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:

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

Time to return?

Is it too soon to say that I am ready now,

fold me back into the great mother womb

from which I was expelled,

a human time traveller, not consulted,

on planet earth dwell?

 *

Have I run the gamut,

passed the required tests?

Experienced to the fullest,

all conditions set?

 *

It's true and freely I admit...

I've been so afraid at times

of making just the same mistakes

I've seen on every side.

 *

Some were members of a team,

played each game as it came...

I was drawn to other things,

and so they called me names.

 *

It made me weep each time I saw

my fellow humans suffer...

Others laughed and jeered again,

how could they be so blind?

 *

In many ways I quickly found

I wasn't hard enough...

Men were to be as hard as nails,

and made of better stuff.

 *

Yet I have learned and know it’s true

for each person I have met,

beneath each tough exterior

there's a human heart to touch.

 *

Am I ready now to close the door

on all I think I've been through...?

For now I ask, 'If it's the end,

where will I return to?’

 *

Dennis Crompton © 2013

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

Andorf's journey

I once went to a writer’s workshop with a woman called Rene, in Cambridge, a small town an hour’s drive from where I live, attended by eight or so writers from the district. Rene opened her session by asking us to jot down anything that we hadn’t thought of writing about before, just short headings to get our imaginations going. Fifteen minutes later, several of us were asked to speak briefly about our topic, I was one who volunteered among two others.

Andorf’s journey is the finished item, started at that workshop:

Andorf’s heart was lighter now that the village was behind them, hoping he’d done the right thing. So many people were dying because of the plague and although it had not yet reached his village, it soon would. His sister, Claire, was not strong but she seemed to be managing all right as they made their journey to another village, considered safer, as it was less frequented by travellers likely to bring the disease from other parts. He looked at Claire again and told her they’d have another rest when they reached the next mile stone.
As they walked his mind thought about the healer, and he seized on that positive thought, held it, wanting to explore and maybe even experience some of the things he’d heard about him. He’d guessed that much was exaggerated, but found it absorbing.

‘Oh … the healer’, a pedlar had replied to his question, ‘Oh yes, he’s a wonder is that man. You know he washes himself … every day!’

Strange, doing that, Andorf thought; still there must be something to it. Then he smiled as he recalled somebody adding, ‘Then there’s the kind of stuff he eats. I don’t know that I could eat nettles. Fancy that. Just the tops mind you.’ And then just a few days ago, he heard an old woman explaining the things she’d seen the healer collect from the woods one day.

Andorf paused to remove a piece of gravel from his sandal and noticed with some concern that Claire had dropped behind as they’d been walking. ‘It’s all right … just a bit out of breath. Give me a few minutes …’ she murmured softly, trying to smile as she looked at him. She was looking quite tired thought Andorf, and he felt a tugging at his throat as a sudden fear came upon him. We still have another seven and a half miles to go and it’s well past noon day, he thought. Perhaps we should have waited a few more days for her to gain more strength. But he knew as he thought that, that it wasn’t true. She came only because I insisted, he chastised himself. If she dies on the way … and he couldn’t prevent a slight sob escaping from his tight lips. As their eyes met, he coughed to hide his embarrassment and gently helped her to her feet.

They walked the rest of the way together, his arm around his sister’s waist and as they reached the next mile stone, they left the road and found a place for her to sit and rest again. Now it was only seven miles but as he looked at his sister again a sudden rush of deep concern quickened his pulse, her face was quite pale and there was a touch of beauty there now that he had not seen before, of such depth and quality, surpassing even those in the pictures on the stained-glass windows in the abbey. Then he was suddenly afraid for her and turned away lest she should see the sadness on his face.

After a while they continued slowly on past two, and then three, more mile stones, joined by others heading in the same direction. Claire was heavier on his arm now, her strength slipping away with each step. The state of the road was no help, with deep ruts filled with filthy water which they had to wade through as there was no way round them. Occasionally they’d come to a grove of trees where it was cool and refreshing and the desire to linger and rest was so inviting. But Andorf was afraid to stop, even when they came to a number of hamlets, wretched dilapidated places where people were so poor it made his heart heavy just to look at them. He blinked away the tears that seeped down into his eyes, increasing the anguish he felt for Claire, so frail and still so beautiful. Her quiet spirit and light infectious laughter had often been the cause of lifting him from some wearisome task, it would break his heart if … and he would not let himself think on but knelt down pretending to retie the thong on his left sandal to give him a moment to recover his composure. How dirty his feet were now and the nail on his big toe …then with a sudden panic he heard a low moan from Claire and turning saw her slump to her knees, her eyes staring and wide open before he could reach her, frightened him.

From one of the doors to his right the figure of a middle-aged woman came running to kneel beside Claire before he could get to his feet, she was talking quietly to her. Then even as he reached her side Claire looked at him, smiled, then closed her eyes as her head fell back onto the woman’s arms. For a moment Andorf couldn’t move, his feet and legs did not respond to his purpose to move, his voice locked within his tightening chest and he felt as if his heart would burst … and that moment seemed so very long. It ended with him feeling weak and empty as if his knees would suddenly give way beneath him as slowly but clearly Andorf knew. Something had gone from his sister, Claire. She was now an empty shell and void of life and in that dread moment, he changed from youth to man.

Somehow it passed and he left the darkness of that scene behind him, the road to the monastery seemed to lift his spirit with each step, as if some purpose for which he had been born was about to be fulfilled. He wondered how things would be for him in such a place and felt again the note inside his doublet, written by the priest who had told him of the healer and his work. Reassured, he continued on his way even though he knew only a handful of novices were taken in each year, now looking cold and forbidding in the distance.
The rising sun soon warmed him as he climbed the hill and knocked at last upon the heavy oaken door. Later that afternoon he was taken in to see the healer, who looked at him for some time before he spoke: ‘Well Andorf, you would like to join our Brotherhood then? Sit down now and tell me something about yourself.’ The voice was quiet and soothing, filled with warmth and encouragement; then the healer listened as Andorf told him of his journey.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

An ordinary bloke

I remember him fairly well,

an ordinary bloke

lived alone down our street,

one of the lads.

So ordinary, we hardly knew he was there,

never said much, a quiet one,

never did much …

he was just there …

one of the lads.

 *

Ambition? Some said he had none,

never showed much if he had;

sarcasm hit him when he tried,

crushed him when he succeeded …

saw the end of him did that …

stayed an ordinary bloke,

yes … one of the lads.

 *

He did have feelings … ordinaries do ...

let his emotions show,

laughed at permitting tears to fall

when some friend or animal died,

a quiet, ordinary, feeling bloke,

yes … one of the lads.

*

Not so ordinary when his country went to war,

ordinary blokes volunteered or were conscripted,

trained and sent to distant shore …

he’s there today … somewhere out there,

numbered under a military stone …

yes … a quiet, feeling, dead ordinary bloke,

one of the lads … ordinary no more.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

Becoming a father changed all that...

Unidentified girls, Spanish Civil War

My friend, Robert asked me one day,

What did Hiroshima mean to you as a young man?’

 *

Well … nothing really, I’d never thought much about it, I said,

back then in 1945, I was only fifteen and patriotic,

I mean, I saw around me bomb damaged houses,

streets of them and lots of temporarily bomb-shocked humans, vacant-eyed …

scrambled-minded wrecks shuffling along the streets of my home town.

I heard the pilot-less flying bomb one night, its engine suddenly quiet overhead,

felt my heart thumping loudly in that sudden … very frightening silence

I hear it yet at times and if I should perchance forget,

I can Google it onto my computer screen - if I wish…

 *

Ground Zero for Hiroshima, August of that same year …

Oh yes! They reaped Churchill’s promised whirlwind

and that was fine by me.

 *

Becoming a father changed all that, it sure changed me…

it gave Hiroshima a meaning, a meaning that was thrust upon me one day

when I imagined my daughters there, back then, and thankfully

I’d lost my soul-destroying callowness…

 *

Now I’m part of that history, have changed, am changing now

with still more to come …

so in a way, Hiroshima had a point,

for all of us, I’d say.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

A peculiar swing of the pendulum

Pendulum clock conceived by Galileo Galilei around 1637, but never completed. (Wikipedia)

Quite a number of city folk look on me with something akin to pity when I tell them that I live in the country, especially when I mention the name of the town. Odd really as many came from similar situations themselves. Some faces soften: those who've made it financially; or those in the process and who plan to return; those who get out of the rat race and come back into the peace and calm of the rural scene…which is a fiction really. The pendulum can swing from tranquillity to disaster just as easily in country districts as in the cities. It did in my town.

The bank's still there but not the blood stains. They went with the blue carpet and some of the fittings ripped out during the alterations afterwards. Working in the district forensic laboratory for some years I'd processed photographs and items of many crimes. I've seen what bullets can do to a human body when delivered at very close quarters. It was horrific what one bullet did to the victim who survived.

Understandable, then, that customers and bank staff required counsellors to assist them and members of the police and St John's Ambulance to cope with it all. They did their best but some things can't be altered. Not with counselling. Not with the passing of time, not even when the sun shines, when the streets are peaceful or when people pass their daily lives with the appearance of quiet assurance. Ask those affected on that day and they'll tell you that a recurring nudge from their subconscious reminds them of the peculiar swing of the pendulum.

Before 'that day' everything about the bank had suggested permanence: the quietness within its solid structure; the carpet soft underfoot; the neat uniforms of the staff; and the calm appearance of the manager. It was the same each day of the week. You could bank on it, as the saying goes. This section of the counter was for the ordinary public, that section for business people with their canvas bags of cheques and cash, and over there was for other business and where you made enquires. Folk who'd ‘made it’ ordered their travellers cheques and foreign currency there, all smiles and quietly confident in possession of their wealth. A great time for them to be alive and with further excitements just around the corner. (Further excitement. Yes indeed.)

Each locality has its quota of odd people of varying ages, backgrounds and persuasion adding their distinctive flavour, even a richness of one kind or another. In our town there was a woman, some called a medium, who could be counted on to say or do something beyond the norm during the different phases of the moon. On this day, when no one could have guessed how she knew, her voice urgent and insistent said there was a foulness and smell of death in the air. Then, in the same breath, likened it to the horde of pests awaiting release from Pandora's box. She was going on about innocent people being shot when the young receptionist put the phone down. ‘I thought it was a hoax,’ she sobbed later, when the editor heard about it.

But by then it was too late.

An unusual kind of excitement was brooding in the kitchen of the home of the Bowden family, not far out of town that day. It coincided exactly with the phone call from the medium to the local press. At the Bowden house, Scott's mother was sick to her stomach. Her son's normally warm personality had changed, with an abruptness that sent her reeling. Breakfast had been bad enough, she just couldn't do anything right for him. It was more than just a bad temper, it was the mood changes that began to cause her serious concern.
Then, about mid-morning she'd said something that tipped the scales the wrong way and the air became heated with tension. It was a great pity, but understandable when the facts became known. At a friend's place the night before his drinks had been spiked, for laughs apparently. Whatever the substance was, it set in motion an outrage that filled many people with horror and despair, especially the parents of teenagers. The fools who'd wanted a few laughs, if they got them, was actually the one responsible for the deaths and heartbreaks that followed.

The change began in the early hours of the following morning, Scott struggling with his fuddled mind trying to make sense of what was happening to him. Waves of panic and alarm sent him rushing into bursts of wild activity, little of it balanced or coherent before gradually becoming quiet again. A quietness which progressed to an unnatural icy coolness suggestive of a mind teetering on the brink of insanity. He'd left the house by the time his mother had called him for lunch, and she hesitated a while before phoning the police to tell them of her concerns. Her recorded message was played back two hours later.

Junior bank teller, Grant Haskell, was a spirited young man, who possessed along with his good looks a bubbling kind of personality which most people, especially other teens, found attractive. He also had considerable potential which the bank was keen to nurture. Scott Bowden knew Grant. They'd played basket-ball and been on the same school camps together. They were friends but not close friends. Yet two witnesses were convinced he'd shown no recognition of Grant as Scott had rested the barrel of the rifle on the counter. They saw him survey the bank staff, their eyes mesmerised by the rifle moving backwards and forwards in an arc in front of them. They'd watched as Grant moved slowly from behind the counter, attempting a smile in the hope Scott would recognise him and stop the madness.

As Grant opened his mouth to speak to Scott, the barrel of the rifle wavered slightly up and to the left. The crack of the shot stunned everyone and they all said how, in a kind of slow motion, they watched in disbelief as the bullet entered just below Grant’s jaw to come out a fraction of second later by the side of his left eye. Just before Grant crumpled to the ground, there was a moment when the skin and bone in between burst open and a gaping hole pumping with blood appeared in the side of his face. Moments after the blast, Scott appeared to regain a brief semblance of normality but still he gunned down a customer and a bystander outside who'd tried to prevent him leaving. He was caught, tried and sentenced.

Our laboratory supplied the evidence at the trial, establishing that a drug found on the premises of one of the party-goers was the same as that found in Scott's brain at the post mortem. The two deaths in our small town and one bank teller dreadfully disfigured was news-worthy for a while. You're probably thinking, 'I've heard it all before', except it didn't end there; there was another peculiar swing to this particular pendulum.

At a manager’s meeting, the local bank manager, Mr Reginald Naylor, felt that reconstructive plastic surgery to Grant Haskell's face would be a constant reminder of the murder and therefore offensive to some people who relied on the bank. The general feeling was it would be better for Grant to be away from it all, and they left Mr Naylor to sort it out from there. It might have helped if he'd talked to Grant, however, as Grant had the potential to rise well above his own position. Mr Naylor felt that just wouldn’t be right. To give himself time to sort things out, he gave Grant a month's paid leave, after his long spell in hospital and reconstructive surgery, and he made his plans.

The letter was on his desk when Grant, almost restored to his former identity but with horrific signs on the suffering he had endured still evident, returned from the hospital and his extended leave. He was warmly welcomed back by his colleagues who had been regular visitors to him throughout his rehabilitation. Grant had been and integral part of the bank team, even as a junior teller, and the bank had always stressed the importance of that. They'd had regular get-togethers, week-end seminars, a mixture of intensive lectures and fun-times to achieve that end, and they'd succeeded. Loyalty to each other went hand in hand with loyalty to the bank. So you can understand what Grant thought of loyalty when he opened the letter terminating his employment.

Some weeks later, Gwyneth White's dog attracted her attention to a patch of bush on her family farm. It was the body of Grant; it was presumed he'd gone missing in the bush not long after receiving his termination letter. Searchers had given up after several extended sweeps of the area failed to find evidence of him being there, and yet there he was, not far from his home town.

Now what will happen at the next swing of the pendulum do you think?

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(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)

My lone search

It was a cold December day when I walked from the bus stop towards the church where my mother and father were married. St. Nicholas’s church was about five minutes’ walk from the bus stop and I had to walk briskly to keep warm. I’d made the journey from New Zealand back to England in search of my family history, particularly about my mother who had died when I was a baby, and who I had never known.

It took me some time to find the vicar who was on his way out of the vicarage to visit a parishioner. He was very helpful however, as he opened up two safes and left me to it. The Banns, Marriages and Death Registers kept me busy for some time as I was really keen to find my mother’s signature in the Marriage register. Seeing it, I thought, would help to give me a clearer image of the mother I never knew.

I found it, and I treasured the opportunity to see it. It was more than enough to see that, and to have walked up the path and into the church, down the aisle to the front, where I imagined my Mum and Dad holding hands, and gazing into each other’s eyes. They would have been hearing the words I heard then in my head:

“Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder”

…and no man did. Instead, death came and took her away, and separated them forever.

It was years later before I quietly asked my father when were alone one day: ‘Dad, what was my mother really like?’

I’d asked him a couple of times before but he could get no further than saying wistfully, and with emotion, ‘She was a lovely, warm-hearted woman, Den; we were soul-mates…’ and he could get no further as his eyes filled up…

I stopped asking after that, as I could see that it distressed him so. But it distressed me too for I longed to know more of the mother who had loved me; the mother I never knew. That day in December though I’d gained a little more for my mind’s picture. I’d been in that church, seen their signatures together, stood where they stood, and some years later I was able to get a copy of their Marriage Certificate.

As I left the church, the vicarage was closed and I had nowhere to leave the keys entrusted me by the vicar. I would loved for him to have been there to chat with me about the history that linked me to his church. I walked back across the main road to a school, which was probably the church school and found two or three people in the staffroom. After introducing myself, I gave them the keys and then because I was so very cold I requested a cup of coffee. They were very happy to oblige, offered me a seat and some biscuits too, and were keen to ask me about New Zealand and hear about the reason for my journey.

It was almost 1.30 p.m. as I left to walk back to the bus stop. The grey skies and the penetrating cold, combined with the fact that I was on my own made it easier to leave. St Nicholas Church records, otherwise I may have stayed there forever, connected slightly to my mother.

And I offer my thanks to the vicar for the willingness to assist me and to entrust his valuable records and keys to me. He had helped me in the search for my own identity, for which I am most grateful.

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

Have you...?

Henri Matisse
1869 - 1954
Le bonheur de vivre” (“The joy of life”)

Have you grasped the greatness of your being,

discerned somehow there’s a purpose in your life,

a miracle beyond present comprehension,

been reassured by glimmers of inner light?

*

Have you midst your everyday occupation,

or solitary, on some quiet evening stroll,

been overwhelmed on hearing strains of music

in harmony with a soul-song of your own?

*

Have you been present at birth’s miracle,

heard, as she heard with her Mum, a babe’s first cry;

then later, wondered at her first simple sentence,

new life communicate with her waiting world?

*

Have you experienced the truest joys of friendship,

somewhere on your life’s journeyings,

breaking bread in the company of some stranger,

departing more complete for such time spent?

*

Have you thought on those circumstances manipulated

in this world’s prisons with greater flaws than yours;

seen the world through their dehumanizing barriers,

as cruelly restrained as bars or cold stone walls?

*

Have you had the privilege to be present,

hearing last thoughts of another’s whispered words,

holding their hand, caring and farewelling,

knowing you were a comfort at their end?

*

Have you felt the true worth of your being,

that magic ‘something’ deep within your soul;

that come what may and though your very world

did tremble round you … all would be well?

*

Should this have been your fortunate experience,

then blessed are you, a thousand times I say;

and I pray that now this privileged possession

you’ll somehow share with us of lesser clay.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

With these eyes I have seen

I have seen with these eyes

things to make me wonder, weep or cry;

been lifted up and cast down too

by the kaleidoscopic gamut

of happenings around.

*

Seen troops of chattering children

free from classrooms’ confining walls,

learning as they strolled hand in hand

along widening enlightening roads.

*

Frail elderlies too, sedate, composed

on their daily walk to town…when,

a sudden swirl of wheeling birds

brings them joy in the sunny air.

*

From trailer hitched to back of truck

stare two soft eyes, lovely and brown

a patient cow from out of town…

now comes a fat and friendly Labrador,

his coat a glossy black

lightly trots his sniffing round

pink tongue peeps from smiling mouth.

*

Be careful now!…he’s on the road,

inspecting something lying there;

hedgehog squashed, exposed, obscene

too late on snail patrol he’d seen

oncoming vehicle lights surprised

and just as suddenly, he died.

*

Here comes a silent, sad-faced gentleman

hurting deeply at employment lost;

services no longer required; sorry,

must lay you off, says his younger efficient boss.

*

There is beauty, wonder, sadness, love…

yes, all these things for me are free.

I can select, absorb, ignore or shut out,

the choice is mine, you see…

from my store of mind-pictures

sometimes deep emotions stir,

make me one with all mankind…

silent at night or away on my own

the call me from the library of my mind.

*

Then warmed or weeping, bless the thought:

‘These things I’ve seen I can share with you’.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

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)

Sometimes...

So many times I have wondered how my mother felt about me. I never knew her; she died when I was one year old. Part of this poem covers those thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder at how I came to be…

From two separate entities preparing parts of me;

mother and father, loving ecstasy,

nine months later then entranced ME!

*

Sometimes I wonder what Mother’s thoughts had been,

the moment her eyes first gazed at precious me;

tired and aching reaching out to me,

held me, kissed me…then whispered, what?…to me?

*

Sometimes I wonder at the sights I came to see,

living earth, clouds and sky, ever changing scenes;

birds and beasts, fish in the sea…

the colours of nature all wondrous and free.

*

Sometimes I wonder at what life is all about;

winter and summer, floods and droughts;

the bitter, the sweet, certainty and doubt;

living and dying, a whimper, a shout.

*

Sometimes I wonder at the living mystery

of skin, blood and bone forming the visible part of me,

clothing the invisible you see as me;

sometimes I wonder…now, which is the real me?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Another side

Oh, but he was handsome,
with his dark eyes,
sparkling teeth,
and ready smile upon his cheeks.
And yes, I kind of envied him.

*

Pommie joker back in 1954,
I, along with others,
soon was settling down,
learning a trade along with Jeff,
saw another side of this man.

*

He was married, with a child,
his wife, good looking, wanted more.
Other guys offered, were accepted.
Jeff became worn and much neglected,
tried so hard to reach his objective.

*

Each day he struggled to maintain
a smiling face, make home a base,
and rumours false, some maybe true,
said she was an angel or a shrew.

*
And oh, I felt so sad for him.

I was not close enough to support him.
Said not a word lest it should throw him.

*
He lost his family and occupation,
then laid with pad between his teeth
was shocked and convulsed as medication.

I saw him sometimes after his therapy,
hardly recognised the shuffling effigy.
Gone were the things I once had coveted,
sadly wondering how this could be tolerated.
And oh it was so sad to see him.

 *

I was quite a young man then,
yet I can't forget my friend.
He had so much of what I wanted,
good looks, dark hair and sparkling teeth,
a lovely child and so-called help-meet.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1998

(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)

The long goodbye

This was written after reading the article: Up from Ground Zero, by Ted Gup, in the National Geographic, August 1995

 
When someone is bereaved, healing usually comes with the passing of time, or through faith in a religion. For some, grief may mingle with guilt at having survived while loved ones died, resulting in the bereavement being a prolonged and agonising affair. The bereavement of Mrs Shina Sonoda, a widow with four children living in Hiroshima, was to start in 1945.

The facts concerning what happened at Hiroshima at around 8.16 am on 6 August that year are well known. The pictures or films of the awesome destruction from the explosion of an atomic bomb have been seen by all, but we see at a distance; we are remote, not connected, only horrified observers of what we humans can do to each other; our feelings dependent on whether we had loved ones or close friends who suffered through the actions of the Japanese prior to the bomb.

I was in my early teens then and felt the Japanese had brought such disasters on themselves. When I married and became a father my way of thinking changed, often prefaced by the thought: How would I feel if my wife or children were in that position?

In a doctor’s waiting room recently I read an item about Hiroshima, which brought a personal aspect to the bombing, it went like this …

The air raid siren had sounded the All Clear as Mrs Sonoda’s daughter; Akiko again pleaded for the tin of tangerines to be opened, which her mother had promised she would open after an air raid sometime soon. Shima smiled as she gave her a hug: Not this time, Akiko, she said quietly. A few seconds later the bomb exploded reducing the city to a pile of rubble aglow with deadly radiation. Over 80,000 people died instantly with another 60,000 dead within the next 12 months.

As I read, the father part of me imagined I was there with my family. It was devastatingly real. I could see it! At the same time I recalled Winston Churchill, Britain’s Prime Minister at that time quoting Hosea, a prophet in the Old Testament:

‘They have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.’

Nothing humans can do can stop a whirlwind, we can only wait until it has passed, pick up the pieces and start again.

I imagined Shima in the midst of all that horror after the bomb. I saw her as a mother, ignoring her own needs, sobbing and searching frantically for Akiko. I heard her moans of disbelief and horror at the utter madness of our civilisation, wondering why everything all around her had been destroyed, yet she had survived and Akiko had not. All that remained was the image of her daughter in her mind.

Of course I could never really know what it was like for Mrs Sonoda, but as I read I did know that I could have been born Japanese. My name could have been Sonoda, then I would have been as they, thought and acted as they.

I read on. Tormented because she hadn’t found Akiko, she also deeply regretted that she hadn’t opened the tin of tangerines; it was such a simple last request after all. From that time on she knelt every morning at her Buddhist shrine. With her prayer she offered a tin of tangerines for the soul of Akiko and with the prayers her grief was eased a little each day.

Close to the dome of twisted steel and concrete, the picture most of us have of Hiroshima is the Peace Memorial Museum. The basement houses an index, each card detailing someone who died as a result of the bombing.

Ted Gup who brought the story of Shima Sonoda to light asked to see Akiko’s card. It records that Yoshiharo Agari was the one who found her crushed body. The card had been there for years. I don’t know if Mrs Sonoda ever went there to see those details, or ever will. If she does, her long goodbye may end at last in the city which is now called Peace.

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

My out of body experience under the influence of drugs

What: Right hip pops out of socket

Why: A slight wriggle of the hips whilst well-reclined in comfortable chair, and galloping old age
Then what: Paramedic kindly eases pain with a drug
Result: My spacey drug misadventure back to normal

Seated in my Ezy-boy chair one day, I eased my body into a more comfortable position. Without so much as a 'how's your father', out popped my right hip from its socket after several years in good-working order as a complete right hip replacement, if you please. This was for the first time of happening… (I'm ex Church of England). A little time passed with me squirming or trying to keep still while my granddaughter smiled and ignored my pleas for her to get somebody to help me, thinking it was just another of my jokes. By this time, the desperation and decibel level I'd reached gained my daughter Helen's attention. Something was definitely wrong with Grandaddy.

The St John's Ambulance arrived very quickly. They knew the way to our place by now and probably had the ambulance set on auto-drive. On the floor of our lounge, the officers (two females and a male) opened a large hold-all of drugs and syringes of every description but wouldn't allow me to choose the pretty colourful ones. They knew best, and soon the pain began to ease replaced with an unplanned free trip into space. My advice? Don't try this at home, or anywhere.

Whatever the drugs were that now coursed through my veins, my trained care-givers had warned aforementioned daughter that drugs can have a weird effect on some people. Weird puts it mildly, believe me, for I had entered a grotesque place where nothing was real or distinguishable. Distorted faces came close then moved away several times, their lips moving yet I was hearing nothing and, isn’t that typical, not an angel in sight when you need one. I was me, but a strange disembodied me, no longer fully aware of anything (and I touch nothing stronger than wine gums these days).

Now, whichever way I turned I was staring up close at an ever-moving wall of meaningless shapes and colours. While my care-givers were thinking it was pain that was making me groan, it was the utter disorientation I was trying to come to grips with. Only when daughter Helen's hand held mine and she murmured that she was there did I begin to feel a measure of safety enough to begin to relax.

The above sentences in no way capture the absolute horror I felt was tearing at my sanity. It’s an experience I’m thankful to have behind me. Oh by the way, the hip in question is functioning well and given extreme care by its owner. Thanks indeed to Waikator Hospital (Hamilton) medical and Morrinsville St John’s Ambulance staff for their professional care. I shall sing your praises by enjoying the measure of life you’ve given to. May bands of angels sing you to your rest.

Dennis Crompton © 2011
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Things have changed since my operation...

Things have changed since my heart bypass operation. I'm just not the same now. A little older, a little greyer and more wrinkled with some wrinkles in places I'd never have expected them. But on the surface I look the same. That's why it's so damned difficult, you see. What does one do to explain? We've all met those who go on about their operations and it can get a bit much until we learn to switch off after the first, 'Oh, it was agony, Ivy!' I sure don't want to fall into that category.

The operation I had has become quite common now, evoking little more than the flutter of an eyebrow here and there. I mean to say, after waiting all one’s life almost for a chance to go to hospital so that flowers can be sent, friends can visit, hospital meals tasted and nurses appraised, it falls flat because it's the third operation of this kind in our town this month. Tough life, eh?

So I've had it. People I know stop me and ask, 'How are you?' and before I can say anything they rush in with, 'You're looking well'. They were saying that before the operation. I just nod my head. A waste of time trying to explain how I really felt. They didn't want to know anyway. It was just a greeting because they felt they had to say something. A bit like the minister shaking hands after the church service. It's like shaking hands with a piece of cold fish. He's miles away, talking to the second person behind you. Hardly gives you a glance.

The surgeon did a good job. I'm not complaining. Really. It's just that he rearranged some of my internal plumbing in the process. Well, the artery was there, doing nothing he reckoned, so might as well make use of it. And, as I say, nobody looking at me now any the wiser. For me though, that knowledge is quite deflating. Hits the old macho male ego for six I can tell you. I mean. What if I should suddenly need my left mammary gland for what it was originally intended. Whatever that was. There! It's out! My left mammary can't mam any more. Is it any wonder I feel such a fraud?

What's made it worse is the get-well card one of my friends sent me. It's of Michelangelo's David, a complete man, obvious which ever way you look at him. The only rearranging required for him would have been to remove anything bordering on the erotic from David's sight prior, during and until the sitting for the painting, sculptor or whatever had been completed. Depending on whether he wore a fig leaf, a cluster of grapes, or his sister's sexy shortie nightie.

I wonder if he'd have been so appealing if he'd had his left mammary rearranged? That of course, is something we'll never know. Just as well we can't change the past, isn't it?

Dennis Crompton© 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

This won't hurt a bit...

I've always been fascinated by the way we learn things. Take the word continuum for instance. There was quite a large time gap between my learning about gravity and coming across the word continuum. But then I read somewhere that we learn in spurts. You've probably noticed. Perhaps it's easier for our brain to take things in in that way.

I can't remember exactly when I first heard of continuums but I know I was a young man in New Zealand then. I can remember the sheer delight, the wonder and excitement that accompanied my grasp of the meaning of the word at that moment. Some of it continues to this day. So, when I heard the phrase we were to write about that night at my writing class (“This won’t hurt a bit”), the continuum effect took over and my mind filled with a myriad of situations to suit the phrase.

I thought of Pontius Pilate and his eternal question: What is truth? Poor chap couldn't handle it. Washed his hands of the whole business, or tried to.

George Washington was different. According to him, you should always tell the truth. It's all very well being told that as a boy but that rule can be taken too far.

I recall a film where an angel comes to earth for some reason. And everywhere she went, she told the truth. It was quite amusing at first, but it wasn't funny by the time the film ended. At a meeting for women, the organiser appeared in a new dress and asked the angel how she looked. The reply given in front of all her friends was devastating: “It would look fine on a person twenty years younger. On you, it makes you look like a common whore.” It left her shattered.

A milder but still cruel form of let-down is used today. The receptionist at the dentist's is a bright young thing who is nicely dressed but can't spell, and chews a lot. The waiting room is quiet, save for a high-pitched sound piercing the air from time to time. You do remember don't you? How calm you were, outwardly, the first time, even you though sensed your own underlying concern when you entered. The room you went into was clean and hygienic. The chair you were led to looked comfortable as the instruments around it sparkled and shined. It was not a good sign when the nurse placed a bib around your neck. Nor when a man wearing a white jacket sidled up to you and murmured, “Open wide. This won't hurt a bit.”

It was the words This won't hurt a bit that deceived you. What followed was sheer hell, for you, the nurse, the dentist, and all the others in the waiting room. You left with the knowledge that the phrase This won't hurt a bit was a damned lie. Ahead of you lay This-won't-hurt-a-bit-injections for tonsils and appendix for starters. For females, childbirth and breast-feeding junior beckoned, soon to sport as fine a set of nippers as you'd see on any TV add made in the USA. Better get used to it buster.

All these things hurt. Damn right they do!

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Seasons to cry

In the midst of an ordinary day there's a Thomas with a mind out of balance ready to snuff out the lives of anyone for no valid reason. And he did. He killed sixteen children along with Gwen, their teacher, that ordinary day. A shocked Dunblane policeman, his brain in neutral running on a kind of official automatic statement, said to reporters, “It was a random attack. We are not aware of any motive.” And the world cried for the children, their parents and relatives, their teacher and playmates, and for that sad bereaved community. Yes, and even for those who'd loved Thomas, knowing that there but for the grace of God... I wonder sometimes where he is now. What he's doing. How he, and especially his mother, are coping. It could have happened to anyone: it does. Cruelly. Savagely.

In my study I have a list of pupils who attended the schools where I've taught. Most died by accident, some through sickness, a few by their own hand. They were aged from between 14 and 23. The list reminds me that each person was a distinct and unique personality living with ne’er a thought that in the midst of life, in the twinkling of an eye, life could be snatched away. Sometimes I look at the school magazine to jog my memory as to what they looked like. One pupil I'll never forget. She's fixed in my mind forever. A seventh former looking forward to her next year at university, except another mind temporarily out of balance got in the way.

It was close to the end of the last term for the year. Senior exams had finished. Textbooks had been handed in. Lunchtime was halfway through and the seniors were gathering in the assembly hall to hear a visiting speaker. He promised to be interesting having appeared several times on TV as a radical and a stirrer. I was free, so I went along too. From the back of the hall I watched this particular student seat herself on the top step leading up to the stage, place the guitar she carried across her knees and tune it, leaning forward to hear the sound of the strings. When she was ready, she looked up, smiled and waited. The hubbub gradually subsided and when all was quiet and without any introduction she started to sing: 'Don't cry for me, Argentina'. She captivated us as her voice, soft and beautiful carried the words clearly and distinctly around the hall. (Of the speaker who followed, I recall only that he was a radical. Abrasive and blunt he strutted the stage, his message lost in the arrogancy of the delivery. I've never forgotten that student, or her presentation.)

A few months later I heard she'd been killed not very far from her home. Some youth, keen to impress her of his driving skills, persuaded her to accept a lift the short distance into town. She never made it. According to the report that came out later, a witness who was with her at the scene stated that when she discovered he'd been drinking it was too late to get out. He'd refused to stop and while she was terribly injured and knew she was dying he was not badly hurt at all. Sometimes the song brings it all back to me. Sometimes it comes back on its own, and sometimes I cry. Thankfully, there's a time and a season for that.

© Dennis Crompton 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2012)