A Village Tale
Though this story isn’t true, (and nor its characters), it conveys much that’s worthy,
Yes, both truth and wisdom, which here, manifest themselves in the form of poetry;
A vehicle that’s as old as history, one with an impressive pedigree,
One that via its rhythm and rhyme, cuts to the chase, conveys things very succinctly.
A colder than usual winter had given way to spring — albeit grudgingly,
And more pleasant strolls were beckoning, hence that lonely figure moving rhythmically.
Roger had found the winter solitude a little more than he’d really desired,
And now more often was emerging from the little stone cottage that he’d acquired.
Though a humble little dwelling, it was surrounded by the beauty of the countryside,
Hence why Roger preferred to walk to the village store, rather than take a bus ride.
Yes, he did have a car, but its restoration was taking time, naturally,
Which suited Roger, as it helped him to keep his mind off things, and kept him busy.
The loss of his wife had been a huge blow, but time had eased the pain, brought some relief,
Not that Roger had allowed himself to be ensnared by the tentacles of grief.
After all, one has to carry on, and should do, for life itself is a gift, and,
Oft rewards the brave with another’s appearance, which sees a second wedding planned.
The stroll to the village barely took twenty minutes, and it was flat all the way,
Which allowed one to savour those pretty blossoms that a coming summer convey.
And here and there along the way, a familiar face would smile, and warmly greet,
A pleasantry that upon entering the village store, one certainly didn’t meet.
Roger was well aware of the curt and somber Holly Hampton, nicknamed “The Boss,”
And he was also aware that she too, some years back, had suffered a tragic loss.
But unlike Roger, that loss had left her bitter, and how she fought so, every day,
Hence the indifferent, abrupt, or biting response that came each customer’s way.
Despite her manner, Holly was actually very attractive, but oh dear,
There wasn’t a single man of sober mind who the thought of asking her out would dare.
And with good reason, for not just her manner repelled, but so does bitterness too,
For such acts just like those cans of fly spray that leave behind a toxic residue.
However, Roger would always greet her pleasantly, not that she responded so,
For Holly was running on autopilot — life had well and truly lost its glow.
Yes, two people who’d suffered badly, but both responding very differently,
One moving on and gaining ground — the other, locked in self-pity, self-destructively.
And so it was that Roger would often stroll into the infamous village store,
Where Holly, cold as an iceberg, remained in frozen waters, unable to thaw.
And with summer now making its entrance, those visits to the village store increased,
And so too, all that tension in Holly’s wound up clock, so in need of being released.
Roger’s restoration project was nearing completion, and would soon hit the road,
But meantime, in need of general provisions, into the village store he strode.
And by chance or fate, one day witnessed Holly slip from her ladder and fall to the floor,
And midst her plight, expressing her shock via words even Roger hadn’t heard before.
Even Holly seemed surprised by her outburst, but was in no mood for apologies,
Yelling angrily at Roger, whose outstretched arms had sought to rescue not displease.
And while she off-loaded years of pent up emotion, Roger stood there quietly,
Until a lapse in her concentration provided him with an opportunity.
Roger knew all about pain, but hadn’t let that pain ferment, nor lashed out wrongly,
For such just adds to one’s pain, slows the healing, and hurts others too, invariably.
And it also spoils those pleasant memories of one’s loved one, now resting in peace,
Who surely would want the pain of their departure to heal, and consequently cease.
“Yes, there’s so much pain,” Roger mused, which is bad enough without one adding to such,
Yet, so many folk do, if not most, which only serves to keep one within pain’s clutch.
And given we oft don’t deserve such pain, why punish ourselves as if we’re at fault,
Rather than doing everything we can to ease such, even bring it to a halt?
Roger’s measured, authoritative, and timely rebuke, caught Holly by surprise.
“You’re not the only one who has suffered, lost a loved one, in case you don’t realize.
But top marks for self-pity, and for taking it out on every customer too,
All of whom have their own crosses to bear, or like me, the same heartbreak have been through.”
Roger knew that such was needed in order to break the hold that grief had on her,
For such had held her in its grip for far too long; new life and hope unable to stir.
And shocked she was, for she was unaware Roger knew, and taken aback too,
For Roger was the last person she would’ve expected such to come from, (though true).
And only Rodger could get away with such, for somewhere in the fog of her grief,
She had acknowledged that Roger was different, even if that moment was brief.
And with such ringing in her ears, Roger turned on his heels, and left that unfortunate scene,
Reflectively making his way back home, but pausing as he crossed the village green.
“No, no point in going back,” he thought, though empty-handed, and he continued on;
His prior serenity, his much happier thoughts and positivity, now gone.
For reminders of his own loved one, (now deceased), seemed much fresher, more to the fore,
And the pain he’d seen in Holly’s eyes, (which had pained him too), he couldn’t ignore.
Roger closed the front door behind him, and retired to bed, succumbing to a cold,
One that had been intimidating him all week, and that had now taken a hold.
And for the rest of the week he remained in bed, feeling unwell and somewhat weak,
Even though the weather was sunny and warm, no longer cold, damp, drizzly and bleak.
With improved health, the countryside calling, and a second week close to passing by,
Roger dressed and shaved preparing for a stroll ’neath a beautiful blue summer sky.
But just as he was about to put his shoes on, there was a light tap at the door,
And a very big surprise awaiting him in the form of Holly Hampton, what’s more.
And unbelievably, she smiled at him, albeit somewhat less self assuredly,
A basket in her embrace — the usual provisions Rodger purchased weekly.
“I heard that you had been ill,” she volunteered, her concern seemingly genuine,
“And I thought that you’d no doubt be in need of these, given that you haven’t called in.”
Roger responded very appreciatively, then invited her inside,
An invitation she accepted, Rodger taking the basket, Holly now wide-eyed.
“What a lovely home,” she cooed, “So beautifully presented, so welcoming too.”
And she paused at the kitchen window taking in the lush gardens and awesome view.
Roger emptied the groceries onto the kitchen table. “Thank you,” he replied.
And then he asked if she would like a cuppa, and motioned to the garden outside.
“That’d be nice,” she replied in turn, and with cups in hand, they strolled to the garden swing,
Surrounded by shady trees from which nesting birds would come and go, and daily sing.
A gentle breeze mischievously played with the fringes of Holly’s auburn hair,
And lightly tugged at the colourful array of pretty little flowers that were near.
Busy bees hovered as they made their daily rounds, and butterflies flitted aimlessly,
And even the neighbour’s grey tabby appeared amidst the peaceful serenity.
“I’m sorry for my outburst,” Holly volunteered, clearly embarrassed by it all.
“I guess I had it coming, so don’t feel too bad about things — you made the right call.”
She toyed with the handle on her cup, her eyes moist now, head tilted, her gaze down as well,
And as she moved to place her cup on the ground, Roger noticed a teardrop that fell.
She turned to face him, her eyes searching intently, a woman no longer the same.
“Will you help me, Rodger? I’ve no one to turn to, and I’ve only my self to blame.”
Rodger slowly reached out and gently gathered her hands in his; her perfume pleasing,
And oh, that moment in time, both their hearts and emotions subtly but surely seizing.
“Together, Holly, together we’ll get through this, and you’ve my promise I’ll be there,
For I know how grief can cripple, leave one bitter, fill with anxiety and fear.
I’ve been there, Holly, but I refused to let it take me prisoner, nor change me,
For where there is life, there’s always hope, opportunity or possibility.”
As evening shadows fell, Roger saw her to her car, and watched as she drove away,
Both having enjoyed each other’s company — and oh, how they’d shared, had so much to say.
“A day well spent, “Roger mused, looking forward to more, and more there were, happily,
Along with a brighter face at the village store — and sweeter words, just quietly.
Though pleasantry is always best, one should never neglect those words in due season,
For such timely words are needed also — that is, wherever there is good reason.
And such proved to be true in Holly’s case, for had such not been said, I dread to think,
For who knows where things will end, when via self-pity or bitterness, we downward sink?
It wasn’t long before wedding bells rang, and a very happy couple said, “I do,”
Who blissful hours together on that same garden swing would successfully pursue.
A dedicated couple building a new life on that which they couldn’t undo,
For why let heartache and misery just pointlessly and destructively accrue?
And on that swing, ’neath those nesting birds, another nest was planned, unsurprisingly,
For homes and gardens were intended for children too, of which in time there were three.
And like those love birds in human form that commandeered the swing, they too, laughed and smiled,
And only when the sun went down, (during warmer months), obediently inside filed.
Oh yes, there’s nothing like a garden…
Well, life itself is somewhat like a garden, for midst the beauty there’re thorns and weeds,
Things that can overtake, threaten to smother, or cut and tear, hence why a heart oft bleeds.
But just like those patches on a child’s hand, arm or leg, we can put patches on too,
Which allow us to go back to the garden, and like a child, explore things anew.
“I’m happier than I’ve ever been before,” Holly whispered affectionately.
“Me too,” Roger echoed as he drew her closer and stroked her soft hair tenderly.
“And that’s oft how life goes,” he added, “Which is why one should keep heart midst loss or pain,
And besides, one has nothing to lose by so doing, and everything to gain.”
“Nothing in life is certain,” Rodger continued, “Thus, things can change at any time,
And hence why how we react to things is where it’s at; we either chose to sink or climb.
And given the happiness that you and I have found, I know which path is for me.”
“And me too,” Holly echoed as she switched off the bed lamp and hugged Roger tightly.
Epilogue
Life can deal us heavy blows that leave us reeling, not to mention knockout punches too,
And we stager or fall under their impact, wondering how we’ll survive, get through.
Hence that “Why?” that’s so often heard, for life’s misfortunes can be random and unfair,
And such are made so much harder when loving support and empathy aren’t there.
Though looking up and moving on is clearly the answer, it’s easer said than done,
Hence why so many give up and fall by the wayside before they’ve barely begun.
And why many under their heavy load, or amidst their excruciating pain
Become bitter, nailing the lid on their coffin, or attaching a ball and chain.
Yes, it’s sad but very understandable, though certainly not the way to go,
For as I’ve already mentioned, such only aggravates, and is how we hope forgo.
Yes, we effectively shut the door to opportunity and possibility,
For seldom, if ever, is anything gained when we’re locked in negativity.
Thus, given life’s realities, we need to build a boat that can cope with any sea;
A state of mind, an attitude, that’s built on habitual positivity.
One that lives in hope, one that makes the best of a bad thing, and that forgives graciously,
For bitterness and unforgiveness simply turn on us, sometimes terminally.
However, let’s go easy on those who struggle so, for some things aren’t easy to bear,
And where that is so, such folk need our loving support, our understanding and care.
Yes, there may come a time where words are needed in due season, but let’s not rush such,
For far more good is achieved when we exercise patience, and adopt the tender touch.
It’s oft said that good things come to those who wait, (and such is certainly very true),
And also to those who endure, I’d like to add, or who adopt a positive view.
For such an approach has a way of bringing about a much happier outcome,
Or that in the opposite direction, or in one’s favour, swings the pendulum.
Well, I hope that you’ve enjoyed A Village Tale, and that it has proved a blessing too,
That is, should you be going through some loss or pain, or should such appear within view.
For the truth and wisdom that’s found in this tale has been proven throughout history,
And here, once again holds out hope, via rhythm and rhyme — in other words, poetry.
By Lance Landall
This poem was penned November 2010
Teardrops
Only little teardrops — but not so little, pain many have
inside,
Pain that seems loath to go, a tiring foe, pain too difficult to
hide.
Yes, teardrops that trickle, possibly tickle, tears that well up and
slide,
Tears that despite effort made, have their way, their say, resolve
override.
Tears on the faces of children, adults, mums and dads, husbands and
wives,
Tears too often seen, even unseen, featuring in too many
lives.
Tears that last for ages, chapters or pages, tears that come and
go,
Weeping that disturbs, sobbing that perturbs, tears that burst and
overflow.
Only little teardrops, salty to the taste, smudged, dabbed at, brushed
away,
Tears that silently fall, momentarily stall, tears that hurt
convey.
Teardrops that flow, rapidly or slow, tears that gush, rush, and
pride forgo,
A single tear, a stream, such a common theme, one that too many
know.
Tears that cross race or caste, tears on the faces of rich and poor
alike,
Tears that respect no position, condition, tears that suddenly
strike.
Tears that lie in waiting, anticipating, tears that appear on
cue,
Tears caused by others, or over others, and those things one can’t
undo.
Only little teardrops maybe, but not
so little, sadness deep within,
Pain bubbling from an inner well, tears one
can’t quell, moist upon one’s skin.
Tears that coyly peek, then softly sneak,
or hurriedly roll down one’s cheek;
Pains outward expression, confession —
teardrops, with their telling streak.
By Lance Landall
Winter Joys
You know, even on a winter’s day when the temperature is cool and the sky a sulky, surly grey,
There’s still joy to be found in that bracing wind that livens and refreshes, and with one’s hair is sure to play.
And oh, how cosy it is to be inside near the fire, a delight that only the winter time can bring,
Until that gorgeous burst of blossoming colour that adorns many a beautifully made tree come spring.
Oh yes, how summer is appreciated more having braved the moody winter weather and cooler air,
Having enjoyed those soups that warm and strengthen, and having downed those hot drinks as we lazed in that fireside chair.
Yes, even the curtains pulled, that soft glowing lamp, that book that keeps one engrossed, we relaxed and warm as toast,
And those of us lucky enough, hearing the pounding of waves in the distance bearing down on beach-cum-coast.
And lest I forget, that hail taping each window, that wailing and whining coming from harassed power lines,
They flailing about as much as branches, and then there’re those moans down the chimney, (and one for the summertime pines).
Yes, those chilly, rainy nights where one’s buried under thick blankets, (toilet visits a reluctant affair),
Such all being part and parcel of that sombre season that never fails to come every quicker passing year.
But as I said, not without those joys that can only come from wintry weather, one tucked up inside or bed,
Or taking in the crisper scenery, one’s body clothed in woollens, gloves warming hands and hat warming head.
Yes, that cooler cleansing breeze that oft becomes more frisky, and that weaker sun that’s sought in sheltered places,
Such all being part and parcel of those long three months and shorter days that create all those rosy red faces.
By Lance Landall
Lose Yourself In Others
Life’s too short to waste on petty upsets — and this very day could be our last — or a loved one cease to be,
For life is so random and unpredictable, and why these sentiments should be taken seriously.
And such we do take seriously when we make the most of each moment we have, using it more wisely,
And that being, in the best interests of others, for via doing so, we’ll be the happiest one can be.
Yes, for happiness is something that kind of sneaks up on us when we’re lost in others-cum-those selfless deeds,
And not something that’s found when we go looking for it self interestedly, thus turning plants into weeds,
For that’s how we corrupt our thoughts and actions, and actually deprive ourselves of what truly brings joy,
And why when we selfishly put ourselves before other folk, we can only but true happiness destroy.
Yes, there’s no greater joy but that which is found in serving others, and which often sees some kindness returned,
For those who’re in need are so very grateful when they receive the loving attention for which they have yearned.
And oh, many are in need, and many of them unattended to — those who could help oft looking elsewhere,
But only to end up disillusioned, happiness and joy only being found in projected loving care.
And yes, life is so short, and thus each day precious, too precious to waste, and loved ones too precious to neglect,
For fate can catch us off guard, taking either them or us, hence that common regret, as such we don’t expect.
And yet we know such can happen, and why our focus should be on our loved ones and others, and constantly,
For that’s where true happiness and joy are found; where regrets are few — and how we, remain in their memory.
By Lance Landall
