Mum's 80th B'day Poem

David, Sharon, Mum, Jackie, Cath 

“I never thought I’d get there”

You said the other day

But look by gum you GOT here

So let’s shout Hip Hip Hooray!

“I can’t believe I’m eighty,

When I feel just twenty-one,

On the outside it looks weighty

Yet inside I’m full of fun!”

You called us and you told us

“I am not a lucky chick,

This old girl has woken up

Looking like a spotted dick.”

What a let down on your birthday

To be cooped up in your room

Head to toe with some strange lurgy

And your heart all filled with gloom.

Chin up my lovely Mummy

You’ll be soon as right as rain

And we’ll laugh and say “How funny;

Spotty eighty was a pain!”

Maybe that’s what’s going on here

You’re allergic to this sum

Four times twenty doesn’t suit you

So screw it Mum: Be twenty one!

The Mayor of Cabbage Hammock

The Mayor of Cabbage Hammock

First Customer review!!


... I jolted awake at 3.22 am, with the knowledge that I needed to grab a pad of paper and a pencil.  There in the quiet of the night the Mayor's story rushed onto the yellow legal pad.  I've never before (nor since) written in pencil or on a legal pad.  But for the next four hours and fifteen minutes I wrote, and scribbled and scratched as wide awake as I could be.  The Mayor was born and when I fell asleep again shortly before 8 am hugging the pages which almost crumpled to their death, I felt a calm like something I'd never felt before.  


Two days earlier at the end of winter 2009, I had had a breakdown, caused by stress, the market, my job and God only knows what else.  In the months that ensued as I allowed myself time to heal, something else was born.  Something long overdue, which had been hidden for decades, oppressed and belittled: my desire to write.  Day by slow day I gave it permission to grow, I gave it permission to walk center stage in my mind and finally I gave myself permission to talk about it.


It's quirky to realize that it's taken me 50 years to find my true self.  But here it is!  I have a calmness inside now, happy in the realization that I am finally doing what I was meant to be doing all along.  Writing.  Dyslexia or not.  Multi-cultural idioms clashing or not.  It's there and I'm giving it permission to speak.


(As you know, my pen-name for children is Noony Brown and my very first children's book arrived on Amazon September 1, 2011.  How exciting!  (click on this link to read our very first review!)  Tanya's watercolors have just brought the beautiful place to life.)

Avocado

Avocado

Ah - voe - car - doe

That’s the way my Mommy says it,

A - ver - cah - doe

That’s the way my Daddy says it,

A - doe - ta - doe

That’s the way my sister says it

I just put it in my mouth

And say “I like this stuff!”

From Froopogees - a published collection of children's poems on fruits and veggies.

Seven Scarves

Seven scarves swirled under the sea.  Like electric eels, their colors pulsing and brilliant desire of her yearning.  Farther below, stinky and battered near the pit of thunderbolts, the hammer-head shark waited.  Battle- scarred with a fist-sized chunk missing off the left side of his great hammer, he lay hidden and patient as he relished the scent of dinner on its way: the seven scarves were telling him, heralding the good news.

Then with a muted crash and a flurry of bubbles and movement, dinner dove into the icy water, long slender fingers catching and twisting the tassels of the first two scarves, the grey striped one and the sparkling one, wrapping them around his hand.  One by one he twirled the other five, wrestling near the pit of thunderbolts as the gold one refused to come.  Its shimmering, undulating tassels caught tight in the snapped-shut mouth of a greedy oyster.

The cunning old shark smelled the obstinate scarf-diver’s pheromones as he struggled to dislodge the gold tassels, running out of air.

With a quiet swish of his powerful tail, the shark left his hiding place with the stealth of a seasoned hunter.

The seven scarves no longer floated.  Only the gold one quivered as the diver tugged.  A tug-o’-war between man and nature.  He never saw the shark – he tugged.

He never realized, so intent had he been on the rescue of his lover’s seven scarves…

The fresher the feta...

Writing in Corfu

“The fresher

The feta

The better”

She said

As we

Raced down

The hill

In Corfu.

“But feta

That’s fresh

Is so hard

To get,

Yet it’s

Easier to

Find

In Corfu”

“Why’s that?”

I asked her,

As we

Rounded a

Hairpin,

“What happens

When feta

Is fresh?”

“Well, the

Fresher

The feta

The lesser

It smells

And the smoother

Its taste is

To you.”

“I never

Liked feta,”

I said

As I winced,

When a

Lorry took

Most of

The road.

“Yet the

Feta at

Niko’s was

Yummy today

Like none

That I’ve

Tasted

Before!”

“That’s it!

It was

Fresher,”

She said

Zipping past

A slow

Donkey

And cart

In the road;

“And fresher

Is better

When talking

Of feta,”

 “Kalimera!”

She called

To a friend.

“No wonder

I liked it”

I stamped on

My ‘brakes,’

As she

Narrowly

Missed

A collision;

“But it’s

Easier to

Find in

Corfu than

Elsewhere.”

If mad

Driving

Your stomach

Withstands!

In a cloud

Of brown dust

And a sigh

Of the brakes

We finally

Pulled up

At home,

“So take it

From Katia,

Just live

In Corfu,

Where your

Feta is

Fresher

And better.”

The Widow

Christmas lights twinkled in the gloom

                  The old country church stood behind, the sea of gravestones lay ahead and the long procession of family, friends and acquaintances followed the polished coffin. Mood, church, and sky –winter gray.  Will this day never end?

                  Two steps behind the pallbearers walked the raw widow, elegant in black, stunning in grief.  Her children, both under ten, on either side, the step-children flanking them.  Tight behind them, family buffering her from the collective grief. How do you go on from here?

                  Withered and weathered faces crumbled alike; friends and strangers held arms, tears tracing down cold pink cheeks.  She remained erect, as if painted into her sorrow until a sad little smile skitterd across her face like a faint sunbeam through a cloud, only to be swallowed by the ache in her eyes.  Surrounded by love and support she was lonelier than anyone there, yet more composed than most as the ropes let down her beloved into the ground. No! Not in the ground, please not in the cold ground – I’m not ready, I’m not … I’m not … Thud.

                  “Wonderful man.” Yes, too wonderful.

“He’ll be terribly missed,” You have no idea how much.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” You should have been here before, you’d believe it if you had seen him then.

More than three hundred times she received them as the endless line shuffled past the grave.  Compliments on the service, she had organized it; accolades on the children, she had raised them; praise for their accomplishments, she was the backbone. One by one they hugged the widow with ferocity or tenderness that underscored the hope that theirs would be the hug remembered, the hug that cured, the hug that removed the pain.  Poor kids, they shouldn’t even be here, this is so not a place for kids. No one realized she consoled more than she was consoled, she wiped more tears from others than from herself. Impervious, she took in their pain as if it did nothing to her own. It’s getting so cold, so dark. I hope everything’s ready at the house; can I bear it without you?

Back at the oversized cottage, the Christmas lights twinkled in the gloom, and the warm yellow glow in the windows spilled a cozy welcome to guests as they hurried up the freezing path. Over 200 pairs of feet made their way in seeking strength in numbers, respite in old friends. 

She had organized fires in all the grates, food and drinks for a feast, waiters and cooks, snacks and a space for kids, even a quiet room with a book for people to write memories in, “for the children when they grow up,” she’d said. Details, she was always in the details.

The widow, erect and spectacular, spoke to them all.  More hugs, conversation and memories. I can’t feel my feet, I wish I could sit down and be alone.  But no! I don’t want to be alone.

“Darling, you look wonderful, I’m so sorry …” You don’t even understand.

                   “Such an incredible man,” If they say that one more time I’m going to SCREAM!

                  “Such a wonderful man,” she smiled back again, you just don’t get it, do you? A small Mona-Lisa-smile warmed the casual observer.  Run!  I must run and hide.  The widow slipped away.  Upstairs, alone, she hugged his pillow and in silence lay. No arms would suffice, no words could comfort, no message relieve.

Time.  How much Time?  How much time is Time? The pillow absorbed the tears when they came and muffled the cries, as it would for the next 350 nights and so many days too.

Nine days before Christmas he’d died.  Three days before their daughter’s 10^th birthday.  Too soon for my baby sister to be a widow.

Published!

Hello everyone!


I'm excited to share my first children's book with you THE MAYOR OF CABBAGE HAMMOCK - published under my penname Noony Brown.  Advance copies can be obtained at info@arthapublishing.com.  You will probably see it before I do!  It arrived after I'd left for London ... what a shame.