Warmth

20th January 2020

Well that's 2020 written for the  first time on the blog.

The year has started off slowly as we have been recovering from 
all the visiting we did over the Christmas.
 I think we're nearly there now.
 Nearly back to normal. 
Though what is normal?
And do I want it?
Is it best to keep well away from normal?
These questions don't keep me awake at night,
but they are floating about in that grey matter
where important stuff goes on.

First today I have an acrostic - January

January

Just look up, up at that sky with grey clouds edged by 

Almond flecks. And starlings,  black,  swooping

Now this way, now that, seemingly 

Unaware of the bitter cold of this winter evening.  They

Arrive in their flocks, perform their murmations, give us a 

Regal  show. Their  elegant  dance makes this

January day more bearable

 

Warmth

What makes me feel warm inside?

I think of my grandmother.

It's the days leading up to Christmas.

She sits in front of  the range -for warmth

She picks up a turf sod lying in the basket

To feed the oven

I help her, pick up my own lump of turf

Turf that Uncle Timmy dug up the previous autumn

It feels hairy to the touch

not like the factory produced brickets, i think.

We take turns, my nan and I, to place a sod in the fire

without words we feed our story, make it rich.

The flames give a glow to her - already pink cheeks

When the roar tells us "enough for now",

She sits back, smiles, and for while, tells stories or tales of family

Long ago , linking the threads of shared Ancestors

Who brought us to this day.

                                  

Day 27 - How Did I Get Here

27th Oct 2019

Day 27

How Did I Get Here

On my birthday that year,

Not so long ago,

I took a chance, risked shattering 

My dream.

With palms sweaty, heart racing,

I plunged into the unknown.

I had no idea if I could, 

If it would work,

No confidence in who I was,

A woman with

With deep roots in the mountains

Of the forty shades, 

Storytellers for ancestors.

I should have known I could.

And I did.

And here I am.

Day 18 Self

18th Oct 2019

It is nearly the weekend .
And it's day 18 of OctPoWriMo 2019
Today I'm veering away from the prompt and cheating by  using a poem from a while ago. It was inspired by an exhibition at the Turner in Margate.

Day 3 - Womb

3rd Oct 2019

Day 3 of octpowrimo.

Thinking of the prompt made me ponder on ancestors, where we all come from


Womb

Dear Rosie, your great,  great, great. great, great grandmother,
My great, great  grandmother, was
Mary Ryan - she lived in Googa- I never met her.
Your great, great , great, great grandmother,
My great grandmother, was
Winifred Stapleton - she lived in Googa - I never met her
Your great, great, great grandmother,
My grandmother, was
Katie Ryan - she lived in Thurles - I loved her dearly
Your great, great grandmother,
My mother, was
Bridie Clarke - she lived in Stanmore- I loved her too
Your great grandmother,
Me , I am
Grams to you - I live in Kent - you are fond of me and great grandad
Your grandmother,
My daughter, is
Emma Stevens - she lives in Oxford- you love her dearly
Your Dad,
My grandson . is
Ryan Stevens - he lives with you in Broseley - you adore him
And then there is you,
With your history of wombs that bore people that loved.

Lost In Autumn

18th Dec 2017

Lost In Autumn

Born in springtime,

 mama tree pushed you out 

a brand new bud.

delicate baby on bare branch,

 you unfurled - sweet, sacred promise. 

Life water and nutrients absorbed

 from the blood of ancestors fed you

 roots reached down  into times unknown 

you, in turn, produced sugar sap

 nourishment for your tree.

In the rays of the sun,

you opened up,

 danced and dallied

 through the summer 

of your life, 

strong veins forming

 your  particular self  shape -

 you.

Happiness and hope you  gifted 

 to those who wandered  your wood

  fruitful, filled, days, 

some, satiated by your colour, your light 

went away refreshed, replenished

you, only being yourself,

 unaware how  your warmth 

 touched those souls.

It was  your time, your season - 

with others you wove

  a soft web of wonder,

waving from your branch ,

 bestowing  magic on all

 who wanted to  see.

So,  when the cold came

 and your green grew dim

Your sparkle diminished 

 it was hard to take.

Signs of yellowing

 took us by surprise,

 halted us in our tracks.

With  shortening days,

 orange specks appeared 

 and the  weakening began

 your edges getting brittle , 

 other leaves falling

dropping  to the ground 

all around . 

Suddenly

 it was your turn,

reluctantly

 you let go ,

 fluttered to the earth,

you died in the autumn 

as it was right that you should,

 but it was hard.

Scaffolding/ Leaf

29th Nov 2016

This morning the rainwater that had collected in the garden tray had turned to ice. Yes, it is official it was freezing last night. But the clear blue sky, if you could ignore the cold seeping into your bones, was like a Tuscan summer sky, the morning light filling the garden helping to create the illusion.
With reds, yellows, oranges and browns set against the blue I could almost put up with the cold for the sheer beauty of it. But I will go out with scarf and winter coat and breathe out a foggy breath and it will not be pleasant. No, no matter how wonderful the scene outside , there is still ice in the tray.

Now for some words:

Scaffolding

This old building needs restoring after long grey years,

scarred with use and abuse, concrete slabs crumbling,

broken windows of shattered dreams, vacant eyes staring.

Shape a scaffold with forklift and crane...

and mascara  ...

Cover the cracks, the tracks, from every tear that smacks

of fear -

who hears anyway.

Fill in the holes of memory loss, though no one gives a toss,

that it's going that way.

Repaint the facade of this body, scrub white green slime-

disappointment and pain, stand tall again,

proud to be noticed.

Leaf

You were born in springtime, mama tree pushing you out as a brand new bud on your branch.

Delicate baby leaf, you unfurled to become a sweet, green promise. 

Fed by your tree with water and nutrients absorbed from the soil of ancestors, you grew 

And you, in turn, produced sugar sap - nourishment for your tree.

You opened up in the rays of the sun, played and danced through the summer 

of your life, veins giving you your particular leaf shape - individual to you.

You gave pleasure and hope to those who came by your wood in those fruitful long days, 

many who came went away refreshed and replenished by your colour, your light.

You, only being yourself, unaware how much you touched so many hearts.

This was your time, your season and with others you created a tapestry of wonder,

waving from your branch , giving your magic  to all who would see.

So when the temperature dropped and your green started to fade it was hard to take.

The first signs of yellowing took us by surprise, halted us in our tracks.

But with the shortening of days, orange specks appeared all over and a weakening began

with your edges getting brittle and other leaves falling to the ground all around you. 

Suddenly it was your turn, you let go and fluttered to the earth,

And you died in the autumn as it is right that you should, but it was hard.

Mid Morning Walk With Uncle

This poem was inspired by a couple of hours spent with my Uncle going for a walk in North London.


Mid Morning Walk With Uncle

To the right or to the left,
New steps to take.
This way or that -go left.
A robin, friendly reminder, joins us,
Going before with joyous song.
We stop, admire the rich beauty -
A Japanese Red Dragon Plant,
Exotic,  glorious in Autumn sun .
But don't interrupt the story.

We walk on, uphill,  breathless
Slow our pace,
Enjoy sky - blue, clear
In still air,
words struggling to escape
And  reaching  the top, stop
Only for a moment,
To quiet the pulse,
But don't interrupt the story.

How far shall we go?
We'll see now, just keep going,
Maybe we'll reach the village.
All topics keep the
Conversation - the tale-  fresh:
The house with the huge gated driveway
Double fronted and double garage -
Double your money.
But don't interrupt the story.

The ruin of a Church left forlorn,
In the graveyard,
Seems right somehow.
Centuries of ordinary life
Witnessed by these stones-
We imagine ancestors.
The chap who bought four burial plots -
Just to make sure.
But don't interrupt the story.

At last we reach our goal-
The village high street.
Let's stop for a bit before we head back.
The pub or a cafe.
No, not Costa, not Costa...
Ahhh,  There, a sweet little place,
Hidden from view,
Cappucino £1,20.
Yes, that'll  do,
But Don't interrupt the story.