Talcum powder watercolour sky

Watercolour blue sky-so pale.

Mother God played with

talcum powder & water,

swirling & playing & making

a bright paste of liquid light.

The talc-water smelled so good

She decided to wash the sky with it –

Knowing that the light would be

too pure, too clean, too bright

for human eyes-

risking blinding souls &

transfixing all of creation into

a skyward stupor.

She plucked the lightest bluebell

hanging from her hair

and used its

petals as her paintbrush.

Dancing her arm across the sky,

light-paste dripping off

her bluebell brush,

& down her charcoal hands.

Gifting us her playtime, watercolour creation as our autumn twilight canopy.

Douai Abbey, 20-9-19

Heartful rage

Can I feel this

heart-swelling,

heart-filling,

breath-quickening

RAGE,

if I have not love?

Can just words,

lines & swirls

melded together on a page,

create this response, this

hand-shaking,

heart-thudding,

stomach-swirling,

pain-fuelled

FURY

if I have not love?

Heart,

breath,

hands –

the body doesn’t lie.

Here,

love lives inside.

The woman with my face

Time together coming to an end,

as trains approach to take us to our separate destinations;

Hugging you again –

we do that a lot –

bending down to fit my arms

around your now slighter frame;

Kissing your soft cheek goodbye,

Holding your hand with deep love and connection,

Looking back at you as I walk away,

Your face bursts forth a splendid,

whole-soul smile

and clear as glass I think:

‘I am looking at my own, smiling face!’

…Mum

Mummy Swan and her Baby Swan

Dancing cherries

As I sat alone in a wine-cafe (yes, such a thing exists!), swirling & sipping a glass of something red & chewing chilli-seasoned olives while listening to Sleeping at Last I penned this oh so short poem:

Cherries swirling,

Hands held, smiles open,

Dancing around the glass;

Spinning together til

Dizzy with delight as they take turns

Sliding down steep sides with

Warmth and gentle power.

Desiderata-living

My eye caught this beautiful scene of the sunlight through my front window this afternoon & I paused to take it in… the roses & green grass behind and, in the middle, this framed calligraphy of the beautiful, guiding poem Desiderata.

As I take time off following the end of a beautiful, hard job that stretched, broke (in bad & good ways), grew, shaped, blessed, fulfilled & thrived me…

As I take time off to think & feel & plan & be, before starting a new challenge & path ahead…

As I take time to enjoy art & reading & space & friendship,

this poem speaks to me anew & I am enjoying living it’s advice to (poem summary ahead):

Go placidly amidst the noise & haste & remember what peace there may be in silence.

Be on good terms with all persons.

Listen.

Don’t compare.

Enjoy plans & achievements alike.

Be at peace with God. See the beauty amidst the ugly drudgery it the world.

Be yourself.

Yes, be yourself.

Be yourself.

Through this hard year I have learnt the value of being more myself.

Of self-awareness, understanding & acceptance.

Acceptance which leads to better growth – of self & others.

And to the beautiful power & freedom of working, living, relating from a place of ever-more Me-ness as I continue to push on and let go.

As I continue to grow into the stunning living poem I am & write & draw my own story as I go.

Purifying salt

Though the raging waves

spray salt in your face,

hurting the cuts which cover your lips

from biting your tongue to hold truths in.

As the winds whirl around you,

whipping hair into your eyes and

lashing your vulnerable skin,

drawing tears of blood to run down your cheeks.

While you shake and shiver as

coldness seeps deep into your being,

tensing your body and spirit.

Through stinging, lashing and shaking

remember:

The waves will still,

The wind will calm,

And the warmth will return to your

thoughts and bones.

And then you will realise this truth;

A truth born out in the molecules of the universe,

A truth which is true when feelings are not…

Salt purified you.

Tears released your pain.

And that cold,

that wearying, biting, cold,

That cold preserved you.

Image: Antonio Miucci

Sitting at the beach

No one questions why someone is sitting,

Empty handed,

By themselves,

At the sea.

We know.

At the sea,

We understand

this act of

Being

with one’s thoughts.

But.

Bizarrely.

Doing that in a cafe in London makes

people will think you’re a weirdo.

Brighton Beach, 26.5.19