Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
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Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Day in the Life I Morning Up early for a Sunday The clock says eight But even that's late For what we have to do And where we've got to be Breakfast hastily eaten A schedule that has to be beaten The taxi comes just on time The clock strikes the half nine The train will leave at ten So we have to be there then II In a railway waiting room People sitting Waiting for the train Some just there To get out of the rain The sun is starting To shine now Making the outlook Better somehow The fire Glows brightly Offering security In its warmth There must be a hike Somewhere By the amount of people Going there Dressed in their anoraks And their boots A passing express Gives warning toots Waiting for the train To friends Still far to go Before our journey ends Although having already Come this far Still there are miles To be travelled By car Sitting patiently, waiting For the train Marking time To the pouring rain III A ride through the countryside At our destination We are met Commiserations Hoping we did not get Too wet Outside the station They had parked the car Comfortable seats Our journey Not to mar We are off Through the countryside Making quite a pleasant ride Of our quest To the coast Never really deciding Which we prefer the most Ever onwards We are drawn Towards the outskirts Of Eastbourne IV Eastbourne Eating eggs Hard boiled Liver sausage sandwiches Cheese and ham Fried sausages Oranges too What a sight For people to view Throwing stones Into the sea Stopping to watch The tide roll in Then a walk Along the pier Perhaps to stop For a cool glass of beer Buying ornaments Made of glass Playing the games That made us laugh Throwing balls Into walls Listening to the radio In the warm Then on again It was said Towards the crags Of Beachy Head V Beachy Head Climbing up To the Bell Tower Pausing to view A lonely flower The long climb Winding a few The breathlessness Well worth the view On looking out to the sea So calm One could scarce believe It could do so much harm Then suddenly The gunshots Warning us of the coming rain So we quickly make our descent again The rabbit droppings In the tufted grass Is the sight I remember last The gulls wheeling On the wind Showing aerial acrobatics That Man will take A thousand years To conquer VI Newhaven When the tide Is full in It is a facade To walk along The esplanade At Newhaven For the angry waves Batter the man-made wall Persistently trying To make it fall Spraying Unwary travellers With showers of stones And the flying Sea spray That rusts Even the lamp posts Within a month The road to the west This is our quest Pass the ox-bow lake On the river That meanders Through the open fields Filled with Sweet smelling air The road takes us Past the harbour Where, the ' Chichester Star ' Lies anchored there Moored at her rest VII Brighton The Palace Pier On a Sunday Even in March Full of people Having fun Some lie on the beach Catching the sun That hides Behind the clouds Of the rain-filled sky But here we do not stay Perhaps I'll return Some other day The time has come Not to linger Drawn ever onwards By a wandering singer Dressed in sandals And in jeans Singing songs of the Changing scenes Sentiments felt By myself He did quote. He sang, Whilst I wrote VIII Shoreham Dark, dank and dismal Grey and grim Stands the power station The side, the day-tripper Does not see The squalid surroundings Of the industrial side Where the rubber factory Takes the coke works For its bride There, beside a mountain Of metal scrap Stands a fellow In a cloth cap Surrounded by Carcasses of cars Burnt out By long cold fires Wasteland covered With prickly briars Rubble strewn around Sweet papers, magazines Stones cover the ground The road carries on Pass the gasworks To playing fields Where people sit watching Others using their energy To a useless end A steel girdered bridge Spans the road Along by which The river still flowed IX Worthing Having high tea In the lounge Sardines, rolls Tea and toast Watching the sea Leave the coast Playing the pin machines With pennies Reading the paper To find the news Desperately needing To use the loos Off on our trek again Running from the Fast oncoming rain X Half a league ..... Destination somewhere In the west Selsey, probably At the very best Time, like the tide Rolling on Light of day Has nigh nearly gone The lights burning Along the road Turn from the palest pink To shimmering gold Eve draws on Darkness, soon to follow A level-crossing That isn't so level In fact, the road Looks like more of a bevel The road becomes Winding and long Making us remember The young minstrel's song Following the line Of cat's eyes Broken only By the sound of sighs A solitary star Guiding us, as of old The weather becoming Increasingly cold The long boring night Is broken By the bright lights Of the big service station At Crawley Say as they might To me, the most welcoming sight Was that of The Thorns pud At Horley Liquid refreshments For parched dry throats Although there was nowhere To hang our coats Having once Quenched our thirsts The road leads on To Billinghurst Then on down Cowper's Lane Just as it starts Again to rain In the comfortable warmth Of her home We are again Free to roam Tea for three And one for coffee Arguing who'll get to eat The very last toffee Onwards then, Homeward bound The car really seems To leave the ground Till the lights of Croydon Are encountered And as we are at our door " It was fun, we must do it more!" The two of us Climb the stairs Once again To all our cares Very quietly Into bed Nothing more It has all been said. Dusti Rodes (1975)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
" This next piece of writing, contains strong sexual content material and graphic language. Many people find it both harrowing and disturbing. It depicts and catalogues a series of true-life events. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, of which there is one; the laws of libel prevent my naming and shaming the guilty; of which there are many." * Reader discretion is MOST STRONGLY advised - As it may easily offend. For this I make no apologies. Events like these are happening HOURLY all over the world at this moment in time, and society as a whole SHOULD be doing more to prevent such misery " ........................................ " IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE, .....CAN IT?..." It's Sunday, She's staying at dad's flat tonight. She adores him; With the trust that is naturally instilled In a child. Dave, her father, Plays cards with his friends; While she watches, smiling. The pot is short; It's his call. He must make amends. Forty pounds is the bid. With a knowing nod, Colin folds his hand; And taking hers, Leads through the door To she knows where. The now empty bedroom That she sometimes has to share. Shush - don't make a noise; Your stifled cries, Will frighten the toys. Who sitting in silence, Can only watch. As Colin slowly unzips his trousers, And loosens his belt another notch. Her favourite doll, alone in the corner, Draped across the wooden chair; Can but bear silent witness To the saddening pain She experiences there. Next day, She is driven to school; By her dad. In a tatty Volvo. Be-spotted with rust coloured Splodges of primer paint. A stark anachronism Of Swedish sexual liberalism The grubbiness of the grey, Mirroring the semen-soiled nightdress; Of the night before. The paint spots, Ghostly echoes Of dried blood stains Splattered on the white fabric. Heralding her lost innocence; That she would need to wash out Later in the day. When she finally returned To the living hell That served as home. He pulls in at the pavement Saying yesterday was fun And that they should do it more often. He tells her to take care of herself. Sick joke, what? But no-body's laughing anyway. Deprived of decency By her father In that he doesn't even open the door. She rises from the well-worn seat And gets herself out Just like countless Whores before. In some final bizarre sexual gesture As he slowly drives away He also discards the now empty Crumpled, finished cigarette packet Aimlessly through the window Into the uncaring street. It in its turn, would be picked up By some scavenger hard up On his or her luck Anxious to discover If it held any small delight. And on discovering not, it would Be consigned as worthless rubbish And be discarded yet again To a life on the streets. Until eventually, battered and crushed By countless uncompromising souls It would cease to be recognisable For what it once was. Circles within circles. Such is the life we lead. Four friends, sit Sharing girlish giggles. Talking tampons and towels. Discovering the inward Functioning of females For the first time. Smiles, over sharing Secrets of sexuality With their mothers. But she's not laughing. Sitting in the classroom She is longing to tell, someone, About the happenings Of the previous night. To be able to unload All that crushing fear; That is building up Within her frightened frame. Afraid to go home, She hangs around after class Anxious to explain her reasons. But no-one is listening. Nor can they read The pleading in her scared eyes. So she goes home alone, again. Sitting watching television, A break from the drudgery Of endless days Doing household chores. Fear strikes her heart As she hears the key Entering the outside door. Because the washing has taken so long And about it, she cannot tell; The dust she hasn't cleaned From the TV Only causes her mother again to yell. Her anger quickly turns to rage; Followed closely by a beating, And another verbal tirade. Then follows the shouting And the slapping. The angry name calling Infers that someone is a whore. Leading to her being pushed downstairs And landing on the hall floor. She pushes Amy into the cellar cupboard, Then callously locks the door. Leaving Amy, cowering in huddled fear, Upon the dark, coldest floor. Later, in her room, Curled up, tearful, Trying desperately to block out the pain. Lies listening to her sad sobbing. She closes her eyes. Escaping sleep is not easy in coming; But further along the hallway, Someone else is. Urgently calling for Amy Beckons her to her mother's bed. There, between thrashing thighs, And deep moaning sighs, Amy is forced to give her mother Sexual 'head'. Coming home, To the usually empty house, She cannot help but notice The smart car Parked outside. Putting her key In the door, As she has done So many, many times before; She is met by Geoff, The new man, in her mother's life. On the surface He seems very nice. Picnics of strawberries, wine And chocolate ice. And even washing up, Afterwards. School sports day comes, Giving her the chance To exercise her rights As a child; To youthful fun. Sack race successes, Loud accolades. Hiding the depths of depravity, That lies dormant. Buried deep within. It starts with a present, At bedtime. " Put it on, and come and show us how it looks." Simple games, Amongst the adult friends. Pictures are taken. Childish at first, It soon turns nasty; Leading to lewdness and lechery. Removing Geoff's trousers and pants, While her mother looks on; And laughs. Then starts the painful ordeal Of nightly rape. And the utterances of the threatening lie That if she ever dares to tell someone It would surely cause her to die, After a time, She can bear no more Of Geoff's disgusting behaviour. Goes to her father's workplace Hoping on hope That he'll prove to be her saviour. She tells him all That's been going on; And could she come to live with him, Please? Fraught with anger, Fired by fear; He goes and gives Geoff A beating with a garden spade. In his frustration at failing To protect his daughter From this pair of human animals With their filthy habits so degrade. Then he storms out, Leaving Amy to receive Yet another beating From her mother. That leads her to being locked In the cupboard Once again. The broken shard Salvaged from the shattered Kitchen window By which her father had entered Proves to be the key To successful self mutilation To which Amy administers Readily. When the time comes To leave her old school The teacher's reports proclaim That Amy is both clever and wise. But they all still Just sit and listen While her mother Continues to tell The same pack of lies. How Amy sits reading Quietly, in her room, For much of the time. And how she's always Out playing with her friend; But that is untrue From beginning to end. The teacher says Amy could do With really coming out of her shell. Hopes that she'll enjoy her new school; And with that, she wishes her well. Sitting with her new found friends, Thinking that this place, Could indeed be really cool. Then one says, Someone is trying to greet her, From a van. Parked outside the school. She peers across the open courtyard. At her father, who's come to meet her. Full of reasons, Why he hasn't been more often. Excuses that money has been So short lately; Sometimes he hasn't eaten. Now he's come to take her out, About the true reason for his motives, There still exists more Than a little doubt. Having bribed her, With a Big Mac meal, With Coke and a Cadbury's Curly Whirly, He apologises that he has no more sweets; But if only he had more money, He could afford to buy her Lots of treats. Then the unsubtle suggestion, That she could really help Daddy, Just by working the nearby streets. Standing on a dim Lamp-lit street; In her denim jacket, And her flowery Short length skirt; Wearing virginal white gym socks, with matching plimsolls. Her long hair , shining, Looking very much her age. Having only turned thirteen, But for a little while. People, from which she Should get only love; Blatantly exploiting her sexual genes. Although she cannot spell Paedophile; She is painfully aware of what it means. " For a wank, charge'em twenty five quid, If they want a blow-job, charge them thirty" Practising that will corrupt her mind; Into believing love and sex, Is always something That is sordid and dirty. A sexperienced competitor, In these matters, Gives her, and her dad; What amounts to a friendly warning. This particular spot, Is her pitch. And her pimp Will not be so tame; So her father, Just moves on with her, To somewhere else. In his dubious quest It would seem he has no shame; With his repeated attempts, To get ' on the game'. The local lorry park, Proves a likely playground; For the sort of games, He has in mind. Providing a service, For all kinds Of men. The young, the old, and the lonely. Not the actual full sex, though: But just your blow and hand-jobs only. Making sure that the clients, Come in style; Being very sure to use a condom, All the while. He does a deal, Just for a full blow-job; " You know how, don't you, just go and suck his prick; It'll be all be over in a minute!" But it doesn't just take that quick. Squatting, She gives a blow-job To an unknown, Standing man. While her poncing pimp Of a dad, Sits smiling, In his grubby little van. Suck, suck, sucking, On a dirty, crusted, Foul-smelling prick, That's making her feel So, so sick. Wondering why it is That when you Want them to, they can never come Really quick. And when it's finally finished; She finds the smell of sweat and semen, Has left her feeling Really sick. Dave, buys her silence, With a fiver. Then he takes her back home; Double quick. Dusti Rodes (2009) POSTSRIPT TO ' IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE. .....CAN IT? * " Children have the right to be listened to. The messages that they give us are often painful and disturbing, and challenge our capabilities to actually hear what they are in fact saying and take them seriously. Our conditioned instinct is to recoil from what we are hearing and deny the reality of what is being said. The act of sexual abuse of a child involves a fundamental betrayal of trust, and an abuse of power, which has devastating consequences for the child. Undermining the basic requirements of a child for relationships built on trust, that are both dependable and loving. This gives rise to the premise that children not only have to be heard but also need to be healed from the trauma of such experiences. The child's right to be respected as an individual person should be unquestionable; but it is a long way from being generally accepted within our society."
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
The Lady in Red Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' Be she a Falcon or a Dove ' ( 2009) Puddles of pigment Of red and white, Bloom like flowers in the artist's palette Likened to a small, wild garden. She poses provocatively, Dignified but still self-conscious, Against the wide blue screen That forms the night. Robed in ravishing red, She stands bathed In Lady Luna's soothing light. While the evening star Plays shimmering consort. She did not fail to see The symbolism held Within the artist's eye. The meanings of her life, Captured there before The paint could ever dry. The Venetian mask Behind which she hides, Masquerades the pain of her past, Blood-red. And the golden promise of things to come. Are reflected by the candle's gentle glow. Lighting the way to her future. Marley said we all create Our chains of pain. Forged one link at a time, By our misery. Hers was a string of Pearl. Individual incidences, Joined by circumstance; Seeking to keep her, Forever fettered to the past. But the key lies in the roses. Poetic echoes reverberating . Be she a Falcon or a Dove ? A raven-haired temptress, Or an angel of love? A scarlet woman or a painted Lady? Hence from now onwards, She will be known only, As the Rose. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Feeding Fish Standing somewhere, Feeding fish. Fairground freaks, Probably won't last Two weeks. A memory span Of less than seven seconds Or so they reckon. Why do they call them goldfish? When one is orange, And the other is brown; Swimming up and down, Around and around; As though their lives Depended on it, As it does. What have we got in common? I ask myself. Standing somewhere, Feeding fish. Fairground freaks, Probably won't last Two weeks. A memory span Of less than seven seconds Or so they reckon. Why do they call them goldfish? When one is orange, The other is brown; Swimming up and down, Around and around; As though their lives Depended on it, As it does. Dusti Rodes (2011)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Strange Times Yesterday, while painting the south-facing picket fence in the searing heat of the afternoon sun, my back was burnt to blisters. My hair took on the texture of dry matted straw and was bleached a further two shades of blonde through the holes in my faithful ol' hat. Today, I'm waiting for the water in the kettle to come to the boil in order to make myself a cup of skinny latte and the heat from the two bars of the toaster doing the bread seems to be warming the whole scullery. The rain, driven by a whistling wind, continues to batter itself against the panes that yesterday shone with the reflections of rippling sunlight. We are indeed living in strange times! Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
From 'Fixin' Fences & Paintin Pickets It’s all very well having a south-facing postage stamp sized front yard. Picturesquely encompassed by a white picket fence. But that makes the prairie outback a north facing wilderness that requires a multitude of feather-board panels six feet high by eight feet wide to prevent range wars with my neighbours. And after nigh on nine years now, they need painting. There's only one thing really wrong with this place in my opinion. The layout of the land. It's They say that there is something therapeutic about hand-painting fence panelling with a four inch brush. Long stroke up, long stroke down. Never side to side. Time spent alone with your thoughts. Having the opportunity to be able to meditate and commune with Nature. Well, after nearly three days of trying I for one haven't found what it is yet! Having spent most of the day sorting out the two compost bins, causing friends and family to hastily stand upwind of me whilst in conversation, I finally started my self-appointed task late Saturday afternoon. At the time the warmth of the Spring sun made the job a pleasant one, and even aided the drying process! But Sunday ... well, that was a whole different ball game! As I have said, the back area is North-facing. At this time of the year the sun doesn't get to most of it till much later in the day. so while to all intent and purposes Sunday's weather was beautiful, I spent most of my time shivering in the shade. And as for yesterday, Monday to you mere mortals, it was that cold all day that the brass monkey that had kindly offered to give me a hand had to have two emergency welding repair jobs! Come about three o'clock when I finally finished painting the interior of the fencing, all I was fit for was getting to a HOT shower in order to stave off hypothermia which I am sure had started to set in previously! When I was telling a friend about how bitter the weather here had become, she aptly described me as a 'human icicle'. All I've got to do now is start on doing the outside of the fence! Oh, Happy days! Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Ode to Martha My muse, a Harridan hag? I don't think so! Some have familiars, in the shape of cats. Others have Spirit Guides, Which are Red Indian warriors. I don't do all that PC stuff, And say they are Native North Americans! Me? My muse is a wizened old woman. I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop, Waiting for my watch repair to be ready. One split second she wasn't there, I swear, The next she was! She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you! The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl. It took just ten minutes that was all. But it will last a lifetime. Mine. Was it real, or was it a dream? Was she a witch or a wraith? Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, In disguise? The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery, And all the trappings of a thriller. The people I tell just stare at me strangely. Who wouldn't? I ask myself. I'd probably do just the same, If it wasn't for the fact, That it had happened to me. She came from the North, or so she said. Irmerston is a name I recall her using. More than once. Or was it that she had relatives there? Was I really 'touched by an angel'? There was definitely ' a laying on of hands', As in the biblical sense. Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind? Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for. She said she was eighty five. And had been a Mormon since she was forty. But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty. In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers. I've heard of shape-shifters, I never thought to meet one. Many say I talk at tangents, And maybe they are right. I do waffle on a bit. Never keeping to the same subject for long. Fleeting thoughts, Forever fluttering, Like a butterfly in its short life span. Over the last couple of years, The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation, Has caused me to consider my life expectancy. And to realise it may be seriously shortened At any time in the near future. But she spoke confidently and authoritatively, About longevity. Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age. Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred. Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy. And made it sound so matter of fact, That Katherine had given him a cup of tea, Shortly before he finally died. It was as if she had been there at the time. Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention, To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records. Displayed in the shop window. As I intimated earlier, I'm sure I was alone outside that shop. And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me, Into realising she was standing beside me. She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy. And a son, Frank Jr. She talked about his Mafia connections. When I retorted that rumours were rife, During all of Sinatra's life. But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations. She intimated that the reason being was, That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak. At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression, That she might have known him and his family intimately. But how could that be? I was becoming afraid of the enormity, Of the developing situation. So I made my excuses to leave, And she let me go wishing me well. We parted. Me going my way, she hers. I picked up the watch from the menders. It must have taken all of two minutes. When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made, In cutting our conversation short. I began searching the town. Shop by shop. Each individual lane up and down. But to no avail. Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived. Suddenly. It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home. Feeling thoroughly desolate. That I heard her voice again. But this time it was different. She was inside my head, talking to me. She said artists, of all kinds, Needed inspiration from time to time. And she would be mine, if I let her. I know now I made a mistake, I thought I was her 'mark' in the town, And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me, To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry. That she said was the only one that she drank. She'd talked about many things, And how everybody had vices. Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc. She said how hers weren't too bad. Just a tipple now and again of the sherry, That could be bought in Tesco's. (Which had been across the way, From where we had been standing) At nine pounds a bottle. Here we go, I'd thought, Here comes the pitch; “Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady. You seem a nice person, Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?" This is why I had up and ran. But instead, here was she offering me the gift! Some writers have residencies. I am hers. Where we will go from here, is any body's guess. Just watch this space! But I do suggest you don't waste your time, Standing outside the Hospice shop, In the vague hope she might just amble along. Because she's mine, And I'm keeping her! Dusti Rodes (2006)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
A Modern day Cowboy. " But signor, if he is the best, With the Gun, AND the Knife; Then with whom does he compete? " " With Himself ...." ( Scene from the film - The Magnificent Seven ) Perfoming with puppets, Plied from papier mache. Drafting drawings, Scribbled from sketches. Making models, Worked from wood. Crafted from clay. Moulded meticulously In metal. Pummelling putty, And plasticine. While leaving puddles Of Plaster of Paris. Working with words, In a wonderful way. That continues to paint Personal pictures, Framed in people's minds. Potter, Puppeteer, Painter and Poet. Writer & raconteur, Teller of tales. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Gord
2014-02-28 12:00 am
In defiance, with pious hands; To work like the common man; but with plans more defiant; Losers to immolate in self-defense; Slingshots no longer topple the Giant; Fire deep inside her wished to deny it;
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