Summertime

When between the ages of five and eleven, my family lived in Bognor Regis in West Sussex, Bognor being a coastal town, a seaside town.  My memory tells me it was almost always sweltering hot each summer and I have vivid memories of my clothes sticking to my back, so hot it was.  At weekends and during the school summer holidays, as a family we would often spend a day at the beach, taking with us my favourite thing – a picnic.  Mum would make up her wonderful fare, cheese and tomato sandwiches which would be deliciously soggy by the time we ate them (I still love these even now) and boiled eggs mashed up and mixed with Heinz Sandwich Spread, both these wrapped up in greaseproof paper parcels.  There would be her homemade currant buns, so deliciously soft and sweet and then the big treat of Smiths plain crisps with the little blue salt bag   I loved sprinkling on the salt and then would crush the crisps into tiny pieces, for in my child’s mind – it meant I had more.

We children would tread gingerly over the pebble beaches and make our way to the sand, which showed itself at low tide, and then swim in the sea.  Dad would join us in the water – but never in trunks, instead rolling up his trouser legs and going for a paddle.  The day was always a wonderful adventure and it was rounded off by the treat of soft whipped ice-cream, my favourite being this in an oyster shell cornet, the last delicious bits being sweetened by the marshmallow and coconut which provided the hinge.  Sometimes dad would buy a stick of rock, and once home, mum would smash it (with a rolling pin) into little tiny pieces which we three children shared.  I loved the sweet smooth outer shell and then the strange feeling of air sucked through the sucked porous middle.  Yum!

Oh memories are made of this!

Bare feet and warm sea, 

the sweet laughter of children, 

gulls squawk overhead.

Anna :o]

The above image is of Butlin’s indoor heated swimming pool where we children went for school swimming lessons, and I just had to include it for it evokes so many memories too.  I remember it so much, its magical appearance, its smell and the echoing expanse of it all.  I also remember us children desperately trying to hide the brief yellow stain that appeared as we peed ourselves, not wanting to leave this wonderful place for even one minute of the wonderful hour we spent there!

These words inspired by Kim at Real Toads – cheers Kim for this wonderful trip down memory lane.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United - hosted by Mary.  Cheers Mary!

Images courtesy of Pinterest.

Eggs

The bantams are broody,

not a single egg laid

for at least the last month.

They hide in the hen house,

fretting and moody,

still in their silence

bar an occasional half-hearted,

a softest cluck-cluck. 

They long for the crow of a cock,

the warmth of the nest,

the gentle tap of the beak,

the cracking of shell,

the chirp of the chicks

as they welcome this world.

And she?

She is broody, her belly ballooning,

but this a mere phantom,

pregnant only with yearning, the want

the need of a tiny babe suckling,

grasping deep comfort in the warmth of her breasts. 

Oh how she longs for a life growing inside her,

if only, if only, if only.

This morning she rubs at her tummy,

fondles it strokes at it,

and yet knows it is naught but a dream,

for she has only ever been oh so desperately lonely,

she never having been kissed, never ever been loved

and never ever been laid

(Oh how she dreams of being laid,

safe in the arms of a man, she sure such a good man,

(she imagines the feel and the smell of him). 

Oh how she aches to be taken. 

Oh how she wants to be wanted.)

She hears the kettle click-off,

makes up a cup of  instant black coffee,

sees the bacon near-ready, (mmmm (licks her lips))

cracks an egg on the pan side,

lets it drop in

and watches it solidify in the sizzling hot fat.

Anna :o]

Inspired by the bantams – the bantams are broody.  They are not my little clucking friends, rather that of my son and daughter-in-law.

Just finished a few days stint of looking after my wonderful grandsons – loved it, but I’m now worn out!

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary – cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Jon Sullivan

Summer

1)

Starling squawks,

woodpigeon

cur-coo-coos,

sparrow cheeps,

song thrush sings

bee buzzes,

plane drones ‘cross

cloudless sky,

summer’s here! 

2)

Cloudless skies,

sweet mown grass,

sprinkler swish.

Lie with you,

cuddle in,

steal a kiss!  

Innocence,

happiness -

salad days!

3)

Barbeque:

steaks, chicken

sizzle spit,

odours waft,

fill the air.

Magic taste,

charcoal grilled,

tummy filled

Yum!  Yum!  Yum!

Anna :o]

Marion at Real Toads has us writing Tricube’s.  Each Tricube should have three syllables per line, three lines per stanza and three stanzas’ per poem.

So above is a little trio of them.          

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels

Running

World sleeps, almost silent now

but for the steady hum of city lights,

the echoing of footfalls of the running man

as he races through the city streets,

adrenaline pumped,

he rushes, he rushes.

He has ghosts here

that shadow him through each and every day

through each and every night, haunt his very being,

spark adrenaline flight,

heart pounding as he flees his awful fears,

and in terror as he runs away;

he rushes, he rushes.

He wishes she hadn’t been like that,

hadn’t made him want her oh so very much,

hadn’t sucked him in then spat him out

‘til there was nothing left but miserable.

He had never known he could think like that

be like that plan like that act like that,

revenge had been oh so bittersweet,

the thrill of when the knife went in

countered with ache the deep regret

of robbing life of one he once loved so dear,

the rue of watching blood spill out,

pooling neath her lifeless body.

He had left her there, litter in a city street,

she decomposing neath unseeing eyes,

back alley dead, a discarded ready meal for gnawing rats,

a bounty there for fox for dog for feral cats,

for gulls and multitudia of insecta.

The city has devoured her,

she has now become the city,

has him in her grip, his every thought is full of her,

she resides in him, 

hides ‘neath his paper-thin fragility,

pouncing out at will.

He wonders whether he should confess,

whether this would rid the guilt,

whether a certain kind of peace would come.

‘Til then, ‘til decision made,

fear guilt adrenaline sparked,

he rushes, he rushes,

he rushes to escape himself.

Anna :o]

Sumana’s prompt (cheers Sumana) at Poets United, of City, reminded me of a long forgotten draft of city rough sleepers who exist in our cities.  But a trawl through documents found nothing, so I guess I must have deleted it when the PC told me You Are Running Out Of Space!  So I decided to pull on (my own) memory, but my words morphed into something else.  Where it came from, I do not know.  

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Altoona Police Department/Medical Examiner

Nag Nag Nag

Morning 1906, Clarence White (Fair Use, Public Domain)

Okay, so you’ve left me,

I can cope with that (or can I?).

But why leave all the mess,

the toilet seats up,

toothpaste spit in the sink,

curly pubes stuck in soap,  

dirty towels stuffed in cupboards,

and tidemarks ringing the bath –

it’s no wonder I nag you, no wonder I drink

I don’t know how I put up with you,

you dress like a tramp,

you stink of raw garlic,

snore like a pig

and your conversations a bore.

And now you have the cheek to leave me

saying you can’t stand me no more!

(Can’t stand me – I just don’t get that!)

Go then I said and damn you, you did!

You’ve gone and you’ve left me you garlic-breathed pig!

Damn you!  Damn you and damn you!

Damn you!

You’ll so regret leaving me

for I’m perfect you know!

Anna :o]

For Kerry’s Camera Flash prompt at Real Toads  – cheers Kerry!