May 2014 Member of the Month – David Rollason

David P Rollason

Dave Rollison

Dave Rollison

Hello all. I have been writing seriously for about four years now after many years of inactivity. Most of my work tends to be about myself and certain issues that have run through my life but, since joining Writers Without Boarders I find the wonderful eclectic mix of thoughts, styles and enthusiasms a great inspiration to widen my creative base. After the marathon of self publishing a memoir depicting some specific aspects of my life, I enjoy the freedom to explore different writing styles and subjects, taking inspiration from this wide and bountiful world that we live in. I hope that you enjoy the following examples of my work. Memoir:

A Fruit Cake Just Exploded available from and

A Modern Creation available from Lulu

Written work

Short Story and Poems:

A New Creation

The afternoon sun dappled itself through broad leaves against the rich olive coloured skin stretched to cover the soft contours rolling seamlessly into each other to create an exercised, beautiful, but naked body. Adam expanded his ample chest with a deep breath, leant back against the tree trunk, breathing slowly out as he did, and relaxed. The sweat that glistened on his skin was mixed with honest dust which he wiped from his palms onto the grass before pulling off a small handful of soft ripe berries drooping from a nearby cane. He would often rest like this when it got too hot in the day or when he just felt the need to appreciate the beauty of the garden he worked in nearly every day.

Having always been alone in his earth-born world, he had nothing to hide his nakedness away from and, as if to demonstrate that it didn’t bother anyone else, a butterfly landed on his stomach and picked delicately at the drying salt crystals. Smiling to himself, he gently wiped at the river-let of moisture that ran down the crease in his muscular chest and the defined ridges below it before it reached the fragile creature.

With plenty to do still, his reverie couldn’t last too long and he eventually returned to finish the jobs he had set himself for that day. When done, sleep called him alluringly to its comforting bosom and so, to bed.

Once deep inside this virtual world, he became aware of a growing disturbance. He had the vague impression that somehow his virility, his masculinity, the very essence of his gender was being examined. He felt so disturbed, violated even, he tried to bring himself back but the attempt was swiftly overtaken as, in his head at least, he found himself crying out at a sharp pain that stabbed deep into his chest. It was over in a millisecond, and forgotten.

Another unprecedented feeling assaulted his senses. Panic. He felt himself falling helplessly and threw his arms out to try and save himself although he couldn’t comprehend from what. One of his flailing limbs hit something in its path but it was not the bed that he might have expected. It was firm yet compliant as his mattress would have been, but issued a grunt of complaint. He would have let out a cry himself but found his chest cavity frozen with fear. After what seemed to be too long, with lungs screaming inwardly, he took in a volume of vital air. Even then he was transfixed in silence.

As he stared wide eyed into the darkness, a normality slowly began to flow back into his taught, prone perfection. There it was again. More of a groan this time, not the animal utterance as before. Information spun round in his beleaguered brain. A rustle. A breath of air. A radiant heat from somewhere troubling close to him. A soft warm limb laid itself gently across his still static chest.

His left ear twitched as it heard, “Good morning.”

© DP Rollason July 2013 (500 words,

For a love that dare not speak its name

In this world there’s a love that still dares not speak its chill name
yet is still spoken freely by those glinting in dull or dubious fame,
yes there’s renting of cloth and the odd muffled cry
but it’s mostly all bluff when you look deep in their eye.

History rich has its queens but acknowledged only after…
they are dead and then couched just above the bear bater.
But in these decades, pseudo modern, where man’s closet should be open
he’s still akin to a sleeping dog that’s only safe for not pokin’.

Pink triangles which when worn to the gas chambers horrified…
the world but what lessons did we take, most are lost or now nullified.
Be it culture, religion a personal preference or just nature
what’s so bad with being us, to make a man’s man turn into a hater.

In the gloss of god-fearing fervour some rules do get adjusted
but attrition still sees bodies bashed and sweet heads bloody and busted.
The laws may have changed but who sticks to the rules,
and like witches of old, some would have us still, drowned in deep dark pools.

Life in the world of the many, amongst the plain and the dull
it’s a much different take where, if you feel like fighting for a full…
life if still shrouded in shadow, it’s more often the fear
that a misguided comment will mark you unacceptable, a dirty queer.

People tell you they don’t mind, if you’re light on your toes
as long as they aren’t asked to be sat next to ‘one of those’.
‘Keep your backs to the walls lads’, the air’s freely washed with your shame
for being locked in a love that still daren’t speak its bone chilling name.

David Rollason October 2013



With winters tailcoats flicking their last as they can,
warmth bathes the earth from an ever higher sun,
its rays angle obtusely to penetrate deep,
to those hidden, safe since the solstice, but still mostly asleep.

Heads poke out through soil, from undergrowth and tree,
as flora and fauna stir to see what this development might be,
that brings on their sap and lethargic muscle’s stirrings,
and for most more fundamental, deeper reproductive type yearnings.

Bulbs triggered into action by the subtle lack of cold,
push out from their core, shoots soon for the world to behold,
their splendid imperative has got some way to go,
with leaves and stalk yet to coalesce before the main show.

Insects stretch their tiny legs after winters long solace,
preen antennae, wipe an eye, polish iridescent bright carapace,
safe hibernation complete again and once more,
survivors drift out on wind, scale new heights and creep along the floor.

Feathered folk having struggled, through cold winters worst,
feel the need now for mating calls and wow, out they burst,
sitting high up in branches bathing in this new heat,
they keep an eye out for others of their species they need to meet.

Grazing beasts feel the freshness enjoy being out from under the roof,
as they marshal their previously languid and rather tawdry hoof,
to venture outside to swathes of sweet smelling temptation,
grasses green, food bright and complete in its encapsulation.

Carnivores cravings, now more easily acquired,
their prey too respond to whatever they long desired,
step out in the light, drawn to just one more temptation,
but fulfil their own part in the unequivocal food chain oblation.

Pets venture out too onto patios now dry
blink as the sun, still low, annoyingly catches their eye,
but with a yawn and a lick, a scratch and slow stretch
some seek misplaced toys, hopeful for a game of go fetch.

We humans too respond to the bright of the new season,
as we shake off winters drawl that often dampens our reason
to be more cheerful and positive, hopefully less doughty,
with that extra spring in our step, we can thank life for its bounty.


With the bright delight of spring now full in bloom,
the seasons move unstoppably as water down a flume,
and a more sedate, subtle, acquiescence settles,
as longer, lingering days fill with hope and clattering camping kettles.

Earlier morning sunrise continue to the mid of the year,
lengthening sultry evenings are reinforced by the odd cask of beer
after days spent fielding the very best of natures bounty,
up sun drenched hill, down shaded vale, summer bathes its every county.

Nature settles into full and expansive exuberance,
sucking up heat and humus feeding, every growth and protuberance,
what was the new has soon become the now,
broad leaf, fruit ripe, lush growth eagerly feeds every fur, fish and fowl.

Hard worked scholars dream of the ever, far off school hols,
where they might exchange the drear classroom for sticky ice lolls,
and a chance to play unrestricted, in the parks and fields,
dress down for a change and with their mates, strike, Oh such deals.

Grown ups working, too, crave such a time,
where they can take advantage of this summer, away from the grime,
when long evenings which linger, cool drinks lazily cupped in hand,
each magnificent sunset at home no real substitute, for warm sea and hot sand.

With the longest day slipping past, it’s almost the start,
of the end of the season but not yet, hold on tight as you did at its heart,
there’s lots more to take in, yes, including the hoe and the rake,
cultivate boarders broad with blooms or rows of veg you just sidle up and take.

School holidays, sadly, are nearly full spent,
time to get back to regular tracks, you adults still have to pay the rent,
then boys and girls excite, many in their fresh new uniform,
pack trunks and treats ready, to set off back to academe and the dorm.

For the regular its just back to playgrounds of paved standing,
while parents slip back to their careers, or whatever they’re handling,
but in between you hang on to, what’s still the best of the sun,
after the days work is wrought you still have a fling, just another one.

Night is gaining ground now and temperatures starting to slip,
where you notice that your finger ends begin to feel the slight nip,
and you need to pull on a cardigan that bit earlier, yes, it’s real,
you can no longer sit on the terrace, for that indulgent evening meal.


Bright blooms turn slowly more dark, full and rich,
into every corner, across expanse, in hollow, crag and ditch,
Summer’s now slid away to its older, more sumptuous bother,
in the rich family of earth’s seasons, where nature is its mother.

Colours change to deep gold, russet and ripe red,
and you feel an ethereal need to spend a little longer in your bed,
misty mornings murk is somehow now far less inviting,
everything seems to feel the need to indulge in contest and fighting.

Stags bellow deep as stallions throw high whinny,
as they round you their herds, every last jack and jenny,
migratory birds have a hankering, for more of their food stuffs,
filling out their breast with it all the geese, right down to the small chuffs.

In house, washing is now often dried in front of the fire
because with cool days, sun damp, the lawn is reverting now to mire,
the door mat takes a beating from ever muddy and wet feet,
but you insist that they get wiped, shoes left in the hall, before you take your seat.

Flowers in the main will soon be slipping right over,
but on the bright side, cool days slow down growth of pretty, but invading clover,
but its that time to accept it and attend to the veg beds,
there are still much take, the rest needing to find shelter and pot luck in the sheds.

For those that avoid, such forms of outside cultivation,
it may be time for just one more, perhaps more active type of vacation,
perhaps to one of the many spectacular, multi coloured foreign vistas,
or perhaps a more leisurely break, maybe to the least seen of your sisters.

One more delight is left, as it will soon be bonfire night,
collecting wood, building high, anticipating its ever inveigling sight,
hot dogs, onions, soup, thick and steaming you keep it in hand,
to warm you through as you amaze, at the fireworks announcing Autumns last stand.

While you clear away the last of the damp ash and stick,
you finish off the rest of the garden, find a lost football, take just one more kick,
boots now lined up like soldiers, in a line at the back door,
you swap your light mack for thicker coat, and hang it away, not wanted any more.

Hats and scarves soon become more of an essential,
and unfortunately the rain is often rather menacingly torrential,
but its been another time onto which you just can’t hold,
as the season slips by for another year, at least this one was bathed in gold.


White wastelands glisten from chocolate box tops,
for most, these are things of memory where the fantasy we hope for, stops.
Autumn’s detritus soaked by dew and more often frost,
means that the coldest of seasons has the years kindness, for now at least, lost.

Modern trends help make shorter days into normal days,
and with cold air less of a problem, most can still relax, sit or laze
in the comfort of automated, centrally programmed heat,
as steamed windows bely balmy the temperature, of your pampered and rather toasty feet.

The suns lower path is something nature deems natural,
but you have no advantage and rearrange you diary try to make it more or less compatible,
car share mums dictate and devolve the drama of the daily school run,
with many things to include, it doesn’t take much bad weather not to get everything done.

But when we can, we make the most of the pre festival time,
start to plan for the season, not too early but through pre Christmas sales you clamber and climb.
Hold back? No sir, throughout every department the temptation’s all there,
but you can always hide those secret presents, somewhere, perhaps under the stair.

Distract from the practical, to enjoy much more of the theme,
of a winter wonderland, you may even get, to watch your local football team,
or rugby as they plunder, the balls across ever muddied grass,
you cheer and whistle, scream ‘Wot, Ref’ when your favourite player, gets dumped on his ass.

Snow lovers in current messed up climate, have many a doubt,
and now have to plan ahead to get piste, just one or two if they can, on an Alp.
Those who stay home take scant advantage, but hopefully, greater recall,
of the old days, with snow sports done more safely, and less risk of an avalanche fall.

Others dust off the sled, that’s been hung in the shed,
find a slope, push, scream, bounce bang crash, you’re glad for the helmet fixed on your head.
Drag yourself only slightly damaged, back home and a piping hot bath,
perhaps stick to the sofa now but at least you created a memory and had something of a laugh.

Then Christmas is here, at last, its been promising just too long,
excitement bursts from every corner, bright, baubley bounty, even the odd festive song,
‘Its not the same as it was’, that’s the usual comment from my Gran’
who remembers nuts in your stocking and rare treats only seen, at this time of the white bearded man.

Festivals fly fast and then, oh dear they’re all done with and gone,
New Year sees your decorations packed, the world looks rather plain and maybe a little wan,
they say it’s the lack of sunshine, nature’s natural vitamin D,
all I know is that its just a matter of time, the world spins on and what will be, will be.


About predencia

Author of novels Dare to Love and Betrayed poetry anthology Raw and blogger
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