I write for me. I'll write for you. Features, reviews, opinion pieces on life's foibles, film & TV nostalgia, Belfast and more. I have a crack at poetry and short fiction too. Contact: email@example.com NO FEAR OF TIGHT DEADLINES! Page views since 2011 below. Creative artists guest posts will be considered.
For answers to nearly everything, the universe and the planet, life on earth, the human body, the history of mankind, people and nations, culture and entertainment, the global economy, science and invention, I just have to look in my ready reference book, or search it out on the Internet, all the information is there, to remember or forget, facts at my fingertips - no question has stumped me yet.......
......except the one that has me vexed: What happens next?
The passion for revenge
the compassion of forgiveness,
the eye for an eye,
the urge to punish,
to condemn, to get even,
to gain an upper hand
above and beyond reason
and the desire to understand.
Revenge, it appears, is sweet,
any excuse to raise gun or fist,
in this uncertain age of fear,
is impossible, it seems, to resist.
The babble-gabble of the noisy rabble and the burble-gurble of the verbal rebels, ruin the joy of silence that once dominated libraries.
Now the silence has gone in this bleep/cheep gadget age, progress, austerity are reasons given, by transient politicians, careless, self-driven, but there is is always the power of the people's rage to stop libraries heading for the obituary page.
It was 16 September 1947, wedding day, bride sitting, groom standing, bride's full smile, groom's half-smile, mother, father, more than sixty years ago, before the seven kids, before he abandoned the family, a black and white photograph showing me this much is true - my mother had a beautiful heart and soul and she looked lovely at twenty-two.
He came to me for advice, thirty years a supermarket manager, told he was past his sell-by date, told he was a dinosaur, told his face didn't fit, told he wasn't good enough, told to bog off by a kid half his age.
He sat, hands trembling, nervous timbre in his voice, no HR procedure, no sensitivity, no clear reasons, no guts from his boss, in a closed room, trapped in a corporate cage.
He said he had a choice, the scrapheap or the final solution - what comes after fifty, what path to take at this crossroads, what is there to live for, what's the bloody point? He left - which direction? - leaving me to guess............
...........his obituary was a fitting tribute, a sad waste nonetheless.
I am an exclamation mark,
a question mark,
I pause as a comma
or even a hyphen
but I keep going,
never an end in myself,
never daunted or scared to keep trying,
never, ever a full stop.
One moment, one murderous moment, and everything changed, everything, nothing would, nothing could ever be the same again.
The murderer was dead, easy way out, the victim lived on in suffering and challenge, with courage and defiance, until that point that few of us know, that point of no return, that point when candles burn to salute the hero, to mourn his fate, - too late, people, too late.