wendy house

Game-addict clinic opening in Amsterdam
Dueling piano bar opening in downtown Boise
Archived Items not opening in Microsoft Outlook 2003
croci opening in my garden

preliminary thoughts insincerity scrawled on a serviette

Sad,
Forlorn,
Trailing blood from seemingly perpetual knee grazings, my life a stumbling emotional fall-out zone.
That’s just today.

Screaming,
Tragedy,
Expression at17 involved indiscriminate waving of stained and sodden hankies.
Now I type it.

Silence,
Façade,
Sometimes the expression is so convincing it becomes real, the smallest detail hinting at an actual need.
Wear knee-pads.

Falling over redefined as a prelude to life’s pleasures.

to you from me
below the love tree
green
day
light
path

I love you

I love you too

Are you happy?

No

What do you need to make you happy?

Not much, just to talk to you most days to hear the stories of your life, the laughter the pain, the stuff you normally share with friends. An occasional bunch of flowers, notes that tell me you love me, they can be insulting, I’ll know from the note and thought that you love me, I just need to know it through a thought or story

I can’t live my days remembering to find time to call you, to leave you a note, to be worrying about what I should do rather than living my life now, I can’t be worrying if I’ve checked-in with you enough to keep you happy, I’ll worry about whether you’re happy. It will make me unhappy

Oh, we’ll both be unhappy

I love you

I love you too

We can’t be happy together

It seems we can’t be happy

If we break-up we’ll be unhappy, but we’ll have the opportunity to be happy with someone else.

Yes, but I love you and want to be happy with you

It wont happen

No

lets part and risk happiness

[the silence of tears]

* please see entry on 06-Jan-2008 for more details.

The driver smokes a short filterless cigarette, awaits a passenger.  

Not any passenger.  

Not Flat Eric.      

A passenger from a windowless room.

We passby,   missing the passenger emerge, missing the small car leave.

In a small Siena courtyard the walls mimic windows,

forgetting to mimic shutters or reflections.  

Silence and darkness within the windowless rooms.

Protecting the people within from too much colour,   too much light,   noises from neighbours and the street,   from the prying eyes of passersby.  

In the silent darkness occupants can float on siestas unseen, unknown.

Freedom to dream of the luxuries of everything  and nothing

As part of my birthday treat,   I purchased the 45th copy of AFH’s poetry book ‘Of birds and bees’.   The book is  beautifully illustrated by Jo Thomas.   The first line I read was Jo’s introduction to  the Bee  illustrations:

“In spring 2007 walking,  a bee fell, in front of me, on the pavement, dead. I picked it up and drew it. Since then I have continued to collect and draw found and gifted dead bees.”

I’ve not yet seen a dead bee.   This summer some beautiful large fluffy bees tended the tea roses at the Wendy house.   This may become a treasure of the past as I learn to collect dead bees as memories.   At 1pm today the British Bee Keepers Association (BBKA) is coordinating a  demonstration In London,   Whitehall outside Westminster palace  and delivering a petition to Downing street (Prime Minister’s residence).    Guidance provided by the BBKA  to potential demonstrators includes:

You need to look your best as you may well be on TV! An umbrella probably makes sense too.

They are demonstrating to raise awareness of the impact of the the lack of government funding provided to avert an impending ecological disaster that has clear financial, agricultural implications.   According to the Guardian:

Beekeepers have warned that most of the country’s honey bees could be wiped out by disease in 10 years unless an urgent research programme is launched to find new treatments and drugs…    

 ….the Department for Farming, Environment and Rural Affairs revealed that bees contribute £165m a year to the economy through their pollination of fruit trees, field beans and other crops. In addition, the 5,000 tonnes of British honey sold in UK stores generates a further £12m

climbs trees with a nylon sleeping bag for a sleep-out party with his friend

puts his bum against the open window of the car so that his silent but deadly fart doesn’t disturb the other car occupants then giggles incessantly for 20 miles

chops off his fingertip with an axe then runs around shaking his hand to increase the polkadot patterning on mums walls

makes a multi-level gerbil cage out of an old sideboard

sings into a microphone strapped to a standard lamp,   without removing the lampshade

writes the name of the girl that he loves on the inside flap of his school canvas haversack in different pens,   fonts and colours

ramps up the volume on the house stereo and arranges an echo, closes the window blinds,   peeks through  then whispers in high volume ‘this is the voice of god’ when he sees a schoolchild in uniform walking by outside

earnestly says ‘you’ve failed?   how did that happen,   you’re the clever one’

Takes me into a record shop and says,   you can have any record you want,   its on me.   I pick the first Album he ever bought ‘Ride a White Swan’ by T.Rex

Persuades a friend to drive him to the warehouse 2hrs away where I’m holding my 21st birthday shindig,   Gives me 6 marbles and waits for me to be disappointed,   then gives me  a hipflask full of Napoleon Brandy saying ‘I was going to have it engraved with to my wonderful sister,   but I didn’t’,   stays at the warehouse when his friend decides to drive back before midnight

Says of his visits to me at university  ‘I wish my time at University had been as good as this’

Calls his first cat ‘f*ck-off’ because the cat followed him back from a superstore and he didn’t want it to,   then takes the cat everywhere in his Trenchcoat pocket and renames her Hoagie after Hoagie Carmichael

Drives a soft-top MG Midget despite his head creating a big upward dent in the roof because he’s 6ft4

 corrects my pronunciation

I’m sorry sir,  

we have just run out of subtlety,  

will a double dose of concise frankness do?

It’s 70% off.

I am a little bit short-sighted,    

I can read my computer screen with normal font sizes despite their ridiculously small size.  

Then one day,  

unexpectedly,

IE7 decided to give me

buttons bigger than bars of soap

and black-out the page content.  

It’s a cheeky little browser.

That IE7

In the quiet zone a
baby cries
phone sings
headset treble-beat twangs
A couple of work colleagues converse flirtatiously
Wendy wonders at the shift in the meaning of quiet….

currently catless

Some times…     the TALLEST boy I know,   your hugs promise to lift me heavenward.

Other times…     the grumpiest old crow, my words secure cruel slashes from your sword.

Often times…     the proficient fellow,   our conversation easily ignored.

* please see entry on August 4th for more details.

Early on a chilly Friday evening afore Christmas Mr. Hegley and longtime associate Mr. Bailey jumped on a train from London Paddington to Reading Central.     Once in Reading they sought out the South Street arts centre and there joined the poets cafe.   The cafe was hosted by AFH who skillfully introduced us to the intricacies of the concept of first half,   second half and interval.   He cunningly avoided  reference to the powerful football analogy that subsequently snuck its way into several of Mr. Hegley’s poems including his opener which described the emotional ebb and flow of  Luton town beating Reading  town.   Both almost cities missed gaining city status in the Millenium celebrations  when the Queen granted 3 towns city status.John’s delivery was perfectly complimented by his companion, Andrew’s, acting skills.   Neither black bird, woman,   nor alien were beyond Andrews talented delivery.

At the poets cafe audience are also invited to be performers,   slips of paper, published and unpublished books proped newcomers and professionals alike while sharing their work about ghosts, parties, typewriters, family, and TV shows.     I slouched at the back with a pint of John Smith’s rapidly disappearing from my  plastic glass wondering if I should bring a piece of paper and a little pluck  to the second half…   …after the interval…   …of the next meeting.

So, I need to complete a form to get one of those?

Where can I get the form?
Counter-signed by who?
Submitted where
Wait for a reply
Then will I have one of those?

Oh, I need equipment?
how do I know what equipment will work?
Will the reply tell me?
Do I have to get the reply from somewhere or will it come to me?
After I’ve picked up the equipment will I have one of those?

Another form, how many forms?
How will I find the forms?
I need approval?
Approval from who?
Approval given to who?
Approval before, after or on the form?
Another form?

I should just wait… …it will all happen after I’ve submitted the first form, things will just happen, I should just trust that submitting the first form will start the ball rolling and it will roll smoothly to my getting one of those…

But I can’t submit the first form until I’ve got one of those,
How do I get one of those,
So, I need to complete a form to get one of those…

Raymond’s Birthday Poem

If a fellow knits stuff and does it quite quick
and never once tangles the wool on his stick
would you say of the clatter and say of the click,
Well, he’s not knitting knots at a fair old lick?

And if he trained head-lice to help with the job,
gave them little needles, paid them a few bob,
explained how to cast on and then later cast off,
would you believe in the nits now not knitting knots or would you just scoff?

But the smaller the fingers the finer the weave,
and employing such workers is great, I believe,
for creating new woollens with panache and far
greater strength than is found in the cheaper Kevlar.

Some folk find this mixture of factors spot on,
more crafty than denim, warmer than cotton,
a wide choice of sizes for men and for women,
but not really clothing one should try to swim in,

’cause wool absorbs water and clogs and weighs down
and encourages wearers to submerge and drown
which isn’t the greatest of hobbies to take up:
it ruffles your hair and smudges your make-up,

and no one really wants to be looking their worst
when they’re dragged from the river and offered bratwurst
(which is how in Bavaria they check you’re alive
(or so I was told by a fellow called Clive)).

But this super-tough knitted material’s handy
away from the rivers, where it’s dry and dandy,
for protecting the wearer from bruises and bumps
and contusions and grazes and fractures and lumps,

say out on a bicycle, whizzing downhill,
with the wind in your hair, no trace of the chill
thanks to the weave that covers you up
as you weave around litter and pooh of the pup

that’s been left in the gutter along with road-kill
and yesterday’s paper and one espadrille
and cartons and bollards and packets of krill
split open and slimy and a rickety grill

that covers the sewer, well almost, not quite,
and in England the cars are all on your right,
hooting and braking and fucking about,
opening doors and letting kids out,

so thank God you’re in wool that’s been knitted by nits
and is doubly-woven on your private bits
’cause a million things are waiting to do
harm to a person as lovely as you,

watch out for the stick that gets stuck in your spokes,
watch out for those tumbling stray artichokes,
watch out for the kid who runs after his ball,
watch out for the dog who runs after his ball too,

watch out for the dangers that you least expect,
the unlikely ones that will make you eject,
the uncanny, perverse, bizarre things that disturb
for instance, who’d think?, a guest starring kerb.

Thank goodness for wool, thank goodness for knitting,
thank goodness for not having grazes with grit in,
thank goodness for bikes that keep us all healthy,
and poets with patrons who are quietly wealthy.

A.F.Harrold

(PS publication of this poem does not in anyway coincide with Raymonds actual birthday,   which is,   one of natures mysteries)

do not,   DO NOT, add a few more comma’s,  

comment on this post,  

not a good idea,

NO,  

 resist the enticing  share your thoughts text box below,  

Lovely,,,

not just slightly-inconveniently fatal

seriously fatal

not funny-ha-ha-fatal

seriously fatal

I’m glad we’ve cleared that one up

seriously glad

Scent of autumn arrived this week.   Rolling in through a bedroom window on fine  morning mist to greet my emerging consciousness with cool fingers.   Welcome.

*part 2

*just  a title and footnote

beautiful and dangerous as the wind

drowned in its cuming

The man who lived in the bath
made waves with his belly laugh,
joyfully farted bubbles,
and lost track of his troubles.

Warm wet water caresses,
cleaning bodily messes,
and some self-massage, perhaps,
lured him to turn on the taps.

Drinking a liquid diet,
Reading books in the quiet.
Friends ceased to stop by, or call,
Soon, he saw no-one at all.

Wrinkles started the first day,
then, loose skin floated away.
Things started getting weird
when he just disappeared.

Scientists start to conject,
what really did happen next?
Did he just let himself go,
float over the overflow?

Forensic bathometry
helped to solve this mystery
beyond reasonable doubt.
We know he never got out.

Ph. unbalanced water
lead to untimely slaughter.
Bath residue, inspected,
Confirmed what we suspected.

Like bath salts roughly sprinkled
Soften skin tightly wrinkled.
The secret is resolved,
He actually dissolved!

Poem inspired by Mr. AFH’s prediliction,  the many forensic TV programs broadcast on US TV and a really humbling experience at work.

thirty-second post in a Wednesday series of the inevitable “why wendy’s single”.

Reason # 32: the way things are

Roger McGough’s explanation  draws the context well.

how can you resist a hat

with its jaunty stylish flair?

Ecstatic manes tamed. Quite-flat.

hiding dull or           …unwashed…          hair.

Sunshine can not harm your skin

shaded ‘neath a dashing brim

reducing signs of agin’

by keeping the daylight dim

Wear it as a shower cap

parade it in the high street.

Stay together as you nap,

apart,         …you’ll be….        ….incomplete.

No more whiplash, yelping, shocks

in bed reaching for your Tea.

He didn’t rest  ’pon your locks

they’re not sprawling knottily*

Nov. 2006.    2 verses and an attempt to rhyme is a major achievement for me.  Yay!   Local friends and colleagues can testify to my  persistent  use of headgear in a crisis.   I do indeed wear them in the shower, the bath,  at work, on boats, planes    and trains, while napping  and occassionaly in bed.   Before I took to wearing a hat in bed my ex-fiancee would accidentaly lay on my hair causing my unanticipated whiplash style yelpings of pain.  

*for this poem knottily is pronounced  to make it difficult to distinguish from  ’naughtily’.

What little luxuries light your proverbial fires?