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A NEW YEARS RESOLUTION........
January the first looms close and the promise that I have made fills me with dread.

If only I had made the resolution to myself, but to tell everyone at the party right out loud, Oh God!

There, now it is done, I am forced to carry on with the challenge that is set before me.  Courage is my friend I tell myself as my friends crowded around me and patted me on the back and laughed at my obvious discomfort. 

Here have a drink, have another, the noise, the laughter, made me wish that I could run for cover.

I woke early the next morning, breakfasted and made my way to the church.  The Sacred Heart was cold at that time of the day, no consolation for poor penitents like me.  I knelt there and prepared myself for my first confession in over 20 years.

How would I handle this? Where would I start? Was there a special priestly confessional method of dealing with people like me?

Footsteps sounded behind me, making soft clonking echoes on the parquet floor.  A hand descended heavy on my shoulder.  Padraig! Is it you?

The cheery smiling face of Father Thomas beamed at me.  Yes father it’s me.  But it’s good to see a face from the Old country is it not? He said

I have decided to turn over a new leaf Father and make my peace with god; only it’s been so long since my last confession I don’t know where to start.

Don’t you worry now lad, Father Thomas said, just you make a good confession in general and anything serious in particular and we will take it from there.

Thanks Father, I said as he went into the confessional. 

Entering the darkness of the confessional took me back to my childhood, I knelt there staring at the closed grill, not remembering any of the prayers that I should say before my confession.

Father Thomas slid open the dividing grill. It has been a long time Padraig, so before making your Confession you should make a review of the mortal and venial sins since your last sacramental confession, and you should express sorrow for your sins, and a firm resolution not to sin again. 

Surely I will try Father, was all I could say.  And so I made my confession, recounting the years of lies and betrayals and the many dreadful acts that I had committed for the republican cause, the recounting of which, left no time at all for the little sins of omission or the marital lies and general licentious behaviour so common among men who gather together in bad drink, bad company and resulting bad behaviour.  At last I finished.  Kneeling there with my head bowed, deep in thought.

There was a short silence before Father Thomas spoke.  Padraig you must be truly sorry for your sins. The essential act of Penance, on the part of the penitent, is your contrition, which is a clear and decisive rejection of the sin committed, together with your resolution not to commit it again, out of the love one has for God and which is reborn with repentance.

Yes Father, I replied. He opened the grill opening to me and handed me his breviary.  I read “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.

I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life."

Ah! Padraig he said, none of us is without sin, now what kind of penance shall I give you to atone in some way for what you have done?

Yes that is true Father, I said, atonement is everything. This is not unknown to me, indeed that is why I have been so relieved in making my confession to you in particular.

What do we know of each other my son? He said:  because of the time which has elapsed since your last confession your penance shall be severe.  You will complete the Stations of the Cross my son which will give you time to contemplate your past sins and how to avoid sinning in future. 

May almighty god absolve you from every bond of sin and try not to sin in future.  Complete your penance my son and go in peace.

As I carried out my penance I thought not only of my past sins but those carried out by others too.

The headlines in the Herald Express the following day carried the news of the murder of Father Michael Thomas, Parish priest of The Sacred Heart Catholic church. Exeter.  He had been shot once through the heart and once through the head.

I had kept my new years resolution and Seamus O’Donaghue one time undercover agent for the Black and Tans, was no more.

SUMMER SMELLS 1948

When I was ten years old our 12 week summer holidays in Vaughan Parade Torquay were both an arduous and magical time spent with my brothers and sister and first cousins, I, unlike the rest of the sleepy heads rose at 6am each morning ready for the day’s adventures.

Dominic my elder brother and my twin sister Teresa and I cared for our younger brother Angelo or not when we could escape the responsibility of that task.  We would much rather find amusement in the company of our cousin baby Thora who was extremely adventurous with a great sense of humour and a ready wit.

The roll call of our cousins was as follows. On Aunty Muriel’s side of the house were Dominic & John who were apprentice jockeys with Lester Piggott.  Michael with the twinkling eye and excruciating dry wit was just starting to court Kathleen:  Angela who adored her mother and did her best to imitate her, even down to dressing like her despite her tender years.  Thora, (known as Baby Thora) whom we treated like a sister and loved dearly:  And baby Tommy who was a sickly child and rarely left his mothers side but was loved by all.

Our usual breakfast was grilled smoked back bacon, the aroma of that bacon, and fresh farm eggs with grilled tomatoes and lots of bread and real butter and a nice cup of tea to wash it all down.  We children may have been diminutive in size but we were large in appetite

Some mornings when the grownups were having a busy time we breakfasted with illicit freshly cooked doughnuts, large, hot and soft, straight from the oven which we injected with raspberry jam to our liking and then sliced and layered with a dollop of thick Devonshire cream for this was our favourite breakfast.  The grownups would try and stop us feasting this way of course, but we were devious little beggars and we quite often got away with it. 

For me the smell of summer is best summed up with the smell of Nivea Crème.  Our mum used to apply Nivea Crème to our bodies both as a shield against the ravages of the sun, and as a day long form of protection to any cuts or grazes that we might occasion whilst out on our adventures.

The price of this of course had to be paid.  Apart from the youngest children we had to earn our treats and each morning from 8:30am until 1pm we helped with the washing up, clearing of tables serving ice creams from the back counter or if selected serving ice creams in cornets or wafers or making up knickerbockers glories from the front of the shop, but you had to prove your worth to be allowed to do this.

Here in this wonderful ice-cream parlour Café we were immersed in the sounds and aromas of providing food and drinks and those treats which lovely North Country folk on their annual holidays indulged themselves each year.

There were Parfaits, fresh fruit salads, sundaes, banana splits, and the best and most expensive of them all the Knickerbocker Glory.

Parfaits were made in special stemmed glass cups where soft raspberries and strawberries were melded together and place between layers of cream and ice cream being topped off with whipped cream and a fan wafer and a single large strawberry, perfumed heaven and totally delicious.

Knickerbocker Glories were in tall conical glasses and we were introduced into making them when it was deemed that we were responsible enough to turn out a perfect product each time without any childish innovations.

My father Johnny Forte with his partner my uncle Henry would cheerily greet the holiday makers from the mills of Yorkshire and Lancashire, who arrived on mass when the mills closed, to descend upon Torquay on the English Riviera. 

These were lovely people, happy simple and honest who with their families would come to us for a breakfast of bacon egg sausage and tomato, washed down with nice strong cups of tea.  Whether it was breakfast, dinner or tea if I was clearing tables many a family would insist on seating me at their table and feeding me with their family.  This amused and amazed my father, especially if the family insisted upon me spending the day with them on the beach.  I have had a soft spot for northern people ever since those glory days.

Ice cream soda was any choice of fizzy drink flavour with a scoop of ice cream floating on the top, delicious.

Otherwise our mornings consisted of making sandwiches, banana splits, washing dishes and peeling spuds.  However our afternoons were ours.

Across the road from our Harbour side café was the slipway commanded by Ben Skinner. Ben owned the rowing boats which were all lined up ready for the holidaymakers to hire for 2/6 and hour.  It was hilarious watching the holiday makers rowing around in circles or bumping into each other as they splashed around aimlessly in the harbour.

Armed with a Knickerbocker glory we would exchange this with Ben for a rowing boat for the whole afternoon.  We sunburnt, sunblessed children were expert in handling these little boats and we would set off armed with our sandwiches happily playing pirates until the early evening.  Oh the smell of the sea and the smell of pee as we children all tee hee’ hee’d.

WHERE DOES BELIEF END AND CERTAINTY BEGIN? My philosophy!

Mother Teresa proposes that God can is found in a silent and a peaceful environment.  Her thoughts echo those of the Quakers, they too fall silent and wait for the inspiration of the spirit of God. 
I could argue that God is anywhere that man seeks him in thought word and deed and sometimes in the most harrowing of circumstances. 
She speaks of God as the god of nature and the God of the cosmos, and that is true, it is fundamental to men found on earth who have never heard the name of the son of God, Jesus Christ. 
She was also aware that through her international recognition of her charity and simple faith in her God she was setting an example for others to follow.  There are some who say that religion is the refuge of the weak and superstitious and the only thing that matters is scientific certainty, and they despise this type of deep belief and reject the ideology of the communion of souls which may be less comfortable but equally valid. 
Even primitive people worship and acclaim a God as creator of all nature who is the source of all things that sustains men.  Moreover, this leads them to ponder at how the sun, the moon, the stars, and the creatures about them all came to be, leading to primitive philosophies. 
To prepare for a true understanding of God and for an uplifting of the spirit you must first understand and prepare yourself for total commitment to live your life in the imitation of your God. 
Prayer is a vessel, which enables a feeling that one is, talking to God and   through contemplation and prayer, you prepare for God to talk to you and through you and guide you in your daily life. 
This `Creed` has to be assimilated into the very heart of one to enable the next step which takes one from belief to action.  To be able to fulfil this one has to put aside all those extraneous things of the world that distract from the perfect outcome. 
We recognise special people who are able to achieve the state of grace, where one becomes very devoted to a cause or way of life and we give them a special respect for their devotion. 
However, they are few, and the ultimate state of living in the imitation of their God merits recognition for they do it for those of us who may never achieve that perfect state. 
You may choose to wait for certainty if you wish.  For my part, I will settle for an uneasy belief, more in the father than the son.

Ed Forte

 

Feelings

Stroke the cat’s sleek black coat and hear him purr

Handle the heavy truncheon and feel the brute power

Finger the bride’s soft white satin glove

Pat the sticky dough and add some flour

Bow to the altar with impatient ire

Contact the banker with an irresistible offer

Affecting the outcome by telling lies to the liar

Lay a hand on the bible and swear your perjury

Converge on the drunk and add some choice kicks

Handle the heavy truncheon until they feel no more injury

Trace your devious history since the day of your birth

Touch down the chamber pot full of early morning piss

Get in with strangers and take their lives with mirth

Lose touch with your childhood as you kill all that was missed

Touch off the scenarios that bring chaos and death

Stroking the cats sleek black coat feel him hard and inert

Finger the bride with her white satin glove

Never forgiven the easily arranged casually aborted birth
 

MODERN TIMES

Once upon a time in foreign parts wars happened, drought and famine happened, genocide happened, the scourge of killer diseases spreading across continents happened, and by the time that each of these had dealt its hand and the war had ended, the drought and famine or disease had done its worst, news would filter through and we would read about it later on the pages of the London Times.  We could then think about the news item in an abstract way as something that happened to foreigners in those far away continents.
Today with the immediacy of news from around the globe I need medication to deal with the media induced stress of living in and sharing the trials and tribulations of this world.  Information technology provides us with an abundance of facts figures and up to date film and photographs of the latest catastrophe which is happening right now on this earth.  The sensitivity of our consciousness is dulled and we become immune to mass death and destruction, instead we turn off the TV set and get on with our lives as a defence mechanism.  Because as singular human beings, no matter how much we are affected by suffering of others we are powerless to help them directly other than to put our hands in our pockets and toss a few coins into the collecting tin.
Here my 42” widescreen television brings me beautifully captured live coverage of British troops landing on the shores of IRAQ and exchanging small arms fire with the opposing army.  Sniper fire is pinpointed as coming from a nearby farmhouse. A bazooka is used to demolish the building, someone may have died in there, but we are behind this camera, our camera, this is our viewpoint so it’s ok, it’s not one of ours that is destroyed, not one of our soldiers that has died.   We take cover with the BBC cameraman behind a wall as shots come whistling our way, lord forbid that any of our troops should die, that might spoil this live soap opera, and as we watch for the first time relishing the immediacy of the war our senses are raised by the excitement of the events.    In retrospect I wonder when did we become so callous? Is the media making us immune to pain and suffering, except when it’s one of our own? Surely as human beings they are all one of our own.
I change channels and the sight of a hundred thousand tents and crude bivouacs and the sounds of 300,000 men women and children.  All this is live from a refugee camp in a foreign land as in the heat of the day the sun scorches the land, the dust and flies settle on the children’s mouths and eyes, and mothers beyond wailing, beyond crying, holding the still bloated bellies of their babies, cradling the dead or dying bodies of their young children, The cameraman moves in for a close up shot to touch our hearts and bring forth from us a huge outcry and we give our money. The pictures win the photographer the Cameraman of the year prize.
We think that what the refugees need is our charity and an end to their war.  But what they need most is clean drinking water, shelter, food and good medicines that are not out of date or suspect.  Are our hearts touched with compassion and love for our fellow human beings when we see these dreadful sights? or are we being blackmailed of our money at a very basic level when our governments are not responding to these events for political reasons, I suspect we wish they would respond nationally instead of leaving it to the charity of the general public. The next time and the next time and the last time that I was taken into close up of a grieving mother in a Darfur refugee camp I was feeling exhausted by the unending brutality of men upon their neighbours? Tens of thousands of people have been killed in Sudan's Darfur region. Over 200,000 have fled across the border to Chad. Millions more are homeless. Most are women and children, terrified while the fighting continues.  Enough.
As I sit at my desk writing this I list the types of media that are used to inform me and reassure me.  My glasses lay on the desk they have a gold plating which is stamped on the arms to tell me of the make type and quality of the gold itself. The case that the glasses came in have the suppliers name and address stamped on it, the screen that I look at as I type has the word DELL stamped on it. In front of me is a programme which allows me to use the Computer as a type writer, but not only that it allows me to insert photographs or charts, to change the size of the type and its colour.
Beside me are printers which can be used to quickly produce pages of typewriting and photographs.  I can now pick up my camera and take a picture and by removing the memory card and inserting it into my computer I can, at a touch of a button, print an image of the photograph that I have just taken.
With as much ease I can speak into my tiny pocket recorder my thoughts as they occur to me, later I can plug and play this into my computer who will type it onto a page automatically from the sound of my voice.
We now take for granted police chases and criminals caught on CCTV cameras, of so called recreational drugs used across the classes with an ease of consciousness that belies the inherent risks. 
It is easy to list all that is wrong with the media, with the shortcomings of our health service and the need of people to experiment with drugs. What is also easy is the right that I have inherited to speak of these things without fear of persecution or imprisonment and give thanks for a national generosity that responds to calls for help from around the world of others in distress. 
My grateful thanks to the National Health Mental health services whose help I may need if I start caring too much.

Anthony Edmund Forte 2009.

 

Out of my tree

I wandered lonely as a cloud in a field of golden daffodils and mused to myself where is Sylvia who is she?  A sodden thought assailed me, but being light of foots I threw him off and put my wellington boots on instead.  Ha! Thought I: I see a boy over there standing on a burning deck; shall I try and rescue him or call the fire brigade? I did neither, for I was overtaken by a deep thought.  When I recovered from this I decided to muse on something, but nothing came, so I didn’t. I believe the boy may have died in the fire.
I wandered into the art museum where I had last seen Hitler but he was nowhere to be found so I had a cup of tea with Salvatore Dali instead.  All right Sal? I asked: he didn’t mind my familiarity because I know his mum.  Done anything interesting lately?  Yeah, he said in a cockney Spanish accent,well I done one wiv clocks and stuff which have all melted like, quite good really and anuvver called La Metamorphose de Narcisse a couple of hands holding eggs wiv one sprouting a narcissi.  Get on I said you’re getting posh aint you mate?  Yeah not bad, see you later long John.
I finished my tea and wandered out into the busy midday traffic, when I woke up in hospital I was attended by an African Doctor with a bone through his nose: the doctor had a large erection that resembled Margaret Thatcher on a good day:  He said: how you doing Long John mate? All right Solly I said, I knew Solly from the Red Lion.  Here I said where did you get that large erection from.  Oh I bought it from Porridge Shilton, I was going to give it to my mum,  whaddya think?  Do you think she’ll like it? Yes it’s very pretty I said in admiration, I wish I had one like that.  Oh you can he said, I’ve seen replicas down the market.  Right I said I’ll have a look when I get out of here. He walked off proudly showing his erection to anybody foolish enough to stop, inviting them to touch it, but mostly they ran off screaming.
Two weeks later with a scar a limp and a leer which made me look a lot more interesting I went home but my family had moved in my absence without leaving a forwarding address, bugger! I said in surprise.
Feeling somewhat fed up and full of chagrin I limped it to the dole office. GIZ a job I said, or some money for a bed and a cuppa, go on PLEASE!  Go away Mr Longfellow, said the supercilious woman with blond knickers, go and write some poetry or something.  You can’t have any money because you haven’t paid any contributions.  But I’ve given my soul to my tart I cried pitifully and I have paid for my art with my wife’s blood.  Go away or I will have you thrown out she snarled with a smile. I left the dole shop picking up a pair of crutches someone had left leaning against the wall. H’m I thought to myself these will do nicely in the underpass as I play my harmonica, bound to get me a favourable extra few squids:
The underpass was crowded by the time that I got there, with pedestrians having difficulty wending their way through the myriads of dossers and Tossers begging for lolly for the day’s next fix.  Bugger I thought, I’ll have to do something else.  I sold the crutches for a fiver to a bloke just out of hospital, he had both legs in plaster, he said some sod had stolen his crutches while he was in the bog at the dole office, but now he was happy.
Marie Louise the midget shouted across the street to me, Oi! Long John, got any smack. No: I shouted back, wanna a punch? Nah, she laughed, she looked up at Dreadnought Jones her six foot two black minder, wanna punch she said to him? Nah! He retorted flexing his abundant muscles, do you want me to sort him out Midge he asked?  No don’t bother today dear, and they went into the Dog and dead duck for a fix and a drink and to annoy the Landlord Rob the taffy poet.
I decided to go into town so I limped through the local park which was quite busy with the usual crowd of paedophiles and perverts waiting for the children to come out of school and play on the swings.  Robin the hood came up to me all superstitious like and mumbled something, what did you say Robin I asked? Do you want some grass man?  No thanks I said there’s plenty here for everyone look!  He gave me a contemporaneous look and walked off muttering grammatically correct swear words in their correct context.
I got to town without further incident and went to “Dolly’s Eatery” for lunch.  I had my usual vegetarian salad.  Dolly’s menu proudly states Not only can you enjoy delicious food while losing a significant amount of weight in a short time, but you won’t feel hungry as Dolly’s Chef Uses low GI ingredients so you’ll feel fuller for longer.”  The Food was tasty, interesting and rich. The granola, which contained dessicated coconut was delicious… overall, it was great value for money and I lost a good few pounds in just two weeks.” At her prices it was not surprising.
Later I wearily trudged into the arcade which houses about ten small shops the most interesting of which is Hilary Twinkie’s antiques and bric’a’ brac.  Here I can get usually get rid of all the loot I have accumulated from people’s houses and clothes lines.  Today I had a genuine imitation 17Th century Russian samovar, some silver plated candlesticks and a suitcase full of Anne Summers Rampant rabbit vibrators complete with batteries. Hilary gave me £30 quid the lot which was fair as the rabbits were all a bit worn cos they had come from Scottish Annie’s knocking shop.
With the dosh burning a big hole in my pocket and a need to get something in for my tea I went to Pam’s groceries emporium which, although everything cost twice as much as Tesco’s was conveniently near to my house.  Pam was at her usual place behind the counter guarding the cash register. 
Hello Pam I said politely, can I have 100 grams of Spam please Pam. She gave me a funny look, which was mainly due to her eyes which pointed east and West so you were never sure where or who she was looking at.  You will have to wait Long John she simpered; I will serve you as soon as I can when I have finished serving this African with a pram her 200 grams of Spam from a can.  All right Pam, as soon as you can, I retorted.  Soon Pam served me my Spam and I also bought a jar of jam, thanks Pam, I’d better scram ta ta. 
Later that evening I put on my best bib and tucker and went to the Chamber of Commerce Annual Dinner & Dance.  Most of those worthy businessmen attending with their wives are my best customers and I am well known over many years throughout the environs of Teignmouth and Dawlish as a poet and writer of distinction:  tonight my peers will honour me by the handing over of the Keys to the joint boroughs.
As soon as we had finished eating the sumptuous meal before us The Lord Mayor Bejamin Stackhouse rose to his feet to speak.  My Lords Ladies and gentlemen he began: I am proud to speak tonight in honour of John Longfellow artist, poet, writer and art critic for the Dawlish Post.  In humility words fail to describe fully the true extent of this mans activities but It is perhaps his stutter that — as with some other notable writers — spurs him to that extra touch of elegant fluency, the choice phrase displayed, the magisterial  diction of the thinking man which makes him a patrician, an elder statesman of art. A reviewer of his survey of modern art published in Britain in 1981 commented that there were for longfellow “no failures, no frauds, no heretics”. He is designated “Alter-Establishment”. Rather, he is  a civilised and erudite man, at ease in at least three European languages and most of the arts.  one of his fellow writers has christened him “Our Man in Bohemia”.  
And so the evening passed and eventually, not sober and on the arm of lady Karen Bailey of Kingsway we staggered the short distance to her house where, being the reporter writer and poet that I am I took down her particulars and looked through her drawers.  The night passed in a Blur followed by Oasis and Johnny Rotten, but a good time was had by all.
I awoke in the morning hanging from a tree by my braces the fire Brigade rescued me by cutting through the buttons on my breeches and letting me fall some considerable distance to the ground which added to the injuries described earlier in this fascinating story.
I must leave you now for the doctor has sent the orderlies to escort me back to my room.

Sad Pictures

As I look back now and reminisce, gazing at the photos I am filled with the pangs of those days, and that time is captured for as long as these photos remain.

My camera took the picture at 1/30th of a second on a bright day on the 25th of once upon a time.  That’s how it was in that fragment of time as it captured the frozen beauty and happy smiles of my family.

A moment later everything had changed once again, for some the happiness of the photo was real, for others it was just a passing moment when, duty bound, they smiled.  But then their faces once again settled into that serious look, the look of everyday worries.  I am not to be seen in most of the family albums, for I am forever behind the camera snapping away, capturing their secrets.

I have other albums of photographs dating back a hundred years.  Here are pictures of my grandparents on their wedding day.  The photos are carefully composed and the posture of my grandparents is stiff and their facial expressions are serious, without a trace of a smile, for these were serious people and all their relatives would receive a copy of these photographs and they would see from their bearing and that the photos were studio photos and expensive, people to be taken seriously indeed.  Later there would be more studio photographs this time with their children, these too would be sent all over the world to wherever their brothers or sisters, aunts or uncles had settled.  These photographs are also quite formal but the children bring a happier atmosphere to the photographs and my grandparents are much more relaxed and appear contented, a job well done.
Obviously the photos do not include the children who died at birth or very young from childhood diseases.  These happening are only remarked upon briefly at family gatherings, weddings, funerals, baptisms where the old people were given to reminiscences and each dead person mentioned was prefixed with that Old Italian benediction of “Bon Alma” of blessed memory and may they rest in peace.
I was moved to write a poem at the time of the Murder of the “SOHAM” girls which sums up how important to many families’ photographs are.

Death of a Child 

Pain and compassion touch us

This child’s death warns us

Tears sting our eyes

As we beat our breasts

In weary prayer

Human bonds that bind us

Photographs that blind us

Guilt and anger consume us

We turn to Christ

In this time of

Deep despair

The hope of

Innocents in Paradise

Promised us

By love of God

Confuses us

As the loving Family

Comforts us

We are left

Just memories.

 

SALAD DAYS

Salad days were those days of childhood deceptions when alone or together with friends there was the freedom to stretch and explore the fresh air of life’s daily offerings with naive innocence and ingenuity.
The innocence and resourcefulness that we shared is that which we had not experienced before but we knew was yet to come.  Each of us on the threshold of a wide eyed personal intellectual and sexual awakening, where there were adventures and chances to play an equal game.
Whether in tough boy, rough boy rowdying  or with our girl friends shy and often demure demeanour we should chance to touch or challenge each other and in turn by either refusing or accepting the challenges to take us a step further on the breathtaking journey into a day in the life of.
The subtleties of what we said and the way that we parlayed and physically moved from one friend to another, seeking to influence by posture or argument the attention of that friend and therein bond ourselves tighter in an invisible blanket of security, which often hid our more transparent insecurities.
Each day was different and each day the same, with the same band of players moving and extending the play along, and in the writing and rewriting of the memory of our young searching minds we became intellectually more mature.
Our limbs grew sturdier and our confidence greater and we dared to take chances, to venture new ideas which when accepted advanced those of us willing to accept the challenge of them up the pecking order within the group.  Those brave enough in daring the new ideas as we tried putting them on for size and then slowly, into practice received secret admiration for their bravery.
Between sleep and play there were the demands of parents and school where we tested and shared new ideas.  Both the young and old influenced us and by observing the behaviour and mannerisms of them we tried them on ourselves, like new suits of clothes to see how well they might fit, and if they did fit we would try to make them part of our growing repertoire of adult mannerisms. 
Our parents tried to enforce moral codes which were obstacles only waiting to be broken, usually, just because of their reasoning, we surely needed to test it for its veracity and partly to show each other how fiercely independent we had become.
As we might saunter singly lost in childish daydreams or raucously in small groups, nature played its part in formulating within us the daring do’s to withstand future life as an adult.  The childish daydreams tested the minutiae of the private fears that we carried within us as we privately developed strategies to cope with them.  The jostling group plays allowed for a conformity of spirit and gung-ho behaviour which was both empowering in its might and comforting in its mass.

These were the salad days of our youth, never forgotten except in ancient age when all those childhood sins could be denied.  These were the days when our parents and teachers met all our needs:  They provided every test except those that challenged us to take risks of a purely physical nature through chancing personal injury that quickened the pulse resulting in a private internal victory and exulting in the admiration reflected in the eyes of our friends. 
These were the days of forbidden fruits, all the better for the gratuitous taste and the sweet smell of other young bodies, the twisting of tongues and the mixing of spittle and the feel of young girls budding breasts in the park on late afternoons as the cold of dusk began to fall.  More, lest I omit it because of your sobriety, the oh so sweet after, the parting, the pining, the excitement, the secrets, the sharing, the joy, the dreams.

I rejoice in the ability to remember how it was, and how those experiences are still true today.         

Stranger on the shore

As the high winds blow and scatter the light white clouds over me, over us, we are enveloped in the dampness of the rain to bask with upturned faces into the warmth of the sun, the sun, as it spears through the clouds to light and bless our daytime reveries.

We shed our coats and lie back on the verdant grass side by side we gaze skywards and watch and try to make the clouds disappear by force of will, and they do.  We join our hands with fingers intertwined and I feel peace to be here with you, with you.  But it was not always so.

Before we met and unknown I was singularly lost in the meaningless meanderings of a man without soul, serving my masters and with calloused hand received my pay and you a poor shop girl a slave to a miserable regime of repetitive daily chores until you found me  until I found you.

Together we walked away from the tyranny of those drab city worlds divisions and found here a peaceful coexistence in a smaller, more personal world where people speak in strange tongues which is understood, and acceptance for what we bring is the important thing.  And now you milk cows and pat butter and I fish for men and no man is my master and we are content.

And today as the high winds blow and scatter the light white clouds over me, over us, we are enveloped in the dampness of the rain to bask with upturned faces into the warmth of the sun, the sun, as it spears through the clouds to light and bless our daytime reveries.

When we came we were welcomed with little smiles and given food to sustain us and in return we sang songs of our homeland and slept in peace, and when we awoke you went with the women and I with the men, no longer as strangers on the shore.

Pleasing myself

I, Alfredo Magliocco am resolute in my 85 year old ways.

        Slowly awakening from my deep sleepy slumber I struggled up and dragging my lazy feet to the kitchen to make a hot sweet cup of coffee. 
Sliding and bouncing gently off of the walls I reached the lounge and lazily slumped into my enfolding deep warm armchair.  
        The faded flowery wallpaper was a murky blur as I tried to make sense through the hangover from the excesses of the night before. 
The coffee helped and I lit my first cigarette of the day, sucking deep and blowing hard, the two kick-starting my brain into some coherent thought.  
        Later I slowly washed and dressed and sauntered out into the glaring heat of the suburban streets.

         I live here on the outskirts of Rome where the pace of life is slower than the frenzy of the city proper.  I pass people as they sit with their families; sipping thimbles of strong black coffee on the pavements outside small coffee shops all conjoined in passionate animated hand waving conversations.  
        Old women in drab black clothes walk by holding the hands of grandchildren on their way to church.  Old men walk by bent over their sticks greeting their friends and exchanging salutations and blessings, pausing to sit on the steps of the Municipale and stuff coarse tobacco into their grubby old pipes and puff clouds of smoke happily putting the world to rights.

  A crocodile of giggling convent schoolgirls goes by, led by a couple of severe looking nuns wearing alarmingly tall head dresses to their habits urging the girls to cease their chatter.  
        I turned and followed the crocodile looking at the young girls legs and marvelling at the pure symmetry that Mother Nature brings to young flesh to please old men.  The crocodile enters the grotesque gothic cathedral of Notre Dame I follow them in out of an ancient habit and lack of anything better to do.

        The church is cold and 9 ’clock Mass is just about begin and a bell announces the grand solemn entrance of the priest and his acolytes. Six young boys in cotas and surplices holding candles lead the way for the priest holding aloft a large crucifix, he is in turn preceded by a man swinging a thurifer from which emanates turgid amounts of incense which stings the eyes, cramps the throat, and induces a severe attack of nostalgia for my own youthful days as a server.  
          Using the prerogative of the old I sit:  refusing to stand and kneel I remained in my chair throughout the mass hugging a warm radiator listening to an excellent choir and dreaming my way through the wonderful motets, and because they are well done and loud I can join in without anyone hearing me and getting annoyed.

 The mass ends and we are bidden to go in peace.  I join the queue to leave the church and wet my forehead with holy water and the sign of the cross as I leave. 
        What a dependant man I have become, following the rituals of my childhood through habit in honour of my father, now using the churches parlour tricks as yardsticks to measure the moral decline in my old age.  
         The sun shines bright and there is no breeze to delay its fierce heat.  I take refuge on a chair beneath one of the trees that mark the avenue, and feeling holy greet my friends as they venture by with their shopping bags and newspapers.  
        Pietro with the lazy eye, stops and chats in his squeaky high pitched voice, Have you seen the new art gallery he enquires?  Do you understand modern art?  I think a lot of it is rubbish:   Did you know that Angelina is pregnant? Her mother beat her with the yard brush; but she won’t say who did it!   Padre Francesco is going on a retreat holiday, he says, and we are to have a black priest from the Gabon for a month, I wonder what he will make of the altar boys? They’re all communists you know.    
       Pietro with the lazy eye wanders off and I watch the pigeons pecking at miniscule morsels on the pavement and they all make off in a rush of wings as a child playfully runs among them.
Fat Nonna Pacifica stops and mops her brow greeting me with her usual torrent of blessings and curses.  She clutches her walking stick in one hand and her shopping bag in the other, her rosary around her neck and an ancient Mantilla pinned into her hair on top of her ancient head.
I rise and offer her my seat, which she takes, and I fetch another from under the next tree.
  Young people congregate at a table outside of the café laughing and jabbering away noisily.  
        Fat Nonna is talking to me non-stop, full of interesting gossip I am sure, but I am not listening: she does not need me to respond as I am her friend and merely the honoured recipient for all her pent up vocal energy. 
No: I am too busy studying the young girls in their Sunday best who are all busy chattering with each other for them to pay any attention to me.  It is the profiles of the young women that fascinate me. 
         I search among them and focus on a young girl with the perfect oval face of the Michael Angelo Madonna.  Her lightly tanned complexion is enhanced by beautiful dark brown eyes that are large and framed by long eyelashes; in profile I see her long slender neck and the gentle curve of her jaw line, this perfect face is completed by a generous mouth with ruby red lips.

AH! What a foolish old man I am. 
         I am startled by big fat Nonna prodding me with her walking stick.  What are you looking at? ‘You randy old man’ she scolds, and cackles with laughter as she takes her leave of me.
Aye, Aye, I say to myself, I may be 85 but I still have most of my faculties, ears to hear the mass, tongue to taste the coffee and eyes to see, thank god, eyes to see.

Edmund Forte

TRIBUTE

I am the mountains whose high peaks richly encrusted with snow gives the slow melt that nourishes the fundament, and rising, springs up surprising those that find me as the source of men’s life, for he cannot live without me standing here so tall and replenishing his body with my blood.

I am the water that gently trickles down a hill and forms a pond in which ducks paddle and frogs spawn, where Nymph and water striders stride and mosquito larvae propagate and on sloping banks and waterboatmen watch with silky eyes as ashore grass snakes lazily slyly slither while natures in all its glory sheds debris which slowly withers and forms new earth to sustain in season the fauna.

I settle into the ground and feed the mighty oak the sad cypress and silver birch and I also feed the corn and the cabbages that feeds the mighty king and keeps his body clean and these riches are seen by the poor man as the gift of god, so he is told but they are merely nature’s way of ingratiating himself with the human kind who use his soil.

I am the river that sometimes rushes quickly, swollen with rain that rose into the clouds far away in the Azores.  Sometimes I lazily meander through fields of grazing cows and mayfly and dragonflies skitter over my shallows where I congregate, and light on lazy grass while butterflies all a twirl skitter, land and with folded wings say their prayers and faun gaily skip through grassy glades laughing gaily as they brush their hairy legs and polish their little horns. .

I am the sea gathering my waters from rivers large and small and give up my vapour to the skies where it gives up its charge as the rain that drops from heaven and blesses the faces of man who tills the land and waits expectantly for the miracle of seedlings to emerge as the crops that feed his young grow like them tall and healthy.

I am the sea that carries the man upon my back tossing him about at my merry whim, sometimes asking for tribute I bring him down to pay tribute to me and kiss my feet but he often does not survive these encounters and gurgles for mercy as I pull him down demanding obedience and his mortal being to feed my fish.

Let all nature pay tribute to me for I am Thor on thunderous nights and I am Cornucopia when the full harvest is in and I am Pan who leads all a merry dance and I am the rainbow which blends the true colours of water and air and I am me and you are you but you all must pay tribute to the earth who is king and the universe who is the mystical emperor of all.
 

The War memorial.  

In memoriam.

The War memorial stands in cold isolation on the village green or at some crossroads, recounting with words most emphatic yet serene, the names of the dead in foreign graves unseen.
Emblems of steel embossed into the hard stone depict medals, for victory, for duty, for country, for freedom, for valour, awarded in muddy trenches without flags, bugles or clamour.
You may find the name of a father, a son or brother,  A husband, a friend or someone you have forgotten but not by their mother.
On the steps of the monuments plinth casually, easily, youngsters sit, talk, smoke, and make these heroes owned by their casual acceptance of this place in their daily lives.

In England’s verdant land, in each hamlet village town and city, stand small memorials to war torn pity.  
Here are soldier’s sailor’s and airmen’s names in lists ordered alphabetically, embossed in metal to remind us of their misfortune to die heroically.
With comrades for such a noble destiny, for honour named that we might stay the same but be without their company.

From this English soil where men and women together lived loved and shared their labour, we plucked the best the very, very best and dressing them in uniforms so drab we sent them off to war.
We sent them into war to die and left them in foreign fields to lie, and the few that returned were never the same and it made the lonely women cry.
The noise and the sights and smells of death that they endured, Filled their thoughts, with a grim resolve never to become inured.
They made bitter vows to change the way that men determine the issues that bring men to confrontation, leaving no way but to fight for lack of honest conversation.

There are a million ways to certain death dear boys:  As the whistle blows to send you over the top with your friends to die uselessly and senselessly.
Generals lie safe behind the lines, far away safe from bullets, gas, and whizz-bangs, convinced men to trust without question and face death with unflinching virtue, and gave orders for yours and mine to advance yet again and become a name on this lonely statue. 
These obelisks reflect the nation’s guilt at having blindly obeyed without question, and who now silently salute our massacred young to appease how we collectively felt.  
Named are Farmers here with the Thatcher, forester, and wheelwright, but landed gentry lie in golden crypts as if their breeding made them the greater heroes for all of that.

The church provides regimental colours, drooping sadly and hangs decaying in tatters, over a bronze effigy of a Soldier with rifle pointing at the ground with his head sadly bowed, standing sentry over each name meriting an entry in the roll of honour enshrined therein. 
In Flanders fields, the poppies grow and young men lay scattered row on row with lifeless eyes staring at a bird less sky, which kisses their pale cheeks with rain that purifies their souls.

 
AND TODAY NOTHING HAS CHANGED

Newsreaders voice drones

News of today’s atrocities

Talks of the talks about to begin

Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan

Ian paisley and Sin Fein


Daily Doses of disasters

B. B. C. spoken death tolls

Of pardon for deserters

But where the dead lie

God alone knows

 
Each country prepares

Propaganda facts and figures

Which beat our minds like blows

Each side claims

“GOD IS ON OUR SIDE”!

I only hope he knows

 

 
 
 

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the gun below."

John mccrae

(1872-1918)

 
 
 

On remembrance day

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.