Long Allotments Poems
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These are photographs of my village
Taken over a hundred years ago
The streets look just the same
As those I used to know
When Fifty or more years later
That village was my family home
And i wandered them as a child
With streets and fields to roam.
They show a part of my family
Each stood by their front door
On the little row of cottages
That isn’t there any more.
Condemned, demolished, erased,
New dwelling replacing the old
Some not yet quite finished
But each one already sold.
Large, desirable modern residences
Where once workers’ homes had stood
The village of my childhood changed
But not necessarily for the good.
None of those posing for photographers
Could afford to live here these days
Once working village dormitories now
As they have adjusted to modern ways.
One farm worker can do the work of ten
So you don’t need the labourer in the field
And modern mobility means most villages
Are full of commuters or the retired well heeled.
The orchards, allotments, garden meadows
That lined nearly every road and street
Have identikit brick dwellings built on
Grass destroying foundation concrete .
Sometimes, unrecognised, i visit my past
Still enough unchanged to make it hard
To accept these days my family presence
Is restricted to graves in the old churchyard.
Maybe it’s my imagination at work
But it seems to me a peculiar thing
As i wander those known streets again
I no longer hear so many birds sing.
Pathway blocked
Detour around;
Seek alternative route
Look beyond zest
Let message fling;
Align your quest
No customers
Drowsy sales person;
Somnolent afternoon
Bazaar atmosphere
Crowded pathway;
Curious seekers
Mini speakers
Loud digital music;
Screaming upbeat sounds
Popcorn vendor
Long queue waiting;
Small people and parents
Durian season
Pungent suffocation;
Sensory perfection!
Sales season
Great Singapore Sale;
Temptations galore
Diamonds and stones
Sapphires and garnet;
Precious metal settings
Food court delights
Staple dietary fare;
Oriental flavours greet
Looking at something
Finder's keepers;
Standing queue now claims
Time and space
Strange allotments;
Flood tide of moments
Leon Enriquez
11 July 2014
Singapore
24 Hours of Power
By Curtis Johnson
He was strong, loving, and merciful, and he was God
He made a beautiful world when everything was void
It was He who sat on a throne and gave valuable gifts to all
The red, yellow, brown, black, and white; the short and the tall
He gave allotments of shares in packages of twenty-four
Lose not, waste not, as so many others have done before
Take your God given shares and respect them highly
Invest your God given hours and use them wisely
24 hours per day; to live, to laugh, to care, to share, to learn, to love
So, treasure your package of twenty-four as long as you live
Your priceless measure is fixed; no more can He give
Sail the oceans wide, or climb the highest mountain; the choice is ours.
We may descend the deepest sea; or build the highest tower.
In the time allotted, we excel or fail; we have the power.
cj08102015 Curtis Johnson
Real life
We clamour to be heard for our space which invariably
will intrude on others’ space which we dismiss in a torrent of abuse
we will not listen to voices of reasonableness.
We say they are voices of traitors and bitterly want them silenced.
More and more people demand statehood even if it is within the borders
of the country they already live in; they will not assimilate.
Accept other cultures which are dismissed as inferior to their ideal.
Smaller and smaller allotments of land declaring independence
Isolating their religious culture from interference and using
violence against any seeking sanctuary.
Russia and Ukraine fight a turf war, as do the USA and China demand
fidelity to their culture; there is only one veracity in the one manuscript
written by sages who had nothing new to offer other than hatred
against those that speak in a foreign tongue and preach understanding
Am I fitful,
fluctuating, fluid?
thin compass waver
as I jubilantly weave
lilac tree vignettes
that weep or chortle,
rainbow figment curtain
rashly wished upon
in grain smudge zephyr
garnet sand raw vehicle
garden common opal
transit sidestep
to a multiverse
of sappy fruit drip
net bag of niche
mauve rim canopy
a gilt ring culprit’s
flashpoint conjure
stirring taxi cabs
of lavish spurt
woolgathering
a gold rush stray
footslog must
have steel encased.
undulating folds
entangled nomad feint
dwarf yellow scorcher
firmament fatality
dash for straw hut
casita or elm
wood cabin where
advertence on
turnpikes, trails,
woven tracks lead
trajectory abuts
plod along dry path
dust bowl swirling as
they spurn allotments
meek enshrouded lull
with unalloyed poise
to jettison narcolepsy
brief embargo on
spiral plumule
when one’s physique
has many harrowing
gasps, taut breath
that intrinsic quest
for glistening cascade
seems an urgent
void, crushing
diapason rudderless
mahatma clement at
Arcadias nascent
totem of egress
yet charismatic
terminal flag
as this sentient
hypothesiser on
emerald tint bract
beneath hiking boot
unflinching
wild clasp at
beanpole verges
riven from
shade burst cockcrow
lure an impetus
to meandered pretext
primeval boon-docks
whilst tranquil flit
discommoding tawdry
pitch or tilt
gaunt endowment
I must brood on
surreal moiety
of cerebral aspect
squandered
rude reckoning aside
lapse into sullen
vacuum found across
a link whose blind
velvet crush lingers
query later doused
in vapour whirl gush
inkling thin veneer
sheeny beadlet
brow sapped
nod and falter
to a childhood turf
shelter for the limb
victim of grinding
marathon on marathon
to relish glow hue noons
hermetically abeyant
sempiternal eves
avenue to wanderer
fatigued yet still
in broad pursuit
of deep quiddity
When I was a kid, I would climb up trees,
Was made to wear shorts and always cut my knees.
Played in the allotments, making tents from cloth and sticks,
Imagining we built a fortress made of bricks.
We’d play outside all hours, even till dark,
Playing football, cricket or just running in the park.
We’d ride around on bikes, on the pavement, along a street
Where everybody gathered because then you couldn’t tweet.
You would call on all your mates, ask ‘are you playing out?’
Knowing the answer would be ‘yes’, of that there was no doubt,
Whatever you were doing, come rain or shine that day,
There was always something to do, always time to play.
Mum did all the cooking, a master chef no less,
She’d bake cakes, make biscuits, ‘course we must clear the mess.
On Sunday it was lunch, a roast with all the trimmings,
A feast for everyone that cost only a few shillings.
If you were rich or poor, it mattered not a jot,
Nobody compared what he or she had got.
I’d get half a crown to spend, on a Saturday no less,
For me that was simply heaven, that I must confess.
Along to the sweet shop, where the jars were on display,
Such a massive choice that it took your breath away.
I’d maybe buy some sherbet, fruit salads or pear drops,
Or a lucky bag; If I could I’d have bought the shop!
You knew all your neighbours, each and everyone,
It was the village community to which you did belong.
The happiest times, special memories to treasure,
Growing up in the sixties, an extraordinary pleasure.
Strand Select 5 any form, any theme Poetry Contest
Date: 7th January 2020
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Five stones
closing times
radiograms and
seventy-eights
school caps
sticklebacks
saturday flicks,pooh sticks
Charabancs
steam trains
linoleum
oil cloth
mangles
fish paste
sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves
cut-throat razor
shopping baskets
paper bags
braces,plimsoles
short,back
and sides
Wizard beano
and hotspur
lending libraries
picturegoer,
road to
Bridget Bardot
Marilyn Monroe
Dripping
coal fires
antimacassars
nylons,suspenders
crumpets
and toast
Brown and mild
barrelled beer
conkers,school milk
blackboard rubbers
and liftup desk lids
times-tabled
school-kids
Draughts
and allotments
rusty bikes
roller skates
satchels and scrumping
pounds,shillings
and pence
Twenty secretaries found his
Notes interesting. These were
the official words to the
Beginning of a music partnership
that was done for the purpose of
creation and profit. Twenty music
Companies sought a solution
They found it feasible to consolidate
there interest by sharing.
They bought sixty acres of land.
They allowed establish singers and
performers to buy into the project.
They wanted, a opera, country and
western,rythmn and blues, rap, pop,
Folk, comedy, latin, urban, townsmen,
Soul,rock heavy metal,oracstra , gospel,
Traditional, modern,and contemporary
Singers, to build homes there. The singers
Projections were assigned with limited
allotments that cause the creation of
construction.A list of songs,was givinen
A time for a concert established, foodtruck
and rvs rented the space was cleared a concert off grid
Promoted, and the funds were meant to create
the new town. The hopes of eagerness to
Create a new tommorrow for those who sought
New beginnings and newness.The music company
To take the revenue to create a new company, owned by the
Towns people, and the stars who headlined the show.
The new creation to be music for a listening world
to hear.
They would use modular housing to create the
Structure. Mansions, restaurants and theaters
Yet to come.Business minded people who looked to creation as means of exhistance.Seeking, believing and trusting.
Five stones closing times
radiograms & seventy-eights
school caps sticklebacks
saturday flicks pooh sticks
Charabancs steam trains
linoleum oil cloth
mangles fish paste sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves cut-throat razor
shopping baskets paper bags
braces, & plimsoles
short back& sides
Wizard Beano & Hotspur
lending libraries &picturegoer
roadfilms Bridget Bardot & Marilyn Monroe
Dripping coal fires
antimacassars
nylons suspenders
crumpets &toast
Brown &mild barrelled beer
conkers
school milk
blackboard rubbers & liftup desk lids
times-tabled school-kids
Draughts & allotments
rusty bikes roller skates
satchels &scrumping
with mates
hence
no
pounds shillings or pence
There’s still a Church and Chapel
A pub, but no longer a school
For there on the council
Childless incomers rule.
There are houses on allotments,
Pastures where cows would graze
Have asphalt and concrete with
SUV’s not animals these days.
Village shops are long gone,
You are marooned where you are
With the busses near non existent
If you don’t have access to a car.
Many farms that were working
Now merged for economy
In the modern style of
Large scale agronomy.
The old farmhouses sold
So that these days they stand
Separated from their past
In just smidgens of land.
Farms doesn’t need the labour
They used to need before
Modern machinery is faster
And can do so much more.
The old families are long gone,
Can’t afford to live there now,
Monied incomers now building
On Land once under the plough.
Villages retirement dormitories
Near deserted during the day
The workers commuting to and
Fro the city in the modern way
Some are holiday homes
Empty most of the year
Keeping their own company
The few days they reside here.
Once my family village
Home of many generations
Now we are gone in those
Country to city migrations.
I visit the graves infrequently
For these days I find
What used to be there still
Floods through my mind.
The last of my village friends
Very recently passed and gone
And now the time has come
For me to finally move on.
Country life has changed
Now a location of the monied class
Progress is progress I suppose but
So sad i lived to see it come to pass.