Is It Even A Memory

24th Feb 2020

I ran a one off workshop last week, which was most inspiring. Giving prompts  and poetry to respond to,  the   group of six eager  writers spent an hour and a half getting their words down in their journals, each producing some really creative work.
As I was leading I didn't have the same head space as I usually do but I did do a little something.
The first exercise I suggested was to write to the prompt, "I remember" without taking the pen off the paper - free writing. From there we then wrote again in a more detailed way with what came from that.
This second task is where this poem came to life.

Is It Even A Memory?

Is it even a memory,
that day when the sun shone bright,
that day mum sent me out to play,
I was only three.
Can I trust that I remember
that worm that I ate,
that worm that hung from my mouth,
while I, keeping cool,
played under the caravan?

I see a little girl with blond curls.
She picks up the worm
 from the soft, squelchy mud,
her blue eyes wide, smiling.
She turns the creature
over and over in her hands,
rubs it down her dress,
the dress with the red roses on.
Gently, she rolls it in her fingers,
then, swiftly, she pops it
in her mouth.
She does not recoil - as I do now,
or grimace at the taste.
No, she stands triumphant.
She is queen.
She has conquered her prey.
The worm now hangs from her lips,
wriggles,
the little girl giggles.
Her freedom eludes me today,
as does her joy - passionate, pure.
When did I lose that innocence,
that sense of adventure?
That little girl is gone now.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back,
just for a while,
and join her under the caravan.

Day 14 - Mother Earth

14th Oct 2019



I must say the challenge is getting harder.
Day 14
I took the prompt - Mother Earth and turned it to suit me:

Mother of Heaven and Earth

How can it be that you are my mother

Most blessed of all creatures 

Most pure

How can it be that you care for me

You, with all the children of the world

Under your soft protection

How can it be that every little detail

Of my life is of interest to you, 

Dear mother

You, who lived an ordinary life 

But it is,,

So I come  to you, sit with you

Bring my little worries 

And the bigger ones too

And you, you take them up to the sun

Your own dear son 

Yes,  because you are the mother 

Of the creator of the entire universe

You are indeed,

Mother of Heaven and Earth

White Rose

           Day 20



           White Rose

One rose , left all alone in the late October cold
One rose, a white bud breaking open in the autumn sun
One rose, in the corner of the garden
The only remembrance of summer's happy colours
There , reminding us of a life lost  - six years ago
A pure delicate rose -  in Heaven now

Beijing

Beijing

After breakfast at the Hotel Continental,

The orange juice cool, pure,

We venture out,

Arm in arm-

For safety-

Into bustling, dusty, streets.

A tsunami of noise hits us,

Makes us draw back.

Traffic - six lanes-

Hooting horns screeching-

Engines revving-

Making music with 

Constant tinkling of bells 

From the bikes 

As they weave through 

Disinterested people,

Who, like squawking seagulls,

Swarm along overflowing pavements.

First impressions of Beijing...

Like debris we are swept unwillingly

In this fast flowing river.

We look up

High rise, anonymous

Dirty, grey structures,

Imprison ants 

Whose hope is 

A fleck of blue

Remembered.

Beside us as we hurry by,

Shops selling 

Tea, fans, chinese hats,

Beckon us,

Aromatic bouquets excite our nostrils.

Finally,

In a side street,

We take a rest,

In a Japanese Cafe.

They tell us:

"Don't eat the food here,

It's mostly dog"

We sip a beer 

And ponder

How we'll get back to the hotel.