One forgotten spirit walks
beneath yesterday’s cloudy moon.
Searching for alchemy, transformation
old age magic to remove the sting of memory.
The song remembered under dark skies
to have a voice, to sing again.
The pull, the swell of life below,
a mix of bittersweet memory.
Chill thoughts of a life wasted
the need to be born again.
Haunted by the scarred face of the moon.
Would that a strong wind could blow
his spirit newborn,
beneath tomorrow’s full moon...
Sacred water, the giver of life
we do everything with it
bathe, clean windows, wash cars
Leave a bowl out for the birds
Christen our new borns
As children, we splash in it
laughing and screaming getting soaking wet
We go boating on a summer afternoon
hand held over the side
Gentle water slipping through our fingers
Hidden trails of water beneath our feet
The Hindu God of Oceans, Varuna
Salty water, secret life below
Water is calm and violent
we cannot do without it
It sustains all life, take time
to bless the magic that falls on us…
Image by scvincent.com
Torn apart, my best piece of writing,
or so I thought by a cruel comment.
Like the backwash of a wave broken on our beach
The many rocks worn, cracked across their middle
still able to give a warm seat when I tire.
I have my favourites, where I can
run my hand across the small scars.
Straight lines, cruel whip marks
we all age and crack given enough time
The road marks on our faces as we age
The map of time passing,
the rift that marks all things.
The land falls away leaving a hollow
for the unknown traveller to fall int
A large cloud falls apart as if someone
had pulled a cotton ball in two.
It drifts on by, to be swallowed
by the other waiting clouds.
Whole again, as we too will be
when one puts a hand out to the other.
The rift is repaired. Would that everything
could be so easily mended
as a cloud drifting by.
With time and water, the force of the oceans,
the cracks in the rocks will be smooth again,
their story untold. As if age had not touched them.
How do we mend a rift in time itself?
What falls between the space where
time has moved away from itself?
Like the wish written on paper as a child,
folded so many times
hidden in the crack of a rock on the beach.
My own wailing wall.
I have no recollection of the wish coming true
It may have done. Time has taken the memory
As I am sure the sea has taken my piece of paper
Smooth or cracked, a boulder
will tell its own story if you sit awhile…
There has been a noticeable air of determination in the office this week. Even Merlin, our cat has spent more time with me, sitting on my desk for all the world as though supervising the whole shooting match.
And what has triggered this state of affairs?
I think it started when I realised I was in danger of drowning under the growing piles of paperwork on my desk, and that something needed to be done about it and sooner rather than later.
I have known for some time that we have been drifting like a rudderless boat. It was never spoken about, but I think we had slowly abandoned all hope of ever achieving our goals. ‘Maybe one day,’ had turned into ‘In your dreams.’ almost without our noticing.
It was while sorting through the pile of paperwork, that I think I was bitten by some kind of creative bug. I became determined to do something about our state of inertia. Everywhere I looked it seemed, other people were making progress so it was reasonable to assume we could too.
Somewhere among all the paper in front of me had to be the key to our future in the writing business. I was in the habit of saving helpful articles, all claiming to turn me from hopeless to genius in no time at all. So I systematically sorted through the pile, keeping some and discarding others. I started a list of things to do, determined to master or learn one new thing every day.
On day one, I updated our Pinterest boards, adding new pins relating to our book promotion and adding our URL to them all. This, apparently, will increase the traffic to our website.
Day Two, I updated the header menu on our website, adding all of our #BlogBattle posts. Not essential, just something I had been meaning to get around to.
Day Three, we need to find readers, so I start with Twitter. #Amreading. and follow some readers.
Day Four, update our book promo posters. I also took the afternoon off and spent it cuddling our new Great Grandchild, something far more rewarding!
Day Five, read up on creating a street team. We need several readers to help promote my almost finished crime mystery novel. If anyone has any helpful hints for this, please holler!
My days are beginning to look quite different now. I write first thing in the morning for at least an hour, more if it’s flowing well. Then I attack the emails. This can take up to two hours. Then it’s social networking and follow-ups until lunch.
I like to do an online jigsaw while I eat, something that is supposed to help my ageing brain! so no guilt there!
After lunch, I post whatever articles we have available, and the rest of the afternoon is dedicated to the new learning routine and or research.
What we need to do, is set up a schedule that will mostly run itself, freeing up some time for other activities.
As that old adage is slowly becoming true around here.
The one about all work and no play…
The
warm earth
holds its breath
new life waiting
bird song greets the day
daisies carpet sweet grass
willow fronds touching water
the source of our own beginning
the origin of all that once was
dark to light, mother earth’s chant of joy…
Rain-washed along our street in a wave, pushed by the wind.
Half-formed bubbles floated on top as if someone was blowing through a straw trying to amuse unseen children.
It has been this way for the past three weeks, helpful for my writing, my desk in front of the large bay window.
Early one morning, I noticed a yellow garment drifting by. A small jacket, possibly a child’s. A beam of light broke through the clouds, illuminating the jacket as it passed. It caught on the corner of the street.
I decided to retrieve it, not knowing why and as I stepped outside, the rain stopped and the silence felt like a soothing balm.
Inside the pocket, I found one large marble, a whistle and a very old tin soldier.
The jacket must belong to a boy. I doubt it would be a girl.
I placed a card in the corner shop, hoping the owner of the jacket would want it back. I wanted the story of my find, a child’s treasure. I remembered my own, long ago squirrelled under my bed. The fires of yesterday blown out now.
Saturday morning, I answered the doorbell to a beautiful young woman holding the hand of a young girl of about five years old. I asked them in and went to get the jacket.
As I handed it to the woman, the child snatched it from her and checked the pockets, smiling at her treasures.
“Jessica, what do you say?”
Thanks received, I asked if they would like tea, that I had cake.
A ploy, giving her mother that look that only a child can, without saying please.
I served the tea with a small glass of orange for Jessica.
I asked Jessica’s mother if I could talk about the three objects I found in the pocket.
“The marble was the first time Jess won a game, I told her to keep it for luck to remind her she is a winner. The whistle is for unwanted attention, should she feel uncomfortable. It has a very loud sound and scares of dogs and other nuisances.”
Her look told me I was supposed to know what she meant, and of course, I did.
The tin soldier was the last gift from her father. He told her it would remind her that he would always be by her side, fighting in her corner. The Gulf War I understood.
I thought the mother to be in her late twenties, too young to be alone with a child. The Gulf War ended a year ago. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she wouldn’t have found someone yet. I hoped not, because I intended to be that someone …
Another mindless Christ, preaching endless syllables of nothingness.
Whose soul does he think he can save with words that have no meaning?
There are no signs, no road to redemption.
Let me start my life over without the broken pieces behind me.
Let the ocean swallow my useless life.
My life did not flash before me.
All I could see, the full moon above dancing fingers of light through water.
That pub sign I passed, The Green Wizards Hat swung in front of my eyes
Misshapen, like the crazy mirrors at the carnival.
My air seems seemed endless, I should be drowning by now
no more than a body to be found on some shore by a passing stranger.
Others gather, looking down, voices…
“How sad, she is so young, what drove her to this?”
Among the crowd, someone stepped forward to close my eyes.
He could not hear me screaming, “Please don’t. Let me see the wizard in the green hat.”
My eyes closed, my hearing gone, how will I know what he had to say to me?
I awake in hospital, had he closed my eyes too soon, thinking me dead?
Did some strange pub sign save me?
Flowers by my bedside, a card, a small green wizard hat in the corner.
Inside I read, “Now you can start your life over…”
There was no signature.
Did an ancient wizard step through time?
Clearing out the attic
I found Grandads chisels
carefully wrapped in cloth.
He is no longer with us
But I remember him telling me
Always look after your tools.
He was the same with all his tools
Paintbrushes must be thoroughly cleaned.
Unwrapping the cloth, five chisels
as good as the day he bought them
Rosewood handles, each blade sharp
as the last time he held them.
I could feel him beside me
nudging me to find the wooden train set
he made for my twelfth birthday.
I found so much more, I rediscovered
My grandfather, his lost wisdom…
Do
not hunt
the lost one
he can find you
words spoken by water
calling all to excel
to be bathed in clean warm springs
to follow in his firm footsteps
to steer your ship to welcome warm shores
transcend, surpass all your expectations
I
attend
Sunday church
my soul transcend
sins everywhere
the walls run thick with tears
heads bowed in silent prayer
seeking forgiveness given here
candle lit, penance paid, sins vanish
I chase my shadow across the Rubicon
The die is cast, whose favour will it fall
my soul hangs in balance of payment
I track the desert wilderness
I seek the one who can help
to return me from hell
call me from exile
the hunt over
my own guide
I live
now
