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?
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.
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.
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.
From my collection
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.
The locals call it double dumpling
it makes people smile, her intense yellow
wrapped over and under her petals of desire.
She’s bigger than a buttercup
and loves the spray from the river Tees,
she’s common on the river bank but
likes the shade of hawthorn and briar.
There is something about the unexpected,
a first sighting of such an orb, the beauty.