Story Pages, read short stories.

My Grandfather.

2016-07-01T15:50:00.000+01:00

If he had not returned
I would never have arrived.
He was once a young man
in drab coloured clothes

He never spoke to us
about the long days,
the mud, the losses,
the suffering.

Where did his gentle kindness
spring from
not from the dark well
of those past days.

He brought us sweets and smiles
and never said much about the past
except that he liked horses
like the sturdy brewers' drays
The horses reminded him
Of the part of the war
he wished to remember,
he said he had cared for them.

I believe him, that gentle hand
patting the brewery horse.
After hurrying to put on his cap
and jacket to see them.
Staying, speaking softly
while the barrels rolled into
the dark depths,
of a deep cellar.

Glastonbury Tor Tower.

2016-06-26T09:56:00.002+01:00

Short Poem, One Grain of Sand.

2016-06-13T07:48:00.000+01:00

One Grain of Sand, poetry.

Just one grain of sand,
washed up

upon the beach

shoreline of life.

Rolling with the tides,

Fallen from the rock.

Just a grain of sand,

worn fine enough
to trickle through a hand

pass by
do n't notice me,

for one day
I will return
to the sea.

How Strange it is to see a Snowdrop next to Crocus flowers.

2016-03-02T12:40:00.005+00:00

The first snowdrop arrived a little late that year and unusually was preceded by other spring flowers.

As always it hung its head, but this year it looked lost beside the bright yellow and purple petals of the flowers that had prematurely raced into bloom a month too soon.

2016-02-22T22:22:00.000+00:00

one thousand words often cannot convey
yet many attempts are made each day

The Loner.

2016-02-22T22:04:00.002+00:00

The Loner
" Not sure how you ended up in this place are you?"

I was never one
to run with the crowd.
Alone, I scrambled,
almost afraid
to look
around,
and never
stopping
to look back.
Now friends
are what I lack.
It was not that
I thought
I knew best
just that I
was different
from the rest.
Little things
I would stop
to see
scrambling
to investigate
and soon
they traveled on,
without me.

I Thought of You Today, again.

2016-02-14T09:36:00.001+00:00

I Thought of You Today.

I thought of you again, today

but that is nothing new.

I think of you often

memories return

like ripples or waves.

to wash over me

making me pause to reflect.

We were meant to be together,

that we are not

I believe that is called regret.

3 More Thoughts.

2016-02-14T09:23:00.005+00:00

* Happiness cannot be bought or sold but it can be stolen.

* If the world is a turbulent place, try to find peace within yourself whenever possible.

* The world has many beautiful things for us to witness and experience; when we (humans) destroy such things we lose these precious gifts.

Thought Oddments, Scattered Fragments at the End of the Day.

2016-02-03T23:30:00.003+00:00

Nothing really matters or everything matters?

We focus on the mole hills and forget to see the beauty of the mountain tops.

We may value the transient and the superfluous and in doing so, fail to register or be moved by the importance of care and compassion.

Do we sometimes miss read what the other person is saying, in our eagerness to express our own point of view?

Does the need to demonstrate who we want to be seen as, make us almost forget who we really are, and dare we test if the real person we hide away is not the more rather than the less.

Maybe more about questions than answers, good or bad, or neither.

Word Bites, first one.

2016-01-13T14:17:00.000+00:00

Some discoveries are more important than others.

Dora would list cocoa beans and their eventual conversion to chocolate as one discovery that made a great difference to her happiness, She could not claim any credit for the discovery. However, she was a connoisseur of the best varieties available to her in an emergency.

For Laurel the discovery that she would rate as most important for her was - who she was and why she was that person.

Eddie rated learning to like and approve of herself and the things she did and also acquiring the ability to forgive her own mistakes as well as those of others.

One day Greta found out the true reason why her mother had disappeared and left her to be cared for by her grandparents. Discovering the missing piece of the jigsaw began to heal the aching gap that had at times almost consumed her.

Leslie learned to cook from watching TV shows and also to substitute whatever was available that day in the almost empty kitchen cupboards.

Mrs Henderson discovered that after loss one has to learn to live.

Thoughts about Walking on the Beach.

2015-12-09T23:26:00.000+00:00

Whenever we walked on that beach I loved looking at the patterns that the receding tide had left in the sand, their complexity and thinking about how transient they were. This beach demanded that you keep your wits about you, for when the tide came it was swift and its reclaiming of the sands was rapid.

2015-12-09T23:17:00.003+00:00

An iris flower

Why Reginald was never called Reggie. A short read about looking back.

2015-11-30T08:52:00.003+00:00

Reginald had never liked having his name shortened to Reggie, he thought that the short version lacked the dignity of the name his mother and father had given him.

Now he was pleased he had always insisted on being called by his proper name.

He could still recall how upset he had been when as a child friends had knocked at the door and ask if Reggie could come out to play.

His mother's response had been a short and sharp reply " No one of that name lives here!" and she had then promptly shut the door before any further questions could be asked.

Five minutes later, which he had spent huddled up on the stairs in a silent ball of anger, then another child would come to the door. " Please can Reginald come out to play ?" the messenger would ask politely. Same woman, his mother would respond with an entirely different tone in her voice " Of course he can, Reginald get your coat your friend is here."

He now suspected that it was not only him that was happy to hear the door close as he left the house. You had to close the door gently, slamming or heavy handedness was also not allowed. Different world really, the past.

Stopping in Your Tracks and Stepping Out. A very short read.

2015-11-26T21:04:00.003+00:00

Some train journeys are interesting, they are taking you to a place you want to be, maybe somewhere you have never been before.

Other journeys are the mundane day to day commute. You know the ones where even if you close your eyes you can still recognise from the sounds and movement of the train exactly where you are.
I would close my eyes on days like that and it was like drawing a curtain between me and the other passengers.

Never thought I would miss the commute, but maybe it is strange but true that you can become accustomed to almost anything in time. Now, I would be at home drinking tea and looking out of the window at the exact time when the carriage would be rattling along and gathering speed on that straight bit of the track. The world had not changed but my world was altered. I got to witness the changing seasons in a depth I had never had the time or chance to witness before. I was now able to predict weather changes by simple observations of nature. Some people think you need to own a dog to justify walking in the woods and wild places or for strolling through the parks. I was not one of them, I just bought myself the most comfortable trainers my lowered income would allow.

Catching A Falling Leaf. A Short Read.

2015-11-25T23:01:00.003+00:00

Can you remember a day when we watched the golden autumn leaf fall?

It was in a slow spiralling decent and I held my breath when the breeze almost snatched it away from you. Your hand was outstretched ready, in the hope that you might have a chance to catch it. I was not sure if it was the weather conditions or the leaf that was going to prevent you from fulfilling your ambition that day. Then it almost seemed like time paused for long enough for the wind to stop as you ran forward and then the leaf with one final twirl dropped into the palm of your hand. Gently you closed your fingers around it. I thought how lucky you were to have caught it, almost as fortunate as the leaf was to have found someone so appreciative of it.

There is a chance that one day you might catch a falling leaf, but falling stars are beyond possibility.

2015-10-08T14:06:00.003+01:00

An Anemone flower.

When I Grow Old, a short poem

2015-10-08T14:00:00.005+01:00

When I Grow Old.

Do not let me shuffle when I grow old.
Please tell me if I do.
For it is so aging to witness.

Do not let me sit brooding on the past,
give me a job to do,
not too difficult I want to get it right.

Can you occasionally make sure
that the clothes I wear
are not ridiculous for my age.

I wish to grow old with dignity,
at least that much I should achieve.
Having failed to lived daringly
when very young.

My Day, a poem almost in shipping forecast style.

2015-10-08T13:51:00.000+01:00

My Day - almost shipping forecast style.

Waking - unexpected calm on rising.
White Gown - embracing form.
Black Dab Radio - approaching outlook bleak.
Tap Open - steady flows for now.
Shiny Kettle - inner turbulence hence noise
Boiling Water - moving faster.
Chipped Blue China - warming slowly, leading to brewing.
Old Two Craters - sends slices soaring.
Blunt Knife - spreading out rapidly to edges.
Garden Roses - petals fallen overnight, no new buds.
White towels - rapidly drying all areas.
Sensible Clothes - comfortable fit allover.
Wardrobe back - bright areas, never worn.
Recall Date - knowing yet accepting.
Laundry duty - rinse and repeat.
Dark Rocks of fate - avoid, some storms inevitable.

Words By Anon. Thoughts on Owning Words.

2015-10-08T09:25:00.000+01:00

Words By Anon.

The desire not to lose
the carefully threaded string of words,
Not wishing to hang your true name
beside them or to wave it/them like a flag,
Owning your thoughts
yet not proclaiming them.
Is this fear or common sense ?

For one day the words,
will drop
into an abyss
and be lost
come what may.

Thoughts on why at the moment
I prefer not to emblazon my words
with my name but still they
begin with and belong to me.

Great Grandmother. Poetry.

2015-10-08T09:16:00.003+01:00

The Great Grandmother. A Short Poem.

Fortunate is the child with great-grandmother
a glimpse of past, greeting you with a smile.
Standing illuminated by sunlight
silhouetted against darkness
in green door the entrance to her world.

Great grandmother ,
living life in her world
seated in room the furniture
like museum pieces.

A love that flows,
across time
supported
by the bridge
called love.

A Poem for the Day, The End of Summer.

2015-10-08T08:50:00.000+01:00

Poetry to read online. Roses, Seasons.

The End of Summer, the last rose.

The last rose of summer bows its head
a beauty no longer rewarded
with days of sunlight and warmth.
Left uncut, unlike earlier blooms,
so no glass bowl on linen cloth
nor gracing special days
with folds of satin petals
a peach cup of softness, representing love.

The garden rose left on stem,
touched by ever changing weather moods.
No soft caress of touch by one impressed
pausing mid-day to admire
colour, shape, softness and perfume.

When petals fall in a slow silent descent,
only memories left and promise of another
summer, after winters enforced slumber.

Sand Shoes and Memories. A short poem about reminiscence.

2015-09-23T11:44:00.006+01:00

Poem about reminiscence.

Sand Shoes and Memories.

The sand shoes that no longer fit,
I discover in the loft, in a box,
with the postcard of the beach.

We built a sandcastle
and watched crabs scuttle
to hide under rocks.

We lost the little blue kite
that I had made you.
You tried not to cry.

We held hands as
we walked back home.

Now I hold a pair of your
sand shoes in the palm of my hand.

And I wonder where the time has gone,
it has slipped away
like the trickle of sand
left in the toe of your sand shoe.

S.H.

Flowers Fade but leave a Promise for Next Spring. Short Fiction writing about gardens.

2015-09-23T11:13:00.000+01:00

The garden plants already know it is autumn as most have ceased to flower.

Soon the annuals will disappear, bringing the need to resow them next spring, the favourites will be from the seeds gathered in the garden on hot summer days.

While the evergreens will remain unchanged, holding onto their foliage through the colder months of the year, the plants that drop there leaves in Autumn will soon begin their transformation. And one day in the winter cold light I will look out and even in the starkness of that grey light I will find a beauty in the way things grow and make me wonder at their tenacity.

Eventually, I will be able to search for signs of spring, the first to thrust its way through the still cold earth will be the purity of a white snowdrop. Then the succession of spring flowering bulbs will begin and with each new day a colourful surprise waiting to be discovered. All this will be in the future but for now I am bidding goodbye to my flower friends that tempt me to search for them as they jostle for space in my plant packed flower border.

Reginald Sees the Light. (9) ficition

2015-09-17T11:09:00.002+01:00

At last late one afternoon the sunshine came back, flooding the kitchen with a golden light as it filtered through the dusty voile curtains. Reginald had been meaning to replace them but like a lot of decisions the decision about replacements had been put on the 'to do later when I have time list' and they never seemed like a priority.

Now he was concerned that even if he washed the fabric gently the curtains might fall apart, as it could be the dust that held them together almost as much as the cotton warp and weft threads they were woven from.

Oh well, who saw them but him and he did not mind that they were no longer their original cream or white, which were they, anyway? Now they were the colour of snowfall on the second day when it had been walked on, thawed to slush and then had refrozen overnight. That was OK with him and he only needed them to screen out the bright sunlight when it was low, and directly into the kitchen window as it was at certain times of the year. The path of least resistance had after all as he grew older had become the one he liked to the tread most often .

Reginald's Bad Weather Week. (8)

2015-09-17T10:52:00.003+01:00

As soon as he woke up Reginald could hear the rain and the fourth day of this type of weather was always difficult.

You could convince yourself on the second rainy day that tomorrow would be better but by the fourth day despair was beginning to set in. Like a prisoner in his own home Reginald paced the kitchen while the kettle boil, then snatched the toast out of the toaster and slapped it onto the plate and spreading what he normally considered an unhealthy amount of butter onto the too hot to hold toast. He knew his mood today was like that of a spoiled child unable to get its own way, yet he was not yet ready to make the necessary adjustments to the way he felt.

This would be a day of drawing conclusions, about everything and anything that captured his attention. Some of the thoughts would be valid and worthwhile but others he would later look back on as random and haphazard. Today, this morning, he could not yet access the positive, optimistic side of his nature and maybe he needed a better weather forecast to do just that. No seeking a rainbow today then, he thought as he listened grumpily to the radio offering yet another gloomy weather forecast for the rest of the week. The mood he was building up to would need turning around at some point but in a strange way he was almost enjoying the melancholy he was already inflicting on himself.