Lost poems of Flickety Flinn
By the writings I have studied, he was briefly described as tall, undernourished and rather frail looking, he had a crooked back and a long flowing white beard combed into a parting and tied behind his neck, he never spoke, just observed the world around him, and be it good or bad he absorbed everything he saw.
The scenes he observed was his poetic food, and every night he would dine and gorge till his char coaled fingers could write no more. his home, a craggy cave set high into the serpentine cliffs of the Lizard peninsular. His vista, the salty spume of the unforgiving Mor Bretanneck crashing and knawing the rocks below. By day foraging for morsels to eat, by night warming himself by the twigglet fire, penciling poetry till the early hours. Read more...
Latest Poem
GRAZED KNEES, SWINGS IN TREES.
When we were young it where reet grand, both of us leaping off the St Lawrence’s school roof into a mound of building sand. We both had Dunlop wellies, and constant grazed knees, together we would race down Parker St to tie swings in trees.
Atop Chorley bottoms we would take turns to swing to and fro, while arguing with each other about who would be batman, our black and white TV hero. We had coats for capes, our swimming trunks made super super hero shorts, we would charge at an imaginary enemy with our silver cap guns drawn.
I recall Bonanza cowboy figures, two naked action men called Jack and Bob, a couple of years later mother had two more children and they too were called Jack and Bob. If it was a crime to mistreat action men then Darren and I would have been locked up at five, we would smash them and bash them and throw them high into the sky.
We loved our action men, we really did care, we would chuck them out of the bedroom window with a homemade parachute attached we both new didn’t work.
There were secret den’s made from pallets constructed within the vimto factory walls, we would cover them in fern and grass so they could not be seen from the street Bengal.
Long adventures up Chorley nab, we would climb the devils steps, and we once carved our names into the quarry rock with a nail and a half house brick. Longer walks to Blue waters we skimmed stones beneath hovering Dragonflies, then looking at the quarry cliff edge, and chatting about our Dads legendary swan dive.
We once explored the local pub which had just closed down, we played Dominoes on the old cast tables, and pretended to serve drink to a drunken crowd.
We lit a campfire in the cellar, and accidently set the whole pub alight, we ran and sat on Mothers doorstep watching the firemen fire fight, our mum was stood behind us she said “what’s going on theea” we just shrugged our shoulders, and said we hadn’t been near, we cleverly owned up years later, when we were too big to get a thick ear.
From cellar fires to bonfires our gang used to build them the size of a house, every year all of us would guard them, to stop other gangs from burning them down. There was a roaring campfire with potatoes in foil at its heart, and guy faulkes would sit with us, before his re-enactment of the gun powder plot.
There was grass sledging, snow sledging, dredging golf balls from Duxbury pond, conker tree conquering, apple tree climbing, being caught and made to eat them all. Knock a door run, football wally and 123 squad Top lock swimming bottle digging ghost walks around Astley hall.
As you can see I could carry this poem on and on, but remember my remit “Don’t make it too long”.
So here we are once again dear brother the tree we used to swing from is just outside, also the path behind mother’s church, were we used to play and hide. Though long gone are our Dunlop wellies and times sand as slipped too quickly through our hands, my memories of our childhood I can only describe as Reet Grand!
