Posted on by authormcgowanblog

The Cruise

Peter, for years, saved to go on a cruise.

He decided on old Saint-Tropez.

He got on the boat, prayed, ‘Keep it afloat.

Let the whole trip be happy and gay.’

.

The boat, as it happened, was not all that good.

It sunk on the very first night.

Our Peter did cry, ‘Please, don’t let me die.

Redeem me from this awful plight.’

.

He managed to swim to an unknown dry land,

deprived of all that he’d brought.

Though he didn’t know then, a party of ten,

Would soon serve him a large cooking pot.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

Nothing My Thumbs Press

  • In Response to ‘Text’ by Carol Ann Duffy

.

Nothing my thumbs press,

will ever be heard.

At three in the morning,

My vision being blurred.

My tongue tastes of cotton,

And language is slurred.

My message goes out,

But no-one is stirred.

.

The verse that I sent out,

I tried to reword.

To speak out, in person,

I would have preferred.

I look at the message,

And think a cross word,

Throw it back in my pocket,

And go home, perturbed.

.

I wake in the morning,

My mouth is like curd.

My eardrums are banging,

Not one thing be heard.

I remember that last night,

My mind then disturbed.

Texting while puddled,

Should really be curbed.

.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

Death Poem

I
It was hot, that intense summer’s daytime,
The weather, close without reason or rhyme.
Skin slips off; the bodies before me thaw.
Escaping, where once it held; now withdraw.
Spiritual. Can murder be thus? Discuss.
Nature loves to take back what it gave us.
This feeling, it soaks me like delight.

II
I watch them as a passion enthrals me.
The body, degrading naturally.
It was wild, in the heat of the moment.
Not mutual. A true act of bestowment.
A romance, yet emotionless; endless.
The taste, too, I do find delicious.
I was alone and merely being playful.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

Daddy, Daddy (Corrected)

(In response to The Night Watch by Niall Campbell)

.

Daddy, daddy, hear my cry.

The moon came out. I try and try,

To sleep but bracken on the glass,

Scratches at my soul and lasts,

Till you can come and ease the pain,

And send me back to sleep again.

Daddy, daddy, hear me wail,

Take hold of me from o’er the rail.

And hum that tune I love to hear,

To take away my lonesome tear.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog · 1 Comment

The Devil Take Ye (Lyrics)

Jack crept out, one dusky evening, as the snow wisped wild, unreasoning.

He sensed the subtle shift of air; that prophesised of plight, foursquare.

Yet dire need of drink he deemed, far from his warring wife. Indeed,

His britches held his beads of rose; a de-fence from his spouse, imposed.

.

In Bill’s Black Bull, he found his friends, already three-sheets. Stevie said,

‘Six shots, three beers, whisky and wine. Make sure to match and make good time.’

.

As Jack swilled – and swallowed fairly, he pondered on his precious Mary,

Who sat and scowled and warmed her wroth. The drink he drank was not enough.

The furious, fiery, fuming femme would box and bash and kick and crown him,

But in the foggy throws of froth, he deemed he did not care enough.

.

As Jack rode home, through dark and dim, the barkeep found Jack hadn’t paid him.

He and his haughty, hefty friends, took up and tracked Jack round a’ bends,

And dikes and dells and a’where else and planned to birch him with their belts.

Yet Jack did cycle, solemn, sure, and sang of all he saw and knew.

He harked of hills and birds of prey, and lively ladies laid in hay.

.

Then from the edge of paling eyes, he saw a site that held surprise;

A local teacher creeped and crept. Not on a single stick she stepped.

Jack slinked and snuck through sentient trees, then smelt an iffy, funky breeze.

It harkened to a hearth inhumed, which pungent, putrid death consumed.

.

And as he peered, through pale, blurred eyes, he stood there stunned, in such surprise,

For, round and round a ring of grass, danced every teacher, bare of arse,

To ever teach in Alloway. Behind that bush, Jack wished to stay.

.

And up above, a stage so rude, old Satan on a platform stood.

And as the devil danced and sang, he trapped and took Jack by the arm.

Old Satan snared him to the pyre, full of flames; ferocious fire.

.

Yet in that moment, man alive, those gathered gawped in such surprise.

The barkeep burst beyond the trees and shouted loud, ‘What like are these,

Old besoms bopping, twos and threes, in this clearing, if ye please?’

.

The devil jacked our fearful Jack, up to his hairy head and asked,

‘Is he for real or don’t he know – that I’m the devil, here to mow?’

.

It was then, Jack played his part and into Lucifer’s ear impart.

‘Convert yourself into some coin. I’ll tend it there, no more purloin,

And when you weigh it worth the joke, change thee back and have him choke.’

.

He then transformed, before Jack’s eyes, with a sudden, stature sacrifice.

Then, on the grass, there lay some gold, which Jack grasped up, the great freeload.

He placed it in his pocket, sure, beside his bless-ed beads, so pure.

The fiend’s firm form no more could alter. When trying to turn he flailed and faltered.

.

Jack took this chance and fortune fair, and left the barkeep blowing air,

And rife, the evil rallied round to strip and skin, and herd the hounds.

That barkeep now was less than best of meat and blood and bone and breath.

.

And all across the dikes and dells,

Out loud they rang,

Hell’s heinous bells.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

A Turkish Isle

To the west of Ölüdeniz, the sun beats down. A river of sweat drowning me, I gaze across the blue topaz glaze of the island bay of Gemiler. The exquisite, unfiltered sky reflects the sapphire sea and gives the day a pleasant hue. Fragrant greenery stimulates my nostrils, high up, almost to my brain. In and of itself, it seems more of a living thing, I feel, than a mere wispy sense.

Copious sprouts of verdant bush push themselves up out of the soil. They shroud the isle with a warm, organic eiderdown that is eternal. Slim, man-made paths zig-zag throughout, marking the isles widespread appeal over the centuries.

A speedboat, hosting six uproarious girls as they cling on tight, curves through the water, slicing inconsequential waves as she circles our own larger ship. The spray that covers them looks refreshing. I imagine that I am there also, wind in my face as the pleasing splatter of the untainted sea restores my peeling skin.

The sand that lies beneath my unshod feet is rough yet malleable. A strange combination as it moulds itself between my wriggling toes.

Far out, a distant greeting echoes from two passing ship horns which moves me. These ships are alive with fresh-faced tourists as they glide along in search of their own personal adventure. The bellowing horn is returned from the ship below, as my Turkish captain who seemed to me, to have more teeth than headspace wished them well in the common trade.

Above, Eurasian oystercatchers sway from white-sanded plateau to white sanded plateau as they seek out the best crop. The contrast of their monochrome facade catches the eye easily as they pass over the silken blue of the sea. Below, some more of their eager fellows nip and tuck their heads into the sand in the hope of some high-calorie goodness. I stare for a while as they assiduously labour in their culinary efforts.

As I turn, the ancient Byzantine church ruins, embedded with care into the mound, continue to observe their reverence and humility. Though decrepit and crumbling, their steadfast influence is hard to ignore. Fourteen centuries old, their overpowering attraction to visitors remains as fervent now as when Saint Nicolas himself, the patron saint of sailors, was buried underneath the fertile soil.

As I peer back to the sturdy mainland, its falcate protection shields its minor kin from all but the convivial southerly wind. This pint-sized isle, touched by saints and protected by God, projects man’s ideal situate. Peace and tranquillity abound as life flourishes above long-hidden tombs, marked only by the Apostolic foundations above. I am at peace, here. I only wish that we could stay.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

Annie-Belle

The snow fell softly as if the clouds themselves were unravelling. Ela stood outside Old Flannigan’s curiosity shop, peering through the frozen window with her threadbare shawl wrapped around her for warmth. She had taken her six-year-old twin daughters out for their daily walk. The three of them had lingered, captivated by what was displayed.

Ela glanced at Lolly and Belinda who were tugging at her skirt.

‘Mummy, mummy, mummy,’ they chorused, pointing through the window.

‘What is it?’ Ela inquired as she moved her gaze in line with their frantic steers.

As she searched numbly, her teeth chattering, a raggedy doll caught her eye. It was an ugly thing, around twenty-four inches tall. It appeared to be handmade with the cross-stitching askew around the neckline. Strands of wool had been crafted into straggly hair and its eyes were as big and round as a half-crown.

Ela’s heart broke.

Life had not been going well for her and the girls, recently. Their father had died a year previously. Six months later, Ela had lost the house and they had found themselves living in a shabby hostelry run by an unscrupulous landlord. It was no kind of life.

Ela had done her best but money was tight and the meagre seven shillings she received each week from cleaning the tavern was tied up in bills and groceries. Treats came all too seldom and she knew that the girls did not understand why.

Ela stared at the doll as Lolly and Belinda continued in their efforts to persuade. ‘Pleeeease, mummy,’ they called in unison, ‘please can we have it? We’ll never ask for anything else, ever again.’

Ela stared at the doll, knowing full-well that they would have ten more requests before bedtime. As the doll stole her focus, she felt a sense of unease come about her, her soul accusing her eyes for simply taking notice. It was not something that she herself would choose to bring into their home.

‘Do you not think it would be better to have one each?’ Ela tried.

‘No mummy,’ the girls chimed.

‘We want that one,’ Belinda added with Lolly nodding vigorously, ‘the one with the red hair, like ours.’

Lolly and Belinda had indeed been blessed with bright auburn hair, just like their father’s and adored their uniqueness. They believed themselves to be exclusive in this fact, not knowing anybody else who had hair of red.

Ela perused the other dolls in the window. ‘Look,’ she intimated, ‘that one’s hair is red and it’s prettier, too. Wouldn’t that be better?’

‘Noooo,’ they whined.

‘That’s just light brown,’ Belinda wailed again. ‘We want the red-haired one.’ The girls’ eyes started to well up. Their minds would not be changed.

Ela’s heart wept every time she had to deny the girls anything. She had secretly cried herself to sleep, on many occasion and it was probably this fact that pushed her to lead the girls into the dusty curiosity shop and hand over the required two shillings.

The shop itself was clutter incarnate, crammed full with all kinds of objects with no two items being alike. Dolls were there and old teddy bears; old locks and ragged socks; dark, worn paintings and armour from Hastings. There were opal rings and raven’s wings; once grand lockets and mannequin sockets. There were bottles and goggles and fossils and models; and even a few whips, snips, grips and bottled ships. It was a rare wonderland but Lolly and Belinda wanted nothing but their red-headed dolly.

As the old Irishman in full tweeds retired from behind the counter and made, slowly to retrieve the doll from the window, the girls bounced up and down on their toes.

‘Are you sure you want this one, so?’ the Irishman asked when he returned. ‘It’s not my best, to be sure.’

‘They are unwavering on the matter,’ Ela assured.

As the three of them trudged home through the ever-deepening snow, Lolly and Belinda held on tightly to an arm of the doll each as if scared she would be lost before they returned home. However, Ela was apprehensive, feeling a tingle down the back of her neck as if someone were following her. Every time she looked around, however, she saw no-one.

Lolly and Belinda came to love the doll over all their possessions, naming it Annie-Belle and taking her everywhere with them. This filled Ela’s heart with joy but there were times when she thought she heard a whisper, just on the verge of hearing; more felt than heard.

One day, exasperated at the state of the girl’s bedroom, Ela made to clear everything away. Toys, of which there were few, went into a small pine box under the bed. Books went back on their shelf. Clothes were then gathered, folded and stored away in an ancient sideboard.

When Ela had completed her task, she retrieved Annie-Belle from the corner of the room and placed her on the bed.

When Ela returned after making herself some tea, she went stiff, witnessing the now empty space on the bed. Her eyes darting around the room caused her to observe Annie-Belle sitting back in the corner again. How? Had Ela simply run through her mind the idea of placing the doll on the bed and not progressed to actually doing it? She must have done, for there, as clear as her love for her daughters, was the article in question, hunched up in the corner of the room. Ela’s skin crawled but she forced herself to think rationally.

Deciding to leave Annie-Belle where she was, Ela sidled out the room, pulling the door tightly behind her.

Over the next few weeks, Annie-Belle moved six times more, causing Ela to fear for her sanity. She could not believe that a doll could simply get up and walk about; so much so that she managed to convince herself that it was her own brain at fault.

Her mind in tatters, Ela eventually decided to dispose of the mangy doll. She had refused to take a match to Annie-Belle but did decide to throw her out that evening with the daily mess from the tavern.

Not long after falling asleep, Ela awoke with a start, followed by a scream. She jumped out of bed and, quickly lighting a candle, stared at the usually empty space beside where she slept. Annie-Belle sat there, more worn-out than ever and smelling like the old, discarded gravy from last night’s dinner. She was staring directly at Ela, Annie-Belle’s face somehow appearing more calculated than Ela had noticed before.

There was a peculiar look to the old doll which sent a shiver down Ela’s back. Grabbing her and storming through to the main room, Ela took one last look at the doll and tossed her purposefully onto the dying embers whence she burst into flames.

The moment was short-lived. After watching the flames engulf Annie-Belle and burn her to ash, Ela turned to see the doll resting casually on the only chair in the room. This could not be. Ela had seen the doll burn till there was nothing left. How could she be staring at Ela now with, Ela realised, a match in one hand and a matchbox in the other.

“You tried to take me away from them,’ said Annie-Belle in a childlike tone, her head leaning to one side. ‘That wasn’t very nice.”

She struck the match.

*

A few hours later when the bucket-chain finally won over against the flames. Lolly and Belinda sat on a wall in tears. A couple of local boys had pulled Ela out of the burning tavern but they were too late. Beside the girls, silently smug, Annie-Belle watched the show with detached amusement.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

A Night to Remember

It is night; a frigidly dank night at that. The wind is raging through the keyhole and the tree branches are grinding on the glass windows of the old farmhouse you have come to for the weekend. Quivering, you step out into the rain, seeing the trees bow and tip over from the force of the storm. You look around at all the damage and chaos the storm is causing. Barns are falling apart, branches are being ripped from their pine stems and rusty garden tools have been thrown against the wall and now lie on the sodden ground, broken into pieces. The world twists like a brown acid trip.

The weekend has not gone as well as you had hoped it would. You had initially chosen to visit the farmhouse to get a peaceful break from the pandemonium that was city life. You wish now that there had been more than yourself and Ailsa in this draughty old place.

You had brought Ailsa with you so that you could ask her to marry you. You did ask her; on the sheepskin rug of the farmhouse’ sitting room, curled up in front of the scorching open fire. A suitable place you thought. She had agreed joyfully and took the ring you had brought with you. Everything, except the weather, was perfect.

You step back into the warmth and wander down the corridor, towards the sitting room. You note the detail on the walls. Remembering back to the childhood stories, told to you by your grandfather, you look closely at the sketched figures depicted on the surround. All the shapes of the figures are sharp and clear and you find your eyes being pulled to the small, shapeless face of a wolf and you shift your gaze immediately.

Ever since your childhood you have had the greatest fear of animals, especially dogs. The picture of the wolf brings back the fear you had been trying to shut out, having wished to live your life without fear of any kind. Not knowing how you came to fear animals, you simply put it all down to your grandfather’s stories and had never thought much more about it.

There are other figures on the wall besides the, you know what. There are Unicorns, Fauns, Griffins and Minotaur’. The wolf is the only thing, that you can see, which actually exists. You look a bit closer. You see, as you stare at the beast, that it is not a wolf after all. It is in fact a more fearsome beast that has been told of for many years, long before you, or even your grandfather for that matter, were born. It has the canine face and body but it walks like a man. This beast is a Werewolf and no mistake.

You step back and walk shakily through to the sittingroom, plucking up one of the books that lies on the table. You skim through the pages and stop at a supposed random page. You start reading.

The story is of a boy whose life was haunted by a truth. Not the truth which springs from a lie, but the truth about what he is and what was going to haunt his life for the rest of his days.

As you read the story, you find yourself tiring and you fall into a profoundly dark sleep. Your dream is that of a terrible nature. You are on all fours, running through the forest. There is something in your mouth, hanging out of it like a drenched chew toy. It is sort of soft and flesh-like. You find yourself slowing down and stopping. You tear the flesh-like trapping with your teeth, which seem to be longer and sharper than in real life. You feel the thick blood streaming down your face. You long for more, but there is no more to be found.

You awake. You see instantly that you are lying in an empty field, on the farmland. The storm is over. You look around and see, horrified, a severed arm lying at your bare feet. It has a ring on one of the fingers which you recognize. Terrified, you yell out and run, wildly into the forest, remembering why you are so very scared all the time and why you tried so hard to forget.

Posted on by authormcgowanblog

A Dying Lament

.

Lilies resting on an empty pool.

What do they think?

What do they know?

What will they say when after I go?

.

Lilies resting on an empty pool.

What do they drink,

However slow,

Now that the water’s no’ water no more?

.

Lilies resting on an empty pool.

What cause do they link,

Reason being near death?

Can they reflect on not catching a breath?

.

Lilies resting on an empty pool.

What emptied that sink,

To trigger ordeal?

Will someone please tell me, what do they feel?