Well of Love, Page 2

  ~

  The glass is simple, plain and cheap

  A thin raised line says ‘mass produced’

  Its stem is thick, the scratches deep

  An easy target, oft traduced

  A single pair sits on this table

  Ancient spoons and plated willows

  The whole supplied from basic stable

  A tumbler holds a lone red rose

  But this wine's taste is one to savour

  Floral, fruity, oaked and mellow

  Smooth and cool, it bursts with flavour

  Shines from within a golden yellow

  Our talk and laughs flow as the wine

  Free and fresh, clear and true

  Our lives entwining like the vine

  Seen through the glass, rose-tinted view

  Tumbleweed

  Windblown I tumble 'cross dry dusty street

  My mind sees an old lonely town

  Deserted and dusty, secluded and weak

  Like me, in decline; broken down

  Aimlessly, randomly blown by the wind

  Lacking direction in life

  Feeling ashamed of the way I have sinned

  Leaving my children and wife

  Where bubbles the laughter, where giggles the fun

  Abundant in days now past

  Ask what have I come to, demand what I’ve done

  For truly the die is cast

  Alone in the desert no refuge in sight

  No shield will withstand this heat

  Filled with self pity at self-imposed plight

  Half hoping myself to meet

  Do I know what I'd say to the man I may see?

  How would I silence his cries?

  Should I give any shrift to his pitiful plea?

  Could I gaze without flinch in his eyes?

  I tremble with pain at the pain seen reflected

  I clutch at the hurt deep inside

  I know how he feels: all alone, unprotected

  I know that there's nowhere to hide

  A memory of love in the kiss of a child

  Brings tears of regret once again

  A memory of hate as divorces are filed

  These whispers forever remain

  Alone in my desert, life slipping away

  I pray for the new dawn to come

  Nothing to keep me, no reason to stay

  In one breath perhaps I'll find home

  Delirium racks me, a daughter's faint call

  Daddy oh Daddy don't go

  Echoing down as through cold marbled hall

  Don't leave us, we love you, you know

  My reason for living is there in abundance

  It drags me at last from the brink

  To hurt them again is beyond my endurance

  No matter what others may think

  Trudge back cross hot sand with my blistered head hanging

  Still able to tear myself free

  Resolved to ascent despite all her haranguing

  Belatedly learned to be me

  The price that we pay to make space for our living,

  The life that we want for ourselves

  Must never depend on cessation of giving

  The books cannot stay on their shelves

  Face up to the fact of your selfish behaviour

  Sometimes you must do it for you

  Let nothing divert you from being your own saviour

  Above all to thine own self be true.

  Safe Haven

  Upon a storm-tossed angry sea

  A ship forlornly sails

  The gale has blown continuously

  The crew, exhausted, bails

  Still close to foundering is the craft

  Despite their brave resolve

  It can no longer wear the graft

  Hot tears in rains dissolve

  When all at once through dark cold spray

  Glow lights of port ahead

  A haven from the deadly fray

  A pledge of safe warm bed

  "Make fast ahead! Make fast behind!"

  The Captain shouts, voice breaking

  He steps relieved to accents kind

  And tries to calm his shaking

  Within safe haven rests the ship

  Torn sheets, worn souls repairing

  While captain cracks a merry quip

  With those whose lives he's sharing

  Too soon the time for setting sail

  Calm swell a pool of jade

  Ship's master, smiling, at the rail

  His storm-filled memories fade

  Midst grateful smiles the ship of life

  Starts out on sea of days

  Cuts through time's flotsam like a knife

  On Haven's course he stays

  What Life?

  Where the vacuous mind exercises itself upon the plight of others

  can the suggestion to get a life be far behind?

  I shall ignore you, foul harridan, as the tree ignores the wind

  Bending in front of the assault without need of the Litany

  Despite your vaunted education you pretend misspellings

  Give disingenuous aspect of smaller intellect

  Hide your light from those you would trick into retaliation

  To prove your cherished belief that all are rotten as you

  But I see you.

  I catch your quickness at the keys and the rapid repartee

  When all around expect your cleverly cultivated dullard

  Hurrying from the room at some imagined slight

  Squeezing the last drop of painful pity from those who do not see,

  Beneath the shroud of deceit, the crafted persona

  I shall indeed not give up my day job

  It tries to shrivel my soul but

  It pays the rent.

  I fly, seated at my keyboard. No need of charters

  I live the dream that you cannot even see

  The one that you keep from your mind with drink and empty words

  How you would like to be me, had you the courage

  And there is the nub of it

  The reason for your hatred

  You can never make that step through fear

  to that better life of which you dream

  So you wallow in your self-destructive pit

  And try to drag all around you into it with you

  With unkind words

  And overblown insult

  Disguised as concern for the topic

  You, with all your learning of the mind

  Are as far removed from your own mind as a child

  Sitting frightened in the dark cupboard

  Waiting to be let out.

  Casing the Show

  (a journey down memory Laine)

  A hubbub of expectation

  Rolls round the theatre stalls

  The stage is bare

  But for two chairs

  Blue floods wash down the walls

  Low whispers of excitement pass

  Between assembled friends

  The nervous tum

  Of Dad or Mum

  With restless laughter blends

  Now house front dims: the stage is set

  Step actors into lights

  This risk they take

  Can make or break

  New life within their sights

  Casting directors scribble in their glossy envelopes

  Squinting through preconceptions at the brightness and the hopes

  What talent trips across these boards?

  They’re seeking gold tonight

  Who in short span

  With careful scan

  Will jaundiced souls excite?

  Is it there in the anguished bride?

  Or abused Juliet?

  Or the quiet sand

  Of the tortured man

  Alone with his cigarette?

  With cleverly scripted cameos

  Humanity’s depths they plumb

  W
e watch their claim

  On tomorrow’s fame

  A promise of tantrums to come

  These desperate folk who e’er would walk in greasepaint and limelight

  Stand waiting in the wings of life prepared for fight or flight

  Anxiously strain to grasp their chance

  Distil a life’s emotion

  Concentrated -

  Terminated

  A drop in drama’s ocean.

  The foyer reeks of smoky gloom

  While family, friends await

  The show is done,

  The actors gone

  To prosecute their fate

  Potential stars are flickering now

  Like candles in the wind

  But still they vie

  For Director’s eye

  Until the pack is thinned

  The empty stage a lonely place; faint echoes fill the hall

  Past joys and jeers, triumphs and tears. Listen. You can hear them all.

  Boredom

  Inside my head a crawling worm

  Its milliard feet is clumping

  Externally the faceless firm

  Its vacuous shit is dumping

  My mind sits tightened in its shell

  Just this side of aching

  My thoughts on boredom anguished dwell

  Just how much life it's taking

  The daily work; the trivial tasks

  All done. And some repeated.

  'Can this be all?' the worn soul asks

  Are hopes and dreams defeated?

  A bone deep weariness steals down

  Sapping strength and pride

  A heartfelt cry for past renown

  For work once satisfied.

  Sit instead and stare at screen

  Long time it held my focus.

  It stares back now, no longer keen

  To hold my magnum opus.

  Breakfast, lunch, a coffee break

  The beat of patterned day

  No passion left, old embers raked

  The heat all drained away.

  Eggs, Chips and Peas

  Flat roofed buildings

  Shrunken now

  Stay huge within his mind

  Halls still ringing

  Distant plough

  The future undefined

  Hot summer sun

  Bending air

  The new-mown grass and paint

  With squeals of fun

  Children dare

  To shrug off all restraint

  Along the hall

  The voices

  All stilled by passing years

  Familiar smell

  Old choices

  The break-time buccaneers

  Unfamiliar

  Classroom names

  Not North or South or West

  But "Beauregard"

  Panto dames

  Pop culture manifest

  But clucking still

  Schoolyard hens

  Scratch round the pigs and rabbits

  The children swill;

  Clean the pens

  Developing good habits

  Smooth worn playground

  All replaced

  Knee-friendly safety tarmac

  Keen danger now has

  Been erased

  Twixt climbing frame and racetrack.

  "Come in, come in!"

  Headmaster cries,

  "Are you an old boy too?"

  A fading tome we

  Scrutinise

  "We'll find the line for you!"

  Time drops away

  A child again

  He stands before headmistress

  On school's first day

  Little men

  Hints of future promise.

  The Techie

  The techie is a peculiar breed

  Bright of eye and quick of deed

  Ideas strewn with lightning speed

  And thunder if you don’t take heed

  His work is done with utmost care

  The hours long; the reward bare

  Might wear the badge of thinning hair

  And mess with him you will not dare

  For there are words best not to speak

  Within the hearing of his clique

  “Justification,” “costs” and “geek”

  Will likely cause a fit of pique

  He wears a virtual anorak

  Deals deftly with the management flak

  Though it may turn his mood to black,

  Still keeps to architectural track

  Seniority marked by length of beard

  By lesser mortals he is feared

  “He could be bio-engineered

  Or something equally as weird”

  Through gritted teeth his bosses sneered

  They’ll wish they’d never interfered

  When as the project’s end is neared

  They see the course that he has steered

  A new approach he pioneered

  To which, against all odds, adhered

  He diligently persevered

  ’Til light from tunnel reappeared

  And heads from over parapet peered

  With dregs of budget commandeered

  The buying of beer is volunteered

  And by his peers he’s roundly cheered.

  Mordent Notes

  Pure mordent notes drift through the lounge

  Trip quietly down empty stair

  Like Hendley always on the scrounge

  Like candle smoke on breath-blown air

  A zebra prances in the house

  Mariana shimmies in the hall

  Old classic Beatles; a little Strauss;

  Old ragtime players have a ball

  How sweet the sound of heart-strings plucked

  My tears are never far away

  So poised with feet beneath you tucked

  So calmly let the strain decay

  Your notes fly swiftly as your years

  Fast fingers blur across the strings

  I watch entranced; the camera clears

  I listen to your life take wings

  Full days of this would not suffice

  Or surfeit father's appetite

  To melt the heart once bound in ice

  To help those parted reunite

  The weekend ends and house falls still

  Though echoes in my soul remain

  You pack your bags and leave until

  You bring your music back again.

  A Day In The Life

  Fresh morning dawns

  Bright and clear

  Full of hope and promise

  The youngster yawns

  Dons school gear

  Enthusiasm boundless

  When lunchtime comes

  Eats his fill

  Each bite a new beginning

  And falling crumbs

  Fit the bill

  To silence gannets' dinning

  By afternoon

  Slowing down

  Waiting for the ticking

  Clock to turn

  Hide a frown

  Unsure who he's tricking

  Evening races

  Up to greet

  An old man in the car park

  Tattered laces

  Bind his feet

  Long since obscured; his trademark

  The setting sun

  On wrinkled skin

  He rocks, with cocoa cooling

  His day is done

  So hobbles in

  Hides evidence of drooling

  Night time heralds

  Quiet streets

  Silver moonlight glistens

  Long infertile

  Dead mind meets

  The reaper's keen ambitions

  About the Author

  I am currently a writer who also works full-time as a computer systems architect.

  That single sentence crystallises my priorities. Since the first time a story of mine made the rest of the English clas
s screw up their faces in horror and disgust, I've wanted nothing more than to write. I was 12. Later that year I came second in a sponsored writing competition with a short story about how the Sphinx is really a quiescent guardian against alien invaders. I won £10. That was big bucks in 1968.

  Since then, real life has stepped in between me and my writing. In my 33-year career in computing I have written dozens of design documents, created and delivered presentations to audiences from 1,000 technical experts to a handful of board members, interviewed dozens of technical candidates and taught my core skills and subjects to many younger colleagues through both formal courses and ad-hoc coaching.

  But all that is just a way to hone skills that might be useful to me as a writer. And, of course, to pay the bills and support my family. A man's gotta do...

  Twelve years ago, I woke up to the passage of time and decided I had to get serious about writing before it was too late. I hired a writing coach - not just to help with the quality of my prose but to help establish solid habits and accountability. My first major project - my novel War of Nutrition - took 7 years of spare time to write and was finished in 2008. After two years-worth of rejection slips I reviewed it dispassionately in light of critical feedback and rewrote it, cutting 20,000 words to allow it to become my first foray into the world of e-publishing.

  Whenever I'd thought of writing, it was as a novelist. But at around the same time I started War of Nutrition I also came across myself one day writing a poem. It was as much a surprise to me as to anyone else. That first example wasn't really suitable for publication but I like to pretend I got better at it as the years ticked by, which explains this small volume.

  There'll be another one along shortly. And, probably a few years later, another novel, although I'm not working to any particular deadline with that!

  Anything else? Well, yes. Along with a novel and (soon to be) two collections of poems, there's work I've created as:

  •A songwriter. I've always loved singing. People tell me I'm good at it. You can judge for yourself - both my albums 'Suburban Nostalgia' and 'Weird and Wonderful' are available on iTunes and can be heard at https://www.beresfordandwallace.com. I've been lucky enough to collaborate with a friend who writes beautiful tunes. I try to match them with the beauty of my lyrics. The songs have been known to make audiences cry.

  •A screenwriter. I have worked as co-writer with Colleen Patrick on the paranormal horror/thriller movie Train of Reckoning, which we recently reworked to energise it with the improved craft and experience we've gained in the five years since its first draft. It is still looking for a producer.

  •A freelance TV reviewer. I spent three years reviewing a wide variety of UK television for TV Scoop before their radical restructuring in 2010. My reviews gained such plaudits as “Genius!” (from the Artistic Director).

  •A playwright. My radio play "Breakages Must Be Paid For" was long-listed for the BBC's Alfred Bradley Bursary Award in 2009. The reader’s comments included:

  "With a deceptive lightness of touch this is a dark cautionary tale centred around the unlikely relationship which develops between a home owner and his burglar. The script is well plotted with unexpected reversals, the first of which is the revelation that the burglar Satish, is actually a teenage girl. And so the script continues with a series of unexpected twists and reversals which demonstrate the constant shifting of power between the two central characters. The relationship the characters develop lulls us into a false sense of security in order to reveal an unexpected ending."

  I also maintain a personal website (linked below). It includes a blog, where you’ll discover that I spend more time decorating than I do writing.

  Connect with me online:

  Facebook

  Twitter

  My web site

  Check out my other published work:

  War of Nutrition

  Valentine Wine (coming soon)