LETTERS TO FRANK

March

Fragments of memory and limescale collide. Moments, time and two parts forged together. The time was rotten like meat that had been forgotten for months. The horror of the bombshells like war in Germany – the horrific scenes of mutilated flesh and chambers of gas. The cruel intensity of suffocation and what a human body does not endure.

How can anyone give advice or know right from wrong – no man truly knows. No man truly knows himself nevermind another.

It is one day, and one day at a time only, that reflections start to submerge or at least dwindle into a fainter existence. Reflections of them all, not worth mentioning, for the pain they transport. Reflections of a short semester of life being ripped out and apart at points where raw flesh would be left. A reminder, or course, of the torment and agony of such an existence.

Unreliability like the worst sailor at sea, who never knew what it was to mature. How can they expect me to digest these things, to travel smoothly forwards on the path as if the wall of China had not just been destroyed. Frank you never did grow up, although you thought your mind an ageing man, what of the rest? Single kids are selfish, they say, and true to the saying, I’d say.

April

They didn’t tell me Frank, I mean, they didn’t tell me things would be like this. They didn’t tell me things would go this way. Did you know Frank? You did, didn’t you? I can’t believe you never told me – how could you Frank?

May

It’s Monday, who knows what the date is… near to a time of celebration on the calendar and this year I’m not even counting the days.

Nobody knows about the country I’m in, a far and distant land with unchartered waters and undiscovered zones.

You know, it’s not even about Ziola. It’s about the friction and the now terrible festering wounds. The puss is there, flowing and oozing, making the body gag.

None of this existed before I met THEM, and of course it is plural. A horrible little triangle. Oh Frank, I hate the triangle – don’t counsel me to return to it. Triangles don’t work in the natural. Tell me Frank, what do you honestly think?

Will you let me know, find out if Mava agrees – she always did have a great sensitivity for these things. It’s just that … now, it’s my life we’re talking about. My life that seems to have been blocked and stopped, like a clock that stops ticking. I don’t even think it’s the batteries, I think it’s broken, completely broken.

Can Mava fix that?

Really Frank you know me, and I think I just really love to be alone. Especially in comparison to what some ‘togetherness’ can constitute.

It’s me, you know Frank. Not some horrible person. Remember how we used to tallk for hours as the sun set over the coffee house. Life was eternal and the beginning. The days of ‘anything can be achieved,’ and ‘anything could be conquered.’

Now, well, I can’t even write it Frank nevermind say it. Of course my life is no longer my own and has been utterly ransacked. And I know how it goes – the honeymoon is pretense, a reeling in of an unsuspecting fish (a tadpole). The sharks have to bite at some point. They did never did relent from day one.

Frank, the worst of it is this: what never was my fault or problem (like baggage that isn’t yours), is all of a sudden, overnight on a train, all my fault… all blame, guilt and ‘responsibility’ at my door! Like Israel was born in a day – miraculous – I reaped a whirlwind and tragedy overnight.

One has to ask someone knowing like Mava, how does one explain this and where in all the world’s libraries would an appropriate and soul-satisfying answer be located? The age-old question goes: what did one do so wrong?

Frank, you must reply without delay. For amongst the seething ----------, is great anguish. Tears as hot as flames and heartache as precise as the stabbing of a knife.

You have no idea how ‘easy’ some things are, Frank. Horrid things. People may say ‘how is this and that possible?’ And my answer Frank is, simply, easy. You’d be surprised how easy it is, how quick and how natural these things come to the natural soul.

I know for a fact today, Frank, that they await for me to sign up again to that which brings…

Dangling like a Christmas bauble in Spring

Fred is in the garden hacking away at the potato plant and they come flying off.

Fred has become incessant of late in wearing his green tracksuit bottoms all day.

Fred has taken to watching the most ludicrous serial comedy on Tuesday nights and he laughs himself sick when they perform the most usual of tasks on a daily basis.

At night, I'm sure Fred recalls the comedy in his sleep as he retells of events during his outspoken dreams.  Of course there are a million irritating habits that he brings. 

Fred thinks he's a 'forest' man.  He thinks he can talk about it as one who has had experience, he thinks he can meddle in the forest, and he thinks I see him as an expert in the field.  And guess what, I do not.  Fred knows nothing of the forest. 

Time

Wasted hours, precious time stolen and time goneby.
Tomorrow is almost here
Another day arrives
The time thief must steal no longer
For our time, you know, is almost up.

The Field

Early in the morning I could hear the horses softly crunching their hooves on the wet grass outside the window.  They were standing close to the fence that borders their field and lines the edge of the pathway at the end of the garden.  The foals leapt about and playfully tugged at each other whilst the adults walked serenely by and without any commotion.  The fresh and crisp country air marked the start of a new morning.

It had been an interesting time... the week before ... and the weeks before that.

And yet every day continued to march on to the next one that followed.

At times the mountains seem so incredibly high and perilous - the challenges that lie ahead of us, the drudgeries of life and the heartaches.  Then, all of a sudden, a new day dawns and the sunrise seems brighter than it has ever been before and it serves as a stark reminder of the infallibility of the Creator to surpass all that we know and think we know.

New Housewife in the South

And so a brand new record begins...

Late July, a new family is born and must live together - happily, together, and in peace.

Thirty-one, twenty-nine and nine. 

Each one with their own character, their own mind and their own experience of the world.

Routines established, a home set up, work routines to follow, higher purposes to achieve and oh - of course - time to write.  Then there is the rest of the world - the world that is in need of something else and is at war in some significant parts. 

Yet I'll be in the kitchen, using the hand mixer that matches the other kitchen appliances all dressed in creme, mixing in the cupcake bowl and staring out the window into an idyllically set garden - hopefully not wondering 'where have the roses gone?'

June Tunes

This was it, Ava was set to marry.

The weeks sped by and every day something was crossed off the list. For there was an exhaustive list of things to do and to accomplish all within a relatively short frame of time.

January to June had come and gone like winter to spring and then summer.

The time knew no constraints and no-one had control over it.

It would wind its own way around the months of the year and direct the calendar.

Who would have thought there were that many details to consider for a wedding?

One by one, she ticked them off slowly:-

Date, Venue, Theme, Layout, Booking, Invitations, Time, Guest List, Menu, Music, Photography, The Blessing, The Schedule, Dress, Hair, Car, Bridal Team, Kitchen Tea and on and on it seemed to go.

Just as it seemed to calm down, it would result in revealing itself as the calm before the storm...

where there was always something else to still do.

Rainbows

The month of May had passed on by and it would soon be the 1st of June.

It had been a learned path so far as the year continued at a pace and new elements of life beckoned Ava to branch out and alter many ways.

A myriad of colours spread across the rainbows that loomed on the horizon of what seemed to be a very new life. From one season to the next, and in fact, from one day to the next, the colours changed and so did purpose. The purpose of existence and the purpose of life.

One day a student.

Another day a tutor.

Things would certainly evolve and in their perfect timing, blossom to full potential.

Ava laughed as the mannequin in the study caught her attention - there was one way to go and she knew which way it was. She would know that the only way would be to 'write' and 'dance' her way through it all ...

Spring

Spring had arrived and everything began to bloom.
Agapanthus, Cherry Blossom, Dahlia, Hyacinth, Peony and Zinnia... all revelled in the new season and that is was their time to blossom.
The colours dazzled after the long, wintry season of grey and black.

SPRING
Today the sun shines for you
Tomorrow it may not
Look out the window pane
See, look, wait and watch
Does it rain?
One day the grass grows,
on another, it withers.
What will today bring?
Something better, as it's Spring.

Him

He smiled at her every time she glanced his way...

His muscles moved slowly up and down in his arm when he used them. It was the embrace that sat there, not going anywhere, like a question mark set forever at the end of a sentence. It was one she knew she wished to spend the rest of her life answering.

She was silent as her memories recollected fragments from each day - and each day a perfect day to recollect such valuable fragments. Alert, she knew in that moment of precision in her imgaination, that her heart was right. He was the most interesting person she had ever known.

Together, they sat, and looked into the other - as if heavy with wine - and drank uncontrollably of what was eternally nourishing.

Ava looked and she saw.

The way he used his notebooks, his scraps of paper abandoned everywhere... and this means, anywhere and everywhere. Sainsbury's packets would do the filing!

He had his ways, his artful ways, his moments of expression - even on his own face - and all of it... was utterly endearing.

Hermanus

Today the wind blew so that every leaf shook and the sky hung as it did every day.

There was nothing in particular that stood out on this day. The forest was quiet, there were not many walkers around nor dogs... the trees stood, the earth was there, the sky invisible in parts and the usual routes led her feet forward and through the hills.

It was that time of year when everyone anticipated a change in the seasons and the excitement of Easter loomed. It had been an extraordinary year already.

Hermanus had stepped in front of her, like an exquisite new horizon, and captivated Ava's world. He managed to walk multiple tight ropes at the same time, with artful skill, he unravelled the intricacies of yesterday.

Nobody walked like he did.

Nobody had his voice.

Nobody stared forward in his way, eyes clear and thoughtful.

Nobody had his mouth.

Hermanus loved to dance and Ava loved to laugh. Together, they emerged into that new season when the sky would lighten and the flowers try their best to emerge. It was only spring that would follow, and then the fullness of summer would be next.

Continuation of excerpt... It was time for war

Now, no matter how neighbouring parents tried to hide their children from the growing tensions, they could not. The children knew, they listened carefully to the messages within the conversations of parents talking to neighbours in hushed and strained tones. The children perceived the danger correctly and talked amongst themselves of what might be.

'War,' one small girl mouthed slowly to another as if an acidic taste grew in her mouth.

'What will it be like?' another asked knowing she would not get an answer.

'I don't want war,' the first girl stammered.

'I don't think it will be very nice,' the other said to her.

'No, we have no idea what this will mean Shea,' she said with downcast eyes as she accidentally dropped her floppy doll into a pool of mud.

She reached down and grabbed hold of her arm, snatching her back to rest again on her own chest. Across the way, the rowdy boys played together and roughed each other up. How long would they continue to play in the same way, was the thought that ran through every glance.

For now, the day went on as it always had done and the usual routines did not cease. It would not be long until a new dawn would break and something ferocious and ugly would step through the door, place a heavy-footed step into their territory like an intruder in the back yard - your yard. After all, it was not their yard, it was not their land, it was not their territory, it was not their home and it was not their children. For a child, the nightmares and ideas of war could not compensate for the understanding of why and how such a thing should or could ever develop out of the night.

From the night shadows, these events would emerge that would change the life of a child forever. They would be led away, with or without their toys and games that they knew so well and held dear. The ones they played every day of the week - on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and even Sundays. Board games, ball games, floppy dolls, hard dolls, dolls with big eyes and teddies with small eyes. Boys and their games, the ones they invented even - even these - they may not play any longer. Not where they were going, not with what they would be doing, not where they would be led. From one world to another, the children would be led away and not by a flute and a dance. It was by a soldier and a weapon that they would solemnly follow without a word, or melody or toy.

Excerpt - It was time for war...

Imprisonment had been something Yirmey had come to know well like a close friend and he knew that war was hotly on the horizon. Even the people started to believe that the danger he predicted was now nearby and in hot pursuit. The pursuers would be like a swarm of bees that constantly chased them. The growing hum of the swarm that encamped around them was gaining strength and would ultimately release their sting. Thoughts of war swirled around in Yirmey's mind and at night, when he lay down, he tried to sleep but he could not. It was long into the night, on most nights of late, that he would eventually drift off and his body would shut down for some hours. He needed the rest and his nerves would grab hold of the opportunity to release their tension and unwind like a clock. It was here, in this moment of peace, that his mind would stop. The blood would flow freely through his veins and it was as if no danger existed. There would be no alarm and no need for high-alert during these hours.

Nobody wished for war and nobody wanted war. It was a war that he had seen long before its time emerged. He did long to prevent this war from overtaking the people that he loved but he soon discovered that no matter how much he loved, he could not necessarily protect the people for whom he had this passionate love.

Yes, Yirmey thought to himself about how it all began. Where the love began and where it would be defeated. It was here, in his homeland, and at his mother's breast that he had first heard the sound of it. A love so rare, so real and so strong. It was a pure love that his parents taught him and installed deep within him from a young age. From birth, he heard the songs she sang over him... songs of deliverance, songs of hope and songs about his people. His parents had a love for the land and for the men and women that no-one could impersonate or perform. It was here he learnt about his identity and a zeal for the Judahites which was enlarged when The Voice took on from there.

Poetry 09 - The Sun Sets

The sun is still setting
whilst you walk on the shore asleep.
The breeze is blowing
and we talk of this and that
as the ships sail by.
I walk with my feet in the water, ankle-deep in.
Cool and refreshing,
without any sin.
The evening is early,
a line of cars go by -
hooting incessantly as
yet another is wed.
The water laps.
It is the end of the day, perhaps.

Frozen

The big freeze came. Like an oversized tsunami wave that came from way back there, and lurched towards the shore. Running away from it, leaving the shoes behind... I kept going. Not knowing how or why or quite where to. The size and the capacity of the wave was too much, or the contradictory silence in the largeness of this wave. The wave would always come to visit the shore like an old nightie. Through the thickets, the bush, the trees and the shrubbery I ran until a hideout appeared and I knew this to be home. Here, everyone that was meant to speak and love, would do so. Here, everyone that was not meant to speak or love, would not. Here, they would not refrain, they would not play that game, they would not ignore my name in the public places and frequent it in the shadows. Here, nature would be fair and nature would be real and nature would embrace and nature would sound out my name loudly and clearly from the treetops. There would be nothing other than the straight way.

Poetry Dec. 09 - The Grass Thickens

There it is, the grass thickens -

The flowers bloom and then the...

rains set in. the window creaks

for an inch and settles in to sheer stillness.

The cobweb over the left hand corner sparkles and shakes.

The small spider looks out through the web and thinks

about his place.

Dangling on delicate ropes wrapped around him.

He is 'free', but he is also well-entangled.

The web is so small and the outlook wide.

The meadows beyond are brown.

The spider loves brown.

This is what he knows.

Kaleidoscope of colours

On went the song and the tune, the rhythm and all the lyrics that were right...

There it was - in all its glory. The new was sewn in with the old like the threading on a sock.

And behind it all was a silence that she knew to be him.

The face of it - for it was a definite face - lingered like perfume.

It was like looking at a star which could barely be seen if looked at directly and yet from the corner of the eye it became increasingly luminous.

For now, a great gust of wind blew outside through the tree tops and the snow was holding itself back. It lay on the peripheral of the weather conditions and threatened to snow again.

However, the roots of the music and that Song again, would spread, untangle themselves and emerge.

The roots lay exposed and revelled in the heat of the sunshine.

About the Song

Monday, and miniscule flakes of snow started to fall to the ground...

The wooden clock ticked, and ticked and struck 10am.

The computer hummed with the monotonous voice of machinery.

It had been a diverse week and the song still filled the air and repeated itself in Ava's head.

What was it about The Song.

Was it about The Song?

It had been a potent cocktail concoction of so many elements. It was the strings, the chords, the sound, the tune, the waves, the voice in all of it...

The consideration and the knowing.

It was a new song and when the other musician heard of it, well, he swore his affections for it too.

'As soon as I saw the song, I knew I'd love it,' was the remark.

There were new rhythms in the air which longed to be filled but would they?

Sometimes, even those that played their hearts on strings, had entered into agreements to never indulge in the music again. To hear it, yes, to play it, yes, but not to enter into the music again. To never embrace the root of the music... if this were to be the case... Ava would know to tie her laces fast and run.

Smoke

The chill in the air was dissipating and a spiral of smoke rose from the chimney in the old house. It was a thinning, grey spiral of smoke that took on the body of a snake as it coiled its way high up into the sky. At some point, it blew out into nothing.

Ava recalled the conversation from the day before and knew, as she learnt day by day, that each character would betray the other and no-one could truly judge the history of another. It was Sarai, her confidant, that had fallen ill and it was during this hour of crisis that so many things revealed themselves. The 'special groups' of life, that people swore you belonged to, the invitations to join the inner circle and get real close... and BANG within split seconds, loyalties exchanged, affections elapsed and promises bent way out of shape. The blame lay on both sides, as they gave and took away, promised and turned around as if it had no value. Any old shirt would do, anything that stepped across the foothold and most importantly, worked as the work-horse should work. Then they smiled and nodded and accepted and smirked. And who was Sarai? Not the only one that could do the job! Certainly not, as she lay in the hospital bed in a tragic state, 'the any old shirt would do' took over her children and her work projects.

Secret places of the Snow

Ava treaded heavily in the thick blanket of white snow. It sparkled, it crunched, and it did not melt. It was a foundation in its own right and covered everything in its fall. It was brilliant as it dazzled beneath the sun and the piercing blue skies.

He was a genius - the man who made the snow - he was an absolute genius.

Who else would have thought of it or know exactly how it formed and how it could be constructed?

He was the only one, in the whole planet earth and the skies above.

The only Einstein, and far beyond it.

It was like iced love and even ice-love is still love.

It looked like the stars had fallen out of the sky and sprinkled themselves across the white froth... it twinkled and shone at all angles.

The deer, the fox, wellie prints and others... ran their necessary courses across it.

And still it fell.

It draped every crevice, branch, house and path. Everybody HAD to stop and wait. They HAD to stop their usual activities and think. They looked around, she looked around, investigated it, tried it, tasted it, tested it... and oh it was very, very good.

The man who made the snow was certainly in charge. The country stood still and they waited and they looked, at what he had made them. It was for them.

A secret place in the snow, surrounded by thinning branches and trees planted in a circle... invited one in to reveal the true delicacies of the soft snow. Here, the shone sun through the twigs and the stars still sparkled on the white floor-bed. The secrets of the snow... is that, how much the man who made the snow really meant when he created this show, and how much, we will probably never know.

Music in the wind

Ava sat there and very still.

The wind moved in circles around her and whistled as he reached the heights of the trees.

It chimed in rhythms that only the hierarchy of nature could construct.

'Listen,' she whisphered.

You only have to LISTEN, she thought.

The music was all around and it gathered in momentum and slowed down. It picked up again as the wind skipped across the water and it struck a branch, it danced down the road and beat through the bush. The orchestra was in full motion and the music transcended everything.

Every chord, each note, all of the beats... were there.

The wind in his element and directing the course of the stage.

And someone was laughing, he was really laughing.

Yes He was laughing out loud.

The music belonged to Him.