Insomnia

Can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking

Can’t stop worrying about the drinking

The bills, the wolf howling at the door

The need to always give that little bit more

Buster’s new shoes, Molly’s lose tooth

Worn out carpets on our worn out floors

Can’t sleep woes, Can’t sleep blues

If you know me well enough avoid me in the morning

As I’ll have the can’t sleep short fuse.

Insomnia.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

Written today for d’Verse... we had to save a life on an issue…I chose can’t sleep which I am sure affects many people a lot of the time.

Salford Pals

 

I have spent a considerable amount of time this weekend rebuilding the lives of my paternal Great-grandfather John Henry Mcclenan( McLanaghan) and my Great grandmother- his wife Frances Taylor/Skinner. It is a fascinating story of friendship, war, battles and lives lost, and love rising like a phoenix from the ashes to build what was to become a large and strong family. John Henry and his best friend George Skinner were to fight in the Boer War, George was killed and John Henry injured in the hip and returned to Salford to convalesce. On recovering he went to see George’s wife of 4 months Frances Skinner and over time they fell in love and were married on 14 December 1901.

Frances was 27 by this time but they went on to have 8 children, one of whom was my Grandfather Frank born in 1911(the one on the horse), and although getting on in years John Henry served with the Salford Pals 15th regiment from 1914-18, surviving a number of key battles including the Somme in 1916 and the siege of Thiepval July 1st 1916 and was awarded a number of medals. Frances and John’s fourth child was a daughter Hilda and her Great Grandson Christopher Finney went on to earn the George Cross for bravery in the Iraq war 2003. I think great things came from the broken fragments of John Henry’s Boer war broken-ness. He passed away in 1926 from amongst other things TB in the injured hip. I might not have fully complied with nature- but maybe war counts as the impact of human nature…

Bleak Boer War battle

John Henry lost George Skinner

Frail Fall brought Frances.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

For d”verse our challenge is to write about finding beauty in the broken pieces or imperfection and/or the process of mending the broken pieces.- kintsugi. A “broken” object, cityscape or landscape, or personal experience of mending and embracing imperfections. Kintsugi means “golden rejoining,” and refers to the Zen philosophy of acknowleding flaws, embracing change, and restoring an object with a newfound beauty.

They sing for him.

It is the community singing that does it for my Dad every time,

Every rugby and football match those anthems for the common man.

They capture heart and soul, and bridge dreams and memories

And he sings with them, they become one voice,

one song, one breath-taking moment

of shared understanding and surrender,

of solidarity, stoicism and strength.

His heart was broken

In that shared moment he saw it and claimed it.

His grief, his passion, his anger, his will to live

all in the community singing.

They sing for him.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

poetics d’Verse

This is for Poetics and the evening is being hosted by Paul Scribbles and the theme was community.

IMG_1005

His heart was broken is a play on the words from The Proclaimers song Sunshine on Leith which is the anthem for Hibernian Football club. It has become one of my dad’s favourites even though he is a Turf Moor fan at heart.

Here is a link to a rendition of it:

Hibs 2016

The Ghost of Winter past.

I remember the soft snowflakes

Delicate as lace

Framed by the cold frigid moonlight

Falling gently to the ground.

Shrouding the world in a pure white blanket

Which sought to cleanse another winter

 

But pure white turned to grey

And the peaceful night became another dirty day.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

snow-1350948_1280

This is my contribution for d’Verse open night.

The image is from pixabay,

Openlink night

 

 

Transcendental Glory at Morecambe Superdrome

Echoes in our heart and footprints in the sand

Staccato and tremolo of Tijuana brass

Morecambe Superdome with Don Lusher, a silver black Scirocco

Alan Tomlinson Conductor and lead of our bluesy big-time band

Children of Sanchez, superb shrill of trumpet solo

Transcendental glory in times gone by.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

This was my treasure for the poetics challenge. I wish I could let you hear Alan Tomlinson playing Children of Sanchez…. mind you to hear him play anything was a gift. His repertoire and range were exceptional and his passion for music and desire to pass it on to anyone especially young people were equally as exceptional. I played with the LCBB from about 1981-1985….

It was the most magical period of my young existence. As a young trombonist and big band member it was the pinnacle and zenith of my life and career. We played at the Morecambe Superdrome and supported Don Lusher…Stardust was his melody… and I had made it. This was the moment of exaltation when you know that it just doesn’t get any better and Alan Tomlinson hit that note in Children of Sanchez and you know this is the moment in life that you were born to notice. Transcendental Glory at Morecambe Superdrome.

Prose poem at the bar….all at once….it was a complex week… my memento..

Web about Alan Tomlinson…

Stuart GRILLS AND ALAN tOMLINSON

memento

prose poetry

 

For both poetics and prose at the bar…

 

Terraceville-Living in the Valley.

The train clatters down the track

Clickety clack clickety clack

To deliver the coal and slack

From the pithead.

 

Smoke emanates from the dirty stack

Wives hanging washing out the back

From the outhouses of the back to backs

In Terraceville our suburban mill-town.

 

Kids play in the street and no- one cares

Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares

Be late for supper. Free from care

Because they are always there,

And we are taught to share

With each other.

 

Got no money put it on tick

Misbehave and you get the stick

Get drunk Friday and you’ll be in the nick

In our suburban mill-town.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

The photos are from the Peter Fisher Archive and gallery….and this was where I grew up.

Peter fisher gallery

 

This is an attempt…. of sorts for poetics….for d’Verse poetics… I am not sure I achieved…it was not something I normally do…but we are here to learn…. so I have given it a go.

d’verse poetics suburb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shifting sands

It has been a complex business. I had thought that coming home would have some kind of natural simplicity implicit in its processes. After all we weren’t trying to migrate to new pastures we were simply returning home after an extended spell overseas…11 years in NZ. I hadn’t expected it to be smooth, there were going to be hurdles and obstacles but I had expected it to have some kind of “this is your home” ring to it. I think the shifting sands of Morecambe best sums it up. Things were the same but somehow different. Faces were familiar but somehow not recognisable. In our absence, the shifting sands had changed the landscape.

In spite of this there was an absolute joy in recognising and reconnecting with familiar buildings and walking in the ghostly footsteps left from our previous wanderings and the feeling of warmth and belonging were rekindled by the crisp winter evening air, the ghostly morning mists and the memory of plants and flowers long forgotten in childhood.

Pussy willow tree
In February drizzle
Catkins caress spring

 

Today for Haibun Monday we were asked to reflect on the best things of life being for free and the catkins this Sunday did it for me. Long forgotten childhood treasure.

#d’Verse