HOMELESS CHRISTMAS TREE

I’m just a little Christmas tree
I’m looking for a home
I want to sit beside a fire
Don’t want to be alone

I want to see happy faces
on a Christmas morn
singing of baby Jesus
in the manger, where he was born

I’d like to dress in bells and balls
With flickering lights too
Not sitting in this garden
With my unhappy point of view

But wait! I see a little boy
He’s running towards me
“This little Christmas tree” he said
“Is ideal for me and Dee.”

And then his Dad walked over
picked me up gent-eley
They brought me home and dressed me
I’m now a shimmering, happy tree

So when you see a homeless soul
Don’t judge him harshly
Extend to him some happiness
As my friends did for me

Riddles from Saxon

ABSTRACT PERSONIFICATION RIDDLE

I have a special connection
I do not wish release
I am a form, you cannot see
a bond that holds us fiercely

I am passionate and bold
I live within the young and old
I am adored in many ways
I can deal a bitter blow

I am meek and unspoilt
I am strong and proud
When I’m happy I suffer
I seek reciprocation

PERSONIFICATION RIDDLE

She peeped through the blinds and
smiled, then rested on the picture.
She played on the floor,
Then darted for the door.

The blinds yawned and stretched their arms
Her face lit up the room
As she played hide and seek
and danced ‘round till noon

 

DEOR

Aelfgar the warrior dug deeply, relentlessly
into the rich earth, sweating and steaming,
afflicted with love, daunted
with thoughts of soil in a graveyard
Aelfgar’s axe worked on and on
Watched by chiefs and king
That passed over, this can too.

The great King Offa, all-powerful and might
summoned his warriors to bury the treasure
on a hill on the Mercian land,
away from Christian watchful spies,
whilst warriors prayed to Woden
to defend them from a  tale that a battle
was carried on the breeze
That passed over, this can too.

Aheah, a wise and strong warrior
alongside his brother dug deep.
His love was his children and wife
For his king he would lay down his life.
That passed over, this can too

Aebbe the peasant girl felt a strange sickness
She heaved at the waft of her bread
then thought of the tales  felt enlightened
And understood she was bearing a child
Aelfgar, her lover would be happy to know
That Aebbe with child, was to be his wife.
That passed over, this can too.

Haiku

Haiku

Seagulls hovering
Alongside the sailing ship
Scavenging their tea

 

The Princess chugged away from the dock. People waved and cried at leaving their friends and families.

I’d missed lunch and as land moved further away and the excitement subsided I opened my lunch box. The cries of a small child could be heard as a seagull flew down and stole the child’s chocolate…….

Theatre Review

The Hexagon Theatre The Mac Review

Holding the Baby

Playwright Jan Watts’ latest production ‘Holding the Baby’ held the audience in awe at the Hexagon Theatre, the Mac. The well written play that hits on social life, with its problems and undertakings in 2015 is in its fifth draft. The rehearsed reading was played excellently with professional actors. Directed by Tina Hofman, the story is about kinship care with the grandmother (Barbara) left holding the baby. Barbara’s life changes after a visit to the doctor’s surgery where she leaves as the carer of her granddaughter. Gt Grandmother Gracie’s Brummy accent was faultless as she repeated her lines and sang to the audience whilst playing a long suffering OAP with dementia. A character that gives you food for thought. Both poignant and funny. Progress of this play will be published as work moves on.

By Ann Cullen

Free Speech – Spirit

Rumours spread of her anonymity, curious mortals came to see the graceful old lady who walked in the park. With bread from her pocket she fed her feathered friends as they fluttered and cooed on the wings of a tree. Her clothes were shabby, her boots worn, the sleeve on her coat had somehow got torn. Where she came from nobody knows. The kindly old spirit is now lost from sight, there’s just the whistling of the wind and the whispering in the night.

My White Stick

This is part of a collection of pieces that are connected to the Staffordshire Hoard, a collection of ancient gold artefacts that was found in the UK in recent years. I was privileged to be asked to write for pieces for the permanent exhibition in the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery in England.

---

There was a feeling of unease and unrest in the air and disturbance in the rural English field.

My friend Ernie was in awe of what was happening in the field as he struggled to explain it to me.

“John, have I lost the plot?” he asked me.

Ernie pulled at my arm. “There are low clouds casting dark shadows across the field,” he said, his voice faltering. “I think we should get out of here.”

Rumour had it that warriors had been fighting in the field for hundreds of years. Ernie and I had heard of the re-enactment of battles. We’d never experienced anything. I could only imagine what they must have looked like.

As we sheltered from the storm, in my mind’s eye out of the earth a capacious Anglo Saxon warrior emerged, clothed in full battledress and finery. Within seconds he was challenged by a Northumbrian warrior, with his sword in hand.

I could hear the clashing of the swords as they echoed over the land. The two warriors fought ferociously until they were weary and exhausted. I could hear the heavy breathing and shortness of breath. Finally I heard a thud as the Northumbrian fighter brought down his opponent. The warriors lay in the field, now, only statistics of the battle.

The odour of death was all around. I could hear powerful flapping of wings circling above the warriors. I reached for my white stick and wondered why I had always believed that the supernatural was all in the mind.

The field had a life of its own. The burying of the hoard took place in the field but it was not the only time that the field had been used to hide ancestral treasure.

Ernie and I had walked to the field as part of our exercise plan. Walking up the hill was a daily ritual, providing the weather allowed it. Today had been different.

---

Garden of Tranquillity

In this place we can reflect
Enjoy the peace and calm
Say goodbye to loved ones
Now far away from harm

Crimson roses loiter here
’Midst dew, beneath the trees
Family and friends
Gather in propriety

I linger in the garden
Her familiar smell is here
I wonder if she’s looking down
I shed a tear,

I glance along the garden path
Where summer flowers bloom
I recall the good times
I hear a happy tune

A chirping bird calls me
I look up to see
I blink at the sunlight
She smiles down at me

In this beautiful garden
Our loved ones live on
No fear or confusion
No tears pain or doubt

Just peace and tranquillity
And love shining bright

---

From ‘All of Me’, see publications page for details

The Merry Stream

The merry stream
Dances and weaves
Skipping over pebbles
Singing to the trees

Swaying to the buzzing of
The busy bees and
Tapping to the humming
Of the birds in the trees

The sun peeps down
In sheer delight
As the merry, moving current
Glistens in mid-day light

---

From ‘All of Me’, see publications page for details

The Traveller

The traveller, spent and worn,
Returning to the land where he was born
Heavy tracks he left behind
And 40 years of dreams denied

“The streets of London
Are paved with gold” one summer’s
Evening he’d been told,
Back home, in the days of old

The big smoke was beckoning, he didn’t delay
The cattle were lowing in the heat of the day
As passengers crammed the Leinster Star
A new life ahead – it seemed so far

As a lad of 18 he couldn’t wait
For the Promised Land, it sounded great
His future was planned in the spate of a day
He was willing and able to earn his pay

He worked on the shovel
He worked with the trowel
From early morning
To bed with the owl

With the promise of riches
He toiled on and on
Building the roads,
He was still dreaming on

The seasons unfolded
His back became strained
The dream was shattered
He was tired and drained

Forty years later no gold, alas,
For the weary man such a heavy task
His haversack packed, he trudged on,
Back to the land where he came from

A wiser man now, not so sad
As he reached his goal of the Promised Lane
He’d travelled far and worked so hard
He found his gold in his own back-yard

---

From ‘All of Me’, see publications page for details