Traitor Cake

Ingredients:

4 oz of pride

4 oz Resentment

4 oz of jealousy

1 tsp of Treachery

2 misunderstandings

A sprinkle of malice

Pre-heat you oven to 180C/350F/Gas 4.

Place the pride, resentment and treachery in a bowl and mix until creamed and pale.

Slowly add the misunderstandings, stirring vigorously to make sure the mixture does not coddle.

Fold in the jealousy.

Pour into a lightly greased baking dish and place in the oven for 20-25 minutes or until the cake is sufficiently browned off.

Remove from oven and leave to cool. Lastly sprinkle the malice to decorate and then it is ready to serve.

JC

By Firelight

By Firelight

I feel the leaves crackle beneath my feet.

I look up and find you

haloed in fire light.

Your effervescent glow in the raging bonfire

fills me with a heat not known

by mere flickering flame.

The sun has set behind me,

the last vestiges of day have finally given up

their steely grasp on the expectant revellers.

They mill about the firelight

like moths drawn to its warm embrace.

I stand clear in the newly formed shadow

watching, the light catch your hair

as the soft tendrils dance

in the breeze of the chilled evening.

You move around the crowd

capturing all those you look upon.

I wonder when it was that you first seized

my heart and clamped it in your fist.

A tight embrace I would never relinquish.

Darkness takes the party,

the smell of burning permeates the air.

You and the firelight are the only barriers

to the cold night that seeps in

around our small gathering.

Hushed watchers huddle protectively,

both anxious and enthralled

by evening’s soft kiss on their cheek,

a tender stroke of its cold fingers down their necks

trails along their slender arms nestled against chests.

A shiver passes through your body

though you do not flinch,

just smile into the encroaching darkness

in anticipation of further delights

offered only in dark hours.

The sky explodes into life

illuminating the grounds once more,

touching all the faces with hues of green and red.

You see my face illuminated in man-made stars

destined to burn out in a heartbeat.

Your eyes penetrate my being

sending the cacophony of many fireworks

skittering to the back of my mind.

Our breath holds us, sentinels

watching the world catch light

and burn around us.

Reflected in your eyes I see myself

rooted, as the light of the world

rains down on me

and for a moment it is beautiful.

JC

SHC

What ever happened to the man in the untouched chair
with burnt out legs, his top half staring outwards
completely and silently sad?

What ever happened to the big blonde haired lady
dying quietly on her unfashionable quilt.
Her left arm a pile of burnt out ashes leaving
just an imprint shadow?

Whatever happened to Spontaneous Human Combustion?

Mog

Swimming with the Fishes

This is it; this is the end.

From the shining glass to the porcelain.

Glup, glup, glup, Goldie doesn't need feeding

and the cat gets no satisfaction

Spinning round and round

to the thunderous applause of the cistern

Flushed away to an unmarked grave,

Forgotten in the two-second memory span.

*Luna*

Breaking News - Mog has been published

I am so excited that I have had a poem excepted and published in
First Edition Magazine.

My poem Beginning, Middle, End has been published in First Edition Issue 08, October 2009 and is available in Border, WH Smith and other good newsagents from September 10th.

The magazine website is http://www.firsteditionpublishing.co.uk

I must admit that I have waited until I actually saw it in print before letting everyone know as I was convinced it was going to be a big mistake and my work wouldn't really be in the magazine. But it is and I am so pleased, proud, excited etc. It is great to say I have been published and I feel that this will really help me write more, be brave enough to submit work (and be more confident in my poetry which I now love after struggling initially).

For all of you that regularly read my blog (especially you glnroz) and for those of you that pass a comment, I just want to say a big thankyou - those comments help me as a writer so much and give me the confidence to continue.

Hope you get to read my work and thanks again.

Mog

The Clock has Stopped - please could this be criticised!

The Clock has Stopped

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

We will walk around
With lead in our shoes
Our minds a hazy shell-shock
To cope with the news

You'll want to scream at the people
Asking if you're ok,
(it's a pretty stupid question),
But they don't know what else to say,

The stinging slap of mortality,
With the redness in your eyes,
The knotting of your stomach,
as a real friend dies,

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

The clock has stopped,
And you battle a multitude of emotion
As you grope for a reason,
Whilst you're living in slow-motion

The lump in your throat
Restricting your breath,
The anger, the guilt,
The unfairness

You'll sit, half-expecting a punchline
and listen to silence instead,
you'll think of your jokes shared,
and things left unsaid,

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

And when walking down a busy street,
you'll see her disappear into the crowd.

Dickensian Boy

Lit by the harsh florescent light
A smile thins his lips
momentarily disturbing the route
of a glinting spoon piled
with cereal.

A bowl balances the scene
jauntily held
in statement more than purpose.

He glides into the classroom
to an open desk
in simulated nonchalance,
discarding the bowl noiselessly
on the Formica surface.

An exhibit in a freak show
created to obscure
a mundane life.

Out of our time he floats among us
long enough
to assert his oddball brilliance
without a hint of irony
in his sunken eyes and glib persona.

He scries oratory delights on
crinkled scraps of paper tied together
with a blue shoelace.

Where does he go when he leaves us?
Delving the depths of obscurity,
hands buried in patched pockets
of a gentleman’s blazer.
Hunched against the tide of modernity.

An over intellectualized ghost
of a personality hiding behind
his clever words and witty rhetoric.


This poem is based on a purely fictional character. Any resemblance to a person living or dead is coincidental and unintended!!

JC

Lessons

Rain fell on a leaf on the boughs of a tree in Craylum Village. It had been too long since Ignacia had gone back to the village where she was born. The beautiful hills stretched out like slumbering dragons with their scaled backs standing proud against the dying light. The grass smelt of that sweet metallic scent only achieved through hot sunshine and summer rain. The ground at her feet hummed with the electricity of the coming storm. She lightly squeezed the hand in hers and Sera opened her eyes.
A gasp escaped her lips as she took in the breathtaking views of the Craylum Hills.
“It’s amazing!” Sera shivered as a light gust swirled around them and disappeared in a moment. “Is it real?”
“Oh yes,” Ignatia’s voice came out in barely a whisper as she smiled into the darkening sky. “This is where I grew up.”
“Is this a memory then? “
“No,” Ignatia smiled and regarded Sera closely. How quick she was to accept the magical world around her, absorbing like a sponge disciplines that usually took years master. Her hand slowly caressed a leaf of the large oak they stood beneath, her eyes full of wonder.
“So are we really here?” Her eyes tore away from the wonder of her surroundings and level a look at Ignatia.
“Yes, and no.” Ignatia hedged. “This place is real. The trees, the hills, the sky, they are all real and solid. We are in a real place but we are not entirely here.”
“How do you mean?” Puzzlement lifted Sera’s features.
“I have projected our minds here, our bodies are still in the shop. You can touch things but we are not entirely here.”
“How is it done?”
A rumble of thunder and a flash in the distant hills interrupted their latest lessen as Ignatia felt the increased power of the lightening strike rumbled through the ground beneath them.
“Sera, do you remember what I told you about feeling energy?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to concentrate on the ground around our feet.”
“Why? I thought we were learning this projection thing.”
“Lightening has broken ground a few miles to the east and it’s radiating energy across the earth to the western sea. I want you to feel it.”
Sera closed her eyes and focused on the ground as she had been taught. Her mind wound through her body and down her legs, exiting into the ground. She could feel the different elements in the soil and knew the ground was prosperous. The summer had brought bountiful crop nourished by the rich soil surrounding the hills. She saw golden fields stretching down through the unseen valley below. Sera gasped in delight.
“Concentrate,” Ignacia interjected the vision. “Now focus on the energy and it’s origin.
“Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
Pure power washed over her in waves heading out to the sea. It was weak at first and then got brighter as she homed in on the source. A mile away a proud old tree stood ablaze from the overwhelming power that had consumed it. It’s once regal form shone out like a grotesque beacon, both beautiful and wretched. It left Sera feeling both invigorated and sad.
Another flash lit against the lids of her eyes illuminating the intricate patterns of the veins of their underside. Lightening had hit again less than a mile away. She felt it, rolling like a tidal wave fast approaching them. Ignatia grabbed Sera’s arm but there was no time. The wave of power broke over her bringing her to her knees.
Ignatia was talking frantically above her but sera could not speak. Mesmerized by the strength of pure power that nature had conjured she could only shake her head slowly trying to clear her mind.
“Wow”
“Are you okay?”
Sera rose uncertainly to her feet and opened her eyes. The world looked the same but everything had changed. The energy of everything was different and Sera could feel it. No need to concentrate. All living things, including the air around her sung with energy she had not noticed before. So much power lay dormant all around her. The fact was terrifying.
“I’m fine. Really.” Ignatia looked worried. Sera tried to filter out the melody of energy that hummed all about her.
“Maybe we should go back.” Ignatia was not convinced. She inwardly cursed herself for her own stupidity. It was her fault Sera had been hit with the full force of the lightening strike. She should have been concentrating rather than marvelling at the speed at which Sera’s mind moved and located energies. Even at this distance the energy force from the strike should have knocked her unconscious. A weaker witch could have been killed, becoming a human torch, as the energy touched her mind and consumed it. Sera had barely felt it. It had passed through her and she was, from what Ignatia could feel, unharmed.
“No,” Sera met Ignatia’s worried stare. “Please, I want to finish our lesson. Honestly, I’m fine.”
Ignatia remained sceptical. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall on them from the bruised sky. It was only a matter of time before the lightening struck closer. Shielding against it was risky and after what had just happened, Ignatia did not trust herself to protect them.
“I think it’s time we leave. We can discuss the theory at the shop. Perhaps pick a less volatile spot to practice?”
“It is beautiful here, are you sure we can’t stay. A little rain never harmed anyone.”
“No, but lightening has. Besides it’s too distracting.” Ignatia regained her grasp on Sera’s hand and she did not protest. She caught a faint tinkle and was reminded of a far off bell. “And if I’m not mistaken we have a customer. Come on, let’s get out of this weather.”
In that moment the storm filled clouds and rolling hills of green faded and were replaced with the familiar stacks of dusty books. Sera stood between the shelves and steadied her senses. The humming energy of the open space had been replaced by the lulling sound of old magic, slowly leaking from within the tomes at her fingertips.



A little something from my Lifes Big Project. One day it may be finished, in the mean time feel free to pick apart this morsel.

JC

Broken

James walks through the door into his dreams. He immediately notices the purple rainbow that circles the clouds and the sharp blue sun rays scattering out like iceberg shards, broken.

The grass under his feet is long and sumptuous. James slips off his brown moccasins and thick blue striped sports socks to wiggle his toes in the blades. His mind fills with thoughts of birds soaring in the sky; thoughts of running on the beach without feeling breathless or having side stitch; thoughts of endless blue sky days and nothing to do but be. Everything beautiful with nothing broken.

In the distance James spots a flash of red. He slowly walks towards it, savouring each step. He walks in a zig zag pattern that flattens the grass in a z shaped pattern. At his feet is a long stemmed red daisy, lying prostrate and broken.

James sheds tears of sparkling stones that slide down his cheeks before bouncing down into the roots of the long grass. Lost forever. He quickly bends down and rubs his hands over the shoots, desperately searching for one gem, one sparkling tear stone to hold in his hand. Yet all he does is flatten more grass, causing stems to cross stems, in a chaotic weave. Broken.

James looks up from his fruitless task and notices a building in the distance. It looks like a castle made of sweetbreads and chocolates. As he walks closer he sees the castle is surrounded by hedges of black roses. Each flower appears larger and larger as he gets closer. A hedge of vast black bells of flower, each leaf pealing away from the middle like mouldy cow tongues and falling backwards into a gaping blossom. A black flower ribbon hedge that surrounds the castle. The castle is broken.

Each spire is pointless, the ends broken and hanging like brass candle snuffers. The windows were smashed, everyone, cracked or gaping, with circular wounds on shattered pains. The big green double doors hang perilously on single hinges waiting for that second when they finally break and fall into the muddy remains of a moat that sits at the front of the castle. Every tile chipped, every sill smashed, every part, broken.

Only a single ivy clings on, winding its way around the horrified ruins like a covering smog, each leaf and stem trying to cover the devastation, and smother the remains. In this castle only the ivy is un-broken.

James suddenly wants to leave this place, to wake to his magnolia room and brown spotted duvet. He turns and runs back, trying to follow the crushed marks of his footsteps in the grass. The quicker he runs the slower it feels. Each step becomes entwined by the long grass stems, grabbing and clawing at his feet and trying to wrap itself around his feet. He has to pull hard to continue to move forward, move forward away from the broken castle; away from the tear stealing grass stems; away from the zig zag path until he bends to grab his discarded shoes and socks and his eyes search the horizon for an exit. James searches from an exit from this land that is broken.

The purple rainbow have evaporated leaving only a darkening cloud that is falling slowly earthwards. James notices the cloud appears to be made of bowling ball size lumps, each shimmering like extra large midnight blue marbles, perfectly circular. As he tries to run quicker, it begins to shed these balls, spitting them out in irregular intervals at irregular angles. James tries to avoid them but his inability to move quickly makes this impossible. One smashes his right foot, crushing hard against his big toe, smashing it instantly. The pain shudders up his leg making him gasp. He tries to ignore the pain and use his instincts to get him out.

As he reaches an exit, a large midnight blue ball breaks from the clouds and smashes straight down onto his head. It crushes his skull like a walnut and leaves him broken.

M☻g

Quite Intelligent

I am staying up late watching re-runs of
re-runs of QI that make me feel
quite intelligent.

I like watching Alan Davies’s curly
hair flop around his pretty face as he smiles
unwittingly or acts innocently
in his Essex boy persona;
getting the answers wrong and constantly
setting off the buzzer and flashing backdrops
as Stephen metaphorically pats his head
saying ‘Alan you darling boy.’


I like answering the questions correctly
before Stephen has finished reading them out,
smiling, sometimes, at the quips and jokes
that I didn’t get the first time around.

Now and then I remember how I hated their smug
intelligence and weapons of knowledge
that emanated from their smiling mouths
and tied eyes as they calculate their points
and press their funny buzzers.

Mog