Crystal Visions

He had the look of sailor

Bushy trim, inbled ink

Lips to liquid elegance

Gave me cause to think

I saw his soul


People passed in passing

As they passed and passed on by

I was caught from passing

By reflections in his eye

I saw his soul


In vino told his verity

Crystal goblet crimson stained

Identity invisible

Absent but for pain

I saw his soul


He mused of distant lands, he spoke

Of places he had been

Of service, home, his children

And a wife he’d hardly seen

I saw his soul


He told of losing hope and faith

Of wishing death’s release

Of deepest well he’d ever known

Of falling to his knees

I saw his soul


I asked him frankest questions

And he did not balk from truth

He analysed and after thought

Depicted foolish youth

I saw his soul


He did not ask, I never said

His wine was eloquent

I lived a little of his life’s

Redemptive glass, a gent,

I saw his soul


He gave me food for future

In the telling of his tale

I gave him gloves and scarf, a coin

And wished him fair thee well

I saw it all

Bastard Child!

What to do, what to do.

Totally out of – what is it family across the pond call it- left field?

Taking it, from my movie going experience, that means somewhat unexpected. A long shot as it were.

Busy wee day here. Shopping. Groceries. Crap. Crap. And then a side order of shit for good measure. You know, typical weekend. Catch up on what work prevents you from doing sort of crap.

So I figured a wee while round at my sister’s – seven doors away- lucky me, was the order of the day. Some r&r. Bit of a chat. A few giggles. Well, lots usually. Guffawing is more like it and quite a few snorts at life and love and lewdity. You know. Sisters.

I left my trusted 18 year old with the pans and knew that after a day of not eating – I do that a lot – I could come home to one of my favourite meals. Spaghetti bolognaise. I know. It seems boring. But I’ve trained my crew well. Some of them. David now has it off pat. Although, watch out for the garlic and his consumption of my red wine. I’ve nearly been pissed a few times after eating David’s offerings.

So, I thought, a bit of a chin wag, share a couple of glasses of red, home for dinner.

I thought.

Twenty-four year old son not to be reckoned with.

He ate my fucking dinner. He never eats what we are eating! He’s one of these high protein-no carbs-shall-pass-my-lips sort of freaks. Ask him if he’s eating with us and the answer over the last couple of years has been, ‘No way. I’m hitting the gym and my body is a temple’, kind of garbage. Because I know he lets loose and orders in chicken chasni pizza when he has company. What a gross combination I always think. Whose bright idea was it to merge pizza with Indian cuisine?

He ate my dinner. I can still smell it. What I missed. Bastard child.

I’d been salivating at my sister’s. Red wine cultivating an appetite too often absent. Juices flowing thinking of the prospect of just the right amount of red wine added, pasta cooked to a T, parmesan grated lovingly, garlic wafting deliciously from seven doors away.

And Joe ate it!

And I can’t even give him a row! He’s off out with the current girlfriend.

And I settled for a few bacon sarnies with brown sauce. Very nice, it was. But not when you were expecting spag bol. I’m feeling quite gutted. And a little pissed. Might get a bit more pissed now.

Sometimes I hate weans.

False Security

In Troy, the horse was taken in,

And so, too, was that nation.

Drunken celebrations followed.

Much happy jubilation!

But, enemies, within the gates

Bided their own time,

Till battle-scarred citizens had,

Imbibed too much of wine.

Lulled to sleep by Dionysus’ best,

Heads on arms, and arms on breast.

They fell.

Watchfulness and trusting soul,

Blinded by another’s goal.

And prize was claimed,

Helen, named,

The face that launched

A fleet.