Not only do they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,
but they’re cutest best buddies, times by treble.
The perfect antidote to a long-old day,
these bunches of fluff have made my soiree´.
On a good day I see in the flames
a dancing horse, swishing tail
head upright, ears aloft,
prancing to the heat of the fire,
soul alight with joy.
On a bad day I see in the flames
a devilish anger that burns down
all my hard work, a ghoulish glee
that turns my dreams to ash,
hope depleted, plans destroyed.
We’re broken and bruised,
battered from birth,
we were built so fundamentally wrong.
The world makes life so bloody hard.
Just give up trying to
create or belong.
You break my heart
with your wounded ways.
We’re not defined by our past.
Yet you’ve kept me stuck for five decades
with your sneers, your pokes,
my sad little un-started drafts.
Too right there: I get my kicks
when I sit on your shoulder,
sabotaging all that you ‘write’.
You’re far too old for all that hope
now in life you’ve reached
That’s enough! I’ve had an idea
about wounds and abuse and stuff.
If I begin to transform all of our pain
into fables strong and true,
you’ll lose your hold over my head
and my heart will take the reins.
It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me
of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.
Like torchlight from an invisible source,
it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,
illuminating the darkest part of my garden.
The new-grown laurels have taken root,
wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.
They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench
with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:
a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.
The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth
amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,
their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial
of any future state of wither or decay.
An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.
my blocks pop up in colourful ways
sometimes when I least expect,
and often – when I’m pulled
by that crazy creative force,
that desire to put my words out there –
the opposite has to exist:
primed to put a stop to my course,
to cut me from my source.
the horizon may be dewy,
the breeze may be blowy
the potential stretching out
may be incredibly alluring,
and yet a part of me,
a stubborn and relentless saboteur
wants to stub out
the scary unknown.
what I’d like to do is
kick those blocks aside,
send them scattering
off the pier of fear,
and to open my future
to run wildly, wind in my hair,
trust at my feet, sun in my dreams,
and strength in my belief.
My gluten-free pot
creates a stir –
and why not?
The heart of my dish
stirs the soul:
sprinkle what’s forgot.
pic credit: yayyayoy
And so the month of memory
begins to tickle my heart.
A month to delve deep
and recover my soul;
for my barest branch
to grow plump-pink blossoms.
(pic copyright: Clairev)