The 70% effort for TMA04

The Bus

April 12^th, 1997

      The minibus is large; a seventeen seat white Ford Transit with patches of rust above the wheel arches and the legend Halo Van Hire printed on the side. Perched high above the ground behind the steering wheel, I’m feeling slightly daunted. Apart from the journey home from the hire firm yesterday I’ve never driven anything this big before. Yet here I am about to drive fifteen passengers four hundred miles from South Wales to Liverpool and back. Weeks of planning have led to this moment, there’s no backing out now.

I turn the ignition key. The diesel engine chugs into life and the fuel indicator slowly rises to FULL. BBC Five Live echoes through the empty van and grimacing I listen to the eight-thirty sports news.

 ‘…and Everton host Tottenham at Goodison Park today hoping for a first win under caretaker manager Dave Watson. Watson has been in charge since Joe Royle resigned on transfer deadline day...’

I check the mirror and catch sight of the Everton flag fixed over the rear windows before feeling my jacket pocket for the tell-tale lump of the match tickets. Reassured by both I depress the clutch and put the bus into first gear. ‘Here we go then,’ I mutter, checking the side mirror and engaging the clutch to pull off.

Leaving Abertillery behind I drive down the Ebbw Valley, stopping to make pick-ups along the way. Each time three or four lads, most of whom I’ve never met before, clamber on board with their newspapers, cool-bags and boxes of beer. They squash into the cramped seats filling the bus with expectant chatter.

‘Duncan’s fit. I reckon he’ll score today.’

‘Nah, it’ll be Speed. Two-Nil. I’ve got a tenner on it.’

‘Where’re the redshite? ‘

‘Away at Palace tomorrow.’

‘Don’ matter they’ve blown it. It’s United’s now.’

The weight of the van increases with the passengers and I almost lose control taking a bend too quickly. ‘Only another four hundred miles,’ I say trying to ignore the comments coming from behind me.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell! Almost fell out of my seat’

‘Who’d you say the driver is?’

At Newbridge I cross over into the Sirhowy valley and drop down through Cwmfelinfach to pick up my brother, Dai. He waves as we approach. I stop and he gets in the front passenger seat of the bus, places his cool-bag on the floor, takes off his wooly hat and rubs his bald head. ‘Got the tickets?’

      ‘Course I have,’ I reply checking the jacket pocket I placed them in for the umpteenth time.

      ‘I’ve gotta good feeling ‘bout today,’ he says rubbing his hands and grinning before reaching down into the bag for a can of Strongbow. I pull off again as he turns around and chats to one the lads he’s booked on the trip, ‘Alright Toozey…’

Ten minutes later we’re in Risca; the final pick-up point. Here Martin, my broad-shouldered workmate is waiting with his brother Paul and the final few passengers. They load three boxes of lager and two of cider, around a hundred cans in total, onto the bus.

      ‘Sure you got enough?’ I ask, eyebrows raised, smiling.

      ‘It’s between five of us,’ he beams in reply before placing the most vital piece of equipment required for this trip onboard; a lidded plastic bucket for them all to employ as a toilet. We all know that without this we’ll soon be stopping every five minutes.

With the final pick-up complete I make a final check on my pocket for the tickets. ‘Here we go then,’ I say again as we pull off but still, no one is listening. They’re all too busy laughing, chatting and drinking. I concentrate on the road and fifteen minutes later we’re exiting the M4 onto the A449 and heading northwards. Perched high above the traffic and becoming familiar with the van I’m almost beginning to enjoy the experience of driving it. Shouts come from my passengers.

‘Foot down drive!’

‘Put some music on!’

I slide a cassette into the player and there’s a little cheer as the acoustic guitar chords of ‘Wonderwall’ morph into ‘Hello’.

‘I fuckin’ love this album,’ says someone behind me. I smile, Liverpool here we come!

September 16^th, 2000

       The fuel gauge of the Civic is getting low. It only holds twenty nine litres and there’s less than a quarter of a tank left. We’ve been checking every petrol station we pass but they’re all displaying handwritten signs with ‘No Petrol’ on them.

       ‘What do think?’ Simon asks me. I shrug my shoulders.

       ‘Strensham’s ‘bout five miles. If there’s nothing there, then we’re stuffed,’ thinking about how we’d found ourselves in this situation.

I hadn’t organised a bus for the match, there was just me, Simon and his mate Ryan. We’d bought the match tickets weeks ago, long before the protests erupted. All this week we’d been praying for them to end and by Thursday they had. Unleaded was slowly becoming available again. Yesterday someone had told me it would be on sale in Crumlin petrol station in the morning. I phoned Simon. ‘Are we gonna chance it?’ he asked.

‘Oh aye. After all, it’s United at home.’

This morning saw the three of us climb into my Civic. It spluttered its way five miles down the valley on dregs remaining in its tank. Then we queued for twenty minutes before getting the twenty quid maximum that everyone was being rationed. ‘That’s enough to get us to the M5. Bound to get some there,’ I said. I knew that was the furthest we could go before having to turn around and head home or face being stuck.

We turned up the steep incline of Hafodrynys through Pontypool to Usk and the A449. The weather was fine and traffic light, an unexpected plus side of the protests. I took it easy, trying to conserve fuel. Now were at the make or break point.

I see the M5 junction ahead and join it and pull into Strensham . We’re greeted by a handwritten sign ‘Unleaded – No more than £20 a car’. I smile, the gamble’s paying off.

      

April 28^th, 2001.

       Leaving Birmingham and the West Midlands behind; the M6 tracks on through the green rolling hills of Staffordshire and the Potteries. The LDV Transit we’ve packed into today struggles to climb up these gradual inclines, its engine dying away and our speed slowing to a mid-forties crawl. Completing each ascent it rolls down the other side picking up speed until we plough along at seventy miles an hour again. Then we reach the next incline and begin to slow once more.

       I switch the cassette tape and Soulwax’s ‘Too Many DJ’s’ blares out as we begin chugging up the next hill. The thrum of the engine increases as it begins to struggle and I change down a gear, increasing the noise volume inside the bus. We’ve been on the road for two and a half hours and the atmosphere inside the van is a fug of beer, cider, body odour and cigarette smoke. Suddenly the smell of ammonia cuts through the miasma, assaulting my nose, as the lid is ripped off the ‘toilet’ in its side-door well location. The blocks I placed in it to mask the stench of litres of stale urine are having their desired effect.

       A voice begins reciting the surnames of Liverpool players. ’Owen, Murphy, Dalglish, Hansen, Barnes, Gerrard…’ I quickly glance over my left shoulder to see Tooze’s head and shoulders peering above the front passenger seats. He’s staring at the van’s ceiling as he continues his inventory.

       ‘What are you doing?’ I inquire with a quizzical half-smile.

       ‘Stage fright,’ he replies. ‘I always struggle to use this and I’m trying to take my mind off it.’

       ‘Right…why the Redshite footballers?’

       ‘’Well, I don’ wanna piss over Everton players. Do I?’ he grins. A look of satisfaction settles on his face as his catechism has its desired effect.

April 26^th, 2003

The traffic’s queuing on the Queen’s Drive section of the ring road, a wide tree-lined avenue of large semi-detached houses. We’ve made good time today and spirits are high. It’s only Coventry so we’re expecting them to win.

I look at the clock. It’s half twelve and some of the lads have been drinking steadily for over three hours now. Black bags full of empties rattle each time we stop and the urine can be heard sloshing about in the almost full bucket. Suddenly the side door of the minibus slides open.

‘I wanna hug a tree,’ slurs Gynge’s deep, slow voice. Fag in one hand and a can of lager in the other he leaps out. He’s about twenty eight with thick-lensed glasses that give him an owlish appearance. His arms wrap around the nearest tree as the bus dissolves into laughter. Martin, who’s been keeping an eye on the traffic lights up ahead, sees them turn green and the vehicles ahead of us start to move. He slams the door shut and shouts ‘Go.’

       Grinning, I pull off leaving Gynge even more wide-eyed than usual. The occupants of the van are now in hysterics as they watch him give chase on foot. Three hundred yards along we stop again as the lights return to red and he finally catches up and bangs on the door. Martin slides the door open for him and Gynge climbs back.

‘Bastards!’ he pants.

TMA 01 This was my first effort (71%)

The Coin

How have I found myself standing here staring blankly at the coin in my left hand? I’m nailed to the spot, struck by the sudden realisation of its uselessness!

I’m in Liverpool for the Party Conference, staying at The Marriott. Could’ve booked somewhere cheaper but why should I? Even in the current climate you can still claim it back on expenses, if you’re clever enough.

 I’ve grown to despise Conference. It’s always the same idiots droning their interminable speeches. Are they really that deluded to think that what they say affects what the leadership decides? Today was particularly tedious and, in between Tweeting, I did some ‘research’ on my iPhone.  I've got a Blackberry as well but that's for work.  It’s amazing the things you can find out on Google, I just tapped in ‘red light district’ and up popped Netherfield Road North. You see I’d decided I needed some… well, let’s call it R’n’R. What can I say? I’m not particularly proud of it, but my wife’s a few hundred miles away with the kids, and what the eye doesn’t see….I’ve never been one to ‘indulge’ with researchers or secretaries, that can get messy. Look at that old fool John Prescott! No, I prefer ‘discreet and anonymous’ and it’s surprising just how anonymous a backbench MP can be. Just try showing some of my constituents my photo and see how many recognise me.

I left the hall early and headed back to my room. There I adopted the ‘disguise’ I’ve developed over the past few years, jacket over hoodie, baggy jeans and grubby, scuffed trainers. I rarely get recognised in a suit so I’m pretty unidentifiable in this get-up. Still, walking through the lobby dressed this way would only draw unwelcome attention, so I slipped out the side entrance and walked to the nearest bus stop. I’d checked the timetable and route earlier and downloaded it just in case.

Public transport is appalling; someone really should do something about it! It took about fifty minutes to complete a journey that would have been a ten minute taxi ride. Still, within minutes of arriving at my destination I’d made my choice. She reminded me of Britney Spears in that video. Long hair in plaited and tied with ribbons, tight white blouse tied together below her tits, very short grey skirt, long grey socks stretched above her knees and matching Converse on her feet. ‘Alright luv, how much for a blow-job?’

‘Twenty’, she replied in thick scouse. I showed her the note and she nodded towards the alleyway behind her. I followed her down there for about a hundred yards, then she turned and asked, ‘Here?’ I looked around and nodded. She came over and undid my jeans, pulling them and my boxers down together. As she grabbed my dick, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, breathless with anticipation. It was then I felt the knife point pressing into my exposed and vulnerable flesh!

Breathless with fear I opened my eyes again. ‘What’ve you got in your pockets?’ she hissed. ‘Whatever you’ve got put it in my bag!’ For the first time I noticed the small bag slung across her chest.  I carefully reached inside my jacket for my iPhone and wallet, opening it to show her my cards and money. She smiled and nodded as I placed them in her bag. Then the cheeky bitch kissed me! She winked, whispered ’Thanks babe’ and released her grip. Before I could react she turned on her heels and sprinted off down the alleyway. Damn! That’s why she was wearing trainers! With my jeans and boxers halfway down my legs I couldn’t even chase her. I pulled my jeans back up and felt in the pockets. Thankfully there was some small change in there. I decided to find a phone box and call for help.

It took twenty minutes to find this payphone. Not one of the old red boxes of my youth but an Americanised affair hooded and open to the elements. I lifted the hand piece and was relieved to hear a dialling tone. Not vandalised then!  Who to phone though? Not the Police, just too much chance of it getting out and causing a scandal. After all, how could I explain my behaviour?  I racked my brain. Who could I ring? Who'd be able to help me out of this shit? That’s when the realisation hit me! I don’t know any bloody phone numbers! I mean, who bothers to remember them when your phone provides them at the touch of a button? That’s why I’m standing here, staring blankly at this bloody coin!

Here's my rubbish poems that got 66%

The Boneyard

The hillside is alive. Flames race

through dark night. Amber fingers

spread wide through tinder-dry

skeletons of bracken that crackles

and recoils at their touch. Embers fly

as beaters smash groundward, giant hands

patting down the blaze. We watch

with smoke-filled nostrils and matches

in mischievous hands, as the Spring rite

of bored youth plays out.

By dawn, the brown boneyard is gone,

just an ebony carpet of charred earth

remains. Soon rain will fall, moisture

on carbon-rich residue, feeding

the life beneath. The carpet will stud

electric green with curled heads

of fledgling ferns that grow tall

in summer’s short burst to create

a jungle canopy that conceals

and covers, before they die, fall,

desiccate and snap. The boneyard

will return. It will burn again.

Some Scars Never Fade

Jumbled up towns set in steep valleys,

built on black diamonds , blood and bone.

Land ripped apart for deep-lying treasure,

once spent, ‘King Coal’ was dethroned.

Old industries gone, chapels emptied. They’re

converted to flats or knocked-down.

Shuttered-up shops and pubs facing closure

‘cos there’s no spare cash, no jobs around.

Land grows green as the old scars fade but

the scars on its people are still pronounced.

Prosperity’s fled, no hopeful future,

bleak prospect beckons this jumble of towns.

(This is a reworking of the following poem that I was a lot happier with but I posted a version of it in the Student Café and so couldn't use it. It's about Abertillery, the town where I live.)

A jumble of houses in three small towns,
built upon industry now long gone.
A population grown used to letdowns
and a price demanded of blood and bone.
Built on black diamonds for profit's want,
beneath the shoulder of Coity it stands.
Rose Heyworth, Penrhiw, Six Bells, Pen-y-Bont,
once proud old town built for profit’s demand.
The land grows green as the old scars fade
but the town is jaded, broken, careworn.
A faded jewel hung on the hillside,
its glories are past, its future forlorn.

Craftmanship is Mastery

Silver, green and white cylinder,

that chills and moistens my hand,

and gasps as I crack it open

to free golden, hop-filled liquid

that soothes and washes away

my cares, and the strains of the day.

Vakmanschap is meesterschap - Craftsmanship is mastery. Motto of Royal Grolsch NV, brewery

Here's the 63% effort for TMA2

Control

Karen’s lithe frame was a blur of luminous running gear in the Manchester morning gloom. The path flew beneath her feet as Beethoven’s Symphony Number 6 resounded in her ears. She barely registered the park surrounding her, or the soft February rain cooling her face as she concentrated on keeping pace with the music.

       She left the park behind and ran along the busy road outside. Spotting a gap in the traffic, she raced across without breaking stride. Her iPod was set to shuffle and, as she powered up the hill, the track changed to Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto, spurring her to increase her speed. She arrived at the clinic and went around to the side entrance before checking her time. Fifteen minutes, twenty. ‘Excellent’, she murmured. As she began stretching to warm down the door opened and her receptionist’s head appeared around it.

       ‘Morning Miss Ashley. Do you need anything?’

       Karen shook her head, hiding her annoyance at being spotted. She liked to keep her staff on their toes by arriving unannounced. ‘James in yet?’ she asked curtly.

       ‘Yes, he’s been here since eight. First patient’s in at nine.’ The door again as Karen smiled to herself. Anthony had looked nervous and that pleased her.

              **********************************

James heard Anthony’s footsteps coming down the corridor towards the staffroom. ‘I was right. She’s in,’ the receptionist affirmed as he entered. James rolled his eyes, took a big gulp of coffee and puffed on the inhalator in his left hand. He withdrew it from his mouth in disgust.

‘God I need a real bloody fag!’ He threw it on the floor and crushed it with his shoe. His face fell as he realised what he’d done. Have to get another one now, he thought.

       James hadn’t wanted to give up smoking but Karen had given him an ultimatum. Give it up or find another job. That was three very long weeks ago. It wasn’t the first change she’d forced him to make either. During the past two years of working for her he’d come to realise what a manipulative bitch his boss could be. His friends wondered why he put up with it but the truth was he was in love with her and had been since she’d interviewed for the job. Unfortunately for him, Karen knew it and used his feelings to control him. She also paid him much better than any other dental hygienist he knew. He’d become used to the lifestyle that his income allowed and didn’t want to give it up. ‘S’pose I’d better get ready for another day in paradise,’ he grimaced.

       He slouched down the corridor to the glass door of the surgery. He pulled the door open and went in. The walls were stark white, as were the units that lined it. In the middle of the speckled blue and grey floor was the chair, big, blue and imposing. As James set about ordering everything as Karen required, he turned the radio on. Radio bloody Three! He had to put up with classical music all day long. In a small act of rebellion he re-tuned it to a pop station.

              **********************************

Karen swiped her keyfob over the security lock, opened the door to the clinic and made her way to her private rooms at the back of the building. She went into the bathroom, stripped and stepped into the shower. There she allowed the hot water to purge her body of the combined sweat of her recent exercise and the previous night’s sex. As the water cascaded over her, memories of that night flickered through her mind.

       It had begun with the nightmare dinner she’d endured with her parents. Even after all this time they insisted on maintaining a relationship with her. It was a waste of all their time. She didn’t and couldn’t love them. If they’d just understand that it would be easier for all of them. She’d left early, her mother in tears and her father incensed, and gone to a bar where she picked up a guy. They went back to his flat and she gave him the night of his life. She had no doubts about that. She was very talented and imaginative in bed. At 5 a.m. she left silently to avoid any chance of awkward emotions or goodbyes. The taxi she’d booked the night before while he was in the bathroom was waiting outside. Once home, she’d changed into her running gear and run in to work. And straight into Anthony. The thought of her receptionist pulled her out of her reverie.

       She stepped out of the shower and admired herself in the mirror as she dried. She looked nearer twenty four than the thirty four she actually was. Her five foot eight body was toned with an all-over tan and there were no traces of lines on her face. A product of the rigorous moisturising regime she’d followed since she was fifteen. She put on her underwear before blow-drying her expensively cut and coloured blond hair and applying the minimal make-up she wore for work. Then she donned her turquoise scrubs and walked down the corridor, past the Waiting Room, to the surgery.

       Her approach was greeted by the awful sound of James’s voice singing along to Westlife. She opened the glass door and n obviously startled James quickly re-tuned the station to Radio Three. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long you’d be. Karen nodded slightly, acknowledging the apology, as Sarah Walker’s voice introduced Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 21. She checked the surgery was ready for the day ahead. Satisfied, she allowed James a smile.

 ‘Right. Who’s first?’

She treated a succession of scared adults with their yellowed and broken teeth, fillings, and diseased bleeding gums. Her excellence and skill were reflected in the success of the practice.  Once they were in her chair her patients were under her control, she loved that. She manipulated their actions through her commands, she designed their environment, and she educated them by forcing them to listen to classical music. All the while correcting the messes they had made of their mouths.

With the last patient treated she left the surgery, changed her clothes and left the clinic. Her Le Mans blue BMW M3 was parked outside. She opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat before shutting the door with a satisfying thunk. Luxuriating in the leather seat she started the engine. Its purr combined with Le Nozze di Figaro as the Blaupunkt kicked into life. Then she drove, just drove, cocooned in her beautiful possession.

When she finally got home there was an angry message from her father on the answer machine. In between the expletives the gist of it was that she wasn’t to upset her mother like that again. What did it matter though? In a few years they’d be gone from her life completely. The last ties cut. Everything finally arranged as she wanted it. She went to bed and slept soundly.

       *******************************

       Karen was running to work.  The iPod was set to shuffle and Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 26 in D Minor was playing in her ears. Racing through the park she didn’t notice that the morning gloom was beginning to cede to March’s promise of spring. Approaching the road she spotted a gap in the traffic and ran across without breaking stride.

That’s when the car hit her.

She rolled over the car bonnet unable to understand what was happening. Unable to control what was happening.

She was tumbling. Legs in the air. Body sliding across the car bonnet. Face smashing against the windscreen. The wide eyes of the driver staring back at hers. How had she misjudged it? She felt herself slide off the car, onto the road. Then nothing. Then sirens, blue lights, pain. Then nothing. Then someone talking to her, an oxygen mask on her face, a needle in her arm. Then nothing. Then strip lights passing over her head, figures in scrubs around her. Then nothing. Then blinding lights above her, the beeping of a heart monitor. Then nothing.

*******************************

Jack Ashley sat at his daughter’s bedside. Unable to look at the broken and bruised figure lying in the bed, he stared out of the window at the people lounging on the grass outside in the late July sunshine. As his wife talked with Karen’s doctor, memories of her childhood flooded his mind.

Karen was unexpected, a miracle. They’d been through so many miscarriages. The doctors said there was nothing they could do and they’d stopped trying. Stopped doing it at all, really. Then one night he’d gone to the pub and got pretty pissed. When he came home he’d basically forced himself upon his wife. He was so ashamed. But then Kay got pregnant and all was forgiven. The months of the pregnancy crawled by as they feared the worst at any moment. The birth was difficult but when they saw her it was the fulfilment of their lives. The small, pink figure wriggling in his wife’s arms meant everything to both of them.

       Karen’s childhood in Newcastle had been such a happy time. Tears crept into his eyes as he remembered the little girl who used to throw her arms around him and say ‘I love you daddy’. They took so many photographs. Yet the little girl pictured in them, the child who had been so close to her parents, was unrecognisable from the adult she became.

From the outset Kay doted on her. Everything Karen wanted, she got. Did they spoil her? Is that why she turned out this way? When she was fourteen she started distancing herself from them. She became secretive and withdrawn, spending most of her time in her bedroom and developing that weird obsession with classical music.

Still, she excelled in school and college and went to the School of Medicine and Dentistry in Aberdeen. It seemed as though she couldn’t put enough distance between them and her. She came home less and less between terms. By her final years she didn’t come home at all. When she qualified she moved to Manchester to practice and Kay, unable to accept that their daughter didn’t want to be near them, insisted they move to be close to her. So now they lived in this strange city, trying to reconnect with her while she rebuffed every attempt, further smashing her mother’s already broken heart.

       He forced himself to look at her. Four months had passed since the accident. Though she was no longer on a ventilator, tubes still fed into and out of her arms. She had regained consciousness but was unable to move or communicate with them except with her eyes. Jack deliberately avoided her gaze fearing what he would find there. The doctor was saying something and he tried to focus in on it. ‘So you see the damage to the spinal cord is permanent. She’s almost completely paralysed. There’s also an issue with brain damage that’s affected her speech. It’s similar to the effects of a stroke.’

       ‘And there’s no chance of recovery?’ his wife’s voice was surprisingly calm and controlled.

       ‘She may recover her speech in time but she’ll spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. I’m so sorry’

       ‘We’re taking her home. I’ll care for her’. Jack recognised the tone of delight in Kay’s voice as she spoke.

       *******************************

Kay sat in the kitchen of their house in Moston, spoon feeding mashed up vegetables into Karen’s mouth and wiping away the excess each time. ‘There you are dear. Eat up; we’ve got to build your strength up’ she cooed, smiling at her daughter. During the last two months Kay had felt happier than she had in years. Her daughter’s voice answered with an unintelligible squawk. Kay heard what she wanted to hear. ‘Yes, I know love, Mam’s cooking is the best.’

       She looked at the clock, a quarter past twelve. Jack would be in work until five, plenty of time to go to the park. ‘We’ll go out soon. A nice walk and some fresh air will do us both the world of good. I think we’ll go and feed the ducks’. She smiled at her daughter, oblivious to the anger blazing in the eyes that stared back at her. Fate had brought Karen back to her. She was Mam again. That was all that mattered.

       *****************************

Karen knew the path through they were taking through the park only too well. It was her old running route. This time she was fully aware of her surroundings. The crunch of the gravel beneath the wheels of her chair. The crisp coolness of the late October day contrasting with the way the sun warmed her skin. The skeletons of the trees blackened against the azure sky with their yellowed leaves lit golden by the low sun. Most of all she was aware of her mother’s voice, wittering inconsequential nothings. She had no control anymore.

       They reached the lake. Her mother parked the wheelchair by a bench and sat down. ‘There we are. Nothing better on a day like this.’

       Karen screamed ‘Let me go. Kill me, if you really love me like you say you do then kill me. I can’t live like this. I can’t take anymore of you, you bitch. Just kill me.’

        ‘Yes dear, I’ve brought some bread. We’ll feed them when I’ve had a rest. What about some music? I’ve brought the radio with me.’

       Kay turned the radio on. Karen listened in growing horror as a voice said ‘Next up, Westlife and Flying Without Wings.’

Karen began screaming again.

When Bob Geldof Fed The World

When Bob Geldof fed the world
He swore on live T.V.,
Desperate to spread the message.
This music wasn’t free!
The 'juke-box' in our living rooms
Was to help alleviate
Starvation in North Africa,
Death at frightening rate.
‘Don’t go down the pub tonight,
Stay in, watch this instead.
Send us your f***in’ money,
We’ll turn it into bread!’
They turned it into ships and trucks,
Gave shelter, clothes and soap.
They dug them wells for water,
Gave people back their hope.

Four haikus for October 3rd, 2011

Dark, silent morning
Delayed autumn approaches
Leaves crunch underfoot


Azure sky dazzles
My skin warms to the Sun's touch
October's surprise


Cloud rolls down the hill
Summer's last gasp vanished now
Autumn's chill returns


Evening sky darkens
Gloomy air fills with their cries
Leather winged, they feed

Haiku's on a theme

He stands there, naked
Emotions bared to the world
He feels so alone


He stands there, naked
The sea lapping his ankles
Sun warm on his back


She stands there, naked
Proud, defiant eyes blazing
Daring him to look


He stands there, naked
The bus quickly disappearing
Stag night prank complete


He stands there, naked
Warm water cleansing his flesh
Sweat and grime banished


She stands there, naked
Tears flooding pale blue eyes
The mirror her foe


He stands there, naked
Legs apart, palms to the wall
Hands search his body


He stands there, naked
Flesh proudly exposed to all
No shame, does he feel