Kindling

Kindling

Many years ago

I saw your blackened face

As it shone by firelight

With beads of sweat

Streaking whitened paths

Through the sooty grime

As it dripped into your beard

You stood above the flames

Your features darkened

By shadows flickering

Tending to your bonfire

Watching the orange fingers

Leafing through the pages

As they turned them over, one by one

And burned them fiercely

Within the conflagration

The blasphemous words

Dangerous thoughts

And heretical teachings

Within those banished books

Made easy fuel for flames

Mere card and paper

Covers and bindings

Consumed within the smoke

Rendered down to ash

So that none might read them any more

But now your brow seems furrowed

As you wonder what to do

With all this glass and plastic

Metal and electronica

Casings and batteries

Of phones and iPads

And other hand-held gadgets

That will not catch alight

Nor burn with any purpose

This digital economy

Its airwaves alive with anarchy

Downloaded through the ether

A seditious cyberspace

That cannot be controlled

A communications spectrum

That provides its own oxygen

Requiring nothing else to Kindle

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Turning Into My Own Father

Turning Into My Own Father

It’s of little use

I can see it all now

The mirror does not lie

I find myself looking at a man

That I do not recognise

Yet is alike, and who looks vaguely familiar

Although I cannot quite place him

I’m sure he is not a stranger

The fullness of his face

The receding hairline

Ebbing back above his brow

A distinctive pattern

That I know from photographs

In the sepia tones of generations

Dark and hooded eyes

Look back towards me

Posing unanswerable questions

Full, fleshy uneven lips

Thickening jowls

Jaw-line set heavy

And the slackness of muscles

Etch long, deep lines within sagging skin

And tell a story of their own

Unblinking he returns my stare

His face unreadable

Implacable and calm

But tired, deadly tired

As if this may be the last time

That he will stand so still

Allowing himself to be inspected

His features so exposed

Under the unforgiving bathroom light

And at last I am forced to look away

No longer able to hold his gaze

Nor to make the excuse

That I am too busy

To spend more time

On this sad reflection

And I am left to wonder

If his eyes will continue to follow me

Around the room

Long after I have moved away

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th July 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th July 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.   D-Town citizens stood with cricked necks and open mouths, and allowed a small amount of dribble to escape, as they stood in awe to watch the cosmological phenomenon known as a “Red Moon” on Friday night.  For those not in the know, the phenomenon is caused on a regular basis when the light of the sun is filtered through the thick flames and smoke on Salisbury Plain, caused by the Army firing live rounds of ammunition during manoeuvres.  It is related to the old Wiltshire saying: “red sky in a morning, shepherds’ fair warning; red sky at night, Salisbury’s on fire”.

2.  And following the extended period of no rain, and long, hot sunny days with blue skies (locally known as “Summer”), the skies finally opened yesterday, bringing bouts of torrential rain, localised flooding, and gusting winds.  This phenomenon is known by weather experts as “perfectly normal” and “nothing to get excited about”.  Local doom-sayers are now worried that the area will be subjected to long periods of “weather” and may even suffer from “various climactic conditions” over the next few months.  More realistic citizens, however, are predicting that The Vize will merely suffer from “Autumn” and possibly later from “Winter”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Cat's Cry

Cat’s Cry

How your crying disturbs me

Makes me sit up and take notice

And listen to your distress

To your prowling round the room

Snuffling among the shifting shadows

Along the edges and into deep corners

Seeking something that is not there

And that you will never find

The pitiful, lonely sound

That mewling tone

Of existential angst

That smacks of fear and desperation

And catches at my pity

Snags on something

That makes me want to comfort you

To tell you that it’s alright

That I’m always here for you

But you do not understand me

When I try to soothe you

My words of comfort carry no sense

In your feral feline world

And soon the frenzy passes

Back into forgetfulness

And you resume your normal cool indifference

As you suddenly cease to enquire

Into the meaning of your existence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Pies & Perspiration

Pies & Perspiration

Trailing rucksacks and water-bottles

They wander exhausted into the pub

Give their aching backs a solid stretch

And their cramping calves a gentle rub

They’re thirsty and they’re starving

So they can’t believe their eyes

When behind the bar they notice

A heated cabinet full of tasty pies

Drinks are bought and drunk

Then gratefully they take a seat

Grabbing cutlery and sauces

And hungrily they set to eat

It’s been a long walk getting here

Glad to have reached this town

Now the pastry crumbles as the knives go in

And the fillings soon wolfed down

The ramblers treat themselves to rest

Perspiration cooling on their brows

Soon they’ll be feeling sleepy

Their bodies hard to rouse

The room takes on a strange aroma

At first it seems to be the walkers’ desperation

But then I realise it’s more mundane -

Just a heady mix of pies and perspiration

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Little Fairy Circles

Little Fairy Circles

Each and every morning

As I make my way across The Green

I realise that they’ve been here again

Leaving their traces to be seen

Perfect twinkling circles

That hadn’t been there the night before

Catching the early morning sunshine

I wonder what they’re lying here for

Pizza boxes, cans and bottles

As far as the eye can see

Evidence that they walked amongst us

Arranged in perfect symmetry

What are they trying to tell us?

What strange message from the gods?

Or is it just untidy bloody teenagers

And other messy little sods?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Fifty Shades Of Gravy

Fifty Shades of Gravy (a modern romance)

How long have I loved thee my dearest? – Probably since I was but a mere child,

But the merest thought of devouring you is sure to be driving me wild!

‘Cause this is a very ticklish subject, and I don’t like to seem naughty or coarse,

For we’re talking about that sticky stuff, which posh people refer to as “sauce”.

I hate it when things are too watery - to have it like that is surely a sin -

It needs to have some kind of substance - it serves no purpose if it’s too thin.

It just slips off all over the place, and everything starts sliding around,

It doesn’t keep the right things together - you need something thicker, I’ve found.

You see it has to have the right texture, and about this I know I’m quite picky,

But if it doesn’t have enough body, it’ll never stand up and be sticky.

Without it, things just won’t move along, and you’ll be left wondering why,

And if it’s not adequately lubricious, you’ll find everything tends to be dry.

Such lack of lubrication’s a problem, and can render you exceedingly grumpy,

‘Cos what you don’t expect, when you get down to it, is for it all to feel terribly lumpy.

And if the flavour’s not tasty enough, it can leave you feeling quite queasy,

For the last thing you want, at this juncture, is something that’s oily or greasy.

It’s got to be configured just right, for the appetite it needs to induce,

To bring forth great oral pleasure, you must have plenty of juice!

No, you can’t have it too firm or too runny - such liquid upon you I just wouldn’t foist,

But something for the meat and two veggies - it’s best to have everything flowing and moist.

Yes, the moisture derives from the meat, it’s what you need, if you’re to have dripping,

The jus and the fat come together, and it’s like on nectar you’re sipping.

Of course, I speak not of jelly, but of gravy, made with Oxo, Bisto or browning,

Where on your plate there’s an ocean or lake, and the roast spuds are waving, not drowning.

So, I appeal to you ladies out there, if you want something that’ll cut the mustard,

Make sure you’ve got plenty of gravy, and avoid shark-infested custard!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

A Taxing Problem

A Taxing Problem

Times is tough and money is short;

It’s hard to know what to do;

The creditors keep asking for payment,

Especially the Inland Revenue.

But now there’s something that’s bothering me,

It’s difficult to know where to start,

‘Cause some people have hired accountants,

And made tax-avoidance into an art.

It’s all done through complex company structures,

Where they shift all their profits off-shore,

Paying far less than they really oughter,

And making out that, really, they’re poor!

The Yanks seem to be especially cute,

Hiding their earnings in crannies and nooks.

I’m talking about Google and Amazon,

And especially about Starbucks.

But they’re not the only ones in the game,

Who seek for their taxes to minimise,

By shifting their trading operations,

And their sales figures to disguise.

It might all be technically legal,

But morally, ethically, it’s not right.

It’s time that we did something about it,

It’s time for us all to put up a fight!

These corporations can afford to pay tax,

If they want to trade here in our market.

It’s time they made the right contribution –

Otherwise, we should tell them where they can park it!

They’re earning millions and billions,

Selling us books, DVDs and coffee.

The Government seem powerless to act,

And can’t spot the loopholes for toffee.

So let us consumers lead a fight-back,

Let’s see how much spending power we’ve got;

Time to vote with our purchasing choices,

And hit them with the tactics of boycott.

I’m fed up with being taken to the cleaners,

I’m almost at the end of my tether,

And I swear I’ll belt any Conservative,

Who tells us again that “we’re all in it together”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Night-Time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this, but there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear, but where it’s coming from - I simply can’t guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming, (that is to say, this happens during the night),

Being of a certain age, you see, I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief, and I desperately need to get to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly, in order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers, I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady, she’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see: in fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet, without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in: as I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice, I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left, carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room, and be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find: you are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine - you have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep, I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea – perhaps Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd July 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd July 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.   In common with the wider Guiding Movement, D-Town’s Brownies and Guides have been waking up to the possibilities offered by the nearly 200 new “achievement” badges which will shortly go on offer.  Particularly popular are expected to be badges for:  “Waking Up In The Morning Without Being Shouted Three Times”, “Advanced Sexting”, “Exploiting The Dark Web For Personal Gain”, “Copping Off With The Boy Next Door” and “Understanding The Purpose Of Litter Bins”.  Lady Baden-Powell is expected to be spinning in her grave like a rat on a rotisserie.

2.  And after nearly two months without rain, dried up river-beds and canals, the grass in public spaces turning from green to browny-yellow, hot burning days with clear blue skies, and a daily weather forecast of “hot and sunny” running on repeat, citizens of the The Vize have been taken by complete surprise by the announcement of a possible hosepipe ban.  “We never expected this!” one shocked resident declared.  “I mean we been saving water for years by not having a bath too often, but this is ridiculous.  I only have a bath once a month – whether I needs it or not!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a frantic scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the shaded branch

Binoculars focusing, cameras snapping

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining, relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

Calm and camouflaged

Sandy ground, black-spotted

Among the shadowed, shimmering leaves

Noon-time elusiveness

This shy, retiring cat yawns wide

Revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slitted eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer, silent assassin

Striking without warning

And as the low-sinking sun

Burns itself into the horizon

Throwing long shadows

The nervous herdsmen move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Goan Red Chicken Curry

Recipe for: CURRY – GOAN RED CHICKEN

Ingredients:

• 4 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 large onion, peeled & sliced
• 4 tblsp red spice paste (see below)
• 4 large tomatoes, chopped (or half a tin of tomatoes)
• 700g chicken joints, skinned
• 250ml water

Method:

1. heat the oil in a large frying pan, add the onion & cook until browned – around 10 minutes
2. add the spice paste & cook, stirring constantly for 2-3 minutes
3. add the tomatoes & a pinch of salt and cook for 10 minutes until softened & reduced
4. uncover the pan & cook for another 6 minutes until the mixture darkens a little
5. add the chicken joints & toss well in the sauce to coat
6. add the water, bring to the boil, then simmer over a low heat for 20 minutes
7. if the sauce is a little too thin, uncover the pan & turn up the heat a little to boil off the excess moisture & thicken the sauce.  The gravy should be thick & dark red

 What else you need to know:

1. serve with rice or naan
2. RED SPICE PASTE – simply blitz/ blend the following ingredients:
1. 2 large red chillies, deseeded & chopped
2. 1 tsp cumin seeds
3. 1-2 tsp coriander seeds
4. 3 cloves
5. 6 black peppercorns
6. ¾ tsp turmeric
7. 9 large cloves garlic, peeled
8. 1 cm piece fresh ginger, peeled
9. Good-sized piece cinnamon
10. 1 tsp tamarind paste
11. ¾ tsp sugar
12. ¾ tsp salt
13. 5 tblsp white wine vinegar

Some Limericks

Some Limericks

There was a young girl on a Honda,

Whose time on the road turned her blonder.

It might have been sun,

As she rode quickly along,

But just what did it is beyond her.

There was a young man of Tashkent,

Whose tool was exceedingly bent.

To save himself trouble,

He put it in double,

And, instead of coming, he went.

There was a butch lass named Grable,

Who liked to sup pints when she was able.

It gave her no fears,

To knock back the beers,

And she could drink most men under the table.

There was a young man in Singapore,

Who found washing a bit of a chore.

He thought taking a shower

Was just for the flowers,

But his friends could only say “Phwoar!!”

There was an old lady named Rogers,

Who lived among some very old codgers.

She spent all her money,

Which ain’t very funny,

And now she’s taking in lodgers.

There was a young chap, name of Darren,

Whose life became increasingly barren.

He felt very strange,

So he had a sex-change,

And now we all know him as Karen.

There was an old git named Andy,

Who became increasingly randy.

He came across a sheep,

Which was soundly asleep,

And thought: “Cor blimey – that’s handy!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants! Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms - it all depends on what the wife buys us.

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on, when he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body and (I suppose) at least one for the legs.

Of course, trousers come in so many forms: cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, even trackie-bottoms or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt.

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye, and the permutations can be legion -

You’d be surprised at the considerations when clothing a man’s nether region.

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort, which demands a great deal of care,

But, naturally, some of the problems depend on your style of underwear.

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando, which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement amongst the various bits of equipment.

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies to keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers, but a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat.

They keep the meat and two veggies warm and, I don’t want to hear any drivel,

For if things below are allowed to get cold, there’s a serious danger of shrivel.

This allows the trousers to get on with their main job, like the role (for the ladies) of their skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty, is there mostly for the tucking of shirts.

That’s to say nothing of extra functions, and you’re in no position to mock it,

When we enter that very strange kingdom - the diverse uses of the male pocket.

For there you can keep your change, or some keys - about the contents you can get cocky -

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys - a furtive quick game of pocket-hockey.

Openings and fastenings are many, a subject that can cause some chaps to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous, especially if you’re in a great hurry.

For you need a belt and braces approach, and you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress” - you mustn’t leave anything still sticking out.

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers, a serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly – but just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Attachment

Attachment

She got it mail-order – it came in a large van -

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

Now I like to think I’m as clean as the next man,

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

There’s all types on the market you can buy,

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

A top-of-the-range one she’d had her eyes on.

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

So many clips and wires, and that wasn’t all.

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

  

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

For, just like a Dalek, it couldn’t climb stairs.

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

And that I’d be able to live in some calm,

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th July 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th July 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.   Huge delight in the town this week as twelve exhausted shoppers were pulled out alive from Morrisons’ bakery department, where they had been trapped with their trolley, and a dwindling supply of Tunnock’s Teacakes, for nearly two weeks.  A crack team of Army psychologists managed to talk them out safely, aisle by aisle, by stringing together a trail of “Reduced” stickers and BOGOF offers.  The rescue was hampered by the increasing presence of “Match & More” cards near the tills, and only the specialist expertise of the military were able to deal with the incredibly difficult conditions.  The shoppers are now receiving counselling.

2.  And The Vize’s branch of Poundland is having an almost unprecedented sale.  Job lots of “Engerland” flags, pennants, t-shirts and car-stickers are being offered for 99p as “unwanted stock”.  Recordings of “Football’s Coming Home” are now clogging the shelves.  Meanwhile several shops in the town have sold out of gentlemen’s waistcoats.  Never mind – Wimbledon finishes today, and the Proms season has already started, so it’ll soon “Winter drawers on” for Christmas.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

When The Archbishop Came To Call

When The Archbishop Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when the archbishop came to call.

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

You know – Welby – for he’s the Archbishop!

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

But that’s not how it all turned out on the day -

You’d think they were expecting some royalty!

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz.

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet.

The Erics, and Dereks, and all of the clerics,

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster.

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal.

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

It was like “Songs Of Praise” had come to town:

In the church it was standing-room only.

There was a danger of over-crowding:

It was close to a riot – that’s a fact.

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed.

  

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen.

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

So I don’t get what the fuss was about,

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress.

Instead I decided I’d go down to the pub,

I just fancied to drink a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars.

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions.

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves.

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drought

Drought

Tramping feet of skinny cattle

Track-herded, raising dust billows

Between brown, empty fields

The earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Crusted solids parched beneath a searing sun

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive in the sterile landscape

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Burned, beaten crops defeated by the dryness

Lie strangled, wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Fingering down between cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted in the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust, drifting into piles

Driven by an arid wind, which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Cauliflower Curry

Recipe for: CAULIFLOWER CURRY

Ingredients:

·        Large cauliflower, cut into florets

·        2 large potatoes, peeled & cut into chunks

·        1 tsp cumin seeds

·        1 tblsp ground coriander

·        ½ tsp turmeric

·        ½ tsp fenugreek

·        1 tsp ground cumin

·        1 tsp chilli powder

·        Tin tomatoes

·        750 ml water

·        1 tsp salt

·        200g frozen peas

Method:

1.      Fry the cumin seeds in hot oil until they brown

2.      Add coriander powder, turmeric, fenugreek, cumin, chilli powder.  Mix & fry for 30 secs

3.      Add cauliflower & potatoes, frying gently for 5-10 minutes until well coated with spce mixture

4.      Add the tin of tomatoes and fry for another 5 minutes

5.      Add water and salt, simmering for 15 minutes until vegetables are just tender

6.      Add the frozen peas, cooking for another 2-3 minutes

7.      Serve with breads/ rice & pickles

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, the padding and bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

  

Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018