An Idyll

Today I bring you an idyll written based on a memory from camping by Loch Long in Scotland.  This poem paints a picture of that day for me and hopefully will draw up some wonderful images in you mind's eye.

An Autumn Memory

A crisp clear blue sky overhead,

The water still and clear below,

Trees dressed in their autumnal coats,

Birds sing, and, somewhere, caws a crow.

Mountains stand tall and menacing,

Casting their shadows on this scene,

In the distance a train goes past,

The grass glistens in shades of green.

Autumn leaves on a bonfire burn,

Sending out their musty perfume,

On the water there is drifting,

Smoke, like haze, in evening gloom.

Sun then hides behind the mountains,

Nature’s colours all change their hue,

Everything has lost its shadow,

Sky is no longer clear and blue,

Pinks and reds become the colours,

Through the sky and water below,

The darkness is fast approaching,

All now has a wonderful glow.

Soon night will throw her velvet cloak,

Over all this wondrous view,

The stars will shine like fairy lights,

And moon will glow and sparkle too.

Then when morning star has faded,

The sun will come back out to play.

The sights of autumn will return,

We will have another new day.

Freda (Dec 2008)

How about a wee story for a change

This was a story I wrote for my story performing assessment at college.  I don't write stories as a rule but have to say I was really pleased with the result.

Angela’s log pile.

Angela sighed as she stepped out the door into the cold winter night. There was a full moon shining brightly casting long shadows from the outbuildings. A movement caught her eye. In the corner of one of the buildings was a large black cat. The shadow it cast gave it a long, lean appearance. She stepped forward and her movement startled the animal. The cat leapt up onto the wall of the garden and disappeared into the dark shadows beyond.

Swiftly and silently and owl flew overhead, not a single solitary sound from the movement of his wings. Seconds later Angela heard a slight startled squeaking sound. She knew that the owl had seized his prey.

She moved, on, her footsteps making no sound on the soft snow. In the barn she could hear the cattle moving in their stalls. The chains round their necks rattling and jangling against the walls.

She reached the long low log pile. Bending over she selected a few and placed them in the wicker willow trug she had carried over from the house.

Moving swiftly she turned to make her return journey to the house door. By now she was extremely cold and her breath could be seen clearly in the bright moonlight. She was wishing she had taken a moment to put on her hat, gloves and scarf before she left the house.

The trug hindered her return somewhat due to the weight of the logs. She carried it using both hands; it felt as though it got heavier with each step.

She never understood why her father insisted on the logs being placed by that particular wall instead of near the door. It was always Angela who had to go out on cold nights to fetch logs in. Never could she recall her father carrying out this task.

Angela also had the task of cutting and stacking the logs. One time, several years ago, she decided to move the log pile so that it was easier and quicker to reach. A mistake she never repeated. He got so angry and lashed out at her, striking her several times on the face and head. He yelled at her over and over about how stupid she was and that the logs had their place and that place was over by the garden wall. It was a lesson she learned well, one which added to many other similar events in her life.

She could hear him yelling to her from inside the house so she picked up her pace and hurried towards the light glowing through the door window. She didn’t want him to get angry, she knew what could happen if he did.

Angela placed the heavy trug on the ground, opened the door and then carried the trug in. He yelled at her to close the door, she was letting the cold in. She quickly kicked the snow off her boots then closed the door over.

He was sitting, as usual, by the fire, his back to the doorway of the room. He told her to get a move on, get the logs on the fire before it went out. He called her lazy, stupid and hopeless. That she was good for nothing, just like her dead mother.

At that point, Angela lost all reason. She picked up a log walked slowly and silently over to the chair and bashed it really hard down on his bald head. She continued to bash him till the moaning and groaning sounds stopped. He slumped to the floor. She calmly stepped over him as he was lying, dying on the floor and stoked the fire with the log.

Angela felt that at last she was free. She went outside, got the barrow and started moving the log pile over to beside the back door. Never again on a cold clear frosty night would she have to walk the length of the garden for logs. Never again.

As for her father well pigs will eat anything won't they

The old Story teller

Part of a writing course I did in 2009 was about story telling and learning how to tell a story and not just read it.  I was inspired to write this piece when thinking about how old people love to tell stories of their youth.

The old story teller

What will it be like when I grow old?

Will my legs wobble?

Will my back fold?

Will I get narky and shout at kids

For running around

Banging dustbin lids

Will I have glasses to help me read?

Will I become deaf?

What will be my needs?

One thing I know about growing old

I will have stories

Those need to be told

There will be songs which need to be sung

To add to the things

To share with the young

Just as my parents shared them with me

I’ll share with children

Sat on my old knee

Sitting around my old worn armchair

I’ll be a teller

Of how things once were

Bringing alive tales of being young

Telling them the stories

Of how things begun

Then I won’t care if my back is bent

I’ll tell them these tales

Till my life is spent

Freda February  2009

My very first poem Warning it can be a trigger.

This is the first poem I wrote.  I got involved with a writer's group whilst having counselling therapy to deal with my childhood abuse from an uncle.  The group were asked to submit work for an anthology and a professional poet was selecting the work to put in.  I didn't submit this, a friend did it for me and the person collating the work asked where my other stuff was.  She was surprised to hear that I hadn't written anything before this.  Anyone who was sexually abused as a child will recognise some of the phrases used.

Silence!

Don't scream,

The pain will soon be over

Don't scream

Just let me be your lover

Don't scream,

Just take it don't say but

Don't scream

It doesn't really hurt

Don't scream

I'll make you better soon

Don't scream

They'll hear you on the moon

Don't scream

You'll soon be on your feet

Don't scream

I'll take you for a sweet

Don't scream

My little turtle dove

Don't scream

It isn't pain it's love

Freda 1998

Is anyone of us perfect, I doubt it.

Anyone who knows me will know that I have been through some serious life changes and that I have been judged by many for my appearance and a lot of my life choices.  Anyway it was the fact that people judge others but often need to look at themselves first that inspired this piece of  poetry.  I don't see it as one of my better works but I thought no point in only sharing the good.

Perfect?

Walking along, down any street

How do you judge those that you meet?

Is it the colour of their skin?

Or that they are too fat or thin?

Being pushed in a wheelchair?

Or perhaps they have different hair!

They may be young with a pram,

Wearing high heels, looking glam.

What are the judgements that you make

Within that first glance you take

Fat and lazy? skinny and broke?

Having a baby but no bloke?

Immigrants living on the dole,

Putting your country in a hole

Benefit fraud, can really walk

Since when do you have room to talk?

Are you perfect to make that call?

Sit in judgement above them all.

That is the type of attitude

Which shows a person who is rude!

What do they see when you walk by?

Are you really a perfect guy?

Is your body exactly right?

Is your history snowy white?

Next time you judge, just stop and think

Are you perhaps too fond of drink?

Do you smoke or did you sniff glue?

No one is perfect, not even you!

Freda Brodie (April 2010)

Poetry and stuff

A very dear friend of mine suggested I could use my blog to post my poetry.  I had never thought about it before but I have a lot of stuff I have written that I could put on here.so here we go.  Poem one is one I wrote when I was involved in a Pride event years ago.  The subject of the poem is my son David who is a professional drag queen currently working in Sparkle Show Bar in Playa Del Ingles on the island of Gran Canaria.

Strange? Not you

They sent for me at nursery.

When you were only three!

A Doctor! a Psychologist!

Theywanted you to see,

The problem that they had

Was you weren’t like the other boys.

You didn’t play with cars or guns,

Or any of those toys.

When you played in nursery school,

It was with the girly things!

Like dresses, dolls and make-up,

Bangle sand sparkly rings.

I couldn’t see their problem,

But they thought that I was wrong!

If they could see you now,

They would sing a different song.

When you became a teenager,

Your differences shone through.

Other people thought, that you were strange!

But you were just being you.

As an adult you were hassled,

By people with narrow minds.

They didn’t like you being different,

They were stupid and unkind.

Now you have your niche in life

With make-up, bangles and sparkly rings!

A female impressionist!

A Drag Queen, of all things

These problems throughout your life,

Made a stronger man of you.

Being different made you what you are

And it shows in all you do.

On the days, when you don your frocks,

Your make-up. and your wig,

You show the world you are special,

And that you just don’t give a fig!

Then David becomes Daniella.

The most beautiful girl in town,

In her diamante necklaces,

And her long, pretty, evening gown.

People throng to see you,

They applaud all your routines.

If only those nursery teachers knew

You would become a beauty queen!

When people see others like you,

They often look away,

But they really need to accept,

That gay people are born that way!

Written by Freda Brodie for her son Daniella Mantrapp in 2001