Beloved…

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

Beloved…

She looked at me with salt worn eyes

Tears of a thousand years

Her pain I could not imagine

Her years are old, she has lived too long

Old memories haunt her days, her nights

A plait crowns her beautiful grey hair

Her hand small and gentle, touch my face

Her smile almost invisible, too hard

Her pain holds it at bay, yet I remember

that her smile lit her eyes like night stars

She will forever be my beloved Oma…

Anita Signature

Many Tears…

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Many Tears

… will be shed today,

Elvis has not just left the building, he has left our world for another

where I hope to God, he finds the answers he was looking for.

I know he may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, he was my first real crush. I deserted Cliff Richard the moment I found Elvis.

Sad to say, I never made it to Graceland’s

I am not one of those screaming kind of fans, I felt I could see beyond the performer and the part that haunted me, captured my soul.

I do not say this lightly; I am writing this because Jaye and I were discussing our heroes. Name three, she said. She knew the first one of course.

The second was Da Vinci. I could not name a third

There are many lesser ones that I like

Ones that have the same kind of spark in smaller amounts

Like idols with feet made of clay, they don’t quite match

What about writers, Jaye asked

I could only think of one, James Herbert

I had watched an interview once and he had a great sadness about him

I brought his last hard back, something I never do as I prefer paperback

Then found out a few days later, he had died

That left a little hole in my mind as I had contacted him a while back

His kindness is still remembered

I told Jaye, that’s enough of this nonsense, back to work…

Anita Signature

 

 

 

Perchance… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

I dream of a smoke-filled room

With deep red leather chairs

An old boys meeting place

Where all my favourite poets and storytellers

sit with their philosopher friends

Pen poised, ready to change the world

With their great imaginings

Magic to soothe the mind

Help your own thoughts to expand

Lewis Carroll speaks of a young girl

fallen down a rabbit hole

My ears tingle with anticipation

H G Wells speaks of the time machine he has in mind

Reading from his notes I want to interrupt him

Beg him to please take me with you

Today they have a foreign visitor

by the name of Mark Twain

He speaks of a strange land

and people of a different kind

Of a boy, Tom Sawyer, made to paint

 a picket fence with white paint

Getting into all kinds of trouble

Helping a slave to escape when no one else would

His heart as big as the Mississippi

I would have helped with that expedition

A run for freedom that belonged to his all along

Morning wakes my still tired eyes

I look to my notepad by my bedside

Wishing I could write as well as my favourite authors

My mind still held in half dream

On my notepad I read two words, You can

Written by a hand that was not my own…

AAAAA

Memories…

 

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

 

Memories are funny things, aren’t they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think – hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it’s down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that’s not always the case.

Just lately, I have been remembering a specific time in my youth, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me.  Was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won’t always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point, I didn’t really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn’t change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother’s problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was an impressive gravestone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble, and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for ages, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite famous. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (1828- 1882), and I remember being very impressed by the sound of him, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy, and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter, and some would say that he wasn’t very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I think Dante was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today…

watermark xjj

Another memory of the Falls…

 

St. Nectan’s Falls

 

On one of our trips to Cornwall, we decided to seek out St Nectan’s Glen.

Not realising there was a short cut, we took the long walk through the fields along a small path to get to the Falls.  Single file small!

There were cliffs to one side, the other a sheer drop that was full of trees, nothing soft to break a fall. I moaned all the way there, to find the waterfall at the end, the most wonderful sight.

Jaye had stepped into her own paradise, her love of water. It was plain to see, her face lit up as if the sun shone where there was none.

We noticed people high on a ridge, at the top of the waterfall.

Jaye has a fear of heights, but that day she conquered it, to get as close as she could to the top of the Falls. I am not kidding when I say that there was barely room for a pigeon on this ridge. There we were, my entire family, along with any future grandchildren I might have, vanished in fear.

Squeezing past people coming down was the moment I realised just how dangerous this was. Even now, when I think about it, I remember the nightmares I suffered. I still believe we were fools to have climbed up there.

We found our way to the small hut where St Nectan lived out his days. We signed the visitor book. Back on the flat ground, I gave a sigh of relief. Never again, I said, more times than I can count.

The thing I remember most was the deafening sound of the water and how cold it felt. Would I go again?

Maybe, but taking the shortcut, and no climbing high…

 

 

(This was Anita’s memory of the day I posted about HERE  )

Living Light ~ Kirlian Photography

Nostalgia for the past is lingering this week, a hangover from all those lovely memories we posted last week.

The following image are negatives, I had to tape them to a window in order to photograph them…

 

 

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Anita’s Fingerprints

 

Living Light

 

The aura, the living light that surrounds each living thing on the planet.

Jaye and I had these photographs taken many moons ago,

too many to count, meaning to have them printed.

The other night they came to mind.

Of course, I asked Jaye to do something with them, and she did .

I cannot remember the name of the man we met at a Spiritualist Fair.

He invited us to his home where he took these images of our hands.

I think they should see the light of day after all this time…

AAAAA

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“Kirlian photography refers to a form of contact print photography, theoretically associated with high-voltage. It is named after Semyon Kirlian, who in 1939 accidentally discovered that if an object on a photographic plate is subjected to a strong electric field, an image is created on the plate.

In controversial metaphysical contexts, Kirlian photography, Kirlian energy, and so on, are sometimes referred to as just ‘Kirlian’. Kirlian made controversial claims that his method showed proof of supernatural auras, said to resemble a rough outline of the object like a colorful halo.

Kirlian proposed and promoted the idea that the resulting images of living objects were a physical proof of the life force or aura which allegedly surrounds all living beings. This claim was said to be supported by experiments by the Kirlians that involved cutting part of a leaf off – the Kirlian images of such leaves, it was said, still showed the leaves as whole, as though the cutting had never happened.”

 

 

Returning Time… #Poetry

 

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Image by jenanita01.com

 

Returning Time

The dead do not lie still.

Their long shadows

search those secret places, pulling your mind apart.

They hide behind damp patches on the wall

waiting for you to scrape through the layers of time.

Old newspapers beneath carpets

Lost photographs at the back of the drawer

A box full of records you can no longer play

Love letters you find.

That distant whisper lets you know

they have come back…

AAAAA

Golden Memories…

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Due, I suspect, to the arrival of our Great Grandchild three weeks ago, an air of nostalgia has descended upon our household. All the old photographs have come out of hiding, accompanied by much reminiscing.

We thought we would share some of these golden memories with you…

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It was like having a time machine, going back to all those times and remembering them as if they were yesterday…

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Do you ever take a walk down Memory Lane?

AAAAA

 

Christmas Snow… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

 

I remember Christmas with deep snow

Yellow streetlights glowing

Changing the way the world looked

Landmarks vanishing

You walk with remembering

Breaking through snow as if you know where to go

Each step crunching like rice pops

Beware of walking too close to trees

They like to dump their heavy load as you pass

Like mischievous children throwing snowballs

I remember nights with the full moon

Stars too many to count

I look down from my window and wonder

Did God make extra stars to fall with the snow?

That shines, sparkle, brighter than those above

Late night snow, reflecting heaven

Earlier footprints filled in as if some

Unseen hand had swept the carpet clean

As my mum does before we go to bed

I love this memory…

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London… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

 

Silent faces walk the streets of London

Never stopping, no smiles to give away

Tourists, cameras flashing

Strange sounds assail your ears

Like too many bird songs

Chalk art on pavements that should be seen

Trafalgar fountains spraying

With Nelson watching all

The bells of St Martin’s ring

To someone in need of prayer

Get your shoes shined here

Take a piece of London home

To say you visited here

Artist’s paintings hang on railings

Visit museums if that’s your thing

Ride an open top bus, hope there’s no rain

See the street vendors, card tricks

Stick pins in their flesh

Take the bus that sails on the water

Walk the pink roads, see Buck House

Give a nod to Queen Victoria as you pass

Stop for lunch, ride the London Eye

Before you take the train home…

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