TheFED-Friends

African May Day: A Search for Our Roots

2009-05-01T23:07:00.001+01:00

To Brother William Davidson, the Afro-Antillean Martyr of May 1^st

Here is the day to remember

the power and the sacrifice

of all who struggle

for the workers’ right to rest

and the right to bread

and the right to freedom

We salute you, Brother William,

a proud Black shoe maker

for your uprising

far from your Afro-Caribbean shores

You caught the fire

when working people cried starvation

the criminal lords let out innocents’ blood

You gave your life

in a war against hunger by the Thames

Chattel slavery – wage slavery

Two evils to you

under the banner of industrial slavery

To them we raise a fist of oppressed humanity

pointed toward the day

that the first child is born

in a world without chains.

Ángel L. Martínez

A May Day Celebration

2009-05-01T23:04:00.000+01:00

Let every voice count in and after the war

The voice of the emperor really has a deaf ear

On the people

The emperor is in a cloud

As the world shouts no contamination without reparation

Beyond the hour of seven years

Between a generation and at the meantime,

you see 5000 graveyards

as the ocean flows

A motorway for gold brick holders

The barons of the bank

who suck the blood of every citizen

in this planet

It’s a hard road under the sun

You see a thousand hearts

Without a piece of mind

You see guns and swords with children

All in the name of holy greed

You see mother mother

All the children are dying

You see the master of political thriller

Bombing grandmothers grandfathers

Mothers uncles and aunts

With perfection

Outright genocide

You see the preacher letting the people on the road

To disaster

And you see a small crowd demanding

Peace now and no to war

You hear the sounds of thunder rolling

out a warning

that we need unity

the working class

happiness

togetherness

peacefulness

and jobs and not unemployment

as the holy empire forgets to look in the mirror

on this beautiful May Day celebration.

Carlos Raul Dufflar

CRAZY WEATHER

2009-03-19T01:34:00.003Z

Five days ago it snowed outside

The worse storm in the last decade

Or so the TV Metman said

Don’t know that for sure, I’m afraid

We fared quite well despite the snow

Only two inches did we get

Other places got more I’m sure

But was enough to make us fret

Five days later a difference

The temperature’s extended range

Like spring the seventies are back

A great metrological change!

I don’t suppose it will last long

It’s early March, more snow will come

In Pennsylvania spring is late

We know what is the total sum!

Henry Dallimore (POW)

THE EARTHING SPIKE

2009-02-22T22:47:00.000Z

I have recently remembered another rather amusing incident from my national service days. As you may possibly recollect from my previous narratives, I was put in charge of a mobile multi-channel radio link.

Amongst the equipment were two mains electric generators. Powered by the Volkswagen flat four engine (as used in the Beetle) they were very reliable and efficient but for one small but highly annoying fault. This was that the insulation was not quite up to standard and was capable of delivering a shot of alternating current to the unfortunate recipient unless adequately earthed.

This earthing was effected by the use of a purpose made metal spike which was connected to the chassis of the unit, in order to remain effective the soil around had to be kept moist and a special plastic container was kept filled with water to this end.

Anyway, one summer I was out on a NATO exercise with my detachment, we were encamped in a forest clearing somewhere in Northern Germany. The weather had been dry for several weeks, and, as most of Northern Germany has a sandy soil, the earth spike required constant attention.

Now we had recently acquired a new Troop Sergeant (I shan’t mention his name here). This individual was most conceited and bombastic - you now had been there, done it, bought the tee shirt, etc etc That particular day I instructed my electrician/driver to fill the plastic container and water the spike. The Sergeant immediately said not to bother and, completely ignoring my warning about possible consequences, he would see to it himself, whereupon he walked down to the generator, unbuttoned his fly and relieved himself on an earthing spike which, due to the soil condition and the dry weather, must have been charged to at least fifty volts.

I have never heard a grown man make such a shriek as the Sergeant did on that day! Strangely enough, after that he became oddly quiet and meek. I wonder why??

Henry Dallimore
Pottsville Open Writers (POW)

Some Beautiful Music

2009-01-31T10:25:00.003Z

Hear music from an Aboriginal Musician named
Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu. It's really lovely...

http://www.myspace.com/gurrumul

Group News

2009-01-30T01:24:00.002Z

Please tell us about your group.

You can send your group info to the.fwwcp@gmail.com.

GROW Group News

2009-01-30T00:28:00.005Z

Grass Roots Open Writers (GROW) is a community writing and publishing group that is based in Hastings, East Sussex. We have 25 members.

We run a writing workshop in the Hastings Children's Library every Tuesday from 10-12. We use this time to take part in writing exercises, group discussions and to share our writing with others.

We run a weekly Skill-Sharing Workshop in the Roosevelt Court Lounge every Wednesday from 10-12. We use this time to share the skills and knowledge we each have. (Computer skills, DTP, Arts & Crafts, Punctuation & Grammar, Makaton, Aromatherapy, Maths, Finger Spelling and much more.)

We are starting a second weekly writing workshop in the Roosevelt Court Lounge every Friday from 2-3pm

We also arrange social gatherings, attend writing and performance events and share information about such events with each other.

The groups are run voluntarily, by the members themselves.

We have a website (www.grow.btik.com) and this is updated at least once a week. We use our website to keep our members informed about our activities as well as to showcase their writing and to build an online archive of our publications and a record of our achievements.

FUNDING

The venues we meet in are provided to us free of charge.

Our website is also provided to us free of charge, as we are a voluntary organisation.

The people who attend our groups each week make a voluntary contribution of £1. This covers the cost of ink, paper and printing of the worksheets and handouts we use in the groups and the GROW Newsletters.

We produce an annual anthology with an accompanying dvd. The cost of these are covered by selling copies to our friends and families.

Refreshments and other resources are donated to us by group members and supporters.

ORGANISATION

We have a committee with 12 members (minimum 7)

The committee meet every two months (minimum 4 times per year)

We have a constitution, which we adopted at our first AGM in 2008.

We have a bank account.

All the printing, DTP, design and maintainance of the website, books, newsletters, workshops, publicity and planning etc. are done by our members on a voluntary basis.

We apply for funding to help with the cost of hiring a minibus to enable our members to attend TheFED MiniFests.

GROW AIMS

To provide a safe and supportive environment, that helps our members to build their social skills, confidence and self-esteem, while improving their writing, reading and communication skills.

To organise writing workshops, social activities and networking events, produce our own literature and multimedia presentations.

To enable our members to find their own voice, experiment with new writing methods and explore different writing styles.

To help our members get actively involved with the planning, decision-making and running of the organisation.

To promote the organisation and publicise the work we do.

To offer training and support to help our members recognise the skills they already have, acquire new skills and to develop them further.

To assist our members to take part in social and writing activities that are organised by other local and national groups.

To encourage our members to help and support each other, and also to share their skills, knowledge and expertise when they feel ready and able to do so.

BLOG AUTHORS

2009-01-30T00:18:00.003Z

If you would like to be an author for this BLOG please email the.fwwcp@gmail.com to be added to the list.

We can have up to 100 authors.

The Light Within, The Journey Without

2009-01-29T01:57:00.003Z

She searched deep

Within the darkest shadows

Feeling the velvety form of nothingness

Becoming aware

Becoming blind

She walked through fallen forests

Where memory of stardust still lingered

And her search took on momentum

Creating the smallest of vibrations

The rhythm of sound

And she could hear her footsteps

And the universe dancing in her wake

She smiled and turned as love overtook her heart

Light illuminating darkness

In the primal dawn of consciousness

And eternity unlocked the doors of time

Alpha

Omega

The universal gift of life

The Light Within

The Journey Without.

FROST

2008-12-18T02:14:00.002Z

Shoulder to shoulder, stood

blades of sharpened silver

shrouded in the swirling mist

silently waiting for the morning

sun; to soften them.

Too Much Pain

2008-12-10T23:56:00.002Z

Too much pain, but who is willing to help
It's hard for us to get some medical attention around here

Too much pain, but we can only do so much
Getting denied because we are people of color

Too much neglect, makes me forget about
the physical pain and realize that it doesn't hurt as much
as the emotional pain that they are causing

All I hear is whites only
Where ever I go whites only
Shouldn't we all be equal, not just whites only

Finally a place to be..........

Oh No, it's too much for me, I cant afford this
I have no coverage, And the nurse is not willing to help
because we are garbage

Too much pain, I guess I'm going to keep feeling
To much money, that we are going to be needing

Too much pain my parents are going through,
seeing me sick and knowing nothing can be done

Too much pain it's making them suffer
All because I have no card with a couple of stupid numbers

Too much pain, my head hurts,
my stomach hurts, I have a stuffy nose
Too much pain, but what can we do
Too much pain and no one is willing to help

Copyright Zaidmary Ortiz

MY CORNER

2008-12-06T11:23:00.003Z

I have a corner in the yard

In winter it is always warm

If sunshine really is so hard

I sit out on my little form

The walls are tall, no breeze is there

At noon the shadows will encroach

Which really doesn’t seem quite fair

‘cos evening still has to approach

Although the shady garden’s white

And old leaves too are lying there

The frost that’s come the previous night

Other conditions might infer

December’s threat it does not mean

Indoors I have to spend my time

My little corner that’s so clean

Means I can sit, not spend a dime!

(GROW)

Words in Imagination by Jan Hedger

2008-12-05T16:22:00.000Z

Book Review of:

Words in Imagination by Jan Hedger

Published by Rossendale Books £5.99

ISBN 978-1-906801-03-8

46pp (pbk)

This is a delightful little book to look at and dip into, with a nicely designed front cover and a lovely friendly typeface!

The author, Jan Hedger, is obviously adept at seeing life through the eyes of a child, and many of these poems are written for children, too. In fact, many of them reminded me strongly of a time long past, in the land of A.A. Milne and Jemima Puddleduck, with their innocent rural themes. "Wonderment" for example:

"Do you believe in fairies

with flowers in their hair

wings as soft as feathers

a song as light as air?"

But today's kids would find much that is familiar in their world, with poems like "A Red Kite" and "Drifting Off, Into My World". Jan has great fun with words and rhyme, and her enthusiasm and passion for writing this kind of poetry shines through. Sometimes I felt that this could be reined in and tightened up a bit; for example, I don't think the last verse of "Captured" is in any way necessary, as "It is the place that has captured you" seem a much stronger ending.

Mostly, though, the poems are a delight to read, and there are one or two that indicate a more thoughtful reflective vein.

Lynne Clayton

ONE THING I CAN DO FOR THE FED

2008-11-30T13:22:00.001Z

What can I do for the Fed? Write when in the mood. Occasionally put something about them in the magazine I edit and founded; just as I do other organisations. I really don't know too much about them as I am not a writer that normally attends their workshops, but this doesn't stop me from offering this benefit to them.

So, if they wish this - as with others, I will wait information from them; then if the time is right, the theme, and if space allows, it will go in.

Like others, Ebb & Flow relies on gift donations to help it continue - it does not have access to grants as The Fed and other organisations would - it is individually run - with a named Patron, and most of the funds come from my own pocket.

Being who I am, I continue due to the fact I know others benefit and enjoy as I note from feedback. Also - I enjoy. So, I hope my offer of help in around about way will be of use to TheFED.

The Arrangement

2008-11-29T14:50:00.003Z

His fingers caught in the tresses of her hair,

As he whirled her - high in the dance.

His dark, deep set eyes held possessiveness.

The intensity of her eyes flashed defiance.

He would not be denied;

She would not be promised.

As the music lifted, his arm

Tightened around her belted waist,

Slender - against the breadth of him.

The light from the all-consuming fire

Reflected lambent upon her wilful face,

But it did not diffuse the anger there.

Dust swirled in the charged air as the beat

Intensified its pace; the notes hypnotic.

The deftness of their feet traced a path

Of pre-determined destiny.

Palm to palm, the onlookers encircled the pair,

Knowledge and tradition uniting their eyes,

In the taming of the child.

The strings of the fiddle pulsated

In response to the travelling bow

Enrapturing, capturing the girl with its spell.

As the sweat emerged in silver beads,

Upon his brow, he pulled her in

To the aroma of his manly scent.

Intoxicating her senses, quickening the blood

That flowed through the chambers of her heart;

Infusing her cheeks with a blush of softness.

His rough hands – instinctual - felt the burning passion,

That mirrored his bodies own needs and desires.

Detecting the change, he halted in his step,

And met the full force of a woman’s eyes.

Coquettish - she loosened the red cotton twill

He wore knotted about his neck - tantalisingly,

Feeling its coarseness - running through her,

Soft velvety fingertips. She was his.

The music slowed - became still - as the evening’s breath.

As one body, the onlookers retreated to their beds;

Consigning the embers to shift and settle within the dying fire.

(GROW)

2008-11-25T19:08:00.001Z

Book Review of:

Nature: an anthology of poems by Grass Roots Open Writers 2008

24pp (A5 booklet)

This is the first anthology from a very recently formed group, and should be the inspiration for all Fed-type writing groups! It has a beautifully designed front cover, and the simple formula of a poem per page with its own decorative border makes it an attractive book to handle and peruse.

The book opens with a clear explanation of what GROW is all about:

”Grass Roots Open Writers is a community writing and publishing group, that particularly welcomes people who need to develop confidence in expressing themselves.”

And Ashley Jordan’s poem, “Grass Roots”, explains in a lovely way the reason for their name:

“Grass Roots,

Reaching down

Into nourishment

Finding their place

Securing their space

Upon the earth”

The theme of the anthology, “Nature” is, of course, a very wide one, and there is a good range of responses, and the last poem is a two-writer collaboration! One of my personal favourites, though, was by Stephen Taylor, a wonderfully lyrical and assured poem, I thought:

“As I pass into autumn,

With its shades,

Like the moonlight

The coldness of the heart, like the winter

I long for another summer,

Like a lover waits for an embrace

To feel the warmth

Of its refreshing breath

I wait in hope, saying

I don’t want to be alone tonight”

The prevailing mood of this collection is celebratory and optimistic, Spring-like in its hope. GROW sounds like a very supportive and friendly group, and I wish it long-lasting success so I can look forward to reading many more anthologies!

By Lynne Clayton

Nov.’08

THE JUNCTION

2008-11-24T18:47:00.004Z

Little Bo Peep has lost her junction

It never was thus so

For she an Excise Man once was

Many years ago.

The gentlemen from Hawkhurst came

Their booty to retrieve

Armed with cutlass, they killed Bo Peep

And others who did deceive.

Later on the railway came

A tunnel did they dig

By the portal, two lines joined

Although not very big.

A nearby inn was called Bo Peep

Where the navvies used to drink

It’s strange how unrelated things

Finish up with a common link!

(GROW)

Country Walks 17/11/08

2008-11-22T23:04:00.001Z

Morning dew the suns rays awaken nature and all it’s splendour. The sounds of nature all around awakens me to a harmonious peace as if today is the best it can be.

The morning ritual to cleanse, bathe, dress and stretch are all part of my preparation as I relax into my favourite pastime. The suns light opens up my heart as I peer outside to look at the morning euphoria and engage in limbering, stretching and set about on my way.

The outside door a passage way to Jerusalem at least like Blake said “ In Englands green and pleasant land”

A community estate all noise and traffic, kids running to school, Mums pushing prams and me engaged in the ambience of it all.

As I leave the estate the narrow lines of trees show my pathway to a picturesque winter scene as seen by those landscape paintings of Constable and his ilk. As I amble my way through those lush pastures of my hometown cycle way like a thoroughfare through an ancient woodland. To feel and breathe that essence of nature as I stand in awe and breathe the cool winter air.

The passage way ends to the modern construction that is the nations highway. Concrete pillars, graffitied subways signs of dejection, depression, anger and rage. As vehicles of all shapes and sizes charge away, choking me, suffocating the air that I breathe and giving me that horrible nauseous feeling like I really want to vomit in my favourite walk.

Further I travel to escape the pollution to divert myself away from this terrible place. At last a sign to another place which takes me away from the main highway onto a safe, secure, narrow country lane to feel that pleasant warm glow of nature again. Allowing my levels to destress themselves as the occasional motorist passes me by to breathe and collect my thoughts.

With a golf range on one side and a cows field on the other. I feel part of a ever changing land where developers seem to have the upper hand. An aeroplane passes over to remind me where |I am.

The village cricket green can now be seen as I walk toward a stately home adorned by the pleasant setting of leafy lanes and still life.

The cricket green a sporting venue for the inhabitants is planted to convey the peaceful tranquil setting that is the centre of the village. As I return home down open lanes to once again face the community that is my home.

The day of the purple dawn

2008-11-10T23:06:00.000Z

Oceans roared and rid themselves
Of rubbish and debris
Moon slipped through a hole in the sky
To join her secret terrainean lover
The dog who was lost in space got homesick and
Did what all dogs do: Returned home.
And the day of the purple dawn began
Forgotten Native people migrated
To the country's sunny
Northwest border; then the tribes
And newly-forged alliances
Zig-zagged to the southeast—
They numbered in the millions
And gathered flowery cohorts as they went.
Descendents of African peoples
Vacated forty major cities and took control of
Forty parcels of farmland set aside
For their post-enslavement ancestors.
Mainstream men and women, voiceless
And dutiful,
Cast off their lower-Euro status and
Re-affirmed their civil rights.
The day of the purple dawn
Promised peace
Promoted walking
Praised carrots and beets and
Blessed all love-based marriages
The day of the purple dawn
Punished greed and
Pelted hate-words with logic,
Disdain, reason, and rebuke
The day of the purple dawn
Lasted less than one minute and was
Spread over 340 years.
On the second minute of the
Three hundred and
Forty-first year,
Oceans, embarrassed by
The return of stubs and
Bottles, went calm.
Moon returned. Round with child.
Some hope there.
The dog took off with his favorite toy
The Natives rode pickups or sedans
Back to reservations, pueblos, or casinos
Non-native sympathizers relaxed in flower-filled
Coffee shops in the lower levels of
Granite skyscrapers, black-burying
Memories of the Great Cross-Country,
Trans-cultured migration
African offshoots went back to the
Corners and walls of the Inner City
The Euro-types stayed in the pre-dawn 'burbs
Where their shot at clarity grew blurry with time,
A new war began in a tiny country whose
Leader had once told someone who told someone
That he could whip our butts if he wanted to
Greed kept the dollar strong
Truth was monitored
Hatewords divided humans and multiplied profits
Governments subsidized beef and
Beat out backyard vegetables
The gay man pretended again to be
His partner's first cousin
Students, parents, and old people
Gave and received different versions
Of what the day had been like,
The day of the purple dawn was over.

(c) Bernice Mbadugha

Saludos a mis hermanas y mis hermanos en Fed UK

2008-11-09T18:38:00.002Z

Dear Lucia

As you requested, Carlos and I would like to share some words for the Saturday minifest in greetings from The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective. Because we have just survived the most hotly contested election we can ever remember, we can say that the next step is to do as we are doing with the Fed - rebuilding our groups and organising our movements for real change. With that in mind, The Collective and our sister organisation (and Fed members) Precious Promise Arts Circle will continue to organise, organise, organise!

Saludos a mis hermanas y mis hermanos en Fed UK

On this beautiful day we will send you
a bucket of red roses
to embrace our affection and joy and friendship
each and every day
a poetic doo wop we will survive the cloudy winter
This a rose will always grow
even on the distant plane that unites us
Our dreams above our love of humanity
with a word song
of peace and not war on earth
between our marching for universal love
in exchange for a kiss is just a kiss
We shall see each other sooner or later
At the spirit of The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
keeps on marching
un amor puro

Copyright Carlos Raul Dufflar
09-11-2008

Fed 2008: The Resurrection Poem

May our days together be many
May our unity always be strong
Just like our songs
May the peace for which we have so long struggled
erupt in festivals of words
May we as sisters and brothers come always together in love
May our words refresh as the rain replenishes
And to speak of words
more profound than the size on the page can ever show
May we always remember the final word:
organise!

Copyright 2008 Angel L. Martinez

Africa is Calling

2008-11-02T17:59:00.001Z

If I tell you this would you laugh at me?
Would you think I was crazy?
Would you walk away?

Africa is calling me
She speaks to my spirit at night
In dreams I travel to her
Imagining her quiet land, the flow of the people, brightly colored boubous
A young Irish woman, a white woman, I bathe in her waters

Africa is calling
The music soars through me
Waking me in the morning
And lulling me to sleep at night

Africa - I want to bury my feet in your hot sand
I want to journey over the Niger
I want to dance with you under the stars
To breathe you

Africa - The heat, the dust, the poverty, the suffering
All of this I will see too

Oneday I will put my feet on your soil - Africa
I will feel you, I will step inside you
And I will be enthralled by the colors, the sounds,
The spirit of the people
And I will see too the harsh reality of peoples lives, the impact of
colonialism
What have my people done to you?
The corruption, the pain, the violence
I will hold it all in my heart

Africa is calling
She spells out her name over my eyes, my hands
Rushing a wave over my entire body
I am drawn in, entranced

Whispering to me over the warm summer breeze
Whispering to my heart as a lover
Dreaming of his beauty
Dreaming of his eyes following mine
Dreaming of the sun on the warm desert earth
Dreaming Africa

Copyright Dorothy Johnson-Laird

A CROWDED PLACE

2008-10-28T08:47:00.006Z

Everywhere is so crowded so it seems

World population is expanding so fast

Where will we all be standing

In Year three thousand?

Such problems always pose questions which I ask

The worse place for overcrowding seems to be

Somewhere called

Poverty

Although I do not have the faintest idea

As to it’s location.

But here’s the rub

There is somewhere where jobs are always available

Again I do not know where this place is

But as far as I can remember

It is called

Jeopardy.

(GROW)

Looking 4 the only sister I ever had MONA MUHAMBIYA

2008-10-24T13:27:00.003+01:00

INTRODUCTION

There was always war going on in my country people were fighting all the time and it seems like a normal thing because there was nothing people can do, we all got used to it.

My name is Nora Muhambiya I am the first born at home, we are the family of four. It’s me and my Mother Garuna, my father Welli and my little sister Mona she is 7 years old and I am 15. My family is always together we are never apart. My mother always says that we might not have everything that we wanted but if we have one another that is the best wealth any one can ever wish for, so my little sister was my friend. We played together all the time in any case there was no one we could play with because of the war that was happening. My mother was a house wife but she loved doing art work and beading as for my father he was working in a farm and we were going to school.

CHAPTER ONE: NIGHTMARE DAY

It was a very beautiful day the sun was shining, for a while we were happy enjoying the day. The day was peaceful the was no noise of guns shots, people were all sitting outside, chatting to neighbors.

Suddenly we had this huge helicopter noise and people were screaming and shouting, then the was chaos every where the were bombs thrown at us, the soldiers were shooing at people. My mother was shot immediately in the stomach, my father was trying to reach out to her, and then he was shot in the left leg. I was so confused I did not know what to do my parents were shouting for us to run and find some place to hide but the was no place where we can hide to, my sister would not let go of my mother because she was bleeding badly in the stomach and she was begging us to run. So when we finally ran the were shootings and I lost my sister.

I tried to look out for her but bombs and gun shot were too powerful and people would not let me go. And that was the last time I saw my mother and my father and my little sister Mona.

CHAPTER TWO: LIFE CHANGED

The next morning all those who survived went out to search for our loved ones, but the was nothing that we could see because many people were burnt and it was too horrible and painful to look. So we all decided to leave the country.

We went days barefoot with no food we tried hiking cars but the was no luck, then suddenly this huge truck gave us a hike. We all wanted to go to some other parts of Africa but others were hading to America and that is were I also landed.

CHAPTER THREE: 10 YEARS IN OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

My life changed completely that day, it my first time being separated from my family, from Mona. I had no one but my self, it was so hard because I could not speak English I only new my home language Xhosa. Everyday I would think of my sister if she had survived or not and what had happen to her.

As days got by I manage a bit I started to learn to speak English and got my self a job. Things were getting better by the day, I was starting to come to terms that my parents were dead and It would never be the same again. Strangely I would have these weird dreams about my mother calling my sister’s name and saying “she needs you go and look for her”. I used to ignore this dream but it would come back every night.

CHAPTER FOUR: DECIDING WHAT TO DO

I had already got used to this part of the chapter of my life and accepted that its all up to the end, but then I met this charming American guy Shaun, he was very supportive and very loving. It was my birthday I was turning 25 and Shaun had birthday plans for me, then surprisingly he proposed and I accepted his proposal.

I was very happy everything was a dream coming true, but now my dream about my mother was becoming too serious even if I was just taking a nap. So I decide to consult my fiancé about this so we decide that I should go back to Africa and search for Mona.

CHAPTER FIVE: SEARCH

I did not know where to start but I decided to back to Rwanda and find out if they might know anything about people who survived and what happen to kids that were homeless on 12 may 1970. The search for Mona was important to me because I also wanted someone to give me my blessing in my wedding and accept my husband to our part of family and most all to reunite with my only sister.

I was told that all the kids and women who had survived were deported to Zambia. So I went to Zambia booked my self to a hotel I did not know how long my search was going to be.

CHAPTER SIX: A HELPER WITH A FRIENDLY SMILE

In the hotel I was introduced to this lady her name Mandy she was a cleaner of the hotel she was maybe 15-17 years old and she was only going to cleaning my room. Mandy could not speak properly English so we did not have much conversation when she came to work in my room.

She was lovely she would greet with a smile, she adored my shoes every time she would look at them. This was fun because my sister would love to wear my shoes even though they were too big for her. So one day I ask her to try one of my shoe, the shoe was red with a diamond on top of it, the shoe was present from my fiancé, so she tried it on and the shoe fitted her perfectly.

A week after Mandy tried on my shoe the shoe went missing, so I got so furious because I trusted the girl so I went to the manager and reported this to him. Mandy was called in and she was asking about the shoe, then she knew nothing about the missing shoe, she was fired immediately.

CHAPTER SEVEN: MONA’S FRIEND ELIZABETH

The next day I was invited to the launch of the stop women abuse function every one was going to be there. I made a phone to Shaun telling about the function and that I still had no luck finding Mona and that the girl who used to come and clean my room stole the shoe that he bought for our first valentines and she got fired.

Apparently there was Mona’s friend in the sitting room and she was listening to my conversation with Shaun. After the phone call she came to me and told I that Mandy did not take my shoes and now she lost her job because of me and that she was saving the money to go varsity. When Elizabeth was talking to me I was busy playing with my bead necklace that my mother made for me and Mona, the necklace had Mona’s name and mine “Nora and Mona” mine was blue and white and Mona necklace was red and black. she ask me if the necklace was mine and I said yes and she just said “oh that’s strange”, then she said that all I wanted to say that Mandy did not take your shoe she is a very good person who has struggle a lot to get this job.

CHAPTER EIGHT: WEALTH IS NOT IMPORTANT THAN FAMILY

That night I prepare to go to the function and then deciding to go back to Chicago for my wedding preparations, because I was not succeeding in finding Mona. I went to the function when I got there Ms Dervan the assistant manager of the hotel was also there but she seems surprised to me there, after an while I saw her wearing the exact same shoes that went missing in the Hotel I knew my shoes very well so I ask if she was the one who took the shoes, at that point there was no denying anything.

By that time I was not feeling the mood of the function so I decided to go back to the hotel, so that I can prepare for my journey of going back to Chicago because that is where my life was at and I was failing to find Mona in my search. when I got to the hotel I kept on thinking about Mandy and what I have done to her, this also reminded me about my little sister when she was young she used to rely on me and how I let her down on that day.

I cried that night until I feel asleep, I dreamed about mama again but this time she said “everything is going to be alright and remember that wealth is not important than your family”.

CHAPTER NINE: SHOCKING NEWS BUT WONDERFUL AT THE SAME TIME

The next morning I was ready to leave but my pride would not let me leave before apologizing to Mandy about my terrible mistake and doubting her innocence. So I went to the manager to ask for her address and telephone number, but sadly enough she was living in orphanage but moved when she got the job and stayed with friends and she does not have her contact number.

Well then I had already booked for my plane and I tried but could not succeed. so called a cab to come and pick me up and take me to the airport, my mind was already made up my flight was at 7:30 pm so everything was set and I was ready to leave what I came to do behind and go back to the future and become a new person Nora Shaun Wal and not Ms Muhambiya.

CHAPTER TEN: FINDING MONA AFTER 10 LONG HARD YEARS

It seems Elizabeth recognize something in me as well to my sister that we both had same necklace written the same thing. And she over had me talking to Shaun about me not finding Mona, then add things out and that Mona had no parents and she had a sister who was in mid 20’s. Elizabeth went to hotel to come and tell me about my little sister and she was too late she was told that I have already left the hotel.

But she never gave up she rushed to the airport. She finally caught me she told all about Mona and she told me that she also has the same necklace that I have and the colors of her necklace. Immediately we went back to look for but she would not want to listen because of what I did by accusing her for stealing my shoes. Apparently Mandy was Mona all along.

Things started to settle down when I called her by her name Mona and she was stunned and ask me how do I know her name because no one knows her name accept her and her family, so I told her that you right I know your name because our mother Garuna and father Welli know that name and only her bad sister Nora knows the name so we hugged and cried.

I told her that I came to find her and I am sorry for what happen 10 years ago and that I need her to be with me for the rest of our lives and I told her about the dreams that I was having, apparently she was also having the same dreams. I told her about my engagement and that I needed a family blessing.

Mona and I went back to Chicago, but with the intentions of coming back to Rwanda and rebuild our family house and use it for children with no parents.

Written By: Thandiswa Mvani (South Africa)

The Four Tops The Eye on the Prize

2008-10-19T20:35:00.004+01:00

Baby, baby, baby, I need your lovin'

From the trenches of the sixties

On this funny America of the north

We climb the stairway for freedom, justice and equality

As we were grooving to standing to the shadows of love

The Mighty Four Tops claim to fame

To our heart

As we the young led the seed to give more power to the people

And no more war in Vietnam

And no more occupation in Santo Domingo

Still water gave us food to the soul

People, people, we got to get together

Before we go under

As we were all pushed around

As we must stand our cry

To stand up for humanity

Shake me wake me when it's over

Detroit's baddest only one Four Tops forever

BLUES REVIVAL

2008-10-16T22:34:00.008+01:00

gather together

gather together

humming the tune of life

humming the tune of life

passed down from the trees

passed down from the trees

to the paths that showed us the way

out

and if the blues are real

you can hear a thousand stories

in their volume

and if the blues are real

they'll suppress the ache

in your soul

and if the blues are real

they'll carry you back in time

to show you what you own

let the blues be real

revive the blues

Copyright © 2008

Jacquese A. Armstrong

A BOY AT WAR

2008-10-09T09:12:00.006+01:00

I was only three when World war II started, so was in the very fortunate position of growing up with the situation and having no first hand knowledge of those long gone halcyon days called “peace” to which my Mother often referred. I often wonder how the present generation of young people would handle the circumstances of the early forties - I expect they would act in the same way that we did.

To us, death and destruction where commonplace; when I look back and realise that any day that I left the house for school might well have been the last time I would ever see my Mother, it seems strange to recollect that these thoughts never once crossed my mind. Such was the degree to which we were accustomed to those times.

But what were those times like exactly? Well, as I have already said, I was used to growing up in what effectively was a front line battle zone. In those days everyone pulled together to help their neighbour. I remember the lounge of the next door house being filled with racks of clothing which belonged in a shop owned by a friend of our neighbour who had been “bombed out” - this being the term used for such unfortunate circumstances. If you were out anywhere and not close to a public air raid shelter, you would be invited into the nearest private one by the occupants, some shelters where actually inside and it is hard to imagine nowadays inviting perfect strangers into your home.

The highlight of life was, after a raid, to go out to collect shrapnel which was collected and recycled (incidentally, that word was unknown then, the shrapnel simply went towards the war effort), and when you were lucky enough to find an intact shell nose cone - well, wow! you were head of your gang for the rest of the day! I remember personally finding several and the receipt of the accolades which went with such a find.

Of course every thing was on ration with endless queues for their purchase, and so many things we take for granted now were simply unavailable then, I didn’t taste a banana until I was gone ten, oranges, lemons too where unavailable. But, for some reason which I cannot understand, rice was in plentiful supply - we always seemed to be having rice pudding for school dinners which is why I hate it so much. Fuel for private motoring was not allowed, many people laid their cars up for the duration but some discovered the possibility of running cars on town gas. You would see a car with a large bag on it’s roof, this contained gas filled from a domestic gas point indoors. Another method involved having a trailer which carried some sort of furnace which produced gas (methane I think in this case). I recollect seeing buses towing these gadgets.

Some enemy pilots considered it good sport to shoot up innocent civilians, a school friend of mine was walking down the road when he hears the unmistakable sound of an ME109 (we all knew them all) He dived for cover into a shop doorway but in so doing left his brightly coloured scarf lying on the pavement. The fighter having passed over, he picked up his scarf only to find it riddled with bullet holes!

Later on, we had the first of the V1’s or “Doodlebugs” as they were called. The first came over on June 13th 1944, and I recollect very clearly leaning out of my bedroom window wondering what it was. The drill soon became established, if you heard one and the engine stopped, throw yourself flat and hope, you had about ten seconds before the explosion to sort yourself out. Far deadlier and sinister were the V2’s. These were the first ICBM’s, they arrived without warning and the philosophy was that if you heard the explosion you had survived, if you hadn’t then it didn’t matter anyway.

I always liked it when either the King or Mr Churchill broadcast on the wireless on account of my being allowed to stop up late to listen, and when, on May 8th 1945, it was over at last, I recollect all the great rejoicings and street parties which took place. By then I was coming up to my ninth birthday, so my most formative years were spent in a war situation. Thanks to my parents, at no time was I worried or scared although they must have been frightened over the possibility of a Nazi invasion in the summer of 1940. The two legacies I have most inherited from this period are a reluctance to throw anything away and being a heavy sleeper - we lived some five miles from Biggin Hill airfield during the Battle of Britain. The guns never kept me awake!

(GROW)

NIGEL

2008-10-04T15:08:00.008+01:00

When I look back at the time which I spent serving in BAOR*, I remember with affection some of the characters that I had met, in particular the members of my radio detachment. We were an oddly assorted group, the was me, at the height of my powers as a Lance Corporal and in charge of the whole shebang namely a radio truck with 30,000 pounds worth of communication equipment (worth over a million in today’s levels), two mains voltage motor generators, a further Bedford truck and assorted extras such as a 90 foot telescopic aerial mast, food, cooking stoves, toilets, jerry cans of petrol and chemicals for the afore mentioned toilets etc., etc.

The personnel of the unit consisted of me, an assistant technician, an electrician/driver, a further driver and a character known as General Duties or “GD” for short. Now in a technical regiment such as the Royal Signals, to which we all belonged, there was always a need for persons of more unfortunate status than most to carry out the menial tasks such as digging latrines, washing up, peeling potatoes fetching full petrol cans from the fuel dump and other miscellaneous tasks. My GD was called Nigel, at least that is the name I shall use so as to protect the innocent (or in Nigel’s case - the not so innocent).

Make no mistake, Nigel was a super guy, easy disposition and always anxious to please, but a lack of opportunities in earlier times had sadly precluded him from a life involving any actual responsibility. If he was sent on an errand it was touch and go if he would ever return let alone have accomplished the task set for him!

Among his exploits were the tying of a support cable for the aerial mast to a tree (he was out of my sight at the time) instead of using a ground peg, driving a Jeep one night into a fire hydrant just slightly uphill from our tents and thereby flooding us all out and the prize incident was, while back in barracks, driving a Jeep and trailer past the Officer’s Mess only to have the trailer overtake him! I should mention at this point that Nigel did not hold a driving licence of any sort and escapades of this nature ensured that he spent many weeks in detention.

Amongst Nigel’s other problems were a complete inability to establish a rapport with the opposite sex until one night when, to everyone’s surprise, the sister of a certain young lady whose favours I was enjoying at the time, took a fancy to our Nigel. They went off together and later that night we were all waiting with baited breath to find out how he had got on. He walked into the barrack room looking very pleased with himself, “well, how did you get on?” we all asked. “Fine he replied, and I’m meetin’ ‘er termorrer - I wrote the name of the place dahn so’s I wouldn’t fergit it”. “Where are you meeting her?” I asked. Nigel handed me a grubby piece of paper upon which was written with a smudged pencil a single word………………….

“Einbahnstrasse”!!!

FOR THE BENEFIT OF ANY OF MY NON GERMAN SPEAKING READERS, “EINBAHNSTRASSE” IN ENGLISH TRANSLATES INTO “ONE WAY STREET”. NIGEL HAD SEEN THE SIGN AND ASSUMED IT WAS THE NAME OF THE PLACE AT WHICH HE WAS! I NEVER FOUND OUT IF HIS ENSUING ASSIGNATION WAS SUCCESSFUL OR NOT.

*British Army of the Rhine

(GROW)

BAD MOON RISING

2008-10-02T00:03:00.005+01:00

Well, so here I am sitting under a sun so red as to be like a beautiful sunset. Except it isn’t low in the western sky. It is high up in a southerly direction.

I remember my Great Grandfather telling me of a time when the sun wasn’t this red colour but was a bright yellow and also a whole lot smaller. He was born early in the present millennium, around a hundred and twenty years ago and had only died some eighteen months past.

He had told me of a far distant time when the Earth was green and water was plentiful; now it is a light tan colour and water is severely rationed.

It all goes back to the end of the last millennium when people thought that human activities were causing the planet’s climate to change for the worse.

To cut down the greenhouse gases, numerous nuclear power stations had been built and when these became obsolete some bright spark had the idea of shooting all the radioactive debris into orbit. Fine - until the orbit became unstable and began to decay and there was the distinct possibility that several hundred thousand tons of hot debris would return to earth. So what did some wag come up with? Why not put it all in a trajectory that would allow it all to get burned up by the sun?

Ironically, it was around that time that the climate reverted to what it had been in the 1920’s so it had all been a waste of time anyway. But what these bright sparks had not realised was the inherent instability of the sun which, upon the arrival of the debris, had effectively leapt forward several million years and started to become a red giant far earlier than anybody had expected.

Now it is estimated that the earth will only be able to sustain life for a further fifty to seventy years. As I sit out in what used to be Hyde park and is now one huge sandpit, I see the Moon rising, not a soft gentle silvery one but a fierce blood red one.

I reflect on the folly of the previous generations which allowed popular myth and culture to lead them down the road which has caused the present circumstances, those scientists trying to make names for themselves by proposing inappropriate solutions to a non-existent problem and all those politicians who, seeing that it was a vote winner, provided the funds to enable the scientists to carry out their outrageous plans.

The sun is now setting in the west but there is no relief from the omnipresent stultifying and oppressive red light, the bad moon rising will see to that, for this night and many others.

How this BLOG works

2008-09-30T09:18:00.006+01:00

There seems to be some confusion on how to use this BLOG.

If anyone has anything they'd like to have posted here, they can send it to me at the.fwwcp@gmail.com

If you would like to be able to post your own work (or that of your group members), send me your email address and I'll add you as an author (we can have up to 100 authors.)

ANYONE can leave a comment on any piece of writing. Just click on 'comments' at the bottom of each entry in the BLOG. Type your comment in the box that pops up and when you have finished, click on 'Publish Your Comment'

It's always nice to receive feedback on our writing - so please do get into the habit of checking here often, reading the new posts, posting your own work and leaving comments for others.

And don't forget to tell your friends, family, colleagues and group members about TheFED-Friends BLOG :-)

RECOVERING

2008-09-29T18:41:00.009+01:00

RECOVERING

Mind still sleepless
in the lee of two tall stones;
wind enough to sweep the stars away;
moon faint in the hint of dawn.

No ease;

no murmured comfort from the past;
no magic circle.

Centuries gone
other men had set them here
as solids in an uncertain world,
had laboured these reluctant stones
to pattern the routine of seasons
and foretell of warmth after chill.

Arm-stretched, stand,
fingertip their bulk,
as others had surely done;
feel the mind rise
with their lifting sun.

Then leave,
birdsong lightening the step,
sunglow on the world
and a better season ahead.

A Visit to Stonehenge

2008-09-26T00:18:00.003+01:00

Above the ancient stones
I heard the skylarks sing
Joy ascending
My soul rising
from the dusty, endless road
to this shimmering timeless moment.
Wings outstretched - riding air
Bringing heaven earthward,
tuning into bluestones
encircling sarsens
like a halo of rainbows.
My heart beats life's rhythm
keeping time at bay.

Above these ancient stones
the skylarks sing.

Lucia Birch
(Stevenage Survivors)

The Jazz Procession

2008-09-23T20:07:00.004+01:00

by Tanisha "K.I.R. the poetic lyrAcist " Jacob

Those trumpets were blowin
music was flown
Reminiscent of the days of Miles Davis,
Charlie Parker and those jazz greats
Had a vision of Ellington and his band
and Ellington was not a street
Dizzy Gillespie spoke to me through his trumpet
The sounds were melodic and hypnotic
As they walked down the street
I joined in the procession
I wanted to know where they were going
I asked one of the members in the band
where they were going?
Told me to a land that's free
Told me they were going to
the real home of the brave
Before we were slaves
that jazz band played and played
Up the block and down the street
When they played they made the music come alive!
As cars rode by tooting their horns to the vibe
That jazz band was thriving
Taught me a lesson bout the music of the players within
It was a history lesson
I joined the jazz procession
Dancing and returning to my roots
As I joined that jazz procession
that was moving steadily down the street.

(C) Copyright KIR
6-23-08

An Iron Faith

2008-09-20T23:24:00.006+01:00

Once the land was bound with iron veins

along which ran wagons of the stuffs of life;

like the human body mapped and spread,

supplied with coal and oil to feed its parts,

fish, vegetables and grain ran on the rails:

that coy depiction of unseemly flesh

and its organic insensitivities

my schoolbook’s imagination left to mine.

In the real and living earth, wheals and scars

of the robber barons’ steam powered lash

cleft cuts, raised embankments between the towns,

trades and industries, withered now and dead,

wreathed in willow herb and brambles, scraped

and crusted with retail parks, brown site development,

steel vines obliterated under great warehouse sheds.

Bridges in new wilderness, viaducts to nowhere,

tunnels dug so many men to the mile,

now blocked, fallen in. Bikers and walkers

crush wild strawberries upon the chippings;

cuttings slide back to valleys, linear copses

clotted in ash, hawthorn, elder, sloe, birch…

An old coat of a landscape, old tickets and stubs

wadded and gritted in the pocket seams,

crudding up the fingernails in soot and rime

that scratches deep the iron in the veins,

the red smell of wet rust and steam and smoke

dense as the pipe-fogged fluted hardboard office

where my Grandad worked amid the steam cranes’ clangour

echoing up the estuary below the crumbled fort,

writing dockets and weighbills for freight

beside the booming orange funnelled ferries.

Between the point levers and rails, hand in his,

we walked to lean on a fence, look into the turntable’s pit.

Then, over the grey-green Ouse, and up Church Hill

past Grandad's bowls club to the council flat

and tea in the window where the Seven Sisters’ gleam

beckoned to the continent no rail then reached.

The old fort, harbour, little town cluttering

the chalk cleft was too dangerous in war;

my Dad’s evacuated boyhood turned inland

to the asphalt warmth of Wimbourne’s sunlit platforms,

engraining in him the oily grime and rusty course

of railway dreams whose shadows played on

in transport books for kids, a novel of navvies,

and walks on the walks on paths

deserted in the national loss of iron faith.

So too my mother, the Great Western town

she grew in shaped and moulded to the gauge,

its shutting down for Trip Week, her tale of Alfred

biking home from the works to learn his Greek.

A town of engineering works and wheels

filling roads between the shifts as men rode

six abreast in tidal flows. Brunel’s pebble

rippled on a century and a half; but now is still.

The boy I was pocketed red ochre nuts

along the old uprooted branch to Highworth

incline signs peeling midst the uncut grass,

lizards darting back into the clefted brick

before my summer tread. On frosty days

I puffed out my breath across the fields,

labouring like a pannier hauling its little freight

above the willows and down between the haws.

Perhaps it’s in the blood somehow, a religion

of young boys – and old and knowledgeable men,

with esoteric jokes about modelling anomalies,

unlikely rakes behind odd engines on displays,

erroneous workings passed around the railway shops

to intimidate Sodor’s children at the feast

of liveries, running on blind enthusiasm,

the eclectic and mythic diversity accepting

all stocks, all regions on the isle’s endless circuit

where, from bridges, short trousered boys wave caps

and talk in piping tones to drivers. That’s gone,

the incense of oil, soot and steam beside the platform,

my father’s hand round mine before the black and massive

mystery of grease and whirling rods beneath the canopy

of Borough Green, the sunlit shunting yard,

the hum of electric sets grinding out sparks.

Squinting to find the eye-line of OO men,

these scenes re-enacted in the living room,

circuiting an oval on a table top, where

hardboard and scrapwood station stood.

Sometimes with the lights turned off

the switcher’s beams would search around the walls

desperately circling before the inevitable fall,

the romance of the dying engineer, the C&O,

the Wabash Cannonball, a-steaming and a-rolling,

even blackleg Casey must get the old train through

along the sooty, rusty valleys turning in the mind,

the urgent tracks where the valiant run on time.

That old electric smell of dust and cardboard

seized me in a junk shop; I bought a piece

of someone else’s childhood. On the table

I showed the kids the fractured chassis

and patched it with their yoghurts’ plastic scrap.

A new landscape stirs from the chipboard:

wadded newsprint, styrene banks, card and bark

through which the rails flow under, over,

and engines repainted in their names hammer round.

German pacific, Shinties, ALCOs, Flying Scot,

the scenery never quite fixed down, elusive

Deltic prototype half built, a railroad smorgasbord,

recreation more than re-creation, whims and myths

snatched from grainy photographs. Old liveries,

long scrapped giants form the vocabulary

my son spells out from Colin Garratt and OS Nock,

a litany of types and stations that now might not

have ever been. My Grandad, Dad, Mother

and railway worker uncle smiling at a Brownie,

sun slanting through the cast iron canopy frame,

suitcases by the carriage door, the pilot backs away.

The trip to Weymouth, the blue grey HST

up north to my student years, the announcer’s

measured call of all the stations home,

Gloucester, Stroud, Kemble and Swindon,

the finality of the slam door and the whistle,

all trains offer some escape. Here in this extended O,

this trail with no end or beginning, no timetable,

no definite character yet formed of its paper hills;

everywhere and nowhere, even the cardboard station

replicates a building in the local woods

derailed some sixty years ago, time melds ages,

the whim of a Saturday afternoon, a day with Thomas,

rocking, rolling, riding, Darmouth on to Hythe,

Canaervon to Pickering, many miles away.

The human map re-invents itself. Old lines

are ploughed back under fields, make beds for roads,

the Flying Scotsman’s Chinese replica nameplates

amongst the diesel electric manuals at car boots,

the coy coal-fired depiction of the flesh now all gas

and motorways, the Evening Star shines up in York.

We look up from the retail park at some blind worm’s roar,

red and silver, burrowing through the landscape

to the future, and it’s gone.

Nick Pollard

9/11 and Counting

2008-09-19T09:29:00.002+01:00

9/11 and Counting

Because

We have the need

To look like heroes

Because

We have so many

Well oiled friends

Because

We're somewhat

Oily our selves

And because

We are

Selectively blind,

9/11 exploded

Shattering

Our delicate

Thin skinned

Power balloon

And castrating

Our twin

Phallic symbols

That'd injected

Themselves into

The economic arms

Of this country

Causing our current

currency crisis

Our CEOs concluded,

Well, what now?

Suspect everybody!

But just blame those

That you don't like.

Then you too

Can look like a hero

And get as oily

As you like.

Whatever Became of the Old Medicine Factory?

2008-09-19T09:27:00.008+01:00

Whatever Became of the Old Medicine Factory?

Walking down my old Flushing Avenue, Williamsburg, Brooklyn

The day was not long enough for me

Not to see what became

Of what remained

Of the forbidden zone of old buildings

Of loading docks that stunk of chemicals

(I now realize those pigeons were brave

to nest under the skyway, now long gone)

And of a building many years ago

Wedged at the corner of Flushing and Gerry

Torn down, my father saying, because

"It was poison in there."

I wondered at a young age

Why it was left bare

Why couldn't they make it a playground?

So years after inhaling poison

As I walked to school

I see their office house

Turned into a charter school

And a playground over and beyond the spot

I once thought there would be one

In a place I would not send any child,

Never mind my own

15 September 08

Take it to Toronto

2008-09-19T09:25:00.005+01:00

Take it to Toronto

The day passes

And the season of warmness comes to an end

I send my thoughts into a distant world

As my heart bows and my soul wanders

Truth comes to the land of the cold

Some listen with their ears

And some listen with their eyes

As it holds the key to silence

I open myself in the name of a flower

And the night is still dark

When the drum sounds it wakes up the heart

The precious metal as it resounds

the choice of my livelihood

Within my memories as yesterday and tomorrow

And sometimes I want to be held

And sometimes I want to hold you

As love is an open book

The maple leaves will turn yellow

And lately green as winter is not out of season

The day is so well on Toronto Island

By the actions of the verses

Of Buffy Sainte Marie

Getting started

I seek inspiration on the Don Valley River

Dance with me, pretty baby, dance with me, pretty baby

Under the stars

10/13/94

One

2008-06-06T22:31:00.003+01:00

One

I, have become lost.
I, have been absorbed.
I, am now we.

We, are blended together.
We, have one being.
We, cannot be parted.

This Sacred Mound

2008-05-26T09:23:00.009+01:00

The turgid sea surges beneath

Heaven's precious throne

Starlight twinkling

Upon the breaking waves

Like magic dust

Scattered over the water

My will, thy will, one will

To create a life of joy

And walk a path of bliss

Upon this sacred mound.

(GROW)

Lynne's Haikus

2008-05-26T02:26:00.002+01:00

SPRING AGAIN - To a Peach Tree in Consort Road

1.
Bright pink peach blossoms
Sway wildly - "Catch-me catch-me
If you can!" I'm here!

2.
Now I know you're there
I simply stand and stare . . .
Where am I? Nowhere!

3.
Going, going, gone . . .
How will I know when Here is
If you don't exist . . .

Further Trial

2008-05-25T14:31:00.003+01:00

I think the previous went around the world maybe ,if not you will get it twice . I have successfully sent two poems to fed-friends by fumbling my computer (we are not very compatible) and this time shall write down ways or steps to success so my short-term memory doesn't let me down . Also must find how to format margins for poetry especially . My profile is open to viewers . Some people seem to be in love with themselves but with me it's the real thing . Live long and prosper . Ken Baldwin

Bedtime with Dad

2008-05-24T22:34:00.009+01:00

Bedtime with Dad

At my bedtime,
my Dad, faced by a lion in Africa ,
turned his back contemptuously
and the lion threw him down,
jaws slavering red and open,
teeth razor-white sharp .
But my Dad thrust his hand into those jaws,
down its throat
and through a slithery inner belly
to the root of its tail
then with one gigantic heave
he turned it inside out .
That's what he said.

At my bedtime ,
My Dad saved a white mermaid at Blackpool
from an octopus, by tying it in knots ,
and that same day saved a black mermaid
from a shark
by forcing cod-liver oil down its throat
with a bicycle pump he happened to be carrying .
Upon which the shark sank to its sea-bed
and took no further interest .
That's what he said .

At my bedtime,
My Dad put his thumbs into his mouth
and blew and blew
until his biceps swelled like balloons.
He once saved his life at sea
by using them to keep afloat .
I tried to blow mine up but couldn't .
There'll come a time,
that's what he said .

At his own last bedtime,
lions and mermaids waiting his arrival,
he gave me a morning-clean shaven kiss
and Be a Good Boy
is what he said .
I was sixty three.

Ken Baldwin
Most of my poems are about people. I seldom write
about daffodils as they don't vary a great deal .

2008-05-24T15:36:00.003+01:00

trial blog from Ken Baldwin
MY TEACHER SAYS

Miss Golightly says insects
fertilise flowers
so now I know why girls
cross their legs
when they encounter
spiders in showers .

Broadsheet Submissions

2008-05-24T10:13:00.004+01:00

Does anyone have a poem or short story to post? Or inspiration to share? Writing Workshop Ideas? - Something to say about the Constitution? Plans for the London MiniFest?

Welcome

2008-05-23T09:34:00.002+01:00

Welcome to TheFED-Friends Blog.

I've sent an invite to every member of TheFED Egroup individually as it seems that a mass mailout doesn't work.