“Eye’s of uncertainty”

On screen in parliament scenes of suffering and sorrow cry.
Whilst over social chit-chat and flowing wine
MP’s-their views do imply.
Over candlelight banquets they gaily dine.
Their over gorged belly’s caviar they line.
Governments, they create these bloody wars.
To suit themselves, they change the laws.
Between themselves they cause the rifts.
Then send in armies, until between civilians - hostility drifts!
Kids and women die, innocent subversive sounds of sobs.
The hierarchy run their social lives - dine safely!
O those wealthy pampered slobs.
Their bank accounts they ensure will soar.
Whilst poverty and pain other lives endure.
MP’s sit back, glasses filled with cheer!
Through jolly festivity they may take an occasional glance.
Towards the screen as a diversifying viewer!
If they think life’s hard in their parliamentary seat.
Why don’t they spend a year in poverty on the street?
Or do their dictating where bombs fall!
Then return tortured, shell shot, bewildered
from the fighting they created..
Let them live there themselves and imagine
feel the suffering fear and hatred.
.I wonder if their consciences consider what their reviewing?
Or is it just their big fat wallets and power that their pursuing?
O, its time to relax in sweet meadows or soft sand by the sea!
So off they fly to escape in their own fantasy.
Knowing their relatives are all safe and sound.
Never mind all the dead left behind, lying on the ground!
I wonder what it costs the tax payer each year,
To keep these establishments in their
high life and cheer!

By Penny Andrews
6/10/2006

MY FAVOURITE HATES. Tom Wilson – (Aged 92) - August 2008.

Motorbike engines that shatter my ear.
Drivers who stick too close to my rear.
A youth who exhibits tattoos on his chest.
These are a few of the types I detest.
*
Girls with green hair, wearing outfits by OXFAM.
Chaps sporting pony-tails who don’t give a damn.
Politicians and Prelates who write for the press.
These are a few of the types I detest.
*
When the sun shines.
When the wine flows.
When I’m feeling well.
I try to forget all the breeds I dislike,
and let them all go to H.E.L.L.
*
Moaners who whine at high prices they pay out,
for articles they could easily do without,
and maintain they are cheaper in some other land…
These are the characters I simply can’t stand.
*
Here in England; milk-and-honey land,
When I’m feeling great,
I simply make lists in my head of the kinds
of persons I love to hate!
**
(With thanks to ‘My Fair Lady’)
**

*
Two books for your enjoyment...
LIVING NIGHTMARES.
by DAVID LEVINE.
Very, very scary!
(David is a member of Shepway Writers.)
*
and republished on June 26th 2008,
yes, republished - it's that good!
(5 star rating with Amazon)
The international best-seller,
.
To The Edge Of The Sky
by Anhua Gao.
.
'Richly rewarding and inspirational'
(Anhua is an Associate Member of Shepway Writers.)
You can order author-signed copies of both books from us
by emailing: shepwaywriters@tiscali.co.uk

Jake’s Choice. July 2008. Harry Bennett.

Blackness seemed to be everywhere. Then, he realized, not quite everywhere. Way, way off to his right, there was a small white dot of…. What? It looked like a light. He decided to find out. But that wasn’t his first thought. Oh no. His first thought had been: Where am I and what am I doing here? The second thought rushed in behind the first. How did I get here? He began to walk towards the dot but felt hindered by thick mud-like stuff that sucked at his feet.
He was a nice looking man. Mid thirties, tall, curly blonde hair, honest and intelligent dark eyes, well proportioned without being muscular. So why was he struggling through the muck to get to the light? He didn’t know. In fact, he didn’t know anything except that something was important. He had to get somewhere. Do something. And the dot was where he should be.
He scratched his chest, than felt himself all over. He was naked! How could that be? But somehow, it wasn’t important. Right now, getting to that dot was everything.
‘Do you need any help, Jake?’
The female voice tinkled like a crystal bell used by women to summon their maids, but this voice not demanding. It was warm, friendly and girlishly mischievous.
‘What? Where did you spring from? Is Jake my name? Who are you?’
The bell tinkled again. ‘You look very nice without clothes, but that’s not why I’m here. Yes, your name is Jake…’
‘I can’t stop.’ Interrupted Jake. ‘I’ve got to move on because there’s something very important that I have to do, but… Um. You don’t happen to know what it is I have to do, do you?’
‘Come. I’ll walk with you,’ said the bell. Into his view appeared a beautiful dark-haired girl dressed in a simple oatmeal-coloured smock.
They walked side by side in silence. The sticky, mud-like stuff had mysteriously disappeared. For Jake it didn’t seem at all strange to be walking beside this young beauty whilst stark naked. And it seemed to be an everyday occurrence to her.
How long they walked, Jake didn’t know. It could have been five seconds, five minutes, five hours or five years. He didn’t know, or care. It seemed to be the right thing to do.
‘We’re here.’ Tinkled the girl.
‘Where?’ Asked Jake.
Suddenly a wall appeared which burst into colour. Startled by the brightness, it took Jake a few moments to realize what he was looking at. A kind of television screen showing a burger-bar birthday party. There were balloons, toys, food, drinks, the clown and lots of laughing children. One little boy, with the help of the clown, blew out seven candles on a big cake. It was so familiar… Ah! He knew what it was.
‘That’s me!’ Shouted Jake above the noise. ‘My birthday party when I was seven. I remember it! He laughed delightedly as the memories of that day flooded into his conscious mind. ‘How did you do that?’
The girl just smiled.
The picture changed. A spotty boy stood on a stage saying, ‘L-E-P-I-D-O-P-T-E-R-A. Lepidoptera. It means butterflies and moths.’
‘That’s me again!’ Exclaimed Jake. ‘The television spelling contest. I came third. My parents were very proud of me. They treated me to ice cream and cakes.’
More and more memories were shown. Passing exams. First kiss. Teenage rebellion. College. University. Saving a boy from downing in the sea – then, Sally. Beautiful, intelligent, compassionate and understanding Sally.
‘Oh. Sally,’ murmured Jake. ‘How could I have forgotten you?’
Turning to the girl, he said, ‘Sally was my dream come true. The woman I had hungered for and fantasized about since puberty. And from all of the men that danced attendance upon her, she chose me to be her husband. I love her with all of my heart.’
Two happy children, both with curly blonde hair and dark eyes, filled the screen.
‘Mary and Mark,’ cried Jake, his eyes awash with tears. ‘My children with Sally. I am ashamed of myself for not remembering them.’
The screen suddenly changed, giving off a sense of foreboding and menace.
‘Jake, can you remember how you got here?’ Asked the girl.
‘No.’
‘Look.’
The scene was Charing Cross Railway Station. ‘Yes!’ Exclaimed Jake. ‘I remember. It was a family outing to London. Treating the kids to their first Pantomime. We were on our way home when the crazy man with the meat cleaver threatened Sally. I stood in front of her and took the blow to my head. So I’m dead. Where am I now? Why am I here? I love my memories, but that’s all they are now. Memories. No more Sally. Or Mary. Or Mark. How will they manage without me? How will I cope without them?’
He hung his head and cried.
‘You’re a good man Jake,’ said the girl. ‘In your lifetime you saved two lives - the boy in the sea, and Sally. That is why you are being given a choice. Now. Here. Right away.’
‘What choice?’ Sobbed Jake.
Two passages suddenly appeared; one to the left; one to the right.
The girl pointed with her left arm. ‘Down that way lies eternal peace and happiness. No pain. No distress. No illness. Just perfect bliss for ever more.’
She pointed with her right arm. ‘This way leads to pain, suffering and much surgery before an almost full recovery. It will also take you back to Sally and your children… CHOOSE! NOW!’

On the station platform, the paramedic cried, ‘We have a pulse!’

...........................................................................

Every writer has to start somewhere!

******************************************

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‘Papas’ is probably the best fish & chip
restaurant in my home town of Folkestone,
England. My family and I often eat there.
This poem, suitably framed, hangs on a wall
above my favourite chair.
And the answer to the question you'll find
on the last line, is... YES!

Papas.
.
At Papas I have my weekly date
with cod and chips cooked while I wait.
.
Deliciously golden, served piping hot,
I don’t hang about; I demolish the lot.
.
Including a roll and a cup of tea,
an ‘Oldie’s Special’ is ample for me.
.
Careful! A medium-size cod overlaps the plate.
It’s proportions you may underestimate.
.
And the jumbo-size, a fish supreme,
requires a large platter and a two-girl team!
.
The cheerful ladies at Papas; full of grace,
are patient and helpful - a credit to the place.
.
To one and all, don’t hesitate.
At Papas, there’s meal you’ll appreciate.
.
To eat here often I made a vow…
which is why I’m a regular now.
.
But as I age and my pension gets thinner…
Will this poem earn me a free dinner?
.
End …. Joe Thomas.
A member of Shepway Writers (Folkestone).

Why didn't I click
'older posts'
at the bottom of the page?
I must've missed a lot of
great reading!

A. A. A. D. D. - Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder.
.

Maybe some of you will relate to this.
For those who can't, not yet anyway, don’t be too smug…
Your day will come….
.
I decide to wash my car.
.
As I start toward the garage, I notice that there is mail on
the hall table and decide to go through the mail before I wash the car.
.
I lay my car keys down on the table, put the junk mail in the rubbish bin
under the table, and notice that the rubbish bin needs emptying.
.
I decide to put the bills back on the table and take out the rubbish.
.
But then I think, since I'm going to be near the post-box when I take out the rubbish,
I may as well sort out the bills first and post them.
.
I take my chequebook off the table and see that there is only one cheque left.
.
My spare chequebook is in my desk in the study, so I go to my desk where
I find the can of lemonade that I had been drinking.
.
I'm going to look for my chequebook, but first I need to push the lemonade can to one
side so that I don't accidentally knock it over.
.
I feel that the lemonade is getting warm and decide to put it
in the refrigerator to keep it cold.
.
As I head towards the kitchen with the can, a vase of flowers on the bookcase
catch my eye - they need water.
.
As I set the lemonade can down on a nearby side-table, I discover the reading glasses
that I've been searching for all morning.
.
I decide that I’d better put them back on my desk, but first I'm going to water the flowers.
.
I set the glasses back down on the side-table and head for the kitchen to give water to the
flowers, when I unexpectedly spot the TV remote laying on the kitchen table.
.
Someone must’ve left it there.
.
I realize that tonight, when I go to watch TV; I’ll need the remote, and knowing
that I won't remember that it's on the kitchen table, I decide to put it back where
it belongs. First, though, I'll water the flowers.
.
I splash some water on the flowers, but most of it spills on the floor.
.
So, I set the flowers and the remote on the table; get some paper towels and wipe up the spill.
.
Then I head down the hall trying to remember what it was I planned to do.
.
By now it’s the end of the day. The car isn't washed, the bills aren't paid,
there is a warm can of lemonade sitting on a side-table, the flowers aren't properly watered,
there is still only one cheque in my chequebook, I can't find the TV remote or my glasses,
and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.
.
Then, when I try to figure out why nothing got done today, I'm really baffled because I know
I was busy all day long, and I'm really tired.
.
Never mind. Tomorrow I’ll wash the car.
.
GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY.
GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.
LAUGHING AT YOURSELF IS THERAPEUTIC.
LAUGHING AT OTHERS IS MEAN.
.

*
The Ultimate Shaggy Dog Story.
Copyright 2007 Tom Wilson.
*
While strolling through Central Park last July,
A large shaggy dog attracted my eye.
He capered around my legs joyfully
Convinced he had found a friend in me.
Though I tried to shoo the beast away,
It was clear as I walked he intended to stay.
‘Good dog! Home now!’ Was my command;
Words that the brute didn’t understand.
.
He wore no collar; no owner was nigh;
It was clear I was lumbered. I breathed a sigh.
My apartment became a dreadful mess…
My boisterous friend was a source of distress.
“Rover’s tablecloth” - laid down for his need,
Was an old newspaper; I happened to read
This advertisement in a bold outline:
Five Hundred Dollars for valuable canine.
.
Large English Sheepdog that wandered away
In Central Park on Independence Day.
The finder, returning our shaggy hound
Will be asked no questions if safe and sound,
To apartment three hundred and forty-two,
Serendib Mansions, Fifth Avenue.
‘Walkies!’ I cried. Rover wagged his tail.
Sadly our trip to Fifth Avenue was of no avail.
.
There, pinned on the door of three forty-two
Was a card with a message that made me blue:
“Left for Cape Cod – Back September.” It read,
Sending me home to my flat with a heart like lead.
So we boarded a train the very next day,
Rover and me, for Massachusetts Bay,
Finding that the birds had flown before we got there,
To Florida, in search of sun and sea air.
.
The scent seemed hot but in Florida, to my despair,
They’d already departed for London’s Eaton Square.
Our travels worked wonders for Rover’s physique,
He grew larger and shaggier with every week.
Because Miami to Heathrow involved some delay,
Our quarry, meanwhile, had again “Gone Away!”
After they’d led us such a lively dance,
I tracked them at last to the South of France.
.
An old-fashioned butler answered the bell,
And sniffed at the dog like it had a bad smell.
He half closed the door and shook his head,
‘Our dog’s not as shaggy as THAT!’ He said.
*