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.

Feast of St Nicolas

6th Dec 2017

Aren't the days moving swiftly through December ??? We'll be in January before we know it and Christmas will be just another one of the many that we've celebrated over the years.

I want to share two blogs with you. I hope you take the time to look at them as I think they are wonderful. They are by two of my daughters, one of whom says that I am biased. Well, of course I am, but that doesn't take away from the fact that there is some great  content there.

They write very differently ... well, you will see:

godwheresthemanual.wordpress.com

and

adventuresfromthesofa.wordpress.com

I hope you enjoy them. Please let me know what you think. Or, better still, leave a comment on their blogs.

Now, I'd like to tell you another story about a homeless man. The weather has been bitter these last couple of weeks, the nights being particularly icy. It was on one such night , last week, when the temperature was below 6 degrees c that a homeless man died on the streets in Birmingham . So, so sad...

But that is not my story. My story starts last Saturday morning in Oxford.

We turned up early for our grandaughter's confirmation at the Oratory, and,  passing a man sat at the gate, walked through to the big doors at the entrance where we got talking to a very jolly chap who was waiting to talk to the priest. It turned out he was going to be getting married later that day. I left my husband talking to him while I went into the church.
When I came out hubby was with the man at the gate chatting away.

I felt a bit awkward as I always do with homeless people . You know, not quite knowing what to do.
Anyway I was dragged into the  conversation which was about homeless shelters. This tall man, who was standing now, his long, tangled, matted hair falling over his shoulders ( a Billy Connolly look alike),  told us that they charged for them and he didn't usually have the money to stay in one . Well, I thought, what homeless person would, living hand to mouth on the road and all that.

Then he and my husband proceeded to tell me of the good fortune which befell him while I was in the church. How the chap getting married that day had asked him what size shoes he wore - unfortunately his feet were two sizes too big -and then what size waist he was. Ahh , better luck there.  And what about corduroy, did he like brown corduroy. Of course he did . Reaching in his holdall bag,  the  "soon to be married" took out a smart pair of trousers and feeling in the pocket found a ten pound note. "It's your lucky day," he said beaming and handing him both the trousers and the money.
As the man of the road told  me this tale , he also had a huge smile on his face.
At this point I took his hand in mine to see how cold he was. He was cold...

"Give him my gloves,"  said my husband . He had let me borrow his gloves earlier . I feel the cold more than he does.
And of course your man  was delighted to get the gloves too.

He wasn't there when we came out after the service and I just hope that he is still doing OK and that he will survive through the winter.

Walk By ?

27th Nov 2017

I'm joining the six sentence story challenge this week, for want of any inspiration.
 The word we've been given  is "mate":

Walk By ?

"Got any change mate?" he pushed his hand forward in front of you and you noticed that the creases in it were lined with black grime, a sign that he'd been sleeping rough for some time.
You went to move away, to avoid contact, your heart rate rising, your stomach turning cartwheels, but something kept you rooted to the spot, even though everything was telling you to just brush past him.
You were about to say "sorry" and walk on when you looked up and caught his gaze, pleading , sad , honest, so instead you said, "hang on a minute," while you rummaged in your pocket and pulled out a fiver.
"Thank you sir, thank you so much," he took the money and kept bowing,  "I'll use it wisely, promise."
As he walked away, bent over with the burden of his belongings in a sack on his back , you tried to compose yourself, to get back to what you were doing, to catch your train, but you were disturbed.
You wondered what had brought him to this point, so instead of catching your train that day you turned around and went in search of him, in search of the man who got under your skin, to hear his story and maybe do a little more to help.


I know it's another one about the homeless. It's just that it's winter and I hate the thought of anyone not having a home and some food to keep them well.

No Going Back

26th Nov 2017


The temperature recorded just above  freezing in the car this morning.
 I shivered.
That can't be right. It must be at least a little below freezing point.
But I've always been a cold mortal. I turned the heating up high hoping it would
 soon kick in and warm my nose and my fingertips.

Anyway, later, on this bright winter morning, home at last,
wrapped up in layers, drinking warm coffee, I tune in to radio 4.
 They're telling the  story of a homeless man.
 I sit up, listen more carefully, look out at the grey skies.
Is there snow on the way?

Apparently this man  finds a ladies handbag in the centre of Bolton.
 Now, you might be tempted to think  think he counted his blessings
 and  rifled through the bag to find anything that he might be able to use.
For sure he could make his life a bit more comfortable even
if only for today. Keep the cold out with a pair of gloves.
At least buy some hot soup.
I mean, it fell into is path, so to speak.

But no, our man decides  he wants to find the owner and return it to her.
He thinks she'd be upset,  be missing it. It's got her bankcards in there, after all.
Maybe she'll be going without food herself. She needs her her purse.
No, he'll find her.
For two days he gradually makes his way, mostly walking, 
in the direction of the address he finds on her driving  licence.

When he thinks he must be in the vicinity he begins to ask  people
 if they know the  place. He shows them the licence.
Eventually he stops  a young woman, tall, dark hair, knee length  black skirt
under a three quarter red coat. He steps in front of her when she tries to pass
him by without making eye contact.
She looks at the licence he holds
Forced to look, she her eyes dart back to the little card.
Turns out she knows this girl, we don't find out her name,
and messages her on facebook.  She pulls her phone from
 her coat pocket,
begins messaging, arranges a meeting between the two
in the coffee shop just around the corner.

 The young twenty year old is delighted to get her handbag back,
all the  money, cards and sentimental, personal belongings still in place.
She was touched, surprised. Our homeless friend didn't take anything.

They kept in touch.
She went on to create a crowd fund site to help him get off the streets.




Such a heartwarming tale on this bitter morning

A poem:

No Going Back

Determined to save your sanity

You left

On that crisp, cold December morning

You left

With nothing but the clothes 

On your back

And the whole of your world in a

Very small sack.

You had no idea where

You might go

You just kept on walking

Hoping you'd know

That was over a year 

Ago now

You've got used to the road

Got some 

Know how

Wrapped in your blanket

You're there 

Outside the  Station

Sloane Square

Creases in your hands

Deep set in grime

Hair molded against brow

matted with time.

The cup at your feet waits

Waits for passers by

To see

But they all rush past

Without a glance though some will throw 

Ten pee

You left that day and 

Though it's hard this way

There's no going back 

No going back 

For you
You left

Bastille Day

23rd Nov 2017

On these cold days coming towards the end of the year, in my mind I dream of the wonderful  summer we 

spent traveling through France and Spain. 

The fireworks in November in the dark, damp cold evenings with warm bonfires take  me back to Bastille

Day in France. Celebrated on 14th July, it is an important date in French History, marking the storming of the

Bastille in 1789, during the French revolution. They mark the memory with parades, festivities and huge

celebrations, which cause the whole country to come to a standstill . Much of the revelry is broadcast on 

major television stations.

When we came off the main road to look for an Aire in which to stop for the night, little did we know that 

we would end up being caught up in the Bastille Day celebrations of the town of St Germaine. 

People waiting for the fireworks 

/

Stalls like we'd have at a funfair.

The day was hot and during the afternoon we had a cool lemonade at a bar which looked over the square where we could see the action was going to be. We watched as equipment was brought in but after a while went for a walk and then back to the camper to have something to eat .
Coming back later we were delighted to be entertained by a group of drummers - absolutely mesmerizing. Also there was a communal tent where they were serving  local homemade  alcohol, made with apples ( no, not cider) . It was delicious, almost a liquor and the best of all they were giving it to us for free. Yes, I did have a few and it drew us into the atmosphere of the occasion.
More entertainment with a group of little girls dressed in pink tops and swinging pom poms. They danced their hearts out. It was so moving .
The buzz about the place was amazing. The restaurant where we had our lemonade was full to overflowing to the extent that they brought extra tables (from somewhere) and put them out all over the square . It was a beautiful evening to be eating outside.
And then, at last, the fireworks. And wow, what a show! I mean, we have lots of events here in our seaside town and there are numerous occasions when we have fireworks displays, but, I can honestly say that I've never seen the likes of what we experienced that night . The sky was lit up with the Bastille colours of gold , red , white and blue . The noise was just like a battlefield ( I imagine) . It was just another of the many brilliant days of our adventures in the camper. Can't wait for more...

The Paint has Dried all Blue

9th Nov 2017



Prompt from six sentence stories :

Baked

The Paint has Dried all Blue

Lily fell backwards and turned her face away to avoid the hot air as she opened the oven door.
"Be careful," called her father from the living room where he sat, surrounded by papers, old photos and  plates and cups with food congealed hard into them.
She carried the tray with a tea towel, stepping between all the debris and stood in front of him, her fair hair falling in wispy waves down her red face.
"Look dad, the paint has dried all blue," she frowned as put the figures that she'd baked on the floor in front of him and knelt beside them.
"They're lovely, hun and mum would be so proud of you carrying on her tradition," he stroked her head with one hand whilst wiping away a tear with the other.
Lily's mum had died of cancer eight months before at the age of thirty seven and Lily struggled to do everything she thought her mother would have liked , including making crib figures out of salt dough, which was an activity they normally did together.

Work Ethic

5th Nov 2017

I have found a list of poetry prompts for November so I thought I'd give it a go.. It'll keep me going as I don't seem to have much inspiration of my own.
Today's prompt is "Work Ethic", which is very timely as I've just discovered a book I want to read entitled "Deep Work" by Carl Newport. ( Rules for focused success in a distracted world.)  Has anybody out there read it? It's a bit expensive to buy, only having been released last year . I think I might see if the library will get it for me.

Work Ethic

Having a real job would be easier
than sitting here trying to motivate myself
to do the work I must.
With no boss to answer to or oversee me
I procrastinate and use avoidance techniques
do anything but the thing
I should be doing.
Come on now, get to it, focus
you've got this
you can do this
OK a cup of coffee forst
then I'll start.

What do You Carry?

24th January

Everywhere seems to have snow today ,but here in Herne Bay we just have grey skies and cold...

A poem from a few years ago. 

5th Nov 2017 

It's so cold today. I've got four layers on but my fingers and feet are still like polar ice.

What are we carrying ? Do we feel it to be burdensome? Could we let go of some things,  rearrange others ? Are we weighed down and would we like to feel somewhat lighter? These are some of the questions that came to my mind with a particular poem we pondered at the Poetry for Wellbeing workshop that I attended last week.

It was interesting what came up . I remembered a time when I had all the children at home. I was always chasing my tail trying to keep up with everything and had an enormous pile of ironing which , no matter how hard I worked, I never seemed to get to the end of .
So this poem came out of that:

The Ironing

And the whole pile is slipping,

it'll end up on the floor

it'll get all dirty 

and I'll have to do more

washing.

My husbands shirts

ten or twelve

my four son's school uniform

trousers - cotton

the girls skirts - pleated.

It's the first thing I see

when I enter the room,

this mighty monster

prophet of doom

looking at me,

goading me

daring me

I'm not going anywhere

until you make

time to get round to me

I'll keep you awake

But today I've decided

I'll not do it anymore

for all I care,

It can fall on the floor

Ah no, that's no good

Instead,

let's fold it neatly

 put it away

get rid of the bully 

yes, that's the way.

Right, clear the table

and away we go,

a pile for each person

they'll never know

And before I know it 

the jobs all done.

Now, time for a cuppa

and a currant bun

All Saints

1st Nov 2017

All Saints Day

I wonder how many children, or adults for that matter, celebrated Halloween yesterday evening. We saw some children trick or treating and later adults all dressed up in rather ghoulish costumes, no doubt on their way to parties to have lots of fun.
Well that's great,  but will any of them know what Halloween means?

The word Halloween literally means the evening before All Hallows Day or All Saints Day which is celebrated on the 1st November ( today).
There are varied sources for the reason for the traditions that have grown up around Halloween and you can easily search them on google.
I just want, today, to focus on saints. What is a saint?
In the Catholic Church we have many canonised saints held up to us to inspire us to get closer to God ourselves. Who are these people and can any of us be one of them? Wouldn't we need to be praying all day in a convent to be worthy of the title, saint. Wouldn't it be impossible in my busy profession, in my hectic family life to reach the heights of sanctity.

Well, no. St Josemaria, a modern day saint,  canonised as recently as 2002, called by Pope John Paul 11, the "Saint of Ordinary Life"  said:
"God wants us to be saints.  You and I belong to Christs family, for he himself has chosen us before the foundation of the world, to be saints, to be blameless in his sight, for love of him, having predestined us to be his adopted children through Jesus Christ according  to the purpose of his will. We have been chosen gratuitously by Our Lord. His choice of us sets us a clear goal. Our goal is personal sanctity, as St Paul insistently reminds us, haec est voluntas Dei: santificatio vestra, "this is the will of God: your sanctification". Let us not forget, then, that we are in our masters sheepfold in order to achieve that goal. "      ( Friends of God)

Each one has their own path- the scientist , the shop worker, the mother at home looking after her small children - all are called to the same life of holiness through their work, turning everything they do into prayer and love for God.  It is at the same time both the easiest and the hardest thing.
But it's also a great adventure .

Today, we don't just celebrate those saints who've made it to the altars but the many more ordinary , holy people, who are living their lives and giving Glory to God. You might know some .

Octpowrimo 31 Water

1st Nov 2017

So, we come to the end of October and the end of the octpowrimo challenge. I have enjoyed ot so much and looking back on the month I can see that some of my random words might be worthy of a revisit , so that'll keep me busy.

So here is my last offering

My theme for these two poems

Water

I am the river
travelling
sometimes strong, fierce,
sometimes a trickle, almost
gone
I am the river,
wide, winding,  full
then rushing, gushing,
down from the
mountain
I am the river
many lives depend on me
I am the river


Clouds, close can almost touch
white wisps blotting blue
or, slate grey and green.
Down the scree a waterfall steps
depositing pools in plateaus
dropping in sheets - six,
seven metres
filling the air with whooshing
background sound
Along valley floor
flows the water
it snakes its way more slowly till
departing, disappearing behind
A mountain