arrive. As he passed through the dining area, the past trailed after him, sticking to objects, formerly mundane, the detritus of a shared life now taking on relevance beyond purpose, slid behind, wrapping around his ankles with a heavy weight akin to reeds pulling a man down into murky waters. As his eyes caught site he lifted the silly little picture from the table that lay next to an opened envelope, tattooed with scribbles and doodles from a once busy mind. He smiled briefly, flirting with the absurdity of a stopped clock, changed, mechanism altered. He lifted the picture from the table, the glass cracked but beneath a thin coating of dust now. His eyes settled on the drawing in the frame and something deep inside sank like an elevator then came up again in a wave that threatened to consume him. It began to take away the strength that kept him upright and he began to slowly sink to his knees. Holding the frame before him he let the wave within rise and overtake him. The crying was like a pain that could not be expressed. He felt turned inside out, his voice felt disembodied, another sound in a room of wrapped silence. The picture. Jay was different to anyone he had ever met, he was the catwalk figure, a charming man, an intelligent conversation and a dangerous lover. Their love had grown as a curious ivy, the life they had twisted around one another like a sexual serpent. Though he saw in the dim light of their first, tangled, embrace something of an ephemeral creature in his lovers eyes, the spirit of an animal that could not be constrained, he took his pleasure with full knowledge of the poison hidden within. Instead he lived for the moments he knew were his, that smile across from the chessboard as the fire crackled behind them in the room against the steady clockwork pulse, the clink of wine glasses, the tap of cutlery in one of their cosy yet refined restaurants, even the way the light reflected off his glasses in the cinema, or his easy laughter left hanging with his breath amidst the cold winter snow. The picture. That was the occasion he came into the bedroom wearing a towel, he had been languishing in the bath, the room full of steam as always. He had joked that Jay belonged in the reptile house of the zoo, one of the glass eyed, exotic, cold blooded. Cold, was he cold? The picture. He had a magazine in his hand, it's pages damp from the steam. He stood there glistening, kissed by the water, that fine build, all tuned up and ready to go, a classic Harley, or a predator of the great plains. Yes, Jay was the hunter, whilst he was definitely the giselle, vulnerable, anticipating. "What?", he had asked in expectation of some flippant, easy, comment but this time Jay had thrown him. "I've been reading", he said, adjusting his glasses, only partly steamed, that always looked like they did on Clark Kent, somehow out of place, a contrived appendage intended to distract from perfection. "All about maths". He read those health magazines for the guides on the perfect six pack, the whiter smile and the way to reduce male pattern baldness, so this was something altogether new, "Really?", asked the Giselle, half lost in a sexual anticipation, half in a reverie concerning tomorrows shopping and social trips, sports, he so loved the weekends. "Yeah", he moved over to the bed pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose again with one finger. He looked at the giselle, traced a line up the supple smooth legs to his naked hips, almost distracted, almost removed from his article for a moment. "It's amazing, especially this one", Jay spun the magazine round so he could see the picture of a symbol but the Giselle wasn't interested, not right now. A foot came up and over the magazine from behind and this time Jay followed it up to the torso, he smiled, shook his head and put down the magazine. The hunter had to strike as something took hold of his instincts, dazzled as always by his lovers irresistible vulnerability. Yet, triumphant as the seducer felt for working his charms once more, something in Jays eyes as they wrestled in the seek and play of love spoke of something he dared not pursue. The article. He sighed and searched for the meaning of the article now, desperately filtering what was left of his subconscious whilst row upon row of memories, stacked like books on shelves in a library, were burning up one by one quicker than he could think..The symbol. After the sweat, the frenetic labour and the quiet contemplating, two heartbeats fading back to normal, Jay had jammed the article in his face, made him read it whilst he paced the floor throwing back whisky from a fine crystal, the ice, he recalled, had distracted him as Jay whirled it around the glass like Dorothy's house caught in the twister. If only when he'd had the chance he had realised what the article alluded to. Something about that symbol 'Pi' and it's number being, what was it, an irrational number so that it doesn't repeat...flames leapt up now, licking the memories in the rows behind, enticing them to burn... It said numbers like these, like 'E', they are out in the darkness of mathematics, the pioneers of an unknown frontier...the shelves began to fall, crashing one into another exploding in a cavalcade of beautiful sparks, incinerating the walk in the park, the coffee shops, the Christmas dinner, the laughter of an unexpected downpour, words, crackling, half listened to he wished he'd heard...yet, these approximations of math can describe the universe itself, they are perceivably infinite...the last fragments of their past burned away, flickered and were gone and, almost without the strength to do so, he picked up the little picture. The symbol. The glass was covered with his tears which he now swept away with his hands. Though all else was enveloped by the firestorm strangely he remembered, he remembered the argument that had knocked it from the wall, that's why it was here, on the table still, a little crack on the glass, beneath which was Jay's drawing of the symbol. That stupid, annoying little symbol. Jay had taken it everywhere with him before hanging it on the wall, he had sat staring at it during those last trips to the theatre together, through nights with friends at a bar or at home, dinner with the parents, how embarrassing. It had become so irritating, he could feel his anger even now, why? Why had he been so irritated? Because it was rude, self indulgent, confusing and it left him feeling...alone. Now the smoke from disintegration of the past began to overwhelm him. He could no longer think straight, could no longer remember properly, everything seemed just out of reach, yet ultimately incalculable, fathoms beyond oblivion, twisting away, a slow motion thread tumbling into the darkness. Despair slipped over him like liquid mercury, washing out all sense of everything but an incredible awareness of his own presence, alone, firmly in the here and now. Each breath came after enormous pause from the last, each threatening to be the last sound he would ever hear. It reminded him. He crumpled up within himself and sat hopeless, wedged between a table leg and the book shelf, just staring at the symbol, as if searching for an answer, as if creating the equation for the first time might solve something, mean something, anything. Then he began to imagine, he thought of  all the numbers it represented, going on and on, off into the infinite, journeying out into endless space forever...and slowly, at last, by reward, understanding was measured out to him in mercy.

 By Mark

Hideaways

It was the roll of threadbare carpet his mum had left by the back door that gave Danny the idea. He would transform the shed into a cool den – the hideaway he’d always dreamed off. ‘What you doing?’ enquired his sister Sal as he dragged the dusty flooring across the lawn. ‘Oh, just moving some stuff for Mum,’ he shrugged. If Sal found out, the game would be up. Everyone knew the whole point of a hideaway was that it was secret. And right now he really needed to hide. Only once Sal had been safely thrown off the scent did he risk the trip to the bottom of the garden. The shed looked sadder than the one in his head, the door hanging off its hinges, but the carpet instantly restored its promise. He’d pushed all his Dad’s stuff to one side, taking care not to cut himself on the rusty hacksaw (he still had the faint tingle of a scar across his left hand to remind him). Now all he needed to do was fill the place with supplies.

He was just about to dart behind the towering screen of Leylandii with a box of comics when he spotted Jessie doddering across the lawn. Damn, she’d seen him. ‘Whaadis?’ she dribbled, threatening to scrunch the sun-bleached Beano on top. ‘Nothing,’ he snapped rescuing Dennis and Gnasher from the toddler’s clutches. ‘Mama’s calling, JJ. It’s lunch time.’ Obediently she turned and wobbled back into the house, stopping to eat a clump of moss on the way. Danny would have to be more careful in future. There would be no escaping that annoying little tyrant if she got so much as a whiff of the shed. He began sneaking about more carefully, covertly adding to his stash: his GI Joe collection, football stickers, a guitar with no strings… all good booty.

‘I thought he’d make a scene when I told him I was sorting out the playroom,’ Mum whispered to the girls as they watched Danny through the kitchen window rummaging through a bin bag of spoils. 'But he's been really good.' Becky set down the steaming roast potatoes and rolled her eyes: 'It's about time he grew up anyway,' she sneered. She might be two years older than Sal, but she behaved as if there was a decade between them – that serious face that always looked like she was working out sums in her head, and the way she’d always punish everyone with her silent strops, especially Danny. Sal picked over her green beans, wondering what growing up actually entailed, and how you could tell if you had. She suspected she still had a fair way to go – but not as far as her little brother. Danny had always been a bit distant, but ever since Jessie had come along, she’d watched him retreat every chance he got. Like just now. ‘Want play blocks,’ Jessie had screamed, tugging at Danny’s leg. A pause. ‘Um, OK,’ he'd called, disappearing out the back door. ‘I’ll go get some blocks, shall I? Won’t be a minute.’ Becky had given him evils.

Danny cleared his plate faster than usual and excused himself before he got landed with the washing up – or worse still looking after Jessie. The shed beckoned. With an upturned wine crate for a seat and an old cable drum for a table, he was in his element. He lit a candle, rested his muddy welly on a deflated leather football and surveyed his fortress. Mum might have chucked out his treasures but, here, they were safe; a tiny corner where faded He-Man and one-armed Lion-O would forever keep guard. Outside a wood pigeon did its best owl impression; the air became damp, creeping up Danny’s arms in whispers. He pored over an Oor Wullie annual until his eyes started to strain and the Broon Family became a fuzzy blur. Dad had read the books to him every Christmas, determined they’d never forget their Scottish roots, although secretly Danny preferred Asterix. Now that Dad was gone, Wullie had taken on a new significance. He gazed at the Broons and felt sad his own family had fallen short. And now… he was so tempted to run away again. The last time, when he was 8, no one had even noticed. After a day of shivering beneath an upturned rowing boat in the Wilson’s back garden he’d returned to find Mum setting the table, the unmistakable smell of Sundays filling the kitchen. ‘Ah, good timing, pet. Go tell your father to stop tinkering with that blessed engine and wash his hands for dinner, will you?’ Sal had stuck out her tongue and hissed, ‘Have fun at the Wilson’s, did you?’ She’d been spying on him the whole time, the creep.

Danny eyed up his Dad’s toolbox in the corner and thought back to all the afternoons he'd been in charge of passing the spanner, wrench, hammer. The look of absolute concentration on his father's face as he'd manoeuvre his powerful thumbs, patiently explaining every little job. 'Very few people realise it, son, but even when you're removing a screw you have to apply steady pressure. See? You can thank Archimedes for that gem. Greatest invention ever.' He was building shelves for Sal's bedroom at the time, and she and Danny sat in awe, watching as their father transformed a few old planks into a nifty storage unit for Sal's Enid Blyton books and knotty-haired Sindy's. Danny couldn't imagine ever building anything with his bare hands, let alone being someone's hero. These days if Mum needed something doing she'd pay a handy man. He prized open the rusty catch. A jumble of spanners lay across a stiffened chamois leather and beneath this a spirit level and the usual array of screwdrivers and allen keys. What Danny didn't expect to find was a faded packet of cigarettes – he had no idea his father had smoked – and… oh. Dog-eared, mildewy women. Ugh. He dropped the magazine to the ground, then – he had no idea why – shook out a cigarette and lit it from the candle, coughing and spluttering into the gloom. It was hard to tell if it was the smoke making his head spin or the realisation their father wasn’t so perfect after all. Danny picked up the magazine once more and puzzled over the giant breasts before him.

Suddenly the door flew open and there was Sal. ‘Oh my God!’ she boomed. ‘All this time you’ve been sneaking off for fag breaks while me and your seriously pissed off wife look after your daughter?! You have got to be kidding me. Danny, man – you’re 36. Don’t you think you’re a bit old for building dens?’ He shoved the magazine behind the make-shift coffee table and took a breath ready to explain himself. ‘It’s fine. I get it,’ laughed Sal. ‘Kids are fucking annoying. God knows, you were. Now budge up and give me a drag.’ Danny exhaled, relieved. Sal smiled; maybe they both had some growing up to do, but right now she was happy to enjoy their childhood a little while longer.

The Worn Carpet

Muddy paws,

Cat’s sharp claws

Babies bottoms, poo!

Lego bricks,

Pick-up sticks

Glitter, felt and glue

Party booze,

Socks and shoes

Smelly teenage feet

Bills to pay,

Underlay

‘Shake and Vac’ so sweet

Cup of tea,

Clumsy me

Spreading red wine stain

Football boots,

They’re in cahoots

Henry's* out again!

Elbows, knees,

Snotty sneeze

Ground dirt heel and sole

Luggage wheels,

Pointed heels

Rug to hide the hole

(By Sally)

(*Henry Hoover)

Pie

Sitting in the northern part of Michigan is an old timey restaurant in the small, lakeside town of Petoskey.

Baskets of cascading flowers hang from converted gaslights that line the pretty streets.

 In a park nearby, a bronze statue of Chief Petoskey overlooks the big blue.

We go there every summer because we find it iconic, sweet, real…a remnant from a time before, when things moved more slowly, and everything tasted sweeter.

It takes us about two and a half hours to drive there, even though it’s only about forty-five miles from our cabin.  This is probably because we always seem to get behind some old guy hauling his boat.

There is a freshly painted red schoolhouse, now turned art gallery that we sometimes visit along the way.  Here there are metal crows lining the porch railing.  And once a giant toad sat in the middle of the grass out front.

We don’t mind it taking so long unless we are running late, because the place we are heading to closes early and it would be a damn tragedy to not get there in time.

Jespersons is still owned by the same family.  They have been opening their door to tourists and locals for over one hundred years now…locals with a lot of clout, like Hemingway.

It’s the kind of place that serves ham salad sandwiches and Arnold Palmers.

A large plate glass window, kept sparkling clean, opens to the street and the passers by often slow down to peer in at the diners.  Once, right after a sudden rain shower, I saw a window washer miraculously appear unannounced to squeegee the droplets away.

The restroom is down in the stone basement.  Old- fashioned white wash coats the stairs, and a rickety wooden stool props open the bathroom door to keep the moisture at bay.  There’s even a table down there, with a couple of chairs for the staff to use when they take their breaks.

The waitresses come and go…but they’re all nice.

They serve the best pie anywhere.  They once got a write up saying so in the New York Times.  The big guy who bakes them used to run a sporting goods store someplace further north.  His name is Bill.  Two years ago he ran for mayor.

My husband and son usually order the crumbly apple…but not me.  I go with a slice of cherry, the berry rhubarb or sometimes banana cream.

When we sit in there, at Jespersons, in Petoskey, all seems right with the world.  I guess it’s because of a lot of things and how they all fit together.  But mostly it’s because of the pie.

(Karen)