A word to the excluded...

I think tonight of those excluded

from the normal company of others

by whoever and for whatever

in village, town or city...

I think of you.

*

Somewhere tonight some are excluded

from the family of their birth

gender and cold ignorance robs them

of their true worth...

I think of you.

*

Some are in exclusion though

the politics of small minds

their iron fists and iron bars

confine them and their words...

I think of you.

*

I wonder what you miss

all you confined

kept from the normal living of your life?

Do you wonder if there's still a future

something still to look forward to

another chance for you?

*

My word to you is

'Mandela.'

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Talking stones

One visitor moved away, wandered out through the gate, down the street and into the countryside. She found a hollow in a field, sat down and looked around. Gradually the occasional hum of insects and twittering of birds gave way to a quietness which eased the tension inside her. At some point her fingers found a stone in the loose soil at her feet. She picked it up and gazed at it. Slowly, as if a curtain was opening somewhere in her mind, it seemed to speak, linking her with an event that happened there in the past.

It was just a suggestion, she reasoned at first, trying to ignore the prickly feeling in her eyes; but the suggestion persisted and eventually, with flushed cheeks and tightening throat her emotions took over. Even as she fumbled for her handkerchief, low cries bubbled up from deep inside, a few tears followed, glistening as they trickled down her cheeks before the dam burst and a kind of healing took place in the flood. When it had finished she looked again at the stone before lifting her eyes to look around, and like watching a scene in a play, this is what she came to understand:

Jim could hardly believe his luck. Three years now since he'd left home. Home! How eagerly he'd left. Nearly didn't though, after his father embraced him. He could still see his face and hear his voice struggling to say, “I'll probably never see you again, son.” That was true. His Dad had died two years later. Still, lots of Canadian lads found themselves in the same position. He’d done a lot of growing up since then.

He'd been looking forward to Christmas, still over five weeks away, but today ... well, it was different ... with his thoughts centred on himself, he'd become vividly aware that he was a person in a way he had never felt before. It started that very morning. He was more than the body he inhabited, but why had he come to that knowledge now? And in his mind, he thought perhaps a new beginning was being offered to him. He felt the tension ease from his mind and body and smiled, feeling more like the young man he still was. Some of his mates called him 'dreamer'. “You'll still be dreaming when it's all over,” they'd said. Many of them were dead heroes now.

He stared ahead as he thought of them, then looked again. That's odd, he thought, it seemed like he was looking at a photograph. What he saw was real and yet nothing moved. Not a cloud, wing, leaf or single blade of grass. All was still. It was the same behind him, he knew without turning round. He made himself pause in his thinking and breathed deeply and slowly, only then did he realize how tense he'd been.

He glanced at his watch. Another four minutes and he'd have a break. Then over to his right something unbelievable happened. A couple of young girls appeared, and after all the other sounds he'd heard, their happy chatter drifted across to him, sounding like the song of angels. Slowly they came nearer, hampered by the debris in their path but waving bunches of flowers in the air and calling out to him. Alarmed now, he was about to shout a warning when others appeared. More young people with a scattering of elderly folk behind . They were calling too, some with flags or flowers in their hands others with bottles of wine. Jim knew then that it must be true.

For a moment he was torn between excitement and dread, then he glanced again at his watch: 10.57am. Three minutes to go until break time, he murmured, saddened and yet happy as the faces of his dead mates came and went with each step the young girls took towards him. Something burst from his throat, a mixture of sobs and laughter. It was bloody well true! The war ... it would end at 11am today, they said!

Smiling now, Jim watched as the girls arrived safely, thanked them for the flowers, and kissed their innocent faces. Then turned once more to face the firing line, as he laughed and waved the flowers in the air, the sharp crack of a rifle shot cut through the air and in the silence that followed, he crumpled to the ground. That one single shot, fired by a German sniper gave Jim an ending and a new beginning. Just two minutes before the declared Armistice on the 11th of November, 1918, a private from Canada was the last soldier to be killed in the Great War.

All fell quiet again, but now she felt a peace within her as she placed the stone back on the soil of Belgium. Some little time later, a voice broke through her thoughts: “I beg your pardon Mrs Price. I hope I didn't startle you.” It was the leader of their tour group. She shook her head without looking at him. “We'll be having lunch in half an hour or so. There's no rush though, perhaps you'd like to stay here a little longer?”

Again she just nodded. She didn't need to say anything. He'd seen it before and waited for a moment or two before turning to leave, then he said, “Not too lonely on your own then?'”

“No,” she said. “In a way, the stones have been talking to me.” This time looking up at him she added, “I suppose that sounds strange?”

“Not at all. Quite a number of folk have said the same kind of thing on these tours. When they do, they don't seem to have the need to come back again. After all, these are the Shalom tours. Shalom, Mrs Price.”

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

In passing, 1929

I was side-lined by a suggestion on one of the web pages I visited recently by the words, ‘Gregorian calendar’ and decided to take a peep at the year 1929, the year I was born:

• February 14 was the day of the St Valentine’s gangland massacre in Chicago, (not a good start … ),
• the year ended with the stock market crash, when $26 billion dollars was wiped off US Securities.

It wasn’t all bad however, as developments in science were encouraging:

• Albert Einstein proposed the unified field theory … seemed a good idea to me,
• a German psychiatrist developed the electroencephalograph (EEG) for recording brain waves; useful for those told they had no brains,
• for the first time, penicillin was used to fight infection,
• and Bell Telephone Laboratories in New York gave the first public demonstration of colour TV: the first images were a bouquet of roses and an American flag.

And there were important (early) developments for the rights of women too:

• the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council in the UK announced that women were now "persons" under the British North America Acts, and thus eligible for appointment to the Senate of Canada.

But best of all, on 7 March, Fred and Florence Crompton welcomed their new baby son, Dennis, into their family. A baby brother for Hilda, Jean and Fred. Yes indeed!

Dennis Crompton © 2013
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A bruised reed

This is written about my older sister, Jean.

*

In the strongest metal there’s a point that’s weak

when fatigue or constant grinding tension

slowly drains the soul out of the metal

dissipating whatever strength is left.

 *

She was strong, could face up to situations almost overpowering

but underneath, inside, the daily battles took their toll.

I, her brother, close enough to advise her

could not prevent his hold over her;

she later married this head and feet of clay.

 *

Oh, it was fine at first, displaying supposed married love;

alas his strength was in his arm, not in his head, and

as a brute drunkenly abused, a bruised reed did make her;

until she finally left, that old so sad and familiar story.

 *

I went to see him, angry yet quite in fear of him one day,

he towering above me listened as I talked him down to size.

I threatened him and even as I trembled I took strength,

for he was near weeping as I warned him not to offend again.

 *

Later, travelling with her on a late night bus,

I sensed some vital spark had been submerged or lost,

still tried to comfort, reassure, suggesting

the future still held promise, that not all was lost.

 *

I wondered then, how such men could answer to that name,

to use their strength to subjugate a weaker frame;

from liquid daily his false courage drew,

his mates joined in and so the monster grew.

 *

Her hair is white now, her step less firm,

her heart still beats, and though oft the memory stirs …

around her feet, her offspring brighten up her day,

all was not lost to so-called manhood on that wedding day.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Mercy me!

I don’t know what I expected as my daughter and I entered the hospital … the figure of a stout matron in blue starched uniform with starched face to match was in the back of my mind; a reminder of a short stay in a military hospital at Woolwich, England in my 18th year. But this was totally different; this was the angiography unit at Mercy Hospital in Auckland, New Zealand.

The matron who met me at 7 am was nothing like the Woolwich matron; this lady was a youngish motherly type who greeted me with, ‘Mr Crompton?’ in a voice that was warmly reassuring, calming my pulse which had threatened to move into a higher gear at the sight of a stethoscope or hypodermic needle: ‘Yes please!’ … I almost blurted out in reply.

Formalities were attended to and then it was up to my room on the second floor. A short explanation was given as to the over-sized nappy-type male knickers with tie-strings on both sides; they lacked any sense of style or appeal and brought a cheeky smile to my daughter’s face. Someone had to have had a sense of humour to have dreamt those things up.

Still, for the staff who had to cope with all manner of things, they covered in a practical way the range of male appendages which lay in the path of the tests the patient required. Although a gown with an opening down the back covered the lot, it still left me feeling vulnerable whichever way one looked at me.

Instructions were given that certain body hair should be removed; a ticklish job requiring steady nerves and an equally steady hand, a job I tackled myself, in fact. The result resembled a fresh piece of pork; soft, pink and with a baby-like texture.

Wow! I thought. I must have looked like that when I was born, on a smaller scale of course. You’ve no idea the thoughts that kept whizzing round inside my head as I walked around, clean-shaven for the next day or so. What would anyone think if I’d had an accident?

I won’t bore you with all that followed; suffice to say that things went smoothly in the angiography department, transferring from bed to table successfully, without as much as a hint of my ludicrous drawers revealing themselves. In any case, they were whisked away as neatly as you like almost before I realised they’d gone. Just as well, I’d have hated to have pictures of those being leaked to the media.
For the next half hour I watched the procedure on a monitor, with someone on the cardiologist team explaining to me the various steps being taken, which I found very reassuring.

This is a light-hearted view of the way I saw and experienced my ‘check-up’ that day. From the welcome at the door at 7am, to the goodbyes at 5pm, everyone helped me feel that my welfare was their concern and that I was important to them; I couldn’t have been in better hands. The hospital is well-named (Mercy Hospital), and this quote from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure aptly fits the staff there:

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become with them one half so good a grace
As mercy does.

They must have done a good job, because I’m still here; bless them.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

I see...

Written whilst looking outside my office window, Studholme Street, Morrinsville, New Zealand.

* 

The road outside my window

now teems with every form of life …

above, all sight of feathered flight is lost

to those set on an intercontinental course …

 *

Close by I see the past in an old fence post,

last remnant of the farmhouse here that was,

beneath my feet the earth, rich and dark

retains whatever drama was played out here

a hundred or more years before …

 *

Next door, pupils arrive from school eager

for another supplementary education session …

seated at keyboard, their fingers,

brain directed, computing information

adding an extra dimension to their day’s learning.

 *

What formula will they perhaps discover …

that twenty years on will set another kind of course?

No matter; they have youth’s potential and motivation

to adventure with a growing, more cosmopolitan

worldwide barrier breaking population …

on the internet I see …

*

Our human senses interface,

surface skimming almost instinctively …

sometimes, provoked by mood or other stimuli

more deeply comprehending a new insight.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Duty?

(This is imagined, as my mother died when I was one year old…)

*

From the earliest of days when my learning began,

‘You are beautiful’, my mother told me,

and I learned what was right in those days as a child,

all at the feet of my mother.

*

And when I reached five I was led as I cried

to the kindergarten just down the street,

told to ‘Sit on the ground’, other children around

to be taught at the feet of another.

*

I grew up quite quickly and the years they passed by,

then told that brave I must be,

I was ordered to go to the camp in the cold,

where they taught me to fight like the others.

*

In my uniform neat I marched to the beat

of the band on the great parade ground,

they gave me a rifle, learned to shoot in a trifle,

‘Now go out, do your duty’, they said.

*

I was marched up a hill and ordered to fight

or to die, whichever came first;

in my sights then I saw, the soul of my foe

and found I could not pull the trigger.

*

A rifle shot fired, as ordered out there,

found its mark and I fell to the ground,

and in dying I saw not the face of a foe

but the grief on the face of all mothers.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Spring

I speak here of springtime in New Zealand.

*

Of all the seasons of the year

Spring causes me to wonder,

what magic in each dormant seed

awakes, out of itself,

takes root and grows apace.

*

Changing in form to slender stalk,

bearing aloft to Summer suns

a multiplying, delicate, golden spray

ripening to a golden cluster,

making visible the invisible.

*

A picture, of what we’re meant to be,

treading our path from infancy,

onwards to eternity,

experiencing, learning,

widening influence bearing,

the visible made invisible,

in Spring.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Smuggling

The wind blew wild on the coast of Kent as I went to join my father. It was bitterly cold where he waited on the promontory out of Dungeness. The work my father put into selling his wool to weavers in France was threatened by the duties imposed by the government, and danger lurked everywhere now. My father and his friends vainly sought the help of the local squire, and now they could lose all they'd worked for.

But recently, they learned that some of their fellow wool-growers had formed a group known as the 'Owlers'. They'd banded together to smuggle their wool across the English Channel to France, paying no duties at all. They'd felt guilty at first but the duties kept increasing, and so, in desperation, Father joined them.

Then things got worse. The government brought in maiming as a punishment for smugglers. Yesterday an Owler caught off Romney Marsh, died, when the shock of losing his hand killed him. But risks had to be taken just to survive. The weather and the sea could be their enemies, bales were lost overboard and sailors, sometimes. Why, Owlers had even been betrayed in France.

As Father and I waited together on that wild Kent coast, he told me of James Darlington, excise man, who was new to the district. He'd been responsible for capturing smugglers in Cornwall and had begun boasting that he'd do the same here.

'A man with a passion for doing his duty is fine when England's at war'; said my father to me. 'But when it means the ruin of working folk, it's wrong. I only hope I don't come across Mrs Darlington's lad, James, on these marshes, 'cause one of us won't be going home.'

They did meet; years ago now. But it was Father who died that terrible night in the battle that ensued, and our family eventually lost the farm as well. James Darlington, excise man, retired with a pension and lived handsomely atop the cliffs overlooking Shepway.

Yes, life was hard then. I remembered Father's words: ‘Justice is fine for those who have no need of it.’

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Smuggling: information from www.smuggler.co.uk

The wool smugglers of Kent generally, and Romney Marsh in particular, were called 'Owlers'. There has long been debate about how they acquired this name, and people have advanced various romantic theories, mostly centred around owls — the smugglers hunted at night, so they took the name of the nocturnal bird; or they signalled to each other by hooting like owls. The most prosaic explanation, and probably the most likely, is that 'owler' is just a corruption of 'wooler', which was a common name for anyone processing wool.

Abstract journey

Through all the years I’ve lived,

there was a time, I, as part of a family

experienced being a boy - growing up -

leaving home and country…

*

Experience being accepted,

learning different customs,

being appreciated for what I could do,

for what I could become;

for my potential … and just for being me.

*

Enjoying marriage, becoming a husband and a father;

holding close each of our three precious daughters,

heart thrilling, eyes brimming

at the wonder of their birth and their development,

and later for our summer evening cabin story times…

*

So many other things came my way

all for a time and a purpose

possible with my body and my humanity.

*

These have been times I have rejoiced,

senses alive, quickened … by eye, ear or touch … gloriously so,

reaching into my innermost being, making my soul to sing

blessings by a different name - man made from human to human -

we bring the possibility of such blessings with us;

part of our endowment, there to be used and enjoyed.

*

It has been with some sadness too, the opposite quickening,

as the bitter and the sweet need the one to justify the other,

else were the one on its own too much to bear …

*

Who can fathom the making of Man

composed of such variety of constituent parts;

Physical, mental, spiritual, the visible and the invisible,

what turning, mixing, confusing or clarified using

of the human brain in the act of thinking…

*

What marvellous variety of abstract journeys

our imagination can take us on,

with such wide ranging expressions and emotions

is each human born,

fearfully and wonderfully … and for a time and a purpose.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Things unspoken...

Long ago in distant past

Big Bang theory or some Divine plan,

‘midst swirling dust plus cosmic radiation

began the continuum of exploration.

*

Male and female came to be

dwellers outside eternity,

naked learned to cover up

hide the erotic bits of fluff.

*

A given time to live a life,

man sets forth to seek a wife,

time to raise their progeny

then launch them their destiny.

*

Learning, I find on looking back

depends on background and on stock,

these and other abstract things

partly interact on me;

shaped my thoughts and actions so

but must not rock the blasted boat.

*

I’m a man but must not show

when my feelings are hurting so…

Set out to find the real me

why my true feelings I disguise;

how to be father and husband too

provide and protect all that is mine;

be a man and not a child

pretend I’m brave when I want to cry.

*

At last I discover my human clay

holds basic rights to have my say…

so I make my personal plea

since I’ve not sought to make me, thee;

for God’s sake leave me, let me be…

all that I was meant to be!

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

What others have set down

And there it was…a new thought, a sudden inspiration,

free nourishment for my continuing education,

a visitor to my inquiring mind!

*

And from whence it came, and how or why,

choosing this essential unseen part of me

from others that surround?

*

And as it rested there,

a quiet firm conviction followed the first uplifting thrill.

Take pen now and capture its deepest intent.

*

Continuing urge transferred those fleeting thoughts to words,

visible now for those who care to read

the message there.

*

And thus it did remind me, I am more than flesh and bone;

that I may leave behind some insight that was mine

for others’ eyes.

*

For I have known inspiring moments through my days and nights

reading when alone what others have set down in their time,

and with wonderful smiles, uplifting me.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A step into reality

There was one August Bank holiday in England that stands out very clearly in my mind as a nine year old boy. It was 1938, and the once a year passenger train would travel up the line from Preston to Longridge for the event; a distance of about seven miles. At all other times, only goods trains travelled the line.

By gum, it’s quiet, I thought to myself as I walked over to the style in the stone wall across the street from where we lived, the vantage point where I kept my eye on things. It was about 9.15 in the morning, it was a Saturday in August, and the weather was warm. There should have been people about; they couldn’t all be sleeping in, I thought.

Then my ears caught the faint 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 engine funnel. Of course! The realisation now came to me; it was the Holiday Train, come to take the folks of Longridge to Preston and then on to Blackpool holiday resort by the sea.

I remember suddenly getting quite agitated thinking of who I could ask so that I might be able to go too, knowing deep down that it wasn’t possible but my mind just wouldn’t let go of the idea. My excitement at seeing the train made my brain think fast and furiously: ‘What could I do to make it possible for me to go?’ Then the train whistle sounded again and…oh…it’s coming back down again! Little sounds of frustration bubbled up from my stomach and throat, in small, panicky snatches as I hopped from one foot to the other. It was all so unfair, I thought to myself very close to tears now.

The train was slowly picking up speed as it moved down the incline, its carriages crammed full of people leaning out of every window, waving or holding long, coloured streamers of paper 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; there was no one else around and my mind turned over the various reasons why it wasn’t 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 possible Dad would have made sure that I was on that train.

I didn’t tell anyone how I felt at that moment; we all had to face such times of disappointment; so I wiped away my tears and after a while found something else to occupy my mind.

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Lost love

I still have so much to learn
about myself, the wonders of my being.
I claim to be myself,
no want have I to imitate another.

*

Yet how shamefully some treat me,
they care not for my tears,
with words that sear they penetrate my soul,
and laugh derisive seeking to destroy.

*

They think I do not care, think I do not feel,
that because I'm quiet then I must be weak…
but I am who I am and they do me a great wrong
dismissing me with sarcasm and their belittling scorn.

*

How else can it be, my outer form betrays me …
hides the deepest longings of my heart?
My failing spirit weakens my resolve,
I cannot lift my face to look at you
my weeping eyes, they blind me,
and you cannot see how deep the love lies there.

*

My stuttering lips, they fail me,
and so I speak not how I yearn for love…
and if I could my voice would break with sorrow,
the words are there, but locked within my breast.

*

Alone amidst surrounding throngs
I sought the eyes that maybe searched for mine.
I had so much to give,
to share with someone else who cared.

*
I sought a warm embrace,
and lips to kiss and our desires to share.
I sought a loving heart,
one with mine that to the heavens might rise.

Once, an ecstasy flowed through me…
her eyes on mine did set me all aglow.

*
Her smile, her voice, her touch,
her presence near, with rapturous delight
did make my spirit to the heavens fly.

*

She was an angel, I a mere mortal, and with
all my senses captured at her feet I fell.
Sadly, as the sun's rays kindle life in spring,
alas will also blind the one who looks too long.

*

So the heart that careless of my love outpoured,
lost love, of the one who to the end adored.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)