6th April- Strangled

6th April


Strangled

Ivy and brambles grow tight into the structure,
Roots going deep into mud walls
Concealing the entrance.
With hacksaw and pain in equal measure,
I attack the wildness with vigour,
Thorns tearing at my flesh.
Driven by an impulse I can't ignore, success
Depends on this challenge and though blood
Drips all around,
I carry on.
I fight my way through the years of misery
And with every cut, with every root discarded,
I get nearer to the self I lost.
Then a gap, a small hole and I peer inside,
Squint to see what is there  in the dark
And carry on, renewed.
I will find my way in, the way to the present moment
And with God, find peace.

April 5th Walk By The Beach

April 5th 2017


Walk By The Beach

Two boys, about eight maybe, kicking up the pebbles,
A dog paddling  in shimmering water, black head stretching
Towards a red ball thrown out to entice.

Gulls squawking madly, fighting over luncheon remains,
Fly away suddenly when a lone teenager gives them the chase
Firing stones at them - not at all nice

And we walk on, hand in hand along  the beach,
On towards Reculver,  the sun warming our cheeks,
Evening threatening to come too soon.

We share stories as we go and talk with more ease,
Sorting the differences that will always be there,
In the sky the sun  joined by the moon.

The rhythm in our steps mirrored by the shushing of waves
Keeping time unconsciously with the gentle ebb and flow
Our bodies one with  nature around us

Moving further out of the town , two figures travelling alone
Scent of sweet lavender  -  an old aunt comes to mind,
Quiet reveals winged insects,  unknown to us.

4th April- Burgundy Red

4th April

Burgundy Red

The  pile of clothes grows on the bed
And with it, deep inside , so does my dread.
I want to go, yes, I want to,  that's for sure
But how am I going to get out the door?

A fiftieth birthday a milestone to celebrate
So I have to be there, she is a best mate .
And I know when I manage to get myself out,
I'll enjoy the whole thing , of that there's no doubt.

So I find some trousers  stretchy, comfy and black,
At least I'll be sitting - won't look like a sack
And and old, but fancy top, my colour-burgundy red
The lipstick that matches, yes, it's there by my bed

So I'm ready, but I don't want to be the first one there,
Not know whether to stand and wait or go sit on a chair.
So I leave the house at the time we have set
To meet at the restaurant, so I know I'll be met.

What a greeting I get when I walk in the door,
Champagne on the table and more on the floor.
The intention , it's clear, is to have a good crack
Laughing all evening to the moon and back

Past Bones

3rd April

Day 3 - poem a day:
                                                 

                                               Past Bones

Keep hold of that thread,

Let it hang form those past bones

Giving meaning to who we become
Every movement has its reason,

The flower, growing its timely season,

Where what has been

Has come to this,

And this is the softness
of the present
The delight of now

Hold on to that thread,

Though not too tightly

For each moment inform's the next,

Each thread must be broken,

Left behind 

To free the mind

In The Garden

2nd April 2017


Day 2 of the poem a day in April .

In The Garden

Sitting in the garden 

coffee and birdsong bring peace

 to the soul while bones

 are warmed

rhythm of water trickling 

into pond sends ears tickling

leads the mind to meditation

a butterfly- red admiral maybe

whiffs past nose 

lands gently on Budleia 

pink and yellow tulips 

stand tall in front of her

giving homage

lavender also gives of itself 

an aroma - sweet - memories

of female ancestors

and we sit

just a bit longer.

April 1st

1st April

Going to try and join in with the poem a day in April. I managed last year. 30 poems in 30 days with napowrimo . So here goes, the first one , trying to go with the prompt -  with Kay Ryan in mind "short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion."


Tiptoeing Around .

The bear sits
in his chair
asleep for now
unaware of those
tiptoeing around
hardly putting
feet to ground
pale faces
sunken
minds race
drunken
soon the beast will
wake
soon the beast will
take
from the souls
of those
those he loves
the very
spirit
of each one
breath by breath
til all is gone


See you tomorrow ...

Fault.

30th March 2017

Where The Fault Lies 


Apologies to all my loyal readers for the relative silence with regard to posts on my blog over the last few weeks.
The fault lies with the fact that I have a "new" laptop ( from my son - second hand,  not so old), which I am trying, when I feel motivated, to move all my working files to.
I can't access my blog on the new model as I don't remember my password and the old contraption has it saved for me so I never needed it.
Needless to say I am writing now on that computer, which is getting hot and will probably burst into flames at any moment leaving my blog floating round in the "clouds" with no chance of me ever getting to see it again, which would be hugely disappointing and frustrating.
But I am going to throw caution to the wind and carry on writing and hope that I am not unrecognisable and  buried in a pile of ash when someone comes looking for me tomorrow.
I am looking forward to a visit from my son next week and he assures me that he will be able to help me to sort it.


It is now 20th May and I'm still getting a hot leg with the old laptop on my leg. I just feel comfortable with this one .

15th March 2021

A little piece from a few years ago, written when me and my husband found ourselves with the house to ourselves as the children had all left home.

 Two have boomeranged back in the meantime so, there is no more butter, except at Christmas.

Butter or Margarine

Are you a butter or margarine person? Why do you make that choice?

Is it that you love butter but it costs twice as much as margarine , so there’s no real choice, you just can’t justify having the butter?

I slurp as I lick my lips and my fingers. Butter melts into and drips from my toasted rolls. So much joy in the taste of it. I remember butter, great lumps of it sliding down potatoes, the potatoes we had with bacon and cabbage when I was a child.  I remember the farmhouse table at my grandmother's house, with a fresh cob loaf and butter cut into wedges  to be placed on the bread and eaten like that, no spreading involved. 

I take my time prolonging the happiness going on in my mouth, a happiness that actually feels as if it’s in my brain, and which travels through my body.  While I’m in my temporary Heaven, I ponder the fact that for years, while bringing up the children we chose, for reasons of cost and many mouths to feed, to buy cheap margarine.

Now, margarine is not the same thing as butter, is it? Because , isn’t it true that you wouldn’t want, nobody would want , margarine dripping down your chin or to bite into thick lumps of it in your sandwich, which means that you eat less or none at all, being as it’s not the tastiest accompaniment to your fresh bread. You wouldn’t put slabs of it, for instance, onto your toast and let it soak in and then put more on, just to feel and taste the deliciousness of it on the warm toast.

But all the children have left home now, so we can spoil ourselves, eating nearly half a pound of butter each every week. I know, that’s a lot right? It could be more, though. we have to be temperate with it. It’s hard.

My mother and my grandmother both had butter in their pantry or fridge all the time, having no time at all for the unnatural alternative and mum would bring her own with her ( only Kerrygold would do) whenever she came to visit.

It has become, for me, one of the pleasures of life, which I don’t want to give up but which I have to watch carefully because I am eating a lot more bread and new potatoes, both tasting so delicious with the added knob of butter.

Maz Green

Family minded writer of short stories, poetry a blog and other stuff gramswisewords.blogspot.com

Silence

11th March 2017

It is heartwarming to see that my blog has had over 28,100 visits. Thank you to all those who read and comment. 

Enjoyed the writing workshop this morning.

So this six sentence challenge incorporates the cue word "will" and one of the themes of the workshop.


Silence

She would not be known by that name anymore- Philomena - the name they gave her when aged five and an orphan she was taken to the convent in Eniscorthy.
Although her will was nearly broken, working everyday in the the laundry with  little food, no conversation, or any time for childlike activities, something deep inside her clung to a hope of new beginnings and a better life.
The secret silence had become as loud as thunder, a silence that separated, a silence that pulled a chain tight around her soul and now Marie was going to shatter that silence.
Even before she spoke and although she was worried how her family would react she felt the fetters fall and a longed for freedom fill her lungs with promise.
So, after supper one day , when her husband and children were bantering about whose turn it was to do the washing up, she sat them down and spilled it out and tears fell and bathed the hurt that all of them felt.
Not one of them spoke for a moment or two but when they did they said everything would be ok and they hugged her, while she said, "my name is Marie" and they nodded.

And out in the garden just now plants seem to be growing as you look at them and there are four goldfish in the pond.
Today was definitely a bit spring like.

Ash Wednesday

3rd Mar 2017

The cue for this week's six sentence story is the word  "return".




Ash Wednesday

"You have some dirt on your forehead," the young girl at the supermarket checkout announced whilst efficiently scanning the contents on of my shopping basket.
"Yes, it's ashes in the form of a cross," I replied and that was all I could say as the customer behind me had already taken her attention with stories of where she was going later and why she was in such a hurry.
In actual fact the little cross, which we receive on Ash Wednesday, the start of lent,  did look  more like a thumb sized blob, a bit of dirt.
It made me think that this muck, this easy way of life that I've slipped into where I think only of myself and my own concerns, is precisely what I need to clean up during these forty days.
So, I will return to the narrow way, spending time in prayer and trying and come closer to The Lord.
I will look foreward to living the Easter story with joy as a brighter, more spiritual me.