Busy

26th Nov 2018

I'm Really Busy

Today I've been keeping myself busy :

Church this morning

Weekly shop, stopping to chat with a friend we meet.

Help husband with the santa sleigh he's making

Discuss the art work needed with one of his clients

Cook three large chicken casseroles, one for today and two for the freezer - the preparing of the vegetables took such a long time.

Write birthday and anniversary cards and go post them 

And rice, yes rice pudding would be nice - especially as we've been given a 20 kilo bag.

But it's all PROCRASTINATION!!!

It's surprising how many things you can find to do when you should be working.

So, I'll just stop there because I promised myself I'd give a few hours to my writing today and time is running out with the deadline the day after tomorrow and no spare time tomorrow to get to it.

So, buy for now.

If I finish, I'll be back

And what are the rest of you lovely people doing.

Nothing Much Changes

25th Nov 2018

Just thinking of coming to the end of November. Where has that time gone.

Next Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent , the start of a new year in the Church .

Some words :

Nothing much changes

She puts her bins out with rhythmic regularity every Tuesday evening at five.

Her little grey audi drives off next morning at eleven and returns an hour later,

I swear to the minute, with her weekly shop.

The same afternoon it goes out again, always at three - back she comes at five,

walking that bit taller - hair cut,  washed and curled, by Miriam

Nothing much changes

On Thursday’s at twelve a taxi stops and out gets Olive, her friend come to lunch. She wears a purple hat and often brings flowers

On Thursdays too, the gardener turns up, in his red van, between one and half past- she’d quite like Derek to be more precise.  

Monday’s if it’s fine her washing’s  on the line by nine o’ clock and her windows are cleaned on the first Monday of every  month

Nothing much changes

On her birthday, in the afternoon, her brother comes, her son and daughter too, all dressed up and bearing gifts and not just one or two.

They stay till late and through the wall echoes the sound of memories and happy times shared.

No, nothing much changes.

Except today, early in the morning, in the dark, thirteen minutes past six it was , she was taken off in an ambulance.

A little while later I phoned her brother.

She’d died, he said, she didn’t suffer.

A brief moment - a light extinguished - an empty house.

Everything  has changed

Red

12th Nov 2018


I can't believe it's been four months since I wrote anything on my blog.
Life has been busy since the summer.
Also, I was unwell for months with a viral infection that laid me low.
I am, however seeing the wood for the trees now and am champing at the bit, with a
lot of willingness but few ideas.
I have decided to return to my Writing Group where I hope to get some inspiration.
The colours today as I walked along were such a wonderful sight. I love the yellows, the reds, the oranges as well as the browns and greens. in fact if you look closely you see all the colours there is, because that what the natural world is like and this time of year emphasises all of that.



Red

I thought of you this morning as I often do
The situation made me laugh and weep, it's true

I tried the door of another car, it was red, after all
Then I noticed I was wrong and heard  my husband call

It's not even the same make as ours, he says,  as if that makes a difference to me,
just like dad he raised his eyes, and waived in his hand, the key

And then it was that I remembered a particular time
when in you got beside a stranger - he was in his prime

You were both surprised at first and lost for words
dad knocking on the window just made it more absurd

You explained yourself as best you could, leaving nothing out
"his fault for parking  in front of the butcher's," without a doubt

It still makes me chuckle a bit you see
It makes me think that's so like me

Looking at You

19th July 2018

Looking at You

I look at you on that day, more than sixty five years ago. No idea what was in store for you both. You stepped out on an adventure of love to build a life. 

You were to have three children, thirteen grandchildren and the great grandchildren are still coming. In your rich lives you created many memories and have been part of numerous lives. 

Today I look at you here, ma and pa, and I miss you.

Seaside poem

19th July 2018

Seaside Poem - just for fun

Every day I visit the shore

Each quite different to the one before.

If the trees are still and all is calm

I shine  like glass, a deceiving  balm.

On these days I especially look forward to

Children splashing and crashing the blue.

I oblige their frolics with my happy spray

And again the splash and giggle and play.

Yachters out for a spot of sailing

And further out fishermen whaling.

While I hold myself still and as calm as can be

They give the whales chase and sing merrily.

They have no idea I’m part of their crew

Making an effort, doing all I can do.

I’m little thought of most of the time,

So I love it when I can whip up my brine.

On blustery days I race into the coast

Huge arms of waves making the boast

That I am strong and make no mistake

If you're in my way, I’ll crush you like cake.

I bring debris with me, I throw it around

Flotsom and seaweed spread on the ground.

My angry time, brown and green churned

May do some damage but if you’ve learned

To keep your distance and always beware

We’ll get on fine,

And you’ll keep your hair.

Blue Irises

9th June 2018

May and June 

I really cannot believe that we're nearly in the middle of June. I had so many plans to enjoy the last weeks of May and the month of June - my favourite. Not that I'm not enjoying them , no, but I had intended to make the most of the longer days by getting more walks by the sea and spending more time out of doors. Playing tennis with the grandchildren etc etc...
It's still my plan, but now I have less time and I feel as if we only have a few weeks ( which we do) before the days start to draw themselves together, giving us less daylight hours. I mean,  in seven or eight weeks time it will be dark by eight or nine.
I'm not a sun worshiper or anything but, I do like the months of May and June - just saying y'all..

I am looking out at the pond from the, now "shared",  studio and I see tall Irises, their blue flowers with no effort at all reaching heavenward. Radiant and glorious they fulfill their purpose.

I Set Out To Meet You 
I set out to meet you
not sure I'm going
I put my trust in the instructions
A light bag slung over my shoulder
containing a bottle of water,
and small cheese sandwich,
and sandals on my feet
for the day is mild.
I pass the factory on the left,
stop, listen,
machines break into the birdsong
quench it -  momentarily.
And rats scuttle in front of me.
I move on ,
 second road on the left
a residential road with its avenue of trees
and anonymous inhabitants
behind net curtains.
Hidden eyes follow
to the end , when I  turn
and walk down a country lane
until I reach the pond
where I wait .
It's where you told me to be.
Clouds gather and I notice
I'm getting wet.
I stand under a tree
but the clouds move swiftly,
turn black.
The rain comes down.
But then I see you.
I slosh through mud , quicken my pace
clothes dripping and heavy
Now you see me and rush to meet me
And together we walk on

Window Shoppers

28th April


Soon there won't be any shops for the window shoppers to browse in . That would be a shame.







12th April 2018

A response to The Wasteland , by T.S.Eliot. 
I have used some of his lines throughout this poem.

Window Shoppers 

Last year for three months

 it was a bookshop,

large windows, terracotta frontage.
Mrs Baker came in on Thursdays,
after her visit to the hairdressers,
silver grey re-curled 
She'd stay for an hour, maybe more,
run her stick along the floor,
always buy a book. 

Then for nineteen weeks, 

the owner was very precise,

 it was a florists,
violet, red, yellow, speckled the various
shades of green all along the front.

Long departed now, no forwarding address .

For many months thereafter,
empty, memory and desire stirring,
 Walls burned green and orange,

 Framed by coloured stone, 
musty odor, like gas, escaping to g

concerned passers by. 

Today, newly painted in purple gloss, 
no sign of dross or moss, 
now, offices of a law firm.
Suited men, women,
carry briefcases,
frowns on their brows 
enter in the morning  at 8.30
and leave in the evening at five

Next door is the Corner Café, 
chairs spill out onto pebbles and pavement
the inviting smell of bacon,

 percolated coffee,
 summer sun reflects sky upon glass tops.

On rainy days the sound of chatter and a clatter,
 from within.

where  little groups huddle together round small tables,

Elegantly laid with tea pots,  china cups, saucers

Here, town councilors drink coffee 
nod their heads,  talk for an hour.

On the other side of the cafe, 

two hollow sepulchers
 stand empty, unloved,
long abandoned
grubby from want of human touch,
plaster falls from walls,

Nothing to attract the lover of beauty, 

or  the discerning window shopper. 

But,  beside them,  New Look 
glass front displays goods , 
racks of colour entice hungry shoppers
 to step inside.
a few staff members hover in anticipation,
try to catch the eye.

Up and down the street,  people wander,
 most out for a stroll ,
 not to buy, just to look

As one might go to the woods or the mountains.

No need today to rush about the shops
no need to get frustrated trying
  to find those items that we need. 

Instead, from the comfort of our sofa,
 on any number of electronic devices,
we  purchase what we want.

The High Street only a leisure activity

"Let's have a walk around the shops”  -  people say.

A museum of past times -
 you ought to be ashamed to look so antique.

What a wicked pack of cards for shopkeepers ,
 dealing as they do in profit and loss

With rates going up and would be customers 
 only window shopping.

Soon they will be gone -
 ruins tolling reminiscent bells

And I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

From Where

15th April 2018

Here are some ramblings in response to Origens , by Imelda Maguire:

From Where Do I Come

I come from the edge of the city,

that suburban, semi-detached, quiet place on the hill,

from a father who was orphaned before he could speak, 

who remembered the bomb shelters, the ration books.

From a father who was himself evacuated during the war.

I come from that "we worked hard to get here"  place.

My father proud to have had an education, 

proud to have become, "blue collar"

to have left the trowel behind.

I come from that stock of women

who made more of what they were given,

who rose  from the soil of their ancestors. 

From a mother who ran, ran barefoot 

from  want and hunger.

Who spent her life adding to her funds,

working hard for her money, saving her money,

afraid somehow, it might evaporate.

I come from that country of alone, 

where all physical needs were cared for 

but where, my heart was barren wasteland,

where the hope of my father hung round my neck

a noose strangling my own true longing. 

But

I come from a family of fighters 

Chains are loosened and the battle goes on 

The Music of Life

11th April 2018

As the noise in the church hall buzzed around us while we prepared dinner for fifty, with the accompaniment of clattering pans and tinkling glasses and happy laughter, i was reminded that this time last year I was just getting over a problem I'd had with my hearing. It's interesting how much you notice different sounds and appreciate them when you've been struggling to make sense of the world whilst "locked in" your own quiet space. It's earily isolating. It has given me an empathy with those like some of the people we served today who suffer so much with hearing loss.
Last year I wrote a poem about it:


9th April :
For a few months I have been troubled with poor hearing. It was probably wax and has since cleared up - well almost. Whilst not being able to hear that well I discovered how much I value ( or should value) that particular sense.

The Music of Life

It occurs to me to be thankful 
That I can hear those particular sounds.
His soft voice -  a whisper,
"Are you awake?"
Delicate singing of birds greeting 
The day.
Welcome sound of water running 
In the kitchen,
Kettle boiling,
Cups clattering,
Tinkling of spoon,
Music playing - radio 2, 
Soft steps on the stair,
When he  brings the tray
With morning tea.

Buzz of bee circling the garden,
Water bubbling in pond 
Disturbed by fish.
Engine of aeroplane 
In distant blue.
Revving of neighbours car
Like clockwork.
Fluttering sound of trees 
Rustling leaves in breeze.
Shrieks of joy from children 
Two gardens down.
And the doorbell ringing
Calling me urgently 
To come and answer 

For all the above 
And much, much, more,
I am so thankful

Encounter

9th April.


Here is the first flower this year on our pond. A sign of hope that spring in definitely trying to break through. There are green leaves also on my rose bushes and they are thrusting forward with new growth .
It was a special moment as I waited for just a few seconds before taking this picture. An encounter with a fresh beginning, right at the start of the promised unfolding .
It's a funny thing the idea of encounter.
How many ways can we make an encounter? There must be many.
I encounter peculiar people when travelling by train to London.
I'll just tell you about one.
For the most part nobody gives eye contact, preferring their newspapers- the Metro, the Daily Mail, the Gaurdian - or their phones on which they watch endless episodes of their favourite soaps or they might be on their laptops and tablets where they tap away as if the world as they know it would collapse around them should they dare to look away from the screen.
But occasionally someone will pick me out , will try to talk to me. Yes, quite odd. And it doesn't depend on weather or not I'm reading my book or looking at my phone. I must have something about me that says, "yes, she looks as if she's desperate to hear my story"
Anyway, last week I had to change trains and while waiting for the next one, standing quietly by myself, a lady started a conversation - just about trains and waiting . As our train pulled into the station i thought ( and hoped) we would go our separate ways.
But no!
She had saved me a seat  ( so kind, you might say)!
So, for the next two stops I listened to her tell of her great excitement about her friend's 40th birthday which was where she was headed. They were going to be going to a spa at a local hotel and then back to the house of her friend to watch films  ( Paddington Bear, no less), drink Prosceco and laugh , yes they were going to do a lot of laughing , she assured me.
I said very little , but by the time we arrived at her stop it was like she thought we were "best friends"!!
"How lovely to meet you," she beamed, "I hope you have a great weekend."
I said goodbye politely and settled back with my soduko puzzle for the last part of my journey.


So, was that a "real" encounter, bearing in mind that at the end of it she knew virtually nothing about me??

This poem from last April deals with the desire for encounter:

The Mountain

I build a mountain , monument to passions,
Daily piling on more earth,
The soil of attachments,
Keeping me from getting close
To you

So much now stands in the air between us
That space that isn't space
Filled as it is with life's distractions
 I cannot hope to crawl close
To see you

And suddenly all seems like dust
A pile of nothing but rubbish
And what's important,  I now see
Is how will  I get  near
To you

So, with teaspoon, I dig at the face
Of the huge mountainside
Little by little arm swinging in rolling rhythm
I throw the dirt behind until I get
To you