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First blog post

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cropped-2009_0421headflamborough0051.jpganc13anc21First blog post As I head towards the end of June 2017 I can’t help but feel wet, yes, dripping wet, soggy even, I recall only a few weeks ago my life was jogging along in some kind of happy supported idle. I had found after sixty odd years of searching for dare I say it LOVE and acceptance for the being that I am here and now, a mixed up bag of tricks formed by family and experiences multifold. I don’t know if our lives are written in stone  or sand, but that element of swift change is always a bloody shock, the unexpected, the pole shift of consciousness if you like, that all was indeed not as you ever thought it really was. Tough, I’m sure you would agree. I’v read quite a few blogs over the last few years and some of them are really informative and entertaining, but some of them are just far too egotistical, diary diatribe, all the ins and outs of what someone has done each and every week, I don’t care if you have to wash your knickers twice, leave it out will you. So here I am at the crossroads again, not exactly sure which path I will be following next.  So I will somehow be writing something about it, and I will try not to bore you folks, Ta ta for now.

post

Is it strange that today I am a rabbit’s twitch                             20.4.20

 

startled by the half moon

that hangs low in the morning sky,

that today I’m ruffled fur along

the spine of a vixen’s prowl on Dark Lane,

or that I’m in the throat of a blackbird’s

alarm call across the Tame valley?

 

Today I am all these horrors

as skin on my face tightens

into another Wednesday

where all normal days

from yesterday have morphed

into unknown darkness,

where curiosity is a dead theatre,

where shopping is a war zone

in supermarket aisles and cars

have stopped revving.

 

Today the air is clean.

Today I hear you speak into my mobile.

Today I cannot hold your hand.

 

Again the rain falls

Big clocks chime the stories of redemption, how light always returns to our ordinary days of waking up to a changing world. Comic books give us dreams of Superheroes. Some psychologists believe that daily news is bad for us, how it can affect the way we relate in a day that starts with hate and fear. Each minute of night and day something’s going on out there and in here, cramming our thoughts with how to fix it, how to be healthy in body and mind, get off your arses and walk, breathe in the contaminated air etc, 10,000 steps to paradise! Now they (who ever they are) tell us its precipice time, wake up, change, stop all of your commercially brainwashed days, please, please, please, all the evidence is available on every media, it’s like we’re blind or something. I’m definitely missing those dry, crisp cold days of winter, how about you?

Memory

Shallows

Fish me from the deep blue, make fire

once more in an aged skull. Hook out

those days of Jacks and white chalk

on pavements, where mum’s skin

was my home of safety. Plumb anything

left from my shoreline of hope now sands

sift fast through everyday, now that she’s

a ghost, dad’s a dream. Trawl my stupid

brain, let these shadows of nothingness

becalm endless tides of trying.

I know I should have kept a diary,

so many of you told me I should.

Ice

Ice

At last something familiar enters under our skins.

At last our eyes see trees frozen in puddles.

At last the clouds come down to our feet.

At last a universe appears as ice.

At last seasons remember our love for stillness,

the icicle, the transformation outside and in.

On becoming another decade

It’s only in the last few years that I’ve felt the weight of my age, gravity having its way with me, sack of potatoes in my belly, all the signs of entropy. Mirror gazing is a problem, seeing the real you, reflection the only way to face denial of life, lucky you, all that life, blossom of you, hard rack of bones carrying on and on. How all those heartaches and tears have wriggled into your saggy skin, how all those amazing joys and laugh out loud moments have kept you sane, how all the sadness and worries of a ridiculous world of possible magic has left you on your knees praying to a phantom god or goddess. My 70th year as been a milestone. I feel that finally I’m settled into my own skin, I am not my mum or dad, I am who I always was, a part of my ancestral family and my own truth. All that searching for love and approval from others, oh my! What a weight that has been, all that beating myself up for not feeling good enough. Well, time to fly and let as much of that go, send it to the moon and sun, I can feel my new skin, a rebirth of realisations. Oh how lucky I am to finally be able to say No and not compromise my power to anyone else, how lucky am I after 70 years to be able to walk my path of beauty. Heh, I’m not saying it’s easy and how much loss that’s involved, it’s been like torture and I still pine for all my so called buddies whose hands are lost to me now. But how else would I have come to know my shadow side, how else. And let’s remember the pain body how it remembers everything. Ouch!

The last few years have been a revelation to me. Since my wizard entered my life and accepts me for everything that I am, even though we battle with our emotional baggage we hold hearts together and we are blessed with strong feet that make us tall in our true voices. Oh how lucky we are. My process has enabled me to dance like Billy Elliot, to splash paint on a canvas, to use my eyes to photograph wonders, to conjure poetry on to white space, to have them published and to stand up in front of you all and bring my truth to you all.

Augusttime

nature orange butterfly silver bordered fritillary

image by google.

I am bereft of butterflies this summer, where there is an abundance of white wings, the orange, red, yellow, brown, black dots, swirls of peacock, admiral and fritillary are rare. The buddleia’s starflowers only ghosted by last years memory of their spindle legs and proboscis tickle. The paradise for an angel’s wing has quickly turned to brown, their tips vacant of wing beats. Summer has tumbled over with heat and dry earth, the hills at Carrbrook are black, sootdust barren from a blaze of fire. I feed goldfinch with black seeds and they come back every year. I plant blue scabious, penstemon and lavender to entice the rarest of wings and bees come back; but I am bereft of the adonis blue, clouded yellow, lulworth skipper and painted lady; they are far away from here.