http://slow.writerscafe.org/meno The original writings of author Gerald Parker en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775978433 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Heavy, as forecast, for evening commuters;a ferocious attack, arrows angled in,Agincourt again.In serried ranks, caution or cowardice at the wheel,our carapace motorcade progresses at a stately pace.Street lights swaylike yellow-eyedbrachiopods, spreading sheets of goldbefor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2159137/ On the bus journeys homeafter school, the workers from Lever Brotherssmelt of Surf and Persiland rancid Stork magarine.Demobbed ten years earlier,they still had the war on themand sat with it tucked tightunder their greasy macks.They made the top decktheir snug, closed it offwith Woodbine smoke .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2158947/ he said I needed a question markI replied a question mark wasthe last thing I neededand it would cost me my lifein my countrywe do not use the question markall keyboards, all typewritershave had the question mark removedin my country we do not questionanything or anyoneit wou.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2158075/ It’s only a few days since Christmas,but after the joy comes a niggling sort of ache,here by the sea, with this lonely revellerof festive darkness, shedding needles of rainand a glitter of shivers along the promenade;with this foul-mouthed wind staggeringoff the tide at closing-time, fetching .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2157942/ The hill road parts the trees andleads me down to the valleywhere a high-sided reservoirhas been basking like a bloatedbeached whale for a hundred yearsin the valley where they built itfor thirsty Betjeman Metrolanderswho squeezed themselveslike toothpaste out of London formortgaged lives in semi sn.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2157397/ seen tending his gravebad he had to leave that roomdisgrace what they did http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2157323/ feels like monthsthat rain has dogged usstill loitering herewhile somewhere else is dryas I drive throughthe dripping forestI like to think it's hanging onto its history of kings and queensand whatever dignityit has leftafter being chopped backto the reservation on the hilla river in the valley belo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2157177/ There are somewho get excitedwhen they heara bird on a boughin the evening,singing a songdinosaur cousinsdid a dance to,composed aeonsof aeons beforewild men in skinscaught the bugand passed it ondown the line. They are peoplewho remind meof someone whopores overa lump.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156979/ you want money for your retirementbuy a car parkwe disapproved but paid anyway got into the cinematoo earlyhad to sit through the adverts noticed people watching themwhy would they do thatthey've come to see a film then they go homeand watch more advertswhy.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156937/ saw Swiss glacier: solid snow like congealed lard;        today it's dripping. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156934/ As I drive down the hill,the reservoir comes into view. Today the surface is a silvery mirrorover ice cold water, favoured by the moon at nightfor the odd skinny-dip or two. I envisage someonethe other side of London slyly running a tapto pull the moon a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156751/ Best friends at Christmaswe'd meet at the Half Way Housebut not anymore http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156736/ I didn't hear the helicopter in the nightmy wife didand she heard voicesI was late coming downstairsin my speckled maroon pyjamasfrom an M & S outlet                           still too bigeven though the hormoneshave made me .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2156223/ My two dogs sit cosily next to me,their eyes fixed on The Irishman. Itseems I have a soul but they don't.I start to wonderat which gradation in our Man'sevolution did he acquire a soul?Was it on the day he crawled outof the famous fetid primeval slime?Or was it when he lit the first fire?Was it when.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2155659/ When I was a child, I made a cannon out of a lipstick tube         mounted on a wooden carriage, stuffed it with gunpowderfrom a penny banger and fired a volley of nails at the shed door, and I believed the noise I made had ascended into heaven. Many years later, I wr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2154203/ There are somewho get excitedwhen they heara bird on a boughin the evening,singing a songdinosaur cousinsdid a dance to,composed aeonsof aeons beforewild men in skinscaught the bugand passed it ondown the line. They are peoplewho remind meof someone whopatiently po.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2153690/ There are somewho say birdshave memories,that some flyacross the worldto sit out wintersomewhere warm,then they rememberthe way back home. They say birdscan rememberthe songs of birdsback up their line,and sing the same songstheir dinosaur cousinsdanced to all day long. These are peoplewho.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2153204/ Slam!Off to work, the young coupleleave the wall-to-wall niceness in charge.Goodbye, for now,to the essential pictures in the hall,with its past of other pairings and partingspainted out in exorcising shades.Goodbye, till this evening,to the polished smiles of approving guests prolonging best w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2153067/ T'was a bitter chill morntwixt fall and start o' wint',the last of the icy leaveswere falling clump, clumpon't foul and filthy groundoutside my bijou elfin grot. I parted my goat hide doorand beheld an ailing knight,forlorn and lingering there.What ails thee, I askedthis sorry gent, oh whyloite.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2152507/ T'was a fbitter chill morntwixt fall and start o' wint',the last of the icy leaveswere falling clump, clumpinto the leaden bucket whereinI betimes do relieve myselfoutside my bijou elfin grot. I parted my goat hide doorand beheld an ailing knight,forlorn and lingering there.What a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2152452/ The faded Help for Heroes stickerin the rear window of his well worntwenty year old Fiesta speaks volumes,which is what it's meant to do. No way of telling if he's the hero eventhough he's elderly and walks with a limpor if the sticker came with the car he usesa few minutes ever.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2152230/ The old man in the rocking chairwas a piece of historymade in Queen Victoria's reign.He was looked after at Auntie Bessie'sin the fifties and smelt of birdseed,perhaps because the budgie cagewas on a stand next to him.It was a dutiful outing of an hour's bus-rideto her terraced house.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2151928/ Simone, please be quietand let me enjoy my pipe.But Jean-Paul, somethingmust have happened to Godot,we've been waiting for him for ages.Simone, please be quiet,ta gueule, fiche-moi la paix,you're giving me nausea,I'm trying to concentrate...does essence precede existenceor is it the other way round?.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2151384/ There is a pained intensityin the last movementof Bruckner's last symphony; you take it as a farewell to life,the furrowed brooding caughtby a conductor who afterwards scored a farewell to cancerby jumping to his deathfrom his eleventh floor flat;yes, the sleeve notes on the CD.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2151128/ Living on the built up edgeof historic Epping Forest,hacked down to size for Metrolanders,I tread where mighty oaks once stood,where animals followed ancient trails,commoners respected trees,cut only branches for firewood,kept livestock with freedom to roam. There's a Hunting Lodge,a listed b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2150453/ There are somewho can tell youthe differencebetweena Magnificatand a Te Deumat twenty-five yardsthey're not so goodat one hundred yardsbut it doesn't matterfor they shall inherit the earthanyway http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2149625/ I have often stood bemusedacross the river from fabled Pocahontas’ grave,once Defoe country, his brickworks and Crusoe,a place you don’t namefor fear of ridicule,now a murk-rippled Thames’ scummy shoreline. Arriving seagulls shriek in derision;dingy dredgers dawdle like shifty.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2149505/ Vacating your seat, you toocan make language move:so, elbowing to the exitis the camaraderie of culture,your carriage waits in the stack, concrete pillars are Corinthian columns,and driving up the greasy ramp,an exhilarating surge of metaphor.In the side-streets of reality,you devastatingly refute E.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2149138/ from the pharmacywith my chest complaintand my bag of medicationI'm walking pasta multicultural traffic-jamI can't hold my breathlong enough not to inhaleexhaust fumes loopedacross the roadlike webs in the airso it's hard to bothgasp and enjoythe multiculturalismof music fi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2149012/ In narrow, labyrinthinemedieval back-ways,old women sit and waitat open doors.‘Perso?’ one asks,seeing I look lost.The sun has almost driedthe step she has just washed.Crow-like in black,she directs me in dialect,and empties her bucketin the central gulley,once an open sewer,then sits at.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2148914/                 *A burnt-back day in the field,we're all aching and tired,huddled on this rank straw,too close, too hot for sleep; the animals press and heave;coughs, heat, sweat, rise,drip from the clammy roof,pierce ou.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2148459/ Airtight.No sound. No Is that you?above the TVturned up too loud.No feeble getting upto proffer hand or kiss. No shufflinground the assembly-kitof treasured thingsthat made a home. No ghostsof chirpy whistling dayswith windows that breathed,seasons strolling in for a chat,grubby .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2148438/ I get a sepia-tinted sadness justfrom recalling an old photographof my parents on honeymoon,posed by the seafront railingsin Douglas, Isle of Mann, witha solid Irish Sea for backdrop.And so, the sadness builds -it was over ninety years ago,throw in all that's gone, all thoseinter-war art deco revolu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2147647/ Chenonceau: selfies by the coach-loadat this château on the Cher.Chef d'oeuvre of hydroponic art,like a house-plant extraordinairewith its feet in running water,it will arch over tea-or-coffee talk,its bloom of transportable culturedropping aesthetic seeds of colloquy,from the salons of the St.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2147152/ There were eighty-eightglistening constellationsdraping a night skyacross my back porchwith eighty-eight spidersflaunting fat bottomsand midges, gnats, flies, allstreaming into black holes:just a slight hint of the tragicsense of life in all its glorythen the eternal silence roundthe back of the eig.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2147035/ It would have been rudeof us to stareso we quickly looked awaydisappointmentdoesn't necessarilyshow on an actor's facenot in Prezzo anywayhe finished his coffeeand stood up to leavehe knew we'drecognised himwe could tellby the twist of a smileas he passed uspart of an act perhaps to disguise the hur.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2146509/ Anything goesAnd lovely Is the roseThe internetHas madePoetsOf us allShouted A one-eyed Man withA tickling stickHe wasJust standingThere likeOne of Lewis'sOn Lime Streetin LiverpoolIt was rainingHis make-upWas runningHis willyWas drippingThe crowdWas cheeringOr were theyJeering?Who knows?Anything go.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2145881/ There are certain certainties about every Monday:you know the weekend will have come and gone,next door will have washed his car and drownedhis contentment with a crate of cut-price lager;the spinster with the limp will have gone tochurch on Sunday and got no answer and willhave begu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2145634/ “Entre-deux-morts”, not “Entre-Deux-Mers” -mates of mine, the pair of them joking about the wine;were they sneering at my lousy attic life?Mates who’d called on me after all these years,boasting of how they were knuckling through.Recoiled in crab-retreat, flinching at.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2145395/ If privilege shared's forfeit repaired,then my searing secret should be aired:for oft I hear the Thump-it Voluntaryof Man's New Child - and his pulmonaryaubade - when, bleating like a sheep misled,Britain's future tumbles out of bed. Lusty lungs negate the party wall:detonating tantrums plump their .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2144925/ Bank Holiday weekend, sunny day, very English, very rare,ready to be enjoyed,plants planted, patio scrubbed,pots watered, wine chilled,recliners reclining.The other side of the fenceshe is getting her washing in.We hear the pegs fallone by one
into her peg-bucket, eachwith a nonchalant loudnes.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2144358/ Returning after three years, Paul Verlaine pushed open      the creaking garden gate.            Dew glistened on the flowers           in the morning sunshine.           Everythin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2144205/                           .Six hundred years ago, this was Mary Magdalene in designer dress,wife-to-be of a Florentine noble,the painting, a family commission.To palazzo gue.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2142957/ I remember, yes, I too remember the house where I was born, and the only photograph I remember is the one I do not haveof the front, taken before the war which commandeered for bombs the railings and the wrought-iron gate.I remember the jagged stumps, and the missing ga.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2142077/ Here's Pierrot and some dreamy-eyed boaters -they must be us, I’m sure you’ll agree -pretending to let something escape:metaphor-stuff trickling through their fingersdangled over the side of a world they thinkwill float in sepia tints forever, I reckon.Look at Pierrot staring, haunting t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2139997/ In the Musée Lamartine,in Mâcon, I was ready to pay homageto the great man,starting with his umbrellain a stand by the door,when my companioninformed me it wasn’tthe real one.His friend had stolen itthe year before;whereupon, lo!I was visited by a vision -a vision of saints in ago.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2138252/ Of every dreamthat could haunt me,this one insinuates irresistibly,like a bubble that might waftacross our summer gardenand, disconcerting chattering cat or frantic dog,skim the children’s straining fingertips,swirl past your sleeping face,and beam its supernoval menaceon me, on me &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2136338/ i.   1954Either mistaken half a mile off targetfrom the blacked-out Mersey docks,  or off-loaded onto with full apologieson the way back to the Fatherland,  it was a hovering void still faintlyoverhung with the miasma of loss -  but still a house, despite its toppl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2119198/ My dear Nitty Nora,the biddy explorer,is made of mod-plasticand wears old sea-boots.As I am rollingdreams of my own,she takes off her bootsand fiddles mea dumpling adagioin the fire belowwhere the fiery poetburns and pokes for words.         &nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2099543/ Defining comedy extends into break ….In the playground the fat one they callElmer is wriggling against the wall again,inviting, enjoying jibes, punches, spit ….Funny, of course it’s funny -Molière ‘castigat ridendo mores’ -students quote the introduction for pr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meno/2096284/