A martini, a medal and medication
When the brain is gone, where am I?
Where have I gone?
Physically present but not at home
I wander.
We’re warned by the bean counters
Of the escalating cost of care.
Focussing on the post- war baby boomers
Who’re approaching ‘senility’
Are they a burden on the State
Or scarce young tax-payers?
Amis* suggests a solution to this “grey tsunami”
This gaggle of grey nomads
Who roam the Australian outback
Or pack the bingo halls in Britain.
No moral dilemma for him.
A booth at every street corner for
Those who have reached their ration of life
Three score years and ten, then
Send them to their Maker with
A martini, a medal and lethal medication.
Death for the demented!
One half of Darby and Joan exterminated
No more to saunter hand in hand
Around local lanes.
Is this the veil of ignorance that champions Justice?
Is this the social contract that rewards a life well lived?
Ponder on it.
* Martin Amis, Professor of Writing, Manchester University, UK.
BASKETBALL BLUES
"Ye Gods it doth amaze me!" Julius Caesar Act 1 Scene 2
Lacklustre and lethargic
Vigour and verve have vanished.
I am depleted of life and gusto
Exhausted, mude, cansada
Empty vaccio, leer
How long will I need to regenerate?
To enliven the flagging limbs and spirit?
Lumbering like a clumsy loco.
Sore muscles: stiff joints
Sotto voce
Langsam, slow, despacio
Give me the elixir of life; ambrosia;
Food of the gods
To heal this feeble frame.
Post World Masters Games poem
Oct. 2009
-----
Cherry Toes
Which toe did the possum bite?
The second one upon my right
When was my last tetanus jab?
The thought swept through my mind.
We’re told that there are grisly germs
And nasties of that kind.
And so I rang the doctor
My story to relate
He told me that I was OK
As my vaccines were up to date.
27-11-2009
-----
Exhausted by hubris
Nemesis will take her revenge
Indefatigably pursuing
The bee in my bonnet
‘Til satiated and another springs up
Such energy to have a voice
To influence: to save
From falling prey to ‘Gecko’s world’
Fighting to stay afloat
And refrain from spiralling
Into a cesspool of whirling
Putrid matter
Once part of a vibrant living planet
War and pestilence have won
The carnage of mankind litters the city.
-----
GALAPAGOS HAWK
Baby on the beach,
Shaded by mangrove.
Hawk on the prowl
Ogling.
Spots young eyes,
Tender and tasty.
In a split second,
It swoops
Razor bill ready
To gouge.
Talons tense.
Aims for the eyes.
Baby screams.
I race up the beach.
Hawk turns tail and alights on a log,
Foiled by a flimsy mosquito net.
2008
-----
HOMECOMING 2009
Separated by iron tracks
On two sides of the divide
But joined by culture.
Youths communicating
Loudly for all to hear.
A strange tongue ensures confidentiality.
From Poland? Kazakhstan? Finland?
Mongolia?
Their voices boom from platform to platform
Across the corridor.
Sentences slowly start to make sense.
It’s the vernacular of Tyneside
Strong Geordie jargon.
My ear discerns the strange sounds.
I’m home again.
Elizabeth Tindle
Published in Ezine, Brisbane 2009
-----
Napoleon the Mariner
We hired a boat to take us north
To stay on tiny Tower
An island standing like a gem
Midst the Pacific’s Promethean power.
We stepped aboard the vessel’s deck
Student nuns, and us
The Patron then appeared himself
Napoleon made no fuss.
We’d played a game of basketball
A week or two before
Napoleon was on the Mariner’s team.
Their demise for him was raw.
We settled in for three days sail
We anchored every night
When told there were no loos on board
The nuns got such a fright.
The strain was seen in every face
A tension had descended
We searched the horizon for a glimpse of land
Until the voyage ended.
Soon we sighted Darwin Bay
A broad caldera lake
A cheer rang out “Land ahoy”
Thank God it wasn’t a mistake!
We disembarked and set up camp
Beside a lagoon so blue
While seabirds watched
And screeched their calls,
We farewelled Napoleon’s crew.
-----
THE GAVIOTIN (Seagull)
Elizabeth Tindle
2009
Voyage from the island of Santa Cruz south to Hood Island Galapagos Islands.
The bravest boat that I have known
Took on the stormy sea
And battled bravely to the south
With crew and Bob and me.
The Trade winds roared as we advanced
Through towering waves around.
The tiny boat bobbed like a cork
Whilst braced for every pound.
The fear had gripped us part-time tars
Whose sea legs weren’t too strong.
While scuppers flooded with cruel waves
WE CHUNDERED HARD AND LONG.
-----
THE POSSUMS PINCHED THE APPLES
All was quiet thro’ the house as evening came to rest
The sliding door was left ajar, which was at my behest.
Our nightly neighbours often came to join us at our meal.
We offered carrots or some fruit. They grasped their prize with zeal.
Tonight there was no sight nor sound. We busied with our chores
When lo! I spied an apple core devoured by them indoors.
It wasn’t long before another well chewed pomme I saw.
Would you believe they’d popped inside, unnoticed through the door?
They’d had their own big feast tonight. We must be on our guard
Ensuring that they’re kept in view confined to our back yard.
Elizabeth Tindle. Nov. 2009
-----
ANCHORED ON THE EQUATOR
Hot steamy night in the fishing boat cabin
Gentle Rocking in the tropical Doldrums!
Exhausted and desperate for sleep,
I put him on the dishevelled deck.
Rash decision!
A tiny cot wedged between sturdy water bottles.
I sleep soundly.
In my ignorance I leave all to nature.
Oblivious to a brewing storm
Threatening choppy seas.
It passes leaving silence
But for the gentle sound of the sea.
Refreshed, I return to check the deck.
A moment of angst overwhelms me.
A sigh of relief.
He’s safe.
2008-05-16
ECHOES OF THE ANDES
April 2008
A condor calls.
A child screams.
The sounds reverberate
Through the valley.
An echo of pain.
The swine eat their swill
And with it her hands
Baby hands.
Soft and plump.
She lies in blood
Her blood
The condor calls.
This poem is based on a true story of a little Quechuan girl who wore metal hand callipers. She lived in a village in the Andes Ecuador. When she was a toddler, she had put her hands in the food trough of the family’s pigs whilst they were eating. They ate her hands. The parents trecked through the mountains to take her to a medical centre and left her there thinking that she could not recover.
Elizabeth TIndle
*********************
Should you ask me why I write this
Why I write with love and passion
Why I write a hymn for Daniel
Why I use this Sunday morning
Playing with words and playing with rhyme
Why I feel engrossed and happy
Why I’m unaware of time?
I should answer, it impels me.
I should answer it envelopes me
When I address this “teeming” brain*.
This busy teeming brain of mine.
I should answer it’s as Coleridge
With his epic Kubla Khan
I should answer like Hiawatha,
Longfellow’s tale of a brave man.
I shall tell you of a fine boy.
I shall tell you plain and simple
Of a fine upstanding youth
Born of love in distant Europe
Of a mother fair and cultured
Of a mother proud and gifted
Of a father rich in knowledge
Of a father formed in France.
Tell me where this youth will travel
Tell me where he’ll make his name.
Now he grows in strength and stature.
Now he’s learning skills and wisdom.
Now he’s learning to endure.
Daily he shows determination
Confidence and dedication
‘Til the day his graduation
Launches him into this nation.
This is not an aberration.
This young man will be a leader
Exploring words or cryptic symbols
Or the oceans, skies or mountains
Space and planets, minds and medicine.
Who will this youth emulate?
Vasco de Gama, Alexander the Great?
Christopher Columbus, Captain Cook?
Not Christopher Skase (He was a crook)
Following the French, there’s La Fayette
Will Daniel leave an epithet?
What of Eyre or Burke and Wills
Who trudged the bush o’er plains and hills
He may unite tribes, as Lawrence of Arabia
Or be a Moses: What a saviour!
Or sail the seas like Thor Heyerdahl
To prove Kontiki (with a pal!!)
I imagine Daniel an Amundsen or Scott
In frozen climes, to stop the rot
Of global warming; climate change
Save threatened species who’d cease to range
Over earth again. Maybe he will
Be a guru, spouting wisdom, fighting hoodoo
Delving deeply into minds- like Freud
Understanding why we are so devoid
Of common sense and love for others
Supporting peace in place of war.
A second Mandela! Of this I’m sure
Daniel may be brave and headstrong
Walk on the moon like Neil Armstrong
SO, Daniel, be that inspiration
Whatever gives you motivation
To fill our hearts with admiration.
Elizabeth Tindle 16-7-06
John Keats
Metre based on the Finnish Epic Poem KALEVALA
The Hymn to Diana is the same.
THE BOY IS OUT.
The boy is out: his room is free
It gives me an opportunity
To sneak inside and have a go
At cleaning it from head to toe.
The door's ajar
I'll peek inside
My God you should see
What's behind!
There's snow board,
Rucksacks, three guitars
Books and sneakers
Things in jars.
A piece of rock,
A disk or two.
Socks and jocks of different hue.
Screwdrivers, magazines and files
Cords and leads for miles and miles.
Climbing rope of purple tone
Wrapped around the microphone.
Trophies, racquets music stands
Ghetto blasters : things for bands.
Amplifier, tin of Brut
Food and other types of loot.
I take some dust off here and there
Mop the floor and move a chair.
Its all too much to set to right
I'll leave it 'til some other night.
Elizabeth Tindle
GRINGO is the name given by Ecuadorians to anyone who resembles a white American in appearance.
Each day a cow was slaughtered on the beach, to supply the village of Peurto Ayora in the Galapagos Islands,
with fresh meat. The butcher’s “shop” was a plastered hut with a rectangle cut in the wall.
Everyone collected outside the hole in the wall and brought a container for their meat.
A plastic bag was a precious commodity which was washed repeatedly and brought back to place the fresh meat in.
(Sung to the tune of “He flies through the air with the greatest of ease, a daring young man on a flying trapeze”)
I’ll tell you a tale that you ne’er should repeat
About how we islanders purchase our meat
Don’t think I am crazy; Don’t think I’m insane
It happens each morning in sunshine or rain
Each morning at five, is heard moans of the cow
As she takes her last breath, she creates such a row.
We arrive at the butchers; we all have to wait
Until the meat vendor arrives with his mate.
He cuts from the carcass the meat to be sold
Then puts on a tree stump, the bones of the cow old
You must take great care when he chops up the thigh
As he wields the axe wildly, the splintered bones fly.
With other parts of the skeleton, you know what’s in store
After one hefty blow, some meat falls to the floor
It’s returned to the tree stump all covered in dirt
But what cares the butcher, as grime doesn’t hurt.
The customers wait with their plastic bags open
They call out their order, repeatedly hopin’
That they will be next, but as there’s no queue
It’s rather potluck if it turns out to be you.
And if you’re a gringo you wait longer still
With your treaties ignored you just stand like a “dill”
It’s locals served first with the meat of their choice
While foreigners fume and start raising their voice.
And when it appears that a fight will ensue
You find that the stuff on the scale is for you
At last you reach home, feeling sure you’re unbeaten
But little do you know that the meat can’t be eaten.
Elizabeth Tindle 1977
PUSS AND ME AND MORNING TEA
In comes the tray with morning tea
And Puss arrives peremptorily.
She waits until I pour some milk
And laps it up as smooth as silk.
Then waits until I pour some more
And wipes her mouth with one white paw.
I sip my tea and munch a biscuit
She wants a taste but dare she risk it?
When all's consumed and the milk jug empty,
She sits in one spot: the eternal sentry.
Elizabeth Tindle (Baker) 28 December 2004
(Sadly, Puss passed away recently at the grand old cat age of 18. I know how you must feel - Editor)
PAINTED NAILS
She comes armed with tiny bottles of magic
To transform my toes
From plain, neglected appendages
To objects of interest.
An aesthetic experience. Well almost!
Colour chosen carefully
Rich cherry red,
Applied meticulously,
With barely a discernible touch
A tender act
Giving of her time
Togetherness for a while.
Lost in the quiet ambience
We sit on the settee
And drink our tea
On a sleepy summer afternoon.
Elizabeth Tindle Dec. 23rd 2004
AGEING
The world has lost its magnetic allure
To travel rough terrains.
Where in my youth my step was sure
And I had the strength to assail and endure.
Now I listen to torrid tales and stories of life,
Personal journeys of sorrow, trauma and strife.
I grieve for this beautiful world going to dust
And the greed and the grasping,the desire and the lust.
And I am losing my will and I’m losing my health.
With age they are taken with suddenness or stealth.
And we have the odd days when we fight tooth and nail
Against the various varmints who arrive to assail.
As they tackle a knee or a back or a heart,
Or they knock out your teeth and start tearing you apart.
And again you bounce back until the day it’s too hard,
And you have to submit to the villainous bastard.
Elizabeth Tindle March 25th 2005
I REMEMBER: On Aunt Lydia’s 100th birthday.
I remember an Aunt so youthful and smart.
I remember her love and her very big heart.
I remember the welcome she gave every year,
When she opened her home and she offered such care.
She loved her dear sister, yes my Mum and yours,
And she cleaned and she cooked and she did many chores.
No one could bake such appetizing fare
And she encouraged us to eat it: refuse if you dare.
I remember when she bought a guest house in Kent.
I was privileged to live there when down south I was sent.
I remember my Aunt taking in a sick child,
And cherishing her each day so her health she could find.
I remember playing doubler with Joy every day
And meeting the guests and going out to play.
And learning to swim and meeting the ‘Old Man’.
I remember it all and I’m sure that you can.
I remember my first flight in a tiny airplane.
We set out from Lydd, Mr. Warwick with his cane.
And we circled quite low and could pick out the coast.
I’m proud of all this, Aunt, but don’t want to boast!!
It’s more that fifty years since all this occurred,
But I remember it clearly though these words now look blurred
As I wipe off a tear, as it drops on the page.
I’m sad I can’t see you now you’ve reached this fine age.
But I would like to say "Thankyou" for all that you’ve done.
I would like to say "Thankyou" for loving my Mum.
You were more than her sister; you were her true friend,
And we were the winners right up to the end.
One day we’ll all see her in that special place.
We’ll see her bright eyes and her smiling face.
There’s just one more wish that I’m sending today.
It’s Happy Birthday Aunt Lydia and have a great day.
Elizabeth Tindle, Oct. 2005
-------------------------------------------------
Mr. Johnson and my Annus Mirabilus
When the words of a trusted Art teacher changed my life.
The Year of the Miracle, when I saw the light!
My Damascus conversion that brought such insight!
It seems so mundane, meaningless and trite,
But it filled a young heart with such hope and delight.
That a teacher would take such an interest in ME,
Left me quite speechless but chuckling with glee.
He said, in a tone of authoritative mystique,
As he stood near my desk, “You have the technique!”
It wasn’t until later when I ran all the way home,
And I searched for the dictionary, a treasured old tome,
That I learned what it meant. It was quite new to me,
But it said that one had a ‘skill competency’.
So I thought of the message that he had conveyed,
As I splashed on all colours, red, purple and jade,
Immersed in my painting with passion and vim.
I would have been “rudderless” if it had not been for him.
So then, I had purpose and knew where to go,
And started to learn with more grit and gusto.
And when I look back to that momentous year,
I thank Mr. Johnson for showing such care.
------------------------
Elizabeth Tindle (Baker) Feb. 25 2005
I was about 14 or 15 years old and Mr. Johnson asked me what I planned to do after leaving school. I had not thought that far ahead! He asked me if I had thought of being a teacher as I had the “technique”. I did not know what the word meant so I looked it up in the old dictionary (a book my father had been given as a prize at one of his speech days). I followed Mr. Johnson’s advice, took study more seriously and became a secondary school teacher.
Elizabeth Tindle (Baker)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
REMEMBERING JCS: From an “Old Girl”
To commemorate the October 2004 Reunion
|
I’m writing from the Antipodes, |
|
Some sixteen thousand miles away. |
|
I’m sitting here in languid ease, |
|
From whence my thoughts begin to stray. |
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To JCS and old school days, |
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Of fun and laughter with first friends. |
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Of playing hard at the latest craze, |
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With energy that never ends. |
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Where “Life’s rich tapestry” was initially
laid, |
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The weft and warp, woven strong or staid, |
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In colours bright, or dull or plain, |
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In intricate patterns of love and pain. |
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The heights we’ve scaled; the depths we’ve
plumbed, |
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And proud we are; we’ve ne’er succumbed |
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To acts of shame or dealings dire, |
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But have lived lives that most admire. |
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JCS laid down deep roots, |
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From which resilient people grew. |
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Our adventurous spirits and curious minds, |
|
Emerged from teachers that we knew. |
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There was Pattie, Casey, Mackie and Bond, |
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Davis and Ramsey, to name but a few. |
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These I recall, but they’re certainly not all |
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Who influenced me. What about you? |
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Thanks go to old boys like Len, George, Colin and
Lance, |
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We can contact each other and connect on the site. |
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These guys have worked hard and so given us the
chance, |
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To meet once again, on re-union night. |