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Archive for the ‘Catherine Turner nee Rock’ Category

BANJO BAY……episode 15


The little town of Banjo Bay sits proudly in the cove,

Welcoming her sons home from their toil,

Her harbour filled with laughter, her streets bedecked with love,

A place for growing up and growing old.

Bert the Flirt takes off his shirt and hangs it in the tree

Thinking of the ecstasy to come,

As she who lies beneath unties her corset eagerly ,

Loosening the laces one by one.

Katy Lovatt is her name, a spinster of this parish,

Strong, and lean from years of honest toil,

Who, at the age of 35 has given up on marriage,

Content to be a tiller of the soil.

Many suitors came and went throughout her younger days 

But none could light the fire in Katie’s heart,

But he will do, her gigolo, too proud to change his ways,

Too fancy free for love to make a start.

Katie doesn’t crave for much, simple are her needs,

The pleasures of the flesh are all she asks,

And every Friday evening neath the ancient apple tree

Bert the Flirt proves equal to the task.

They will not be discovered for the land is Katie’s now,

From father to the child the farm has passed,

But with no child to walk with her behind the trusty plough

Katie now will surely be the last.

……………………………………………..

Bert the Flirt pulls on his shirt and sits beneath the tree

To watch the lights go down in Banjo Bay,

Then, gazing down at Katie, a-smiling in her sleep

The world about him seems to fade away.

He sees himself, a handsome chap, a ladies man they say,

And many knotches has he gladly carved,

But truly he must be the saddest man in Banjo Bay

With ne’er a wife to grace his lonely hearth.

If truth be known, the push and shove has lost it’s charm for Bert,

He hankers for a settled, simple life,

His carefree days are over now, no longer will he flirt,

The day has come when he must choose a wife.

And who better than his Katie, whose body he adores,

Who turns the skirt whenever she prefers,

Together they could move the earth as oft they have before,

Who cares for love with lust as fierce as hers.

The evening star shines down upon the streets of Banjo Bay

As Bert the Flirt falls down upon one knee,

And there upon a golden swathe of sweetly perfumed hay,

His life he gives for all eternity.

Katie, quick to answer yes, is haunted now by doubt

For Bert has reaped his share of failed romance,

She wonders, Will he ever change? Can he settle down?

But desperation bids her take a chance.

………………………………………..

And so the two are married as the townsfolk gather round,

The Jolly Sailor Inn packed to the rafters,

A voyage made in haste, they whisper , sure to run aground,

No hope, they say, of happy ever after.

No more the ancient apple tree, but now the oaken ‘stead

Bears witness to the moving of the earth,

Till soon upon the cotton sheets where passion’s fire is fed,

The issue of their lust is given birth.

The seasons turn and life goes on for Katie and her man,

And with each year another child is born,

More milk to feed the little ones, more meat to fill the pan,

More wood upon the fire to keep them warm.

Tide on tide roll in along the shores of Banjo Bay,

As Katie toils to keep the family fed,

Bert is left at home to rear the children day on day

And only sleep employs their oaken ‘stead.

Cooking, cleaning, darning socks, washing dirty clothes,

Sowing, reaping, milking, dawn till dusk,

The pleasures of the flesh are quenched, the spark no longer glows,

The children thrive as all small children must.

……………………………………………..

And so it goes, the years roll by, the children fly the nest,

More time have they to ponder on their life,

Satisfied that all will say they did their very best,

A faithful husband and a treasured wife.

But time has left its mark on Katie, life has left it’s scars,

Her back now bent from hours behind the plough,

Her auburn locks, once bountiful, now shine like silver stars

And fall around the furrows on her brow.

Her husband, now a shadow of the man who hung his shirt

Among the branches of the apple tree,

The passing years have gathered like a shroud around poor Bert,

No more the handsome gigolo is he.

Their job is done, their children gone, life is all but spent,

And some would say they did more than enough,

Hand in hand beside the hearth, now just the two of them,

They who fell in lust now fall in love.

He thinks her never lovelier than how she looks tonight,

And she thinks him the handsomest of men,

And so it is they wander now in evening’s fading light

To lie beneath the apple tree again.

A marriage walked without true love can seem a lonely mile

When pleasures of the flesh no more attend,

Passions, irresistible, may warm us for a while

But love hard won burns brighter in the end.

Cath Turner….July 2017

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Don’t judge a book by its cover

Or a person by the skin

For though the cover is dusty and worn

A treasure trove hides within.

My hands are a little bit shaky,

I need glasses to help me see

And it seems that the world I have helped to shape

No longer listens to me.

An old person! Yes, that’s what I am,

I stumble and I forget,

But I still have a lot I can offer,

My time isn’t over just yet.

My shaking hand still rocks the cradle

And brushes away a tear,

My tired eyes still read the fairytale

While holding my little one near.

He smiles as he runs to my open arms

And for me that is more than enough

For a little child’s eyes never see the years

They only feel the love.

By Catherine Turner

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The little town of Banjo Bay sits proudly in the cove,

Welcoming her sons home from their toil,

Her harbour filled with laughter, her streets bedecked with love,

A place for growing up and growing old.

The scarlet dawn awakens to the song of Mrs. Jones,

Four and twenty children has she bore,

And every time the father says ‘Enough! The final one!’

And every time the mother says ‘One more?’

Three sets of twins and three of quads then six, who came alone,

And every one is loved as is his right,

Every mouth is filled, every head is neatly combed,

And every rosy cheek is kissed goodnight.

A for Annie is the first, the second B for Brad,

And C the third is beautiful Claudette,

Then D for Daisy, E for Eve and F for Ferdinand,

And thus they travel, through the alphabet.

A hard life hers but happy and no other she desires,

With spark enough to take all life may bring,

Contentedly she stirs the pot upon the cheery fire,

Each scarlet dawn awakened as she sings.

A farming man is Mr. Jones and happy with his lot,

Providing for his wife and swelling brood,

His vegetable garden fills the ever-bubbling pot,

So never will his children want for food.

His herd of cows give up the milk that growing children need,

His sheep give up the fleece that keeps them warm,

Fresh laid eggs from happy hens and apples from the trees,

Oats and barley gathered in the barn.

Waving fields of wheat supply the flour for the dough,

Snuffling pigs provide the breakfast feast,

Self sufficient Mr. Jones no other life would know,

The little farm has everything he needs.

From ‘morn till night the busy farmer ploughs and reaps and sows,

While Mrs. Jones is left to do all else,

Cooking, cleaning, shaking beds and washing dirty clothes,

All the while a-singing to herself.

Soon she will be bouncing yet another on her knee,

The family crib waits in a tiny room,

Tomorrow she will go to town, a doctor for to see,

To turn the sweet Yolanda in her womb.

For unlike every other who was born with ne’er a hitch,

Yolanda is a baby in a hurry,

But Mrs. Jones is confident that though the babe is breached,

No cause has she or Mr. Jones to worry.

Now there upon the cobbled street the ailing wife we spy,

For sweet Yolanda can no longer wait,

In haste, back to the little farm her stumbling footsteps fly,

Where Mr. Jones is waiting at the gate.

And there, beside the little gate, delivers he the girl,

But near to death his ever-loving wife,

No other child will follow sweet Yolanda to this world,

For sore the damage done to give her life.

The evening tide rolls in upon the golden, sandy shore,

As Mr. Jones a silent vigil keeps,

Little faces peer around the creaky bedroom door

A-watching o’er their mother as she sleeps.

But when the sickened reaper calls he finds no soul to claim,

For on the little farm the tide has turned,

Against all odds the roses bloom upon her cheeks again,

The pot is stirred, the cheery fire burns.

But all can see, that changed is she, the spark of life she lacks,

No longer does her song bring in the dawn,

Only tears of longing for the little baby, Zak,

The baby who will never now be born.

No morning kiss to send the farmer out to till the soil,

No loving arms to hold him as he sleeps,

Sad is he to see the love they shared so badly spoiled,

But thankful he, his tortured wife he keeps.

Tide on tide roll in upon the shores of Banjo Bay,

The baby crawls, the woolly sheep are shorn,

The wife scrubs out the heavy pot and clears the toys away,

The husband ploughs the field and sows the corn.

A life that isn’t perfect but a life that could be worse,

The tragedy behind, but not forgot,

But tragedy is never far, it waits to cast its curse,

And now it comes to twist the strangling knot.

The evening star shines down upon the narrow, cobbled streets,

As sweet Yolanda wakens with a start,

The fire of fever burning on her pretty, freckled cheeks,

The drums of hell a-pounding in her heart.

Along the alphabet they fall, as would a pack of cards,

Mrs. Jones in torment kneels to pray,

‘Dear Lord above reach down and save the harvest of my heart,’

‘Take the devil’s pestilence away’.

‘How wrong was I to weep and wail and shun a loyal man’,

‘To worry for a child you cannot bring’,

‘When every blessing you could lend was here, within my hand’,

‘Heal them Lord, and ever will I sing’.

The evening fog rolls in upon the gently waving wheat

And shrouds the empty streets of Banjo Bay,

Many a prayer is said this night on many a bended knee,

Some are welcomed, some are turned away.

The citizens of Banjo Bay stack up the bales of hay,

For all must help to bring the harvest home,

Singing as they swing the scythe in glory of the day,

And singing there beside them, Mrs. Jones.

And now beside the rusty gate the happy farmer stands,

Listening to she he calls his bride,

A-singing to the children who will work this blessed land,

And every one is present, A to Y.

copyright Catherine Turner

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The first star of the evening

through a misty window pane

Prompted me to whisper

that old childhood rhyme again

I didn’t wish for beauty

for all beauty has to end

I didn’t wish for friendship

for she was my truest friend

I didn’t wish for money

for I knew a Mother’s worth

Not even for security

for this I’d had from birth

I didn’t wish for guidance

for she taught me wrong from right

I didn’t wish for love

for I had known it all my life

The wish I made was for the thing

I thought I’d never ask

For what I knew must happen

I hoped would happen fast

Through a misty window

in a room of sterile white

My crying eyes looked out

upon the first star of the night

The saddest star in heaven

that I made my wish upon

The star that made my wish come true

that last long night with Mom

copyright Catherine Turner 2001

Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight

I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight

Alfred Bester

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As I walked out on Christmas Day
I met a little boy at play,
And though the snow was crisp and deep
He wore no shoes upon his feet
But slippers showing dinosaurs
That long ago had lost their roars,
No gloves had he or cosy coat,
No woolly scarf about his throat,
But in his hand he proudly gripped
A paper kite, creased and ripped,
I called out “That’s a bonny kite,
Is that what Santa left last night?”
He smiled at me and with a cry
He threw the kite up to the sky,
It soared above us as we gazed
And as he laughed I was amazed
That such an uninspiring toy
Could give such pleasure to the boy.
That afternoon I felt so sad
While thinking of the little lad,
Then went upstairs and filled a box
With toys my kids had long forgot,
And through the snow ,excitedly,
The little boy I went to see
Imagining his little face
When in his hands the toys I placed.
I saw the house, the windows bright,
Curtains open to the night,
And through the window I could see
The members of his family,
His father proudly held the lad
Who sat in wonder on his lap,
They sang together merrily
As mother laughed and poured the tea,
No China cups, no steaming ham,
Just saucers cracked, just bread and jam,
The room was bare but filled with joy
That spread it’s arms around the boy,
Twas obvious that they were poor,
But not in love, of that I’m sure.
One moment more I stood and watched
The boy that Santa Claus forgot,
I didn’t knock, there was no need,
I left the toys where he would see
Then turned around and walked back home
To spend my Christmas all alone.

Copyright Catherine Turner November 2016

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Hello Lord. It’s me. Do you remember me at all?

I’m sorry that it’s been so long since I last gave you a call

It was late one Christmas evening; I was only six or seven

I prayed for you to send a teddy bear to me from Heaven

 

I haven’t asked for anything since that Christmas eve

I thought that I was too mature, too grown up to believe

But Lord, I’ve lost the angel who overheard that prayer

She left her children far behind to live with you up there

 

You must be very happy with the new friend that you’ve got

But Lord, I’m feeling lonely, and I cry an awful lot.

I wonder can you spare the time to help me out somehow

I didn’t need you in the past but, Lord, I need you now

 

I know you’ve lots of souls to save and spirits to set free

I know there must be millions who need you more than me

But could you find a moment in your hectic life up there

And send a speedy answer to my selfish little prayer

 

There’s one more favour I must ask before I say goodbye

If you see my angel as you’re travelling round the sky

Please don’t mention anything about this conversation

I wouldn’t want to worry her or cause her aggravation

 

Don’t let her know how weak I am, or that my tears still fall

Keep our little secret………just tell her Cathy called

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The little town of Banjo Bay sits proudly in the cove,

Welcoming her sons home from their toil,

Her harbour filled with laughter, her streets bedecked with love,

A place for growing up and growing old.

The morning sun shines brightly on the narrow, cobbled streets,

As Jane Golightly rubs the chalky board,

‘Good morning children’ she exclaims ‘Come quickly, take your seats’,

‘Good morning Miss’ they chime with one accord.

Four and twenty little faces beam in adoration,

As teacher’s pet would everyone be known,

For joyfully she bears the burden of their education,

And every one she loves as t’were her own

As prim and proper as they come, the wagging tongues will say,

But maybe not as proper as they think,

For when the bell is rung and school is over for the day,

Jane Golightly likes to take a drink.

A drop or two before her supper helps her to relax,

Another drop to help digest the bread,

As she prepares tomorrow’s test she pours another glass,

Then one or two before she goes to bed.

Medicinal, that’s what it is, or so she tells herself,

A glass of comfort in a lonely life,

Long years now since Jane Golightly sat upon the shelf,

A teacher she will be, but not a wife.

No soul in Banjo Bay can know the secret that she keeps,

It never did her harm, and yet, of late

The devil’s demons hover at her shoulder as she sleeps,

And every morning chalky fingers shake.

No favourite should a teacher have, but rules are made to bend,

To one above all else her time she gives,

That one is little Jacob Brown, a boy who needs a friend,

For miserable the life the poor lad lives.

A mother who was laid to rest the day she gave him life,

A father who should hang his head in shame,

For every time he raises up a heavy hand to strike

The little boy who has to take the blame.

A grubby, frightened face set underneath a mop of curls,

Pouting lips that never learned to smile,

Too old to cry, too young to run from such a cruel world,

Innocence: grown old before it’s time.

No mother’s hand to comb the hair or wash the freckled face,

To gently rub the bruise and ease the pain,

No father’s hand to reassure, to cherish and keep safe,

No friend has he in all the world but Jane.

And now the sorry scene is set. The cottage dark and cold,

Jacob Brown takes up the leather pouch,

There inside he places every treasure that he owns,

Then Jacob, with a pounding heart creeps out.

Toward the lights of Banjo Bay he flies with leaping nerves,

Down to where the little school house stands,

In hopes to find the peace of mind that every child deserves,

Never more to fear a father’s hand.

‘Wake up Jane Golightly!. Come quickly! Let him in!’

‘Your friendship and protection does he seek!’

But lost is Jane Golightly in the deathly grip of gin,

With the devil’s demons does she sleep.

The little town of Banjo Bay prepares to meet the storm,

As Jacob crouches there beside the gate,

A simple cotton vest is all he wears to keep him warm,

A helpless lad, left in the jaws of fate.

And that is where she finds him, betrayed by friend and kin,

The father’s guilt not half as is her own,

For he has offered nothing, and nothing has he given,

But she has offered all and given none.

The morning sun shines down upon a restless, rolling tide,

As Jacob in the grip of fever sleeps,

And there is Jane Golightly sitting at his side.

A sad and silent vigil she must keep.

And now we see her taking up the little leather pouch,

That which he had carried on his flight,

There into her lap the meager trophies tumble out,

Pathetic tokens of a loveless life.

A marble and a penknife, a conker on a cord,

A handkerchief of lace, threadbare and frayed,

And here a little piece of chalk she used upon the board,

And there the scarlet ribbon she mislaid.

Now with her hand upon his heart she takes a sacred vow,

‘No more the demon drink shall pass my lips’,

‘My life I pledge from this day forth to thee, sweet Jacob Brown’,

And now upon his brow she plants a kiss.

A little lad in need of luck and luck comes none too soon,

For Jane Golightly takes the youngster in,

Little lads are hardy things and soon the roses bloom,

The boy who couldn’t smile begins to grin.

And what of he, the father, who had caused this misery,

Away to join the Legion some will say,

Fighting in a foreign land beyond the seven seas,

Never to return to Banjo Bay.

But thicker now than water runs the blood in Jacob’s veins,

And little boys will always need a dad,

Time and distance gently weave their magic spell again,

The villain now a hero to the lad.

Tis many a morning Jane Golightly comes into the room,

To see him dreaming, there beside the step,

Listening for a footfall she knows will never come,

Watching for a face he can’t forget.

But if Mohammed will not come the mountain has to move,

And so it is our story must unfold,

When Jane Golightly comes to wake the object of her love,

The leather pouch is gone. The pillow cold.

The chilling mist rolls in upon the narrow, cobbled streets

As Jane Golightly tosses back another,

Her shaking fingers marking the examination sheets,

A teacher she will be, but not a mother.

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