Competitors

‘Share and share alike’ was one of the things taught to us when we were young. I found it difficult at times but in the presence of older people it was best to comply. There were a few times when uncensored, I’d surprise myself by sharing something, prompted by a spontaneous surge of generosity from within. I’d feel quite saintly for a while and believe I should have been treated more kindly by folk, had they but known.

I can’t remember when it started but it probably began with a simply unhygienic sharing at school. My mate had an apple. I did not. So placing my arm around his shoulder as I’d seen other boys do, I said to him, “Give us a bite then, Jim?” And without any further persuasion, I enjoyed my first bite. Later, on observing other boys, I added, “Save us t’core too, will ya?” Over a period of time, the bite or the offer of the core would be shared as naturally as others had shared theirs. (I never extended my request to share oranges though. It was far too cold where I lived to be eating those anywhere but in the warmth of home. I also confess to an inbuilt aversion to tasting the juices of an orange watered down with the dribblings of a runny nose.)

Time and experience have brough competition to bear. There were other mates without an apple, so I set about acquiring skills to cope with the situation. It wasn’t long before I would hone in on an apple breathed on and being polished by a schoolmate as naturally as a female Codling moth’s antenna could pin point the male she sought. My oral seductions for a bite and the core had to be pruned and tamed; and they were.

After a bout of measles I was forced to wear spectacles, and the bottom dropped out of my persuasive approach, finely honed. Overnight I became a has-been mate, with four eyes. Then the school bully took to calling me ‘Skenner’, everyone laughed and I was relegated to a small group of forlorn no-hopers. My self-esteem plummeted. I was the last to be picked for soccer played with an empty tin – exciting within the four walls of the school yard where it was banned. I stood on the furthest boundary for cricket (played with a ball made from rags), if I was picked at all. No wonder I lost something of the bubbling infectious enjoyment of just being with my mates, especially when I we tried to see who could pee the highest up the wall in the boys’ loo (I could only reach the half-way mark). As a competitor I’d become a non-entity. A dreadful label for anyone.

I decided I’d become a monk. I’d be safe behind the cloistered walls of a monastery. I could have, if I’d lived in the Middle Ages… Many of my ideas and inspirations sprang from, “I could have, if…..” The monk idea didn’t last. I looked up the word in an encyclopaedia and pictures of them put me right off. They all looked so woe-begone, and it was obvious they could only reach the half-way mark too.

Anyway, it didn’t take me too long to accept being called four eyes, or Skenner. There seemed to be nothing I could do about it, so I’d grin and make some humorous comment…and in the process I gained a couple of great new mates. No point being woe-begone if I wasn’t even a monk, I thought.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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:

I am a father now

I am a father now, I tell you, I was there …
feeling and sharing in a secondary way
something of the searing pains my dear wife felt that day.
*
It was interminably long for her
as slowly, push by gasping … crying … straining … push
those intermittent hot pulsating surges
stretched more her pelvic frame and cervix.
This, midst low caring murmurings of her doctor and the nurses
who came and checked and whispered
went … came back again … assisted
then left us for a while, mother- and father to-be.
*
And I, helpless and with deep concern did watch
I squeezed her hand and wiped her brow
and kissed her damp, untidy perspirated hair.
From time to time, staff came and went
in crisp clean antiseptic gowns
and in-between they peered and talked and peered some more
and she, submitted to all this invading hurt
as on her crumpled sheets she wrestled there.
*
At least that’s what I thought, imagined it must be for her
I had not realized she saw beyond the drawn-out anguish of her bed.
She knew her body must become a door to motherhood
paining life’s miracle to the light of day.
*
And as a father I can tell you now, it was most wondrous to
behold the moment when my daughter entranced forth,
her tiny body holding so much hope,
as her first blessed helpless human sounds my heart did touch.
*
I had not thought when first began the process to this did span,
that it would be as I experienced now, and I first kissed this babe
of ours upon her lovely, soft and tender brow.
*
And even now, these many years gone by
my arms do feel again in memories treasured times,
her so small body snuggled warm against my chest.
And ‘membering when I first did look upon her face,
I feel those unashamed tears again spill from my eyes.
*
I am her father still, my wife and Love’s best gift,
and will they ever know what word means to me?
I, am a father now.
*
© Dennis Crompton 1994

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

Images

'Clear Thinking' by Richard Price, www.richardprice.nl

In a small back room or cloistered cell

recalling things we know so well

our minds a store of cascading scenes

a glorious kaleidoscope of inner dreams.

*

In country now mid-grove of trees

breathe delicate aroma of scented breeze

beneath my feet the good rich earth

enchanted by choir of wind and birds.

*

Oft' in the darkness of the night

with wonderful eye of inner sight

strolling again remembered places

kiss and caressing familiar faces.

*

Stored personal images we thus renew

uplifting spirit with treasured views

so may people where'er we be,

blessed with our own humanity.

© Dennis Crompton 1996

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

I saw the doc' today

I saw the doc' today.

Things are okay, but...

Better have it checked,

exercise ECG for you, he said.

I, of course, agreed.

*

I've seen pictures

of a treadmill in a prison.

Dreadful thing to torture humans on.

Grey lives made grayer,

to pay for crimes that

never could be paid for;

they hardly saw the light of day.

*

Thankfully the one awaiting me

is part of modern therapy,

hooked up to such gadgetry

it will record how I do

or don't perform, heart stressed

and under pressure...

*

From the data, all being well,

specialists will then meditate,

then medicate, and hopefully

I'll say: The doc' saw me today.

*

© Dennis Crompton 1996

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

A good time?

How good it was to be alive,

feeling, enjoying my exuberance of spirit,

slim teenager then, still foot and fancy free...

I strolled with ease the main streets of our city,

looked kindly on those who looked kindly on me.

*

Then there came towards me, smiling,

a slim and fresh teenager like myself.

In the midst of people passing on the pavement,

she came up close, and speaking softly said to me,

Hello. Would you like a good time, with me?

*

I smiled, shook my head, and walked on

before what she'd said had registered with me.

I stopped, turned  'round, saw people watching,

knowing, as I knew, what she'd just offered,

bewildered she'd just propositioned me.

*

A few work mates would have laughed

and mocked my quick innocent rejection.

What they'd have done had they been in my place...

but, oh, how sad I felt as I looked on that maiden,

I never could have used her as she'd suggested then.

*

Where is she today, I wonder?

How often have I thought on that,

that and her thoughts on my refusal that day.

Was it her looks, her form or personality

I disapproved of, rejecting what she had to say?

*

I do wish I'd had

the chance once to meet her,

on equal terms, both innocent and unstained.

How different then would have been our conversation,

leading to who knows? Well, I think a better way.

*

© Dennis Crompton 1985

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

Poised in time

Now in these golden moments poised in time

despite age and growing quantity of years

my mind an open window on the past

recalls selected scenes banishing errant fears.

*

How far I’ve come, experienced so much

stored deep now in the library of my mind

and just to think presents choices I may make

re-liveable in such depth for me to contemplate.

*

Now it seems I sense a wonder deeper different intent

permitting more enjoyment than at their first event

as if time has added its own surprising invention

bestowing them with distinct extra dimensions.

*

Some recollections sad maybe or too depressing

I filter out keep separate most of the time

knowing they’re there balances my considerations

imparting light and shade to the continuum of my life.

*

An insight now suggests humanity’s real aim

is above and beyond that of daily sustentation

our body a mere container of some unseen chrysalis

transforming more dare I say by inner revelation

of earth’s humanities special chosen destination.

*

Should I be wrong some critics surely will inform me

let them prove it, good on them if they can

I’ve merely used the things as man inherited

bestowed at birth, fulfilling part of the Designer’s plan.

*

So now in golden days still remaining to me

despite age and growing infirmity of years

I view with my enriched mind’s almost completed journey

reliving moments to cherish and to cheer.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

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)

Mind reading

I was in a gathering of people in a building where a guest poet of no mean reputation was presenting one of her poems, shown large on a screen for all to see (the poem, that is to say).

The poet wandered round, reading with hand-held microphone, her voice adding meaning not discernible in the words on the screen. Her reading ended, we were invited to respond, some did, and then she came over to me.

I told her my mind had been side-tracked at approximately line eight …

‘Would you mind reading it now, aloud, and then perhaps you could explain what side-tracked you?’ she asked me. So, I did and at the end, I explained that I had recalled an event when I was about 17, and carried along with my remembrances, her poem slipped from my mind … and I apologised again for my lack of concentration.

I’d been reminded of a girl I knew back then and wondered why she’d put on such false airs. Why couldn’t she just be herself? Was she afraid of letting those around know what her real self was like? I said it made me angry when she spoke in her small, pretended shy and self-effacing kind of way … as if her listeners would be shocked, offended if she was to talk naturally, be straightforward in what she had to say. I thought, perhaps she was inhibited by the body language and social standing of those around her, though I wasn’t sure what that meant … I was confused, I said, and then fell silent … but the poet urged me to continue …

‘I saw that girl again tonight,’ I said, ‘clear and unconfused now in my mind; what I’d said of her was just not true, the problem was with me, not her… At 17 I was still immature, inhibited, afraid, held back by what others might think of me … and had been until I accepted the ethic of my own true self.’

She smiled, and just before moving on, one point of her poem was made as she asked quietly:

'I hope you didn’t mind reading …?'

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(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)

George, and leaving England

Here’s a picture of me as a happy chappie working at Ribble Motors workshop, Frenchwood, Preston, where I worked alongside (George) Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom, Poland, over two years from 1952-1954. He was very important in my life at the time because he was the one who pointed me in the direction of New Zealand.

One day George brought me a cutting from the Lancashire Evening Post, regarding the Royal New Zealand Air Force seeking recruits from amongst ex-British Service men.

That got me thinking. Did I want to stay in this life, or forge a new life for myself? Here were some of my thoughts at the time as I continued working with my colleagues amongst the noise and bustle of the Ribble Motors workshop:

• I had all sorts of chats and discussions with mates on the floor of the bus chassis reconditioning team, including a chat with Paddy who told me that, ‘All the world’s a stage. Do you know that Dennis?’ Paddy was someone who made Shakespeare come alive before my very eyes as he quoted, danced and acted, on the shop floor;
• Pat, well he was a thinker, a philosopher and my first ‘university teacher’, teaching me to think beyond myself;
• Tony was in charge of our work bench and was my immediate under-boss; a quiet and ordinary, patient, likeable man, who encouraged me;
• Another round-face jovial type (whose name I forget) who ‘annealed’ the copper tubing which carried grease around the chassis of the bus; he annealed the tubing by throwing it onto a heap of red-hot embers then dumped the piping into cold water. This then made the piping soft and pliable ready to be replaced around the chassis to take grease to vital points such as the brake pedal and clutch pedal;
• Plus others who gathered around our work bench for stolen moments to chat, exchange ideas or plan to walk somewhere on Saturday in the country together to enjoy each other’s company. We had some hilarious times together, with many of us joining Harry Freeman’s group as we planned where to take our August holiday that year…;
• Harry Freeman was a secondary-school teacher who led a group of young people at a Boys’ and Girls’ Mixed Club. He taught us that an interesting world lay outside Preston, a world comparatively easy to travel around, proving that by having a group at his home once a month to decide where, for how long, and how we would manage a holiday away. And we did just that in 1951 by having a week’s holiday at a big house that we felt looked like a castle at Lochgilphead, in Scotland. We had a great time, showing ourselves that we could escape the grime and humdrum life of Preston as we began to explore the world around us.

This picture of George is exactly were he used to stand re-assembling the diesel motors, while I, to one side stripped them, placing the parts in wire baskets for Jock to put through the degreasing plant. Skilled and semi-skilled side by side were great boosters to me 'shifting miself' so that when the question came: 'Why don't you go to New Zealand?' I was ready.

• Lastly, as mentioned, there was 'George' (Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom in Poland), who must have seen my wonderings and mind wanderings as I questioned my work mates, increasing my general knowledge on a whole range of subjects. He took an interest in me and decided it was about time I lifted my sights; it was time to move on. I didn’t know where to think about going until George asked me: ‘Why don’t you go to New Zealand?’ And he handed me the clipping from the Lancashire Evening Post….

George's home town of Radom in Poland

Looking back, I know I was the lucky one in our street who escaped to New Zealand. Thank you George.

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

My great grandfather, Crompton Crompton

I have also written about my great grandfather in another post: 

Crompton Crompton, the grocer from Farrington.

 *

I see his face

framed in time by some unknown photographer’s lens

in the background of his environment then…

but standing there, perhaps thinking on the future still to be…

*I wonder, did he perceive how things would be for great grandchild me?

*

I see his face,

and…I think…a question in his eyes:

‘what purpose is there in this…another pose of mine?’

Later…did he think on the future pointing to me,

and imagine such eyes as mine…thinking on he?

*

I see his face,

and something there persuades me to stop and think…

That part of what I am has come through him,

informing me of his life with all that it contained…

was,

is,

part of the miracle that created me.

*

p.s. I have his photograph, standing, arms folded, flat cap on his head, under which his white hair flows down and around his face. My father called him, ‘foggy whiskers’. He seems a nice chap. I spent some time in 1988 looking for his grocer business in Farrington, just out of Preston. An uncle, Frank Crompton, took me to see where it was; the shop part was now included in the house. I asked the owner if he would mind me taking a look at the deeds of his house, after explaining why; but he wasn't happy about that and sadly, he declined.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

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

What then?

Tired…I cannot sleep…but think…

mind-centred on the stretch of time measuring that which is my life,

or will be soon.

*

My body tells my mind that this is so

and Nature also sings the self-same tune, one every hand,

I see the rising of the new amidst the stately-aged, inevitably decaying too.

*

Inside this house that I have known so long,

feeling at times trapped or hindered in some way;

this form even so gifted to me, many facets of our humanity to see.

*

The bitter and the sweet have passed this way

which I with all my faculties have keenly felt,

those things which made me human,

passed on at birth by mother and the Great Design,

make me think were all the steps I’ve trod part of some plan?

For if they were then I am rich indeed …

*

I’ve seen the depth of colours range in Nature’s glorious hues;

heard, felt the rapturous thrill of music’s harmonies fill my heart,

lifting me to heights of ecstasy or helping me to weep with therapeutic tears,

refreshing and uplifting me.

*

I’ve felt that inner joy and tenderness

of comradeship in humanities’ warm embrace,

walked, talked and shared with others

like myself who’ve felt the wonder of our

mysterious birth, and thought…

*

If then this probationary walk of mine,

short-spanned on planet earth’s terrain encased in time

has yielded so much wealth to my earth’s dust, life-given by the Spark Divine…

what then of that which is to come, which calls me as each day’s setting sun?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

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

Friend

I've just seen a man and his dog going for a walk, I'm not sure if the man was doing the taking or the dog, but down the street they went, leisurely, happily, content with each other's companionship.

The dog was dependant on the man of course. He'd feed it, look after and care for it. But the dog would share in the caring too, wouldn't it? The wag of its tail, the cocking of its head to one side as its man spoke to it, dancing an excited tattoo on the kitchen floor as its lead was taken off the hook behind the door.

That's why they've stayed together so long, both getting on in years but doing it together. Perhaps that's why a man with a dog for a friend seems so much more at peace than a man walking on his own. I'll look forward to seeing them again.

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

Book week, and happy children

The weather was fine and clear for the final day of the Book Week at the small country school where I had been invited to speak about stories and writing. A few adults appeared as I talked to the teacher who had invited me to speak. Parents, she explained, nodding in their direction. I felt a twinge of nerves; children were one thing, parents were another; and they were then joined by the school bus driver, a vet, the principal of the local high school, a teacher from another school and the mayor and mayoress of the district. Two policemen who had arrived earlier, were already seated at the back chatting with the children. They were to hand out awards for those who had accomplished a Safe Bicycle Ride programme earlier in the week. Other awards for spelling, writing and reading were to be given out by teachers at the school.

Just as it was almost time for my talk, a bright-eyed pupil asked me if I was a celebrity, and I laughed. But he was serious. No, I said, nothing like that. I just write things. He gave me a cheery grin, which was encouraging.

I began. The children were great with lots of smiles and enjoyed my readings and stories. Quite a few were dressed as characters from story books. There was a Robin Hood with a broken bow, Caspar the ghost appeared twice, and both of them were too friendly to have frightened anyone. Jane Eyre was there next to Anne of Green Gables, while seated behind them was a witch with an enchanting smile and sparkling eyes. I saw several assorted supermen, and there was a Noddy; a petite, shy little thing, and she won my heart.
The children enjoyed everything that was going on, dressing up, parents and special visitors. Their delight was infectious too; the adults had lowered their normal barrier of reserve, it seemed to me, as they chatted freely with those around them. Children do that for us, don’t they? It was good to be here I thought, and relaxed even more, so that as I finished I was pleased that I’d said yes to taking part.

The school song was sung, a modern, bouncy number in keeping with the lively spirits that filled the room, and then other guests added their part adding more variety to the day. Towards the end of the programme as pupils went forward for their awards, Noddy’s little figure stepped to the front. Good for you, I thought, as she was given her award for best handwriting for her class. When it was all over I saw her standing on her own and went over to her and asked her if she was going home on the school bus.

No, my Mummy will collect me, she said softly. That’s nice; I said. And my Daddy; she added. Then she gave a little shiver in the slight wind, blowing keener now. So small and so very vulnerable, and I suddenly thought of the primary school in Dunblane, Scotland, a school like this one that had seen so much horror not so very long ago. Then Noddy saw her mother and ran off, waving and smiling.

Maybe that’s why, before I left the school I said to the teacher who had organized the Book Week how much I’d enjoyed my visit.

And I meant it. I know my inner enjoyment was more than just seeing the children eager, happy and surrounded by so many willing to encourage them in their learning. They were also safe; and it came to me that we ought to enjoy to the fullest such moments, for things can change so easily, and suddenly, change.

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

The Dunblane school massacre occurred at Dunblane Primary School in the Scottish town of Dunblane on 13 March 1996. The gunman, 43-year-old Thomas Hamilton (b. 10 May 1952), entered the school armed with four handguns, shooting and killing sixteen children and one adult before committing suicide. Along with the 1987 Hungerford massacre and the 2010 Cumbria shootings, it remains one of the deadliest criminal acts involving firearms in the history of the United Kingdom. (Wikipedia)

The heart that once...

The heart that once beat warmly
awakened by love,
the eye that gazed so fondly
moved by love,
the joy that filled
the smile that shone,
the lightness in my step,
all gone… all gone?

*

My look, her voice,
her look, my voice,
the daily thrust and parry
tore apart our explanations
attempting reparation.

*
Outward tears searing,
bitter sorrow feeling,
heart-broken for the
broken whispered words…unspoken.
Sorry my love. My love?

*

Only the past…the lying,
deceiving past did know
what now we both do hold…
Love made not nor held
by piece of paper, band of gold…

*
If made in heaven, then by heaven bemoan,
as passing months or years would prove
how easy then to say or feel…I love;
so difficult now to sing its song?

*

Miracle…a beautiful haunting
devastating human word,
with so much promise,
hope extended flaunts.

*
If only…so we dream and pray,
dream and pray, perhaps another day,
another plan, another woman or another man,
one day the right one will surely come along,
or…did we love the right one all along?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

Fairy story

There’s a dull ache in my heart at times
when switched on to father mode
on looking back at what I’ve been,
and what I’ve done and what I’ve said.

*

There was a fragrant softness in the air
'midst the surrounding lovely trees,
the coolness of the greenery
and the gentle summer breeze.

*

‘Let’s tidy it and with some flowers make it nice.
There, isn’t that a lovely fairies holiday house.
Wash now ‘til it sparkles the fairies small milk bottle,
leave a note inside for fairy milkman to find tonight.

*
Quietly we’ll leave it there outside their wee front door.

Three small smiling daughters
then gently slipped away,
snuggled down in cabin bunks
to stories read aloud.

*

Each day of our holidays was the little game played out
‘He’s been. There’s a note, quick let’s see what he wrote.’
Small excited voices read it several times with much delight,
Content that fairy milkman had called again last night.

*

That’s how it was by the lake side, with smiles, sometimes with tears,
summer holidays came and went during young and tender years.
It was my wife who cleverly chose that special secret mound
where a family of fairies dwelt when our holidays came round.

*
We’d left the harsh realities of our cold world just for a while,
enjoyed being with our children in magic story times.

How cruel I was, I’ve often thought, why did I have to say
what I said to my eldest daughter on that sad and awful day?

*
I’d thought quite long, thought it best that she should know,
concerned she’d one day hear the truth about fairy story times.

Something quite lovely and innocent withered before my gaze,
with tear-filled eyes she looked at me, she found it hard to speak
whispering with such sadness: ‘Oh Dad, not real, no fairies after all?’

*

So there it is, I’ve told my tale and sad I am at that,
in this wonderful world of ours we must grow up and face the facts.
Make-believe and fairies have their place just for a while…
but does growing up have to mean we must leave all of that behind?

*

Dennis Crompton © 2012

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

Memories of my early days

I don’t know if anyone is ever quite sure when speaking or writing about one's early days, whether what they recall is really a memory of the event, or a mixture of what happened and what you have been told has happened. My first memory is this: I vaguely remember being in a room where there was activity all around me, with folk going out somewhere while I remained where I was, which was under a table eating cake apparently…(this from my brother, Fred, who found it amusing).

My next memory is of lying in a cot on the first floor of Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home in Oxford Street, Preston, listening to the sounds from the street below. The window of my room was immediately about the entrance to the home. I was cared for at this time by Sister Mary Smith but I have no real memory of this care, only of having my bed apple-pied one night and not being able to sleep properly. At some stage I slipped out of the trap by wriggling above the sheets. This took place in the girl's wing where the small room for infants was.

Then I was moved over to the boy’s wing where my brother Fred introduced himself to me, and for the first time I felt a person in my own right. My two sisters, Hilda and Jean, were in the girl’s wing. The few things I remember happening there is of bath time, when the bed I occupied was closest to the bathroom door and a constant stream of lads came and went, smelling of soap and looking fresh and clean. I don't remember having any baths myself, only of one boy who, the first time he saw me, came over to me in this area, put me down on the floor then picked my up by the feet and let my head bump on the hard floor. It gave me a splitting headache but nobody knew and I slept it off anyway. He's in a photo I have; four lads standing around a rocking horse. I'm seated, the rest are standing close by. I think he could have resented not being on the horse himself.

I wasn't unhappy there; the days seemed to pass without my being aware of much. I went to school and came back up a cobble stone street with gas lamps to light the way in winter. On the way back one day, a small white dog yapped at me and gave me a nip on my hand which made me cry and with no one around to care for me it just became another small event that registered.

The small boys sat at one long table for meals, with the big boys at another table. Nothing stand out about the meals except that on rare occasions we had a dab of golden syrup on our bread, and in winter we lined up for a rare spoonful of malt, which I enjoyed. We might all have used the same spoon too.

We all dressed in grey pants and shirts, although at one stage after my move from the infants to the boy’s wing, I wore a grey pullover over darker coloured pants. One photo shows a button missing, and the pants were held them up with cloth straps for braces. I'd tied the strap through a hole I made where the button had been, making me lean forward a bit to compensate.

Our jackets and caps were on hooks in a small area just outside the door of the dining room, which was also our day room. A great jumble of coats and caps hung there and you had to remember just where you'd hung yours every time you needed them. So as far as having any place to call your own, there wasn't one.
On Sundays the girls would come over to our day room, someone played the piano and we sang choruses of a religious and uplifting nature. My sister Jean sang a solo once, 'Jesus wants me for a sunbeam', which later made Fred smile every time he heard it.

Then some weeks after that, Fred told me we would be leaving to go to our own home. And then I turned seven. Surprise, surprise, Mr and Mrs Slater arrived. Mr Slater was the superintendant and looked after the boys; Mrs Slater looked after the girls, helped by a cook and Sisters Anne and Mary Smith. They came in with their son, Tommy, I think, and he handed me a ‘Happy Birthday’ package. It was heavy and turned out to be a fire truck: the first present I ever remember being given. I don't remember having it with me when we left, nor ever seeing any other boy get a birthday present. It may have been from Dad, but I never knew.

On two occasions Mr Slater surprised us, calling the boys out into the play area outside the cloak-room, when we all stood in a semi-circle to listen to him, when he threw handfuls of sweets. I took a while for me to realise what was happening but did I did manage to get a couple to enjoy. The second time I was ready and got a few more. Another time Mr Slater came in with several large cardboard boxes which had lots of strings hanging out of the thin paper coverings. Each of us knew we could pick any string and pull out whatever was on the end, which was a small packet of sweets each. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create that delightful surprise for us.

The last Christmas we were there, we had a concert of some kind. Carols were sung, words were said, and then Father Christmas came. Excitement and happy sounds all round us as one by one, names were called, a present given and received, until each held a gift in our hands. All except me. 'Has everyone got a gift?' someone called out. Those around me knew I hadn't, but I said nothing, being somewhat bewildered, sad and confused. 'Go on Den, tell him you 'aven't!' someone prompted me. Eventually I called out: 'I 'aven't got one'.

‘Who was that?’ someone at the front said. Then I heard Sister Mary Smith say, 'That's our Dennis Crompton'.

'Come on out here then, Dennis. There's one for you here too.' All was sorted out and the day ended happily for us all. The ordinary, good-hearted folks of Preston saw to it that we were not forgotten at Christmas time.

Come the day we left. We'd seen other boys leave from time to time. This time I was taken through a door I'd never been through before to Mr Slater's office. As I stood there, my two sisters Jean and Hilda came in and a short time after my brother Fred joined us, just as Dad walked through the door. There were hugs all round as we stood together as a family after five years apart. The journey up the street took us away from the Children’s Home to the bus station.

I don't remember everything about that day, but I do remember getting on the bus to leave Preston to take the seven mile trip to Longridge, where our house was, and where we could be together as a family again. As we walked through the door of 1 Pump Street, I saw large stone paving stones on the floor, with several hand-made rugs here and there. A table covered in a nice red cloth, a big armchair and several smaller chairs round the table and a cheery fire warming the room as we entered. Two smiling women were there who'd worked to make this a home for us left a short time after so that we could be on our own at last.

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Some ephemeral state

When, as a boy, I wandered through green scented fields

and groves of slender silver-branched trees

rich dark damp earth and softly fragranced leaves

keen senses caught…and stored away in memory’s sheaves.

*

In later years, as a traveller in far distant lands

my nostrils caught some faint aroma in the air

which, wandering suggestive through the highways of my mind

recalled again my childhood days and homelier, friendlier climes.

*

Why, when so young I yearned for other sights to see

when so much wealth and beauty round me I could see?

Must humans ever seek some ephemeral state

before unsatisfied return from whence we came?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

(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)