The cost of a view

A couple of years ago I read in the local paper that the council were proposing to charge rates based on the view from your garden.  This prompted me to write this:

If I were charged a fee
Each time I sit here under this tree
To look upon the view
From my backyard
I would surely be bankrupt now.

But would I be given recompense
Every time I look over the fence
Into the busy, noisy street
And for each late night reveller
Who stops in my front garden for a kiss
Or even a piss
Whilst awaiting the noisy, door-slamming,
Fuckin' spouting taxi
They take into town.

And what price the bus trip into town
To shop on a Saturday
Only to realise that
There's no bus back.

(this was written whilst we were still lucky enough to have a bus service in Southwick - albeit a totally unsuitable one for anyone other than those trying to get into town in the morning and back again before six in the evening.  Now we have even lost that service - supposedly because it wasn't financially viable.  It may have worked if the bus services had been more user-friendly.)

An old Poem without a name

I have compared thee, O my love
To a flock of seagulls on the shore
Stoically standing against the wind
Only to rise up in alarm
Whenever I try to be near you.

Your eyes are to me, the eyes of the raptor.
They stare unblinking into the distance
Awaiting some prey far beyond my sight.

Your broad shoulders like raptor's wings
Lifting you far into the sky
To float and soar high above me
Always out of reach.

I compare thy heart, my love,
To the tiny robin
Who flits and hops about my garden
Greedily tasting all I have to offer
And ferociously attacking all who come to call.

Wise Words

You have no need to climb a great mountain to reach wisdom.  It is already in your heart.  Just be still, allow yourself a quiet space in the midst of all this mayhem.  Stop moving about - rushing to get things done.  Just listen to your inner self and allow it free reign to shine through you.

Take good care of yourself, be selfish sometimes.  Honour the Earth and all its creatures and the Earth will care for you.  Listen more often, talk less.  Honour your parents, respect your children - and don't spit in the street.

judith kinghorn...: Agents and publishers (a post for authors).

judith kinghorn...: Agents and publishers (a post for authors).: We live in interesting times, particularly in publishing, where digital technology has accelerated change and altered our vision of the fut...

Rainy Wednesday

"One month's rainfall in the next forty-eight hours" the weather girl said on the news yesterday morning.  I knew our summer ended when March flew out.  Makes you want to stay in bed and catch up on your dreams - so you go to sleep and the dreams just chase you awake.

So you put on your face, do your hair, put on your coat and boots, get in the car and drive.  At the top of the hill you can see the blue sky hanging over Fawley - the oil refinery in the distance.  Try to hold onto the poetic words in your head as you drive - and then - sitting in Fareham town with a cup of coffee the words have all disappeared - so you look up at the window to the sky and see - sunshine.

Try to make the most of the moment by writing in a notebook - time to move on to working the new novel into something of a PLOT.  Picking at your brain-cells which seem to have gone into hibernation with the weather.  Struggle to write - then suddenly you realise that you've written three pages of something.  Put it away and don't read it back for at least a couple of days - then embellish it until it makes a story.

Driving back home, passing the river - you notice the banks are overflowing and the water's still rising.  The sun no longer shining and it's raining again.  But in the garden the birds are feeding, and singing as they feed.  Everywhere you look it's wet and windswept.  The plastic chairs in the garden are on their sides, catching water in their hollow legs ready to soak you when you try to upright them later.  Windchimes are clattering together - annoying the neighbours even more than usual.  You wonder whether you should bring them in before the winds tears at the cord that hangs them to the tree.

You sit in the kitchen - looking out at all that beauty - and the sun comes out again, casting warmth in through the window.  You smile.

Caught in the Web published in paperback

At last, you can obtain your own paperback copy of Caught in the Web.  If you would rather have a book that you can actually hold in your hand, feel the paper, turn the pages, pass on to your friends or the local charity shop - this is your lucky day!
Seriously though, a lot of people have asked me when the book would be out in paperback - so I have been working hard on trying to get it published and have finally achieved it.
Here's the link if you want to order a copy.  'www.completelynovel.com/books.

The Mirror Image

Am feeling poetic today:




The Wrong Coloured Eyes -
Lines like feathers around my Mother's mouth
Droop down at corners then arise.
The nose, likened to a Polish Countess
Speaks a language I was never taught.

Green eyes sparkle from my Grandmother's face
The fine lace-like skin
Dried and weathered now,
Tight across the brow
Like the drum that thumps its rhythm within.

Eyes in Edwardian photos do not shine
But gaze fearfully into the future
Unaware of the timelessness of captured features
Handed down to me in tiny scraps -
Each one wrapped in my reflection.

Tomorrow - the green eyes change to brown
At the whim of the weather
Or the clothes I chose to wear -
But the eyes in the photo never change,
Always remaining deep, black pools
Gazing past my lifetime into another's eternity.