THE ICE-CREAM VAN

Most Sundays in the summer,

from mid-morning to early evening,

the ice-cream van parked in a prime spot,

near the top of our street

to catch churchgoers and passers-by,

and kids sent out for the after-dinner treat.

We waited our turn listening to the noise

of the engine running, the occasional chimes,

smelling exhaust fumes, watching bluebottles

head-butting the glass, giving the open window a miss,

wondering how the ice-cream man could go all day

in his ice-cream van without taking a piss.

STEPPING STONES

Life's moments are never destinations,
more like stepping stones, not equidistant,
some easy to walk, some more challenging,
urging decisions, choices, grasping of opportunities,
leaps of faith or hope or pure recklessness,
stepping stone to stepping stone,
better without companions or qualms,
to face the risks and dangers completely alone.

AFTER READING 'THE RAILWAY MAN' BY ERIC LOMAX

The Railway Man by Eric Lomax about his time as a prisoner of the Japanese in World War II is one of the best books I have ever read - harrowing, yet uplifting. In 1998, he met Nagase Takashi, his interrogator and torturer, and a remarkable story of forgiveness emerged. The last two lines were written by Mr Lomax.


I read about the thirst,
about the hunger and filth.
I read about the naked fear,
the end of dignity.
I read about the hatred,
about the urge to kill.
I read of brutal acts,
the unbelievable.


I read about the day,
you and him ill at ease.
I read that face to face
you forgave enemies.
I recall petty things,
trivial and useless.
I compare me to you,
pathetic, courageous.


"Forgiveness is possible 
when someone is ready to accept forgiveness. 
Some time the hating has to stop."



CHRISTMAS CHAOS

Rudolph ate the Christmas tree 
while Santa wasn't looking,
turkey hid the stuffing
to sabotage the cooking,
sherry superglued the cork
to stop pre-dinner drinking,
mince pies took a long deep breath
and their middles started sinking,
presents all unwrapped themselves
and swapped the labels round,
cards erased their sentiments
looking blankly at the ground,
tinsel lost its sparkle
in a game of festive whist,
mistletoe withdrew its role
to prompt the Christmas kiss.


It was a relief to find
that this nightmare wasn't true
I just dreamt it as I dozed
in the supermarket queue.

EXPLORER

The whistling indecisiveness of freak winds,
the pull-push buffeting natural bully,
failed to blur the explorer's sharp focus
on the horizon, a point of end and start.
The blazing sun as sky-anchor, director,
the stars guidance at night, cloud patterns, currents,
added science to notions of the possible,
lust for the new, driven by curiosity and fame.
Who knows what is over the distant line - keep moving,
survive, eat snow, gorge on salted provisions, sour milk and flat beer,
drive on to a place without footprints and human smells,
then consider a flawed future now that Man is here.

MINOR INCIDENT BETWEEN MY MOTHER AND THE REVEREND IAN PAISLEY

This happened sometime in the early 1970s in our living room.


In an uncharacteristic burst of anger,
my mother once took off her slipper,
concentrated hard, took careful aim
and let fly at the television set.


On impact, the vase on top wobbled,
we kids tranced between gasp and cough
and the reason for mother's missile -
Ian Paisley shouting his mouth off.

GOOD REEF

Constance the contortionist

on a gig up in Kircaldy*

was performing all her usual tricks

with her supple rubber body.

But halfway through proceedings

in a flash of memory lapse

a leg went left instead of right

and the act veered toward collapse.

One wrong move and what came next

just added to the rot

and Constance left the stage that night

rolled up in a knot.

(*Some will know but others might not – it’s pronounced Kircaudy)