Larry Gatlin

Larry was born in Texas in 1948, and as his father was an oilfield worker, the family  moved around a good deal. He heard gospel and country music, growing up, and he and his two brothers Steve and Rudy, performed in church. In 1966, he went to the University of Houston and played college football. After joining a gospel music group, he met the singer Dottie West, who admired his singng and song writing skills and she found him work as a backing singer for Kris Kristofferson. In the 1970s he released his own records and began to include his brothers in his act. His hits included “Houston Means I’m One day Closer to you”, and “All the Gold in California”. He and his brothers had a farewell tour in 1992, before retiring to their own theater in South Carolina. A year or 2 ago, I was at the Grand Old Opry, and Larry was one of the funniest most charming people on that stage. So much so, that I had to go to the next Opry performance, where he was playing, just to see him. He was funny, lively and utterly delightful, and was at his funniest, dancing with the Opry dancers…

Warning to Social climbers Benedict Brooke, short funny poem

As Jeremy reached the mountain top, He said “At last I can relax”
I must inform the office, By mobile phone, and fax”
“Must let them know that I’ve achieved
My ultimate final goal”
“No not slamming the markets     
Or selling my bloody soul
Or being a bear, a slag or some such
Or playing the Stock Exchange
But I’ve given up my position
And conquered a mountain range
Reinstatement and promotion
Senior manager, at least
For I was conquering Everest,
While they were on the piste
Five hundred K, a company car
A Merc or maybe a Jaguar
Executive Box at sporting Events
Henley, champagne, hospitality tents
A flat down in Chelsea, a girlfriend called Shona
Invited to Wembley, guest of the owner
I’ll buy up Man U, run my own racehorse
And hope for a gong from Her Majesty, of course
Imagine their faces when I meet the queen
I’ll stand there, polite, aloof and serene"
-       and with that, the smug bastard fell down a  ravine

Song for Leonard Cohen’s Birthday Benedict Brooke

Yesterday was Leonard Cohen’s birthday

and I can hear the music as the hours go by

I sometimes ask myself for a reason

then I realise I need only the present hour

Don’t call me stupid but it’s hard to touch

that swollen inner place that asks for so much

and now I check the hour

late again, I’m awake

to the vapid sound of night

and pallid fingers of time, winding about my face

I wanted to ask you, Mr Cohen

what was it all about?

until I realised that the silence

fills the spaces that always frighten us…

Johnny and the Four (Short dark humour story) Benedict Brooke

Johnny Davies was only short when they told him the story.  About the four men who had lived next door.  But then you’re not that tall at only two.

Anyway, one day, Johnny was crossing the road and one of the men, the tall thin one, offered to help him to cross. How they got out of the way of that truck, I’ll never know.  Funny guy.  Funny peculiar- that is, dressed a bit like a monk. You know, long black habit, cowl, guess he was a gardener or some such with that scythe he carried.

Do you remember the riot? Johnny does, when those five guys started up on the black family next door, (on the left hand side, not on the right hand side where the four guys were).  Before you knew it, Combat 18, NF, the Anti-Nazi League and a representative of the Monster Raving Loony part, who had gotten lost while canvassing, all turned up with knives, skewers, corkscrews and whatever other implements they had managed tom borrow from the other 4 guys next door.

Do you remember how the police turned up? After the majority of the crowd had dispersed, and they arrested anyone remaining, bleeding or drunk (apart from the off duty officer of course.).  And Johnny meanwhile, looking aghast from the window, was moved, pyjamas and all,  to throw on his dressing gown and shove his feet into slippers and bugger off down the road, to a safe distance, to absorb events.

The gentleman standing beside him in the gawking throng was smiling at this time, although Johnny, in his combination of shock, amazement and excitement, didn’t notice this.  Anyway, Johnny grew older, as unfortunately and inevitably one does.  He didn’t move.  His parents were victims of a car crash when he was eighteen, when he was of an age, to take charge of the house.

But by this age, Johnny had a problem with his weight.  Despite incipient anorexia and the earnest but terrible cooking of his mother, (in earlier years obviously... even I’m not stupid enough to confuse my continuity that much)… no matter how little he ate, he steadily piled on the pounds.  So that at the age of 20, he realised that the only career he could embark on was that of professional wrestler.   Fortunately one of the gentlemen next door came to visit dear old Johnny.  This neighbour was the pale rather slim one -with the ash blond hair and albino eyes.  This gentleman suggested a high- quality though rather unnerving diet. Anyway, luckily for Johnny -he was never brought to book for his – ahem –cannibalistic crimes. Though he was rather foolish in that he used the same cab firm each time.  But the desired effect was achieved and Johnny soon became a fine figure of a man (albeit rather short).  So his thoughts began to run to courting.

Joanna was tall, fair and graceful.  Johnny met her at the Jim.  He had intended to go and work-out, but was unfortunately dyslexic and had in fact walked into a bar.  He managed somehow to work his way into her favour, and after the obligatory “coffee”, her knickers as well.  Indeed, with the very marriage arranged and a stag night in view, Johnny was left, as one is, deciding to whom to invite to the “almighty piss up”.  But he had few friends, more like “acquaintances”, due to his earlier more unsociable activities. So Johnny thought it might be appropriate to invite the four men next door (Although he was very insecure concerning their ménage a quarter).

Anyway, a jolly old evening was had by all, apart from the barman who experienced an attack of scrofula, and the knife fight about whose pint was whose?

Johnny hadn’t realised that the Farmers Arms was a gay pub, and what with all the pub grub being out of date, and the old guy at the corner table being found dead, when everyone thought that he was just taking his time over his pint.  Mind you, the tall skinny man was winning at pool.

And when Johnny got home (he’d invited them all in for a drink) there was the message on his voicemail.  From the hospital.  Joanna was critically ill with pneumonia, pleurisy, and something that they’ve only just discovered and hadn’t given a name to, yet.  (They were sure they’d be able to think of something in time for the TV news.)

“Oh and she was dead” they added.

“Never mind, better luck next time?”

However Johnny remained single, and heartbroken.   Mourning his lost love, until, some 10 years later, all four chaps who lived next door  (who had been his emotional and physical crutch), popped up on the doorstep.

“Hello Johnny” they said, in an affable  manner.  “We’ve come to cheer you up.”

“And give you a good haircut,” remarked the stocky one... although not in a way that anyone could hear clearly.

“Anyway” the thin one said, affixing a tourniquet on his upper arm as they sat at Johnny’s kitchen table,

“Anyway,” he reiterated, “We think – that is we collectively –“

“Hold on -” the deep voice of the tall one said, “Who the fuck’s in charge here?”

“Just get the fucking clippers” the stocky one replied.

Johnny, proud of his lush and flowing locks (and the fact that he hadn’t had to pay for a haircut in 11 years), was somewhat taken aback at this.  However, when held down by Mr Skinny, Mr Pale and with his head held firmly in place by the muscular forearms of Mr Stocky, he resigned himself to the robust attentions of Mr Grim (I think you’ve all guessed it by now!).  Time passed – as it does – and here we find Johnny sitting bemused and shorn, upon his kitchen floor. Rubbing his shaven and rather itchy denuded head.  He is heard to mutter to himself (first sign of lunacy –or maybe it is the first sign of sanity)...

“That fucking tattoo, what does it mean anyway?  And what did he mean by that?”

For as the tall one had left, tattooing equipment still in hand, he had said softly, smiling,

 “You’re ready now Johnny, you’re ready.”

Mind you, with a face like that, there’s not much you can do but smile.  And why, as the sign was engraved on his head, and he had yelled the characteristic “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” had the pale one replied “How apt, how apt.”

Three years later, at the age of 33, Johnny was elected Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.  The rest will be history, (Or Prophecy depending on how you look at it.). 

the Games they play, Benedict Brooke

Larry O’Flynn drank a bottle of gin

Every night after work when he got in

Empties stacked in the yard while they marked his card

At the one or two places where he wasn’t barred

The photo of his wife still sits on the TV

Though she ain’t passed this way since 1983

He used to take her dancing and a little romancing

Down the Dewdrop Inn -Saturday night

Now he sits in his shorts, tuned to cable TV sports

Watching re runs of last weeks’ fight.

Chorus

Was it worth the leaving, was it easier to stay

Things’ll be different, starting today

Are you thinking of me, when I’m thinking of you

Are you missing me, am I missing you too?

Who can say?

I guess it’s strange, the games unmarried people play

Eileen O’Flynn don’t know where to begin

Her only recent date looked like Ho Chi Min

Talked about nothing but his Eivlis collection…

Didn’t have a jump suit, but he had an erection

Asking him to leave, well it seemed just too much fuss

It’s the choice between desperation - or a lonely lush

Now she’s tired in the morning and she’s got the coital blues

Waiting on tables and shuffling those soft shoes.

Chorus

Larry bumped into Eileen at the Seven- Eleven

Arranged to take her for a bite, Tuesday night at 7

And a few days later, Larry’s cleaning up the yard

Sobered up cold turkey, though it was pretty hard

And Eileen’s leafing through an old wedding catalog

Talking about kids, or maybe they’ll get a dog

And helpful friends are saying things like “You must be insane”

“She’s cheap” – “He’s a creep” – “Don’t go through that again”

Chorus

But we ain’t for turning; we’re going all the way

Things’ll be different, starting today

You’re thinking of me, when I’m thinking of you

And you’re kissing me, and I’m kissing you too

What can you say?

I guess it’s kind of strange, the games unmarried people play

California Mountain Range Benedict Brooke

California Mountain Range

White edged against the blue encircling sky

Ain’t no river blue enough, nor no mountain high

California mountain range

The shifting sands can’t change

Your place in time

Or halt my endless wanderings

Only touch the clouds one time

And feel the echoes of her mind

The Broken plains, the frozen waste

Alaska or some long lost place

Or the Boot Hills of some Texas of some long lost song

Some such place I stole from time

Now long lost within my mind

Where only memory knows, that someone did somebody wrong

California Mountain range

The seasons pass and never change

The soft calls of your canyons and your ridge back highs

Only touching your stony ground

Your head in clouds wreathed all around

And speaking quietly of softer times

And gently falls the wind swept snow

And passing winds that cannot show

Those secrets that are lost, e’en in the finding

California Mountain Sky

The traveller with his head held high

Up on the ridge backed pass and winding

Past the skyline, past the trees

California morning Breeze

Strays through my hair and ties me to her wand’ring..

‘cross the leaves to firmer ground

Your silence echoing around

Then final world of half a lifetime’s wondering

Now high above the rising pass

She lays and names her home at last

Now California mountain range

Take me in your arms of stone

And make of me a place called home

And lay to rest my empty dreams of passing time

Let my feet move to the dance

Of knowing luck and certain chance

Where no one hears the evening fall, and blue stars shine

Take my hand and lead me high

Where the passing trail can’t wind

Beyond the snowline, where the sun is falling

Place my hand upon the clouds

And ease my body to the ground

Let me rise to greet the early morning

Where rock is smooth as polished glass

Swallowed In memories of her past

Where still your silent watchfulness is standing

And somewhere there - I’ll raise my head

When sky turns rust and rivers red

And ask a little understanding

California mountain range

White edged against the blue encircling sky

Ain’t no river blue enough, nor no mountain high

I’ll weep not nor ask you why

Say only that I’ll rest here while I’m waiting

And then upon your silent sky

We’ll walk to clouds and there goodbye

Will change into a new dawn’s making…

T Shirt (2015) by Benedict Brooke

To wed and to bed, and to turn off the lights

To bed and to dead - that most silent of nights

Once born, is that it?  All that lies ahead

After break of dawn and breaking of bread?

Not journeymanship when all is done and said, but merely a holiday trip instead.

Each visit, but brief.  A whistle-stop tour – that is it, relief, the travel shop pall.

Now bears a trinket, to link it, to whatchemacall…

A souvenir of a year dead, to add to the haul.

Somewhere out there, if you scurry and run

Career at a hurry, scramble on up and on

New destination, new location, new experience, old frustration

The waste that haste loses, in translation.

Each moment which left to ferment might bear relation.

This fleeting vacation, with each truculent view

Unenduring, time spent touring

Unmemorable places, vestigial sights

Ephemeral traces of trivial nights

And when all’s said – to bed, and turn off the lights

 THE END