About as useful as an ash tray on a Harley Davison
The funny things my granny says
I don’t understand it anyway
Where would the ashtray stay?
Wouldn’t the wind and
Passing cars blow it away?
Category Archives: Poems
WAR STALKS ME
image credit internet
War stalks me
It comes to me every day.
Crushing images consume my mind.
I tremble, silent screams fill my mind
I’m there
Each bullet engraved with the name of a friend.
Today, tomorrow
One will bear my name
I long for hearth and home,
Before that time draws near.
The war it is over they say
It stalks me
Dead faces,
Walk through my grieving soul.
My senses trick me,
Am I here or there still?
Sometimes it’s remembered
Booming gunfire bombing shells
Faceless men
Marching feet
Legless beggars in the street
Vacant faces
Whiskey foul breath
Who can blame them?
They have seen,
The Devil’s hand,
Shred men limb by limb
They fear for their immortal souls
And the strident cries
“No more war.”
Flag draped coffins
Raised high in glory
Piper’s last lamented story.
With heavy hearts and halting strides
Borne to final resting ground
Some days I wish that it was I
No more…the war is over its said
Until the next time I say
It’s there … Stalking…waiting…patiently
Gemma Hill
updated June 2024
Carefully, we walk the invisible line
Certain places and times
We avidly avoid
Don’t say that
Don’t mention that there
Today I am William Tomorrow I’m Liam
Depending on the area, street or lane
We share a lot you and I
We bandage our wounded
We tend to our dead
We allow other people to speak in our name
Until we are riddled with
With rumour and fear
Don’t ever forget where
We have been
And say “not in my name”
We’re not going back there again
Filed under Poems, Short Stories
The Fall of the Leaf
The Fall of the Leaf
The Fall of the Leaf
Orange gold and brown dance playfully
Take a fluttering bow
Curling edges like praying fingertips
Carpet the ground
Crunch beneath my feet
Shiny brown conkers
Peep out from a bed of leaves
Transport me back
Gathered conkers in the chapel grounds
Ripened to a hard golden brown
Tangled twine threaded
Knotted drawn in
Let battle begin
Oh the delight
To tread amongst the golden leaves
Of yellow sand reds in the underside
Feet lost in autumn’s colour scheme
My heart sings
The cold air kisses my cheeks
I open my arms, twirl
Lift my face
Thank God to be alive.
Gemma Hill November 2022 ©
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
Be The Best Me
Be the best me
Shred the scales of others views
Spoken or implied
Be the best me
Hold my view of who
I believe myself to be
Filed under Poems
A Bed For The night
A Bed For The Night
A wee stayover in Donegal Town – Kathleen was home on holiday from Perth in WA. We decided to have a few days’ away – girls only – Gertie, Kathleen, Helen and Yours Truly – in Donegal Town Co Donegal. I was under the usual threats – No book shops. DEF no shoe shops. And top of the ‘DONTS “don’t be encouraging complete strangers to tell me their life stories.”
Well, I never was a very obedient child – many a day I felt the swish coming off the ‘sally rod’ our mother kept behind the ornamental china dog with the hole in its head on the mantelpiece as I flew like the wind out of her reach and the stinging rod on the backs of my legs.
We had a large family hotel room. Four beds in a row – like Goldie Locks and the 3 Bears. Like Goldie, while the others were checking out the bathroom – shower or bath? – I tried out the beds. Bed number one was a no-no – too near the bathroom –Kathleen, Helen and Gertie would have to pass it during the night if they needed to go.
Bed 2 was in the middle between bed 1 and 3 (as it would be) – . Not a good position to be – every time I’d turn I’d be looking into either a face or an ass…you get the picture!
Bed 3 was further from the toilet but nearer the window. I bounced on bed number 4. I knew it was the one – last in the row – nearest the window. If there was a-stirring in the night or a queue for the bathroom it would not have to pass my bed.
Next stop check out the foyer, the night’s entertainment and the dining room menu.
Everything was going according to plan until we emerged from having something to eat and decided to relax for a while on the cushy squishy armchairs in the foyer. As we settle in,the glass door of the hotel opened and in struggled a woman weighted down with an assortment of handbags and an eclectic collection of other types of baggage. Immediately my curiosity was piqued. Had she just got off one of the many tour buses sporting Dutch, American, Irish, English and Scottish named coaches parked outside in the street
Hmm. Where had she come from and where was she going to next? My antenna was well and truly up now.
The staff hailed her by name as if she was a regular. So, she hadn’t come on the tourist buses?
Kathleen and Gertie were looking relaxed and discussing the pro and cons of what we had just eaten. Helen was working her way out of her deep cushioned chair with the intention of going out for a smoke.
The woman who had just come in promptly sank gratefully into Helen’s seat; her bag, baggage settling in a semi-circle around her feet.
Of its own accord I heard my voice ask her had she come far just as a pleasant face staff member placed a beautifully laid tea tray on the table at the woman’s elbow. My antenna was emitting loud bleeps of interest. Who was she? I had to know more about her. As she poured tea into the fine white bone china cup and scooped in three spoons of sugar and topped it up with a generous splash of rich full throttle cream I noticed her cardigan was clean but shabby and her shoes were more for country wear than town wear.
Surreptitiously I chanced a quick glance of my sisters. They were still deep in conversation with each other. I tried and failed to push down my rampaging imagination. Flinging caution to the wind I smiled at the woman and offered to refill her white teacup. That was all it took. Without preamble the woman began to tell me her life story. ..
Her story is not mine to tell. Sufficient to say she entrusted her most precious child to the authorities on a temporary basis on the advice of a politician she trusted and was almost destitute because all her monies had been spent paying solicitors fighting to get her much loved child back.
I left her there sipping her tea from the delicate china cup. My sisters had long gone fed-up with waiting for me and Helen, sitting opposite me, was ready for another smoke.
We found Kathleen and Gertie in a crowded, noisy put at the bottom of the street. The thump of traditional Irish music blasted through the open window and door and into the street making the windows rattle.
We pushed our way inside. There was standing room only and barely enough space to raise the glass to your mouth or clap your hands to show your appreciation for the many singers and fiddlers.
We had a great night. At closing time we made our way back to the hotel planning what we were going to do the next day. My plan was to visit the shoe shops.
The foyer of the hotel was quiet. The chair empty where the woman had sat finishing the dregs of her tea surrounded with her many bags.
As we waited for the elevator I wondered where she was sleeping tonight. My fussing about being disturbed as the others went to the toilet seemingly of no importance now.
Gemma Hill © December 2020
Filed under memories, Poems, Short Stories 2
A Poem for My Mother
A Poem For My Mother
I think of you at the oddest moments.
In the brightness of a sunny day
In the smell of a teapot left to brew
In the tilt of a woman’s head
But most of all I think of you
When I see a woman with a
Pleased smile wearing a red coat
I think about the day we went into town
You tried on the coat
And said,” What does an old woman like me
Need a fancy red coat for?” You straightened your
Back stooped with age, hard work and Parkinson’s
Squared your shoulders Fingered the
Quality of the collar stroked the buttons
And stood proud and smiling at
Your reflection in the full-length mirror
Your smile conveyed the message
I’ve arrived. I’m a bona fide person, family reared
The red coat signified your reward.
Oh how you loved that red coat
It was the hardest thing to part with after you died
I think of you when we gather together, to celebrate,
To laugh and sing as you did despite the lack of
Luxuries in your life
I wonder did I ever think to thank you
For all the times you saved me from myself
For sharing my achievements
And soothing the pain of a first
Lost love
I think about the times I caused you
Grief and wonder did you know how much
You were appreciated and loved.
Gemma Hill ©
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
Paying By Plastic
Paying By Plastic
“It’ll have to be the card,” I said fumbling the strip of brightly coloured card out of my purse and into the card machine hoping I can remember the right combination of numbers.
Ever careful of the scammers I shield the keypad with my hand. ” Do you want any money back?” asked the young shop assistant with an air of expectation, his hand hovering over the till. I nod eagerly my thoughts already on the sale that is on in Pound Stretcher. “Penny wise, pound foolish” came to mind. But I knew I was going to buy some gadget I could do without before I went home.
Leaving the supermarket and heading for Railway Road I started to think about all the things the stupid plastic card couldn’t do.
I passed the Ally Theatre building where the public toilets used to be; Gents to your right, near the Derry/Letterkenny bus stop with its cafey. If the bus was held up by roadworks or a traffic diversion because there was cattle or ‘something’ on the road, there was the chance of a quick cup of tea and a cream bun. The Ladies toilets were to the left opposite Miss Wrights Department Store – which I loved frequenting to try on the fancy hats in front of the wall of mirrors upstairs.
I thought how useless the plastic would have been back in the day. If I was ‘dying’ for the toilet it wouldn’t let me, ‘spend a penny. I’d need a penny to put in the slot. The best I could hope for was that the eagle eyed woman minding the toilets didn’t usher me out with her mop before somebody came out of a toilet and let you slip in for free.
As I walked on pulling my few bits of shopping in my wee shopping trolley heading for the Library I passed a knot of people waving flags and chorusing something about the cost of living. Tell me about it, I thought. Wait until you have worked all your life and can’t afford to turn on the heating or put an extra bit of coal on the fire. Passing them I amused myself by thinking about the perplexed look that would come over their faces if I stopped, waved my plastic card and announced,” I haven’t two ha’pennies to rub together but a penny for your thoughts on the Election”
Or what if I nudged our Joe in Charlie’s bar in Castle Street opposite the old Strabane Post Office and muttered out of the corner of my mouth,” See that bad penny has turned up again. I’d buy her a drink except it’s only the oul plastic I have with me.”
I took a walk around the charity shops as I am won’t to do. There was room in my shopping trolley for a second hand book or two. I had learned my lesson during Covid. It’s good time filler when you have a good book to read. And I’d be doing my ‘pennysworth’ for charity.
There was a woman there looking at a lovely old clock. “That must’ve have been worth a bob or two in its day, “she said to her companion.
Her friend nodded. “Aye, you’re right. You’d be ‘quids in’ if you could resell that on Strabane Sell It on Facebook.”
“Does it keep the time? And does it still chime, “the first woman asked the woman behind the counter volunteering her services free of charge.
The volunteer confirmed that as far as she knew the clock worked “It’s for charity. You pay your money and take your chance,” she said cheerfully.
The penny dropped. The two women looked at each other. The charity shop didn’t take the plastic cards.
“Ach, well, as my Ma says,” the two friends said in unison,” Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves.”
Gemma Hill May 2022 ©
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
The Art of wordless Love
The Art of wordless Love
Artist Cara Hill 2121
Artwork sells for millions
Not mine
It’s worth much much more
My painting
Ballymastoker Beach created
With wordless strokes
Of love
Above my desk it stands
Pride of place
Memories wrap their arms around me
The artist and I
Sandy sandwiches for me
Biscuits and juice for her
Forbidden sweeties – bad for her teeth
Blue sky above us
Golden sand underfoot softly misting
Waving grass shading the shore
I read
Write a poem
Cara makes Angel Wings in the sand
Runs to the sea sweeping in
Dips a pink bucket
Makes mud pies
For the Angels’ tea
Gemma Hill 2021 ©A
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
Don’t Come Home for Christmas Son
Don’t Come Home for Christmas Son
Oh how I’d love to be encircled in your arms.
Feel your bristly face against my cheek
I Pray
Stay away! Stay away this Christmas time
Covid is wearing an ecstatic beam
Grinning from ear to ear
Rubbing its hands together in hilarity
Your presence at the dinner table
The best Christmas present it will receive in 2020
A fresh nose, throat and lungs to inhabit
A Courier
To dispatch the deadly pandemic to me and others
What an amazing present for killer Covid this festive season
A gift that will keep giving
Long after the spirit of Christmas has been buried
Oh how I’d love to be encircled in your arms
Feel your bristly face against mime
I pray
Stay away! Stay away this Christmas time
Vaccines’ frontlines’ will bravely provide
Covid will submit, succumb,
Face its demise
I pray my son
Don’t come home this Christmas time
Plan for 2021
When wonderful wander lust
Will carry you safely home to me
With beating heart I will watch the taxi pull in the drive
Your warm hug will be pure gold
We will be safe together again
Still alive
Gemma Hill copyright Dec 2020
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
Sisters Always
Sisters Always
I saw a white flower in bloom today
It made me think of you
Your anniversary
Four years passed since we lay
You to rest
Covid smirked at my distress
I knew I’d have to wait to place it on your grave
In Murlog Cemetery
I will at the first opportunity
Rest easy until I get to see you
Your sister Gemma xx
Filed under Poems, Short Stories 2
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