Pete's poem!

" Our Precious Lives"

In the brown tints of autumn I see only gold
I really feel young now, used to feel old.
The world seems a lot like a vibrant paradise,
You'll see it like that, too, if you open your eyes.

Music fills my ears and enriches my life,
Drives away all the pain and the strife.
Everywhere I see beauty, I see fresh open eyes
Sweeping away the corruption and lies.

We fought for the truth 23 years long
About how fine people died - it was wrong, wrong, wrong.
We fought and we won, the truth will out.
Where I see injustice, I will shouting, shout, shout.

One million children will this Xmas feel loss
Because they can't see their dads, they ask why - told just "cos".
The reason's quite hard for us to explain.
The feeling's more simple, just pain, pain, pain.

So fight for what's right, and see all that's good.
Eat well, and eat right, the world's lovely food.
Love deeply, risk hurt, be joyous and strong,
And may your precious life be happy and long.


Pete Garrard December 2012

Christmas at Dingley Dell

The Christmas Ball at Dingley Dell

Chas Dickens

The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came the tea and coffee; and then, the ball.

The best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burned bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place in which they would have held their revels.

If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.

'We are all ready, I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.

'Then begin at once,' said Wardle. 'Now!'

Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of 'Stop, stop!'

'What's the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly power, if the house had been on fire. 'Where's Arabella Allen?' cried a dozen voices.

'And Winkle?'added Mr. Tupman.

'Here we are!' exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell which was the redder in the face, he or the young lady with the black eyes.

'What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick, rather pettishly, 'that you couldn't have taken your place before.'

'Not at all extraordinary,' said Mr. Winkle.

'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes rested on Arabella, 'well, I don't know that it WAS extraordinary, either, after all.'

However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the fiddles and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick—hands across—down the middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the chimney, back again to the door—poussette everywhere—loud stamp on the ground—ready for the next couple—off again—all the figure over once more—another stamp to beat out the time—next couple, and the next, and the next again—never was such going; at last, after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen couple after the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman's wife had been substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to keep time to the music, smiling on his partner all the while with a blandness of demeanour which baffles all description.

Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple had retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs, notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having, severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty people to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on the previous night.

Fessiwig Ball!

Christmas Carol
The Ghost of Christmas Past



"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!"
Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomachaches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, any how and every how. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But, scorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.[44]
But if they had been twice as many—ah! four times—old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsy, cork-screw, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut"—cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side the door, and, shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.
During the whole of this time Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.
"A small matter," said the Ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude."
"Small!" echoed Scrooge.
The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices,[45] who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig; and, when he had done so, said:
"Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?"
"It isn't that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter self. "It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune."
He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.
"What is the matter?" asked the Ghost.
"Nothing particular," said Scrooge.
"Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted.
"No," said Scrooge, "no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all."
His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air.

a poem I found for John !

We two make banquets of the plainest fare
In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure...
For us life always moves with lilting measure
We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure”

 Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Love Poem

Taking Love for Granted

We had all sorts of angels

In our jubilee chorus

Making up a pack of cards

Jostling one another in our old kit bag.

Understanding and Supporting

And Listening and five more.

You chose a match with your eyes

Shut and suddenly there was

Light.

John Lightbody November 11th 2012.

Tears and anger

I have been very tearful this last two days, really miss my pa, every time I say it is much easier, I feel like I get hit by a bus. I had very vivid images of dad, felt I could reach out and touch him,almost hear his voice and smell him. Alas no, of course. I felt inexplicably angry, everything annoyed me,nothing felt right was not comfortable in my own skin.
Poor John, sorry to say I took it out on him, but he does understand thank goodness.
So all in all a bad few days. I am calming down now.Saw my last client till July 4th.Thank goodness. I have felt very tired since the wedding.
Since dad died, we have known we had that to look forward to.Now it is all over and it feels a bit flat. I am going to Glasgow on Glasgow fair Friday for a long weekend with Sandra,.
Jackie Gary and Matthew have all made it clear that I can stay with them when I visit Glasgow.
I think I will go once a quarter and stay with each of them once.I don't suppose I will do this forever but certainly the first year.

Folkestone tomorrow thank goodness ,a little house a stones throw from the beach ,next door to the pub,and a view of the ferries coming in and out from France. Sounds good to me.
Then a long weekend with Johnny Ellie and Archie. It is one of the pluses about this new life,I can go to places other than Glasgow nowadays.

All shall be well ,and all shall be well,
and all manner of things shall be well .

Ruth's Poem

Let love find you

Let love find you, for it seeks you now.

Stand in the open doorway and welcome it in.

This is your home -

this body, that today is heavy and sad,

another day will dance.

Listen – even the small birds

who tease wool fluff from the gravel

bring messages of hope.

See – even the magpies and the crows

are beautiful.

You will laugh again -

first learn to laugh at yourself.

Listen to your own prayer -

answer your own question.

Let life find you, for it seeks you now.

Stand in the open doorway and welcome it in.

Ruth Marshall, 20 April 2012

Sue's Visit with reading April 2012

We started the May 22nd club again during Sues's visit to Castlenel. We sat in the LA every evening overlooking Carrer Mig and we drank some local wine and read passages from books and poems to each other.  These below are John's readings.  1 Sailing to Byzantium   THAT is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. WB Yeates 1927 2 THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE THE trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away? 3 COOLE PARK AND BALLYLEE, 1931 UNDER my window-ledge the waters race, Otters below and moor-hens on the top, Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop, Run underground, rise in a rocky place In Coole demesne, and there to finish up Spread to a lake and drop into a hole. What's water but the generated soul? Upon the border of that lake's a wood Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun, And in a copse of beeches there I stood, For Nature's pulled her tragic buskin on And all the rant's a mirror of my mood: At sudden thunder of the mounting swan I turned about and looked where branches break The glittering reaches of the flooded lake. Another emblem there! That stormy white But seems a concentration of the sky; And, like the soul, it sails into the sight And in the morning's gone, no man knows why; And is so lovely that it sets to right What knowledge or its lack had set awry, So arrogantly pure, a child might think It can be murdered with a spot of ink. Sound of a stick upon the floor, a sound From somebody that toils from chair to chair; Beloved books that famous hands have bound, Old marble heads, old pictures everywhere; Great rooms where travelled men and children found Content or joy; a last inheritor Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame Or out of folly into folly came. A spot whereon the founders lived and died Seemed once more dear than life; ancestral trees, Or gardens rich in memory glorified Marriages, alliances and families, And every bride's ambition satisfied. Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees We shift about -- all that great glory spent -- Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent. We were the last romantics -- chose for theme Traditional sanctity and loveliness; Whatever's written in what poets name The book of the people; whatever most can bless The mind of man or elevate a rhyme; But all is changed, that high horse riderless, Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood. The lunatic, the lover and the poet 4 Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination, That if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear! John Lightbody Recent photos Show details

htbody

May 26 May 22nd Club

The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul
Douglas Adams

Chap1

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression 'As pretty as an airport'.

Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly.Some attain a degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of people who are tired, cross and have just discovered that their luggage has landed in Murmansk. (Murmansk is the only known exception in this otherwise infallible rule) and architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their designs.

They have tried to highlight the tiredness and crossness motif with brutal shapes and nerve jangling colours, to make effortless the business of separating the traveller from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveller with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie racks or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky,and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds that it is functional and conceal the position of the departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.

Caught in the middle of a sea of hazy light and a sea of hazy noise, Kate Schechter stood and doubted.

All the way out of London to Heathrow she had suffered from doubt. She was not a suprstitious person or even a religious person, she was simply a person who was not at all sure she should be flying to Norway. She was finding it increasingly easy to believe that God,if there was a God, and if it was remotely possible that any Godlike being who could order the disposition of particles at the creation of the universe would also be interested in directing traffic on the M4, did not want her to fly to Norway either. All the trouble with the tickets, finding a next door neighbour to look after the cat, then finding the cat so that it could be looked after by the next door neighbour, the sudden leak in the roof, the missing wallet, the weather, the unexpected death of the next door neighbour, the pregnancy of the cat – it all had the semblance of an orchestrated campaign of obstruction which had begun to assume Godlike proportions.

Even the taxi driver- when eventually she had found a taxi driver- had said,'Norway? What do you want to go there for?' And when she had instantly said 'the Aurora Borealis' or 'Fiords!' but had looked doubtful for a moment and bitten her lip, he had said, 'I know. I bet its some bloke dragging you out there. Tell you what. Tell him to stuff it. Go to Teneriffe.'

:-)


When troubles come they come not in single spies but in battallions

Shakespeare?

Short story

"Helen Collins " I hear my name being called by a quiet calm nurse wearing a dark blue uniform.

I lay down my little ring back pad,the one I had been writing my affirmations in.

" I am safe"

"all is well"

"everything that is happening is happening for my highest good"

"my healing powers are operating on maximum power"

I walk down the corridor past other waiting people. Some are reading ,some are listening to I players,some are drinking coffee out of brown cardboard cups.

The nurse says "I want to test your eyes;"

I have to cover my eye with one hand and read the letters on the lit up test board with the other eye.

I realise I am wearing the wrong glasses.I feel a flicker of panic.

I take a slow deep breath and go ahead covering first my right eye then my left.

I do OK right down to the last two lines then I just take a guess.

The calm nurse gives nothing away,she says that is fine and asks me for my post code.

She asks me go go back down the corridor and wait with the others till the doctor calls my name.

I start writting more calming affirmations in my little blue ringback pad.

The pad has small blue squares ,like the ones in the maths books we had at primary school , to do our sums in.

Nurses come back and forth bringing patients to the laser clinic;showing them where to sit and telling them what to expect.

Helen Collins? my name is called again this time by a young male doctor.

Apprehension grips me when I see the paraphernalia in his little consulting room.

He tells me he is going to treat both eyes today.The treatment will help reduce the pressure behind my eyes,he is confident about this,because in his experience the results were always good..I feel a small sense of hope.

"Is this your speciality " I ask

"you mean eyes" ?

"yes"

he smiles "yes "he reassures me"

Has Dr Chourday told you I am a bad parient? I can't stand anyone or anything near my eyes I tell him.

You are not the first and you will not be the last,he laughs gently, and I feel myself relaxing a bit.

He put drops in my eys and talks me through the procedure.

He has to put a lense on my eye in order to use the laser.

I feel scared ,but, he is gentle and patient with me and soon the lense is in my eye and my head is in place in the chin rest.

It is turing out to be quite painless ,just a little uncomfortable keeping my eye opened,looking at him looking up ,looking down:

all the time his voice is quite and encouraging."that's good" "won't be long " "last thing now"

The right eye is done and I am feeling quite proud of myself now.

I realise I have been scaring myself with thoughts of moving at the wrong time, doing someting to make matters worse,maybe even running away.

The left eye is so much easier I am feeling quite relaxed now.

He tells me, that in an hour the nurse will test the pressure of my eyes.

Occasionally the pressure behind the eyes jumps up after the treatment.

I ask him if have to wait in the corridor.he says no I can go for a cup of tea.

I hear my voice in my head "I have had the treatment and I can STILL see"

I find John eating a sausage roll and reading the Guardian. He gives me a hug and asks if I would likea cup of tea. I want a coffee but have an irrational idea I must have tea because the doctor said " go for a cup of tea."

I sit for a while simply enjoying seeing the abulances coming and going in the car park.

I return to the laser treatment center and I just sit gazing into space letting the relief flood over me.

The calm nurse calls my name ,she checks the pressure of both eyes with her little blue instrument.She says " the pressure in both eyes is normal."

The doctor pops his head round the door and asks how I am. "I feel fine and thank you so much for your work" he smiles "my pleasure"

I skip out of the hospital into a grey rainy day but in my heart the sun is shinning.

Poem on Grief John O'Donohue

Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,
Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the altar of the heart.
Your mind always sparkled
With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.