I am here

I wrote this poem in 1994 after I was prompted to think back to when I was still a Minister of Religion at Mt Eden Baptist Church, Auckland, some 30 years prior. As part of that role, I became a visitor at the nearby Mt Eden Prison, where I was free to come and go, having no past connection with the inmates or their families. I was also there in case an inmate wanted to see a Minister of Religion, and though it was rare for that to happen, a few times it did. I’d see the inmates in the prison chapel, to listen mostly, never to preach, admonish or suggest what they should do to change things – they’d worked through all that themselves in their prison cells.

I was moved one time as I sat in the visitor’s room, taking in how women (wives, sisters, daughters or mothers), waited for their man, some with small children in varying stages of awareness, quiet and new to the hostile environment, waiting for their daddy to walk out and hug them close and whisper his love for them. Man and woman whispered together in case fellow inmates should hear and see them in their tender moments, a few with tears flowing. And then they held their child or children, and their faces softened with love as they held them close, feeling and breathing their tenderness deep inside, learning what it was like now, to be a father, as well as a husband, a soul-mate, and an inmate.

So, this is what I wrote of my memories of that time…

*

May I tell them of the anguish that you feel deep inside,

outsider, oh so lonely, even ‘midst the noisy thronging crowd;

tell them you don’t fit the scheming pattern of their minds,

deeply hurt by their unthinking laughs and taunts and cruel jibes?

*

May I tell them that the lack of confidence you often feel within,

at school, in sport or following the well-known family tune;

is because you are afraid, and you don’t want to let them down,

from those high ideals they’ve set for you all along the line.

*

May I tell you too, I also know at times you are so scared,

condemned by your own feelings, fearing you have lost your way;

I know you sometimes want to run and never stop,

to end the dreadful nagging pain, or else you’ll blow your top.

*

I know the inmost thoughts that often haunt and torment you,

know that your body will dictate and yes, at times, embarrass you;

I know you are afraid of the long nights and the days,

I know you can’t just pack up your bags and vanish clear away.

*

The lecture they have given you, you know it off by heart,

heard it so bloody often that it’s forcing you apart;

you know you cannot reach the goals they have damn well set,

hate the thought of growing up like so many people you’ve met.

*

May I tell you know, for you need to know before this day is through,

your parents, friends and loved ones really do deeply love you;

they hesitate and do not speak, not sure of what to say, so

scared of hurting you, lest you take flight and hide away.

*

Let me tell them then, who love you, of the things you cannot say,

that life is so frustrating dealing with each muddled day;

there are times you know you need them, and times too when you don’t;

why do they get so angry when you rock the blasted boat?

*

I am here, an intermediary, only a step away – I wait,

knowing I could stand between those close to you who care;

now, you must learn to trust me, that I see both sides and know,

I am the answer to your question: look around you, I am here.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

You can read an interesting blog post about conditions and riots in 1965 at Mt Eden Prison by a fellow New Zealand, here:

Landmines never leave the battlefield

The history of man is one of aggression. This could have begun after man learned to gather food and became a hunter: you don’t have to kill berries, or the leaves of plants. You do have to kill animals in order to eat them. And eat or die is the law of nature.

Then man discovered that at the end of a day’s work it was somewhat relaxing to work with nature, sowing seeds, setting our plants and seeing things flourish and grow. Using his ingenuity, he erected fences and marked his livestock (for he found he also had to protect what was his). With this husbandry came the growth of civilisation and all the problems and joys associated with it. And in the process the weaponry he used advanced as well, from a single arrow shot from a bow, to the Kalashnikov rapid fire AK47 rifle of today.

I don’t know who it was who thought of packing explosives inside a metal casing and then connecting it to a trigger mechanism to set it off. Now men drop them from the sky, from above and below the surface of the sea, and in many other ways to seed planet earth with their deadly menace.

The most devilish and indiscriminate of these is the landmine. Today, according to the UNICEF pamphlet in our local library in Morrinsville, there is one landmine for every 20 children around the world. They’re produced for as little as $3, and remain active for decades. They’re extremely difficult to detect and cost between $300-$1,000 to remove. Afghanistan is the most heavily mined country, with 10-15 million units covering their land. Angola is next in line, then comes Cambodia, with one in every 230 Cambodian’s an amputee. Landmines continue to claim about 300 victims each month.

No matter where your caravan might rest as you travel this world, somewhere close by there’s some child, teenager, man or woman, crippled, hurt or deformed. False limbs of a sort will enable them to shuffle through each day but it’s not the same as having their own limbs, is it?

A number of years ago a young woman in Canada wrote a song which struck a blow at the heart of all this madness. I forget her name, but not the title of the song, ‘Universal Soldier,’ and I remember one line that went something like:

If every soldier refused to fight, all wars would end.

More people are adding their note of protest now. I’d like to add my protest with this suggestion: each person greedy for wealth who shuts their mind to horror and their heart from mercy, and orders landmines to be laid – along with those who paid for them and those who bury them in the ground – should take their own children to test these landmines. They could then pick up the pieces, take them home and for those still alive, fit them with artificial limbs. Perhaps then they would see the madness of their work…

Dennis Crompton © 1997

“Universal Soldier” is a song written and recorded by Canadian singer-songwriter Buffy Sainte-Marie. The song was originally released on Sainte-Marie’s debut album It’s My Way! in 1964. “Universal Soldier” was not a popular hit at the time of its release, but it did garner attention within the contemporary folk music community. Sainte-Marie said of the song: “I wrote ‘Universal Soldier’ in the basement of The Purple Onion coffee house in Toronto in the early sixties. It’s about individual responsibility for war and how the old feudal thinking kills us all.” (from Wikipedia)

Inner spring

‘Old man weeping’ from volume “82 prints engraved by F. Bartolozzi, etc, from the original drawings of Guercino, in the collection of His Majesty”

*

I weep sometimes to see a shining golden dawn awed by the sheer wonder of it all,

thankful that the glorious hues I see lift me from the burdens of the day.

*

I weep at the boundless energy and promise of the young on this amazing planet, terra firma, home of man,

with wonders past, present and still to come, beckoning the inquiring, adventurous schemers on.

*

I weep at the strangers I have let pass by, for some I know I could have made my friends;

so busy I, so carefree or just unaware, of the human that waits behind that vacant, hungry stare.

*

I weep angry, frustrated, by some politician’s glib outrageous lies, smiling, nodding, betraying promised election cries,

club members, secure now from their constituent’s plight, sit snugly ignoring what they were elected to put right.

*

I weep at the passing of a treasured friend, diminished, shocked, bereaved by sudden loss,

knowing well the inevitabilities of life must come to all, and I wonder where, and when, and how I’ll hear my call.

*

I weep that I’ve wasted so much of my life in useless wanderings just to pass the time,

there is so much I see now I’d still like to do, with body, mind and time still left for me to use.

*

I am aware now that I contain some inner source, some secret well enabling me to weep,

reflecting that it’s given me for my use, I bless the healing tears that down my cheeks now creep.

*

Without them what else could break the chain, releasing the soul-destroying burdens we contain,

thank God then for that hidden human inner spring permitting tears their healing balm to bring.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Borrowed

'Borrowed plumes' Harrison Weir's illustration of The Vain Jackdaw, 1881

Everything I have is borrowed

nothing tangible is really mine

from the air I breathe

to the body I wear

all has come from elsewhere in time.

*

I may live my life 'til I'm ninety

lesser or longer maybe

but whatever I touch

and whatever I gain

has been borrowed for my moment in time.

*

At birth I borrowed my parents

to give me the body you see

from the earth around

with its vast abounds

I still borrow the food that I eat.

*

The place where I live

and the tools I use

all borrowed from some other place

and the questions I ask

as I come to this view

is from whom have I borrowed my soul?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

The spinsters' code

 

Across the street from our home in Pump Street, Longridge, was a pebble-dashed house in which two spinsters lived.

(Swallows built their nests each year under the eaves of this house. They came in spring and left in autumn, and there was a constant swooping and diving in smooth, graceful sweeps back and forth across the street by these beautiful birds. It was always sad to see them leave but they would return, we always knew.)

The two spinster ladies were a bit of a mystery to me; I can’t remember ever having seen them clearly in full view, and I certainly never saw them outside of their home. I did catch occasional glimpses of one or the other of them, behind the white, lacy curtains across their windows. But nothing more than glimpses; nothing substantial. They did use what I thought was a code to communicate with our neighbours on the right, Mr and Mrs Wilks. I discovered this code quite by accident one day as I sat in one of the favourite places I had for playing, reading or whatever, the broad, wooden window-sill of our window looking out onto the street.

Things were fairly quiet on this particular day when I heard the sudden clatter of wooden clogs from next door, and scurrying across the street to the spinsters pebble-dashed house went Mrs Wilks, apron strings and hair flying in the wind. She cut a fairly dashing figure as I recall. A sash window opened briefly at the spinsters’ house, something was said, then back across the street Mrs Wilks came, faster I think than she went. The spinsters’ window was slid quickly down and I just caught sight of a small white card being whisked away from the upper section of the window that had opened. That was the code. Whenever the spinsters required something from the shops, a small, strategically placed white card would bring a speedy response from the two furiously pumping legs of Mrs Wilks.

I would then picture the activity of Mrs Wilks next door: a quick flick of a comb through wispy, grey hair before her hat, now nicely warmed after the cat had been evicted, was placed on her head with a quick downward thrust of both hands. Her ears had disappeared and you could only just make out two eyes peering out from under the brim. Almost ready. I would imagine Mrs Wilks mentally ticking items off her checklist of ‘things to do before I go shopping for t’ ladies across t’ street’, then off she would go, the front door slamming behind her, the rapid clatter of her wooden clogs, the blur of her form bent forward like a sprinter in a race as she flashed past the window. The sound of her clogs grew fainter as she rounded the corner of the street towards the shops, until all was quiet again. The message had been received and understood, and the latest mission for the spinsters was under way.

I wondered if those two spinsters knew of some deep, dark secret concerning Mrs Wilks and were threatening to expose her is she didn’t cooperate. (My boyish mind sought answers down some rather strange pathways at times, I can tell you.) The truth was probably much simpler, that Mrs Wilks received some small financial reward for her kind services rendered.

Whatever the situation, she was a goer, and active with it, our Mrs Wilks.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

Camping in our street

A paved Roman road

An officer in the Roman Army of occupation is said to have named the place where I spent five colourful and informative years of my boyhood. On seeing the whole district from a commanding rise, the officer said, "What a long ridge of hills!" From that time on the place was known as Longridge (a titbit included to add a nice historical dimension to my story).

My time in Longridge was great. I believe now that much of my character was formed during those days. It was common practice for children of one family to visit a friend or mate from other families, usually in the same street, and in the evenings. We called it 'camping'. I studied our neighbours at close quarters and learned a great deal about life this way, broadening my mind and thinking. The content of conversations within different families was an education in itself.

"I'm going over to t' Jamieson's camping for a bit," I'd say as I left the house, and crossing the street I would knock on their door and go in. "I've come to see Peter, is that all right?" "'Ee, that's alright lad, come in and sit thisself down."

If Peter was out or it wasn't convenient, I could either stay and sit with whoever was there or leave and try another mate's house. My mates would do the same when the fancy took them to do a bit of camping.
It was while playing games or chatting with whoever I'd gone to visit that my ear would tune in to what was being discussed by the adults. Unconscious learning, I call it now. When happenings local, national or in our street - ranging from quite serious to the infectiously hilarious - were brought to my attention, I'd listen and store them away in my memory. I extended my vocabulary somewhat too as I asked what such-and-such a phrase or word meant.

A great deal of what was said registered in this way, but now and then something special would cause me to listen more carefully, even to asking questions sometimes. If the adults deemed my ears too tender for the topic being discussed, they'd tactfully suggest it was time for me to leave. Which I would do without my feelings being in the least bit offended.

Sometimes I'd be drawn into conversations as if I was a member of that family. It was great listening to their past experiences, and I never tired of the varied and colourful manner in which they expressed themselves. Quite a few of these communications took the form of charades involving different body movements. Eyes would light up. Hands were slapped upon on a table or a knee. Fingers wagged, heads nodded, all with frequent stops to laugh or mop their brows.

What I particularly liked was when someone would say something and immediately ask someone else to confirm what they'd just said. For example, "Isn't that right then, what I just said, our Henry? You were there when Bert's foot went clean through that board on the stairs?" And the reply would come, preceded by the adjusting of false teeth, a tilting of the head and a squinting of the eyes, "Oh yes, that's right enough, Elsie lass." Then Henry would go on to add his own particular view of that remembrance. "By gum, the air were blue weren't it? I've never heard our Bert express hisself so clearly. A good job t' vicar had already left, eh Elsie?" And Elsie would agree before she or someone else took over, the to-ing and fro-ing conversation.

My memory of those times includes the early days of Word War II. Camping began to decline in our street then. Young men went off to work in the factories. Some would go away and reappear in uniform for a few days before they disappeared, sometimes forever. The black-out came in, and sirens wailed their warning of air raids. On one of those nights I wondered what it might have been like for the invading Roman soldiers when they first came here. What kind of time did they have, camping by the long ridge of hills? And more interesting to me, how a boy of my age would have learned about life while he was camping  there? Now that would be a great thing to discover.

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Assertion of identity

Young girl with a moko. Image from Whale Rider, a 2002 drama film directed by Niki Caro, based on the novel of the same name by Witi Ihimaera. The film stars Keisha Castle-Hughes as Kahu Paikea Apirana, a 12-year-old Maori girl who wants to become the chief of the tribe.

From a distance I saw

this teenager was different,

and as she came up close

I saw her moko, permanent

on her beautiful face.

*

"She's too young," suggested some,

"to wear at others' instigation

such sign upon her youthful face."

*

She appeared unmoved, disdainful

of the thoughts of others,

and with unusual maturity

for one so young, said quietly,

"That's their problem,"

and continued on her way.

*

I wondered...

were those words her own,

or where they perhaps -

as her decorated face -

imposed by proud tradition's

fierce, determinate tribal will?

*

I mused again...

or, was what had seemed to me belligerence,

simply a demonstration of an

indefinable quality of race,

which I, in my ignorance,

did not then fully comprehend?

*

Who am I...

foreigner to these shores

forty years or more,

to say it's wrong for one so young

to wear that proud insignia

of her race?

*

I had much to learn.

If she sought in truth

to assert a claim

to her own true self,

then I salute her

most sincerely for that.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Note: a moko is a Māori tattoo or tattoo pattern, usually on the face.

Quite by accident

Sometimes I just hate myself. I can be so selfish. I mean, I could have stopped and offered to help Lester. I was pretty sure he'd recognised me as I drove past. When I'd checked by the rear-vision mirror, the look on his face could have stopped a clock. But it was raining. I'd had a busy day and by the time I turned back to stop and ask if I could help, he was putting the tools back in the car boot. It seemed he'd managed to change the wheel despite my doubts.

It would have been different if it had been his wife. I'd have stopped for Petrina. Any man would. Then I forgot about Lester and concentrated my thoughts on her. Yeah! Petrina! She has lovely dark skin. I expect that's from her gypsy background, and she has the kind of eyes that communicate little messages. Wonderful messages that have the ability to set me all a-quiver. When that happens, I allow my imagination off its leash. Then she becomes Pet, and I secretly change my name to Denky. It places us in all kinds of naughty but nice close encounters of a sensuous nature. Great, except that they fade rather quickly as we approach countdown. Thus, it deals with complications rather neatly but plays havoc with my testosterone production. Just as well Lester wasn't privy to what went on inside my head. I wasn't sure about Pet though: I'm keeping my options open for her...

I heard about the accident as I ate the warmed up remains of the bachelor meal I'd cooked for myself the day before. Poor sod, that Lester. How old was he? Early 40s? Too young anyway. Then the news of what caused the accident came out: maybe he'd still have been alive if I'd stopped to help earlier? You know, I really was miserable for the next few days. Felt as guilty as hell, but Lester was the kind of guy who knew everything and was obnoxious with it. Consequently, any attempt to explain anything to him was brushed aside, off-handedly, and was the main reason we didn't get on. A pity, as I could have told him that wheel nuts needed a double-check to ensure they were really tight. A four-wheeled car is most unsafe on three.
Still, it was nice that the sun was shining for his funeral. He'd have liked that. Petrina - Pet - handled it very well I thought. No worries about costs. Apparently he'd been well-insured, and things returned to normal after a few weeks. On the outside, that is. With Lester out of the way, Pet had taken up residency in my thoughts on a more permanent basis. Yes. Nice, and getting nicer.

Things are a bit hazy about how the imagined became the real. The thing was, though my job as a postman kept me reasonably fit, and Pet was keen on swimming. So we arranged to go together once a week to the local tepid pool. I did the crawl but she liked the breast-stroke. It was also a nice way to see more of each other. A few weeks later she asked if I'd help take some things round to her house, and while I was helping her unpack, I broke a porcelain jug. One of those old English ones in the form of a court jester. Instead of being angry or upset, she fell into peals of laughter. Brought out a bottle of the doings and two glasses, then explained how and why she'd bought the jug.

"Not many people knew that Lester and I didn't altogether get on. Nothing major, you know. Just silly little things he'd do that annoyed me. To cope, I bought that jug at a fair. Whenever I felt ready to burst, I'd pretend the jug was Lester the jester and give it what-ho! I told it all the things I wanted to tell Lester! I expect that was the gypsy in me. It did get things off my chest, and we managed well enough afterwards."
She paused while she refilled our glasses.

"Now Denky," she said, her dark eyes all glistening and suggestive as she placed her hand affectionately on my knee. "How about you and me...?"

By that time, nature was on the loose. One thing led to another and we were married six months' later.
Now, two things will insist on popping into my mind that concern me a little. Well, a lot really. How did Pet come to know that my secret bedroom name was Denky? And what is the significance of the new piece of porcelain on the sideboard? I mean, is it quite by accident that it's in the form of Postman Pat?

Dennis Crompton © 1998

Free...?

How so ... when conception itself

deposits me to be, in cell of flesh?

No prior consultation,

nor explanation,

no choice offered of language,

race, or classification.

*

Nine months the sentence, entombed thus...

before the prison door opens,

and wrapped in bewildering streams of pain,

slowly I'm pushed, propelled,

expelled naked and helpless,

unchosen parents me to claim.

*

Another sentence now begins,

helpless still,

I'm bound to those who care for me.

Without them I am dead.

The very air I breath,

threatening, bacteria laden,

and food and water too...

All that sustains me is suspect, out to contaminate,

dominate, or kill.

*

Still unasked, my form controlled

by silent invisible inner means,

growing as the blueprint set,

binds me to follow customs;

an imprisoning net,

strong as any prison cell.

I'm free ... as long as I fit in,

subject my spirit to the common will.

*

Thus do some sad dispirited souls,

life ending, sum up their dreary enterprise.

Failed to discern they, that

freedom only truly prevails

where common restraint permits

each soul its freedom to exist.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Persons

This is a piece of fiction. I love noticing the odd and curious things about people. Here's a little example:

So far, I'd met a few odd characters on my door-to-door research survey on television viewing in the neighbourhood;  all different characters, in keeping with the dictionary definition I'd read earlier that day. Apparently the word person comes from the Latin word for mask, and refers to playing a part, acting on the stage of life, so to speak.

And that reminds me that I had an aunt who played the role of a 'touchy' person. It was interesting going shopping with her. No matter what shop or place we were passing, if it took her fancy in she'd walk and begin touching things. Fruit, vegetables, furniture, kitchen utensils, but fabrics especially. An extra-sensory faculty seemed to switch on to automatic when touching these. She'd positively purr if the fabric passed a certain in-built test, and her voice would take on a stuffy pommie accent which I think she thought sounded like an announcer on the BBC. "Oh yes," she'd murmur, half to herself and half to anyone else in the vicinity. "Quality material, this." It did no harm as far as I could see; it was in fact a kind of therapy for her. And then we've move on. She couldn't buy though, she could only dream.

It was at home that her touchiness got out of kilter. Especially if she hadn't been 'round to see us for a few weeks. Then she'd put on her mask and shift into touch mode again. I can still remember at the age of eight, when most lads prefer touching things that can be eaten rather than fussy, well-meaning aunts who bosom-hugged so that you could hardly breathe. It would start with, "Come here then our Dennis, and let me look at you. My, haven't you grown!" My hair would be stroked as she murmured, "Oh yes, lovely hair. It's just like your Uncle Geroge's, you know." Then she'd plant sloppy kisses over my entire face before taking hold of my hands. "And lovely hands. Piano playing hands those, you know." Oh no they're not, I'd groan to myself. My younger sister had pounded the ivories and it had been murder, for us all, from the start. Nature came to our aid, thankfully, as a sore throat and rash took her over for a week, and after she'd recovered she'd lost all interest in things musical, and peace returned.

Later, I had been musing on the fact that Shakespeare came after the dictionary definition of person, when I switched my thoughts to the person I'd spoken to whilst conducting my research survey on television viewing, two doors down. "I'm not a television person," she'd said quietly, her look implying that I ought to recognise she'd been elevated to a higher social and intellectual status because of that. She seemd a rather pathetic creature, thin of figure and gaunt of face as she spoke. She was unwilling to pass on any of the information the survey sought, but she did give me a frosty smile from behind the desk in her small office as I left. If Shakespeare was right, that we are all players on the stage of life, she'd landed a lousy part I thought, and I felt sorry for her.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Broken shells

Thought was of food

as blackbird high perched

observed cars trucks buses,

and a fair-haired youth

pedalling carefree

wheels whirring smoothly

on hard sealed road.

*

Sharp eyes focused

downwards as blackbird swooshed

hop-stepped head angled

beak pecked shell packed food;

dropped pecked picked up

shook dropped pecked

flayed on road flayed and flayed.

*

I looked again saw

only broken shell remained.

*

The youth passed by

fair hair flying

helmet from handlebars swinging

and clear inside my brain

I pictured cold hard road

waiting

'neath his humming wheels

waiting

waiting for the dropping

the shaking

for the pecking and the flaying

with only broken shell remaining.

*

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

It was among some unclaimed papers

No one seeing James Worthington outside of his own home town would have given him a second look. He was just an ordinary man. Everything about his outward appearance said so. Even he himself, one month short of his 25th birthday, would have agreed, had he been asked. Yet deep within his heart there lay the seed of an idea sown years before by a teacher whose name and face had faded from his memory. Poverty and the struggle to exist surrounded him back then, fitting into the scenery as he joined others going to school in threadbare clothing. At home his father, like so many others, desperately sought work to keep food on the table and the rent paid, with five mouths to feed and his wife dead these seven years now.

It was at school where James found his self-esteem matching the lowest level of existence. The awareness of this standing was a gradual thing and came about by observation. He noticed some teachers favoured pupils who were generally better clothed and better fed because their parents were better off. As a consequence they received more attention and performed well at school. This did not sour his attitude toward those pupils or the teachers. He continued to live as carefree a life as we possible amidst such surroundings. In any case, self-esteem was an unknown term to pupils, and apparently to teachers too in those days.

Considering the start he'd had, James succeeded remarkably well, quite in keeping with the seed sown in his mind by his teacher. As the ground is not aware of what is placed within it, so to his knowledge, no conscious thought made James aware that the seed had germinated and begun to grow. If his love of words and books, the feeding of his imagination by an ever-widening choice of reading, his thirst for information and knowledge was apparent to others, it did not register in his mind, but in the process he was becoming an educated man.

At some point James left the country of his birth and set out to settle in New Zealand where he was accepted for what he was. With his achievements recognised and rewarded he was encouraged to further study and develop his skills. Some years later, now happily married and with children, he returned to his homeland, keen to know more of his family and background. He'd given himself a month to research at the Public Records Office in his home town.

The year was 1988, the month was December, and having completed as much of his research as he was able, he boarded the plane that was to take him home to New Zealand, via the USA. That hight he disappeared in an explosion which blew apart the Pan Am flight 103 he was on high above Lockerbie in Scotland. Whatever may have been left of James and most of his fellow passengers was buried in a mass grave not far from where they came to rest. The terrorists who planted the bomb saw and cared nothing for the horror they had created.

James' son visited Lockerbie after he had completed his studies and made his way slowly through the memorial hall set up there. At one stage he came across some pages of unclaimed papers, miraculously having survived the explosion. Tears filled his eyes as he stopped to read one of them. It said,

As the twig is bent, so the tree will grow.

These words were written by his father, James Worthington, in his own handwriting, and were among the last words he wrote. His son wept.

Dennis Crompton © 1998

Mindful be

Again, youth's had its terrible fling,

reckless, carefree, bubbling thing,

now streams of cars flow through the town,

head for the plot in cemetery ground.

*

If only young eyes could have seen,

felt the hopeless sorrowing,

known the grief and felt the pain,

of friends and family by the grave.

*

The preacher says what he has to say,

but you don't answer, you've gone away,

left us here to weep and sigh,

to remember you as years crawl by.

*

Young life's a wild, tempestuous thing,

trying out its fledgling wings,

careless, free, racing to and fro,

seeking all there is to know.

*

Now its finished at least for you,

we who are left, we grieve for you,

robbed of your warm personality, we

learn how fleeting is our humanity.

*

In that, you may not have died in vain,

a warning giving to those who remain,

life is a precious, quicksilver thing,

contained in a mortal, disposable frame.

*

Enjoy by all means what freely abounds,

of life in your family and all that surrounds,

mindful please be, if tragically finished,

we who remain will be sadly diminished.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Getting it right

Most of us know someone who lacks the ability to get things done. The world is full of them. Others, the suggester-ers, may resort to name-calling, tears, comparisons with so-and-so (usually a relative on their side of the family), even mild hysterics. All to no avail when it comes to the likes of the person I know...

This person is splendidly unique in the way he remains completely unflappable, no matter what. He's been around a bit you see. Knows the score. That one thing can lead to another, and usually does. His mind is stocked with flaws within any suggestion regarding work made to him. The very first time he heard Howe's Law, that says:

Every man has a scheme that will not work,

he adopted it as his own but changed 'man' to 'person' of course, to conform with the politically correct way of thinking these days.

To forestall any possibility of him accepting a hint, challenge, threat, etc, to do something a suggester-er believes he should do, he uses a particular phrase. As if in thought, he allows his forehead to crease, he nods his head, looks the suggester-er in the eye and murmurs, "Yes I can do that. Later. I'll do it later." He calls it Joe's Law, and found that 'later' seldom arrived.

Now he knows through many encounters with his domestic suggester-er, that she will fume for a while, which is the subconscious recording of her mother reminding her:

You'll get little help from your Joe around the house. He's as thick as two planks, like the rest of his family...

Of course Joe up and leaves the scene. Well, he's knows it's better not to hang about when the record of her mother is playing, subconsciously, obnoxiously or otherwise.

I'm grateful too that Joe passed on other Laws he'd learned. They fit a surprising number of awkward situations: domestic, political or rural, very well. Like this one that James Payne wrote in 1884:

I had never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.

Mr James Payne doesn't tell us how he reacted to this. I know it never bothered our Joe. I've seen him pick up toast or other food he'd dropped, laugh and murmur, "Well, bugger me," give it a quick wipe across his trouser leg and consume it without another thought of bacteria or bacterium. He never came to any serious harm that I'm aware of.

I did disagree with Joe, however, about Maier's Law, which says:

If the facts do not conform to the theory, they must be disposed of.

Now while that's quite humous and as good an explanation of how some certain folk deal with problems, in the field of aeronautics, for example, it would be dangerous to give it serious head room. Some research brough to light a certain George Nichols, project manager for Northrop Aviation in California, USA. He developed an idea from a remark he overheard from Captain E Murphy of the Wright Field Aircraft Research Laboratory. It was to do with the valve in an aircraft's hydraulic system. As they discussed the pros and cons of this particular valve, apparatently Captain E Murphy said, "Oh, anything can go wrong when it comes to designing things," or words to that effect.

(And that reminds me of this quote of Alan Shepard's that Joe told me recently:

It's a very sobering feeling to be up in space and realize that one's safety factor was determined by the lowest bidder on a government contract.)

The Concise Oxford Dictionary of proverbs suggests that George Nichols changed what he heard in the 1940s to:

If anything can go wrong it will go wrong.

Since I felt George thought the same way I do, I changed it to:

If anything can go wrong it sodding-well will go wrong,

for colour and effect, and I'm sure George would approve.

In the case of Joe, it's probably the reason why he always said he'd "do it later." He'd learned that by deferring doing anything because of the possibility of things going wrong, the need for it had either already passed or it had been completed by someone else.

By the way, I've just learned a new law which I must pass on to Joe. It's called Zymurgy's First Law of Evolving Systems Dynamics:

Once you open a can of worms, the only way you can re-can them is to use a larger can."

Dennis Crompton © 2001

Once

Once, I was a small boy

untried, weak, unknowing

with so many possibilities

and time passed slowly

hardly aware was I

that I was growing.

*

Once, I was an older boy

taller, stronger, impatient

knowledge seemed so slow in coming

sometimes I thought I knew

and I hardly knew

what I was knowing.

*

Once, I was an adolescent

on the threshold wanting to leave

feeling I shouldn't

knowing too I couldn't stay

some wiser one outside myself

understanding, pointed me

and I hardly knew

that I was leaving.

*

Once, I set out for a place far off

was welcomed on arriving

from those encouragements I drew

learning, growing and fulfilling

a time of satisfying enrichment found

and I hardly knew

that I was still growing.

*

Now, I'm older and somewhat wiser

more round and more self-assured

paths trod and things accomplished

thankful now for what I know

yet wondering...

where I've still to go

what I've still to know

why I needs must know...

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Step into reality

By gum, it's quiet, I thought to myself as I walked over to the style, the vantage point where I kept my eye on things. It was about 9.15 am on a Bank Holiday Saturday in August, in about 1938, and the weather was warm. There should have been people about. They wouldn't all be sleeping in, would they?

Then my ears caught the shrill sound of a distant train whistle and I turned to face the direction of the railway line. Yes, there it was - pulling up the slight incline with a line of carriages behind it, puffing and panting, smoke and sparks flying out of the funnel. Of course! The realisation now came to me. It was the holiday train, come to take people from Londridge to Preston and then on to Blackpool! (Once a year a passenger train would travel up on the line for the great event, a distance of some seven miles. At all other times only goods trains travelled the line.)

I remember suddenly getting quite agitated thinking of who I could ask so that I could go on the train too. I knew deep down that it just wasn't possible, but my mind wouldn't let go of the idea. My excitement at seeing the train made my brain think furiously hard. What could I do to make it possible for me to go?
The the train whistle sounded again. It was coming back down the line! Little sounds of frustration bubbled up from my stomach into my throat, in small panicky snatches as I hopped from one foot to the other. It was all so unfair, I said to myself, very close to tears now.

The train was now picking up speed as it moved down the incline. Its carriages were crammed full and people were leaning out of every window, waving or holding long coloured streamers and calling out happily to other people leaning out of their windows. As their journey began they were unaware of the lonely boy standing on the style watching them go, with a very heavy heart, taking another step on his journey into the world of reality.

All too soon it was quiet again. My mind turned over the various reasons why it was not possible for me to have gone to Blackpool too. It was all very clear really. We just couldn't afford it. I knew, that if it had been at all possible, my Dad would have made sure that I was on that train.

I didn't tell anyone how I felt; we all had to face such times of disappointment. So, I brushed away my tears and after a while found something else to occupy myself. But that is one Bank Holiday that stands out very clearly in my mind, to this day.

Dennis Crompton © 1997