THE GARDEN AT 2AM

 For my late Father, with much love...

Stepping out here into a parallel universe.

My outstretched hands locate an unsettling void

where the cabin should be. At least, it was here -

but now the spikyness of the giant yucca 

is prickling my palms. Familiarity,

I begin to realise, is mostly expectation.

My garden's a foreign language only half understood,

translating indistinct shapes into imaginary monsters:

I ought to know my rose bush, but a shroud

of blurry grey distorts it something menacing.

Only this afternoon it was a mass of yellow blooms

and gradually, now I'm forcing my eyes to adjust to the dark,

I see faint pale orbs appear and then fade -

welcome signposts in this infinite gloom.

And towering above me, the oak tree,

jet black against the moonless sky, many-limbed, half human;

it's gigantic bony claws reaching for me...

old childhood fears once more possess my receptive mind.

Suddenly I need you here beside me

to allay my terror - just as you always did so long ago.

Pulses fear-racing, I call out to you,

firing my earnest entreaty across the unseen veil.

But it's syllables are lost in the mists of time,

are now no more than mere echoes of what once was...

and I miss you.

Oh how I miss you...

HAPPY NEW YEAR  🎉🍾🎈🎁🎇 XXX

AN ORDINARY SUNDAY

An ordinary Sunday in December.

Here I am without an inkling

on a Sunday, thinking it normal.

Here I wait in an endless gap

between wishing and fulfilment.

Here I am, without prophetic sight,

hearing the collective engine roar

while consumed by anticipation.

Here is my Checo, starting fifth on the grid.

Rounding a bend...CRASH!...spinning off.

Now last. My stomach churning.

NO! Oh no!! All hope lost.

I am crushed, not again!

Hang on a minute - where's your faith?

He's good with tyres and at overtaking.

What kind of fan are you

to imagine the worst? LOOK -

he's already fourth from the back!

My Mexican Hero, streaming through the pack - 

he's third now, oh dare I hope?

A ten year wait, already too long.

Willing, hoping, praying that today's his day.

HE'S JUST TAKEN THE LEAD!!

The go go go of adrenaline rush - my heart

in sync with his - pounding.

Oh please Checo, no mistakes now!

Such euphoria. Feeling for him,

willing him on...

THE CHEQUERED FLAG!!

He's done it - he's done it!!!

The sixth of December, twenty-twenty,

in Bahrain...a Sunday

so extraordinary, so spectacular,

that I'll remember for the rest of my life!

YAY!!   🇲🇽🏁🇲🇽🏁🇲🇽🏁🇲🇽🏁🇲🇽🏁🏆🏆🏆

Congrats, Checo, on your first F1 victory!!

Here's hoping for many more next year with your new team, Red Bull 🍀🍀🍀

SEASONS GREETINGS EVERYONE...STAY SAFE AND HAPPY, AND HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME!! XXXXXXX

SENTENCE

That day I travelled to find an answer,

I shook with fear as I sought out

the unfamiliar hospital. Then, when I found it

I stood outside, trying hard to calm my raging nerves.

Inside, a Covid-deserted waiting room,

walls covered in red warning signs: wear a mask,

social distancing.  Soon, a nurse ushered me

into a room that felt like doom.

Cold seeped in from an open window.

I shivered. The Judge was about to pass sentence.

I sat through eternity. In the silence between

I wished myself a million miles away

and not feeling so vulnerable, so flawed, so inferior -

but to be lounging instead in front of the TV

and sipping coffee, buried in scatter cushions; rather

than hearing the term "further investigation" define my future...

Phew, am I glad that is over...for now! 😊

REJECT

The small eyes and large nose -

endurable now as Quasimodo's hump,

loathed until embarrassment gives way

to a kind of resigned acceptance.

God's experiment gone awry:

Spirit of woman incarnated

in flawed form. Self-loathing, insecure,

yet desperately longing to be loved

for what she is inside,

for all she has to give.

Oh if only a kind heart were prized

as highly as outer beauty...

Not to be taken too seriously, guys...just a little fun at my own expense!! Lol

I am taking a short break from blogging, as I have to go to hospital for more, rather invasive 😝, tests.

I hope to "see" you again real soon.

Until then, have a great time, and stay safe and happy! 😊😊 xxxxx

PHOTONS

We are the invisible, the ones you feel

rather than see; no shimmering forms

in the darkness, just pure energy

spiralling around itself within consciousness:

the source of white noise interferences

that send shivers down the spine

and cause such excitement

among paranormal investigators and the curious;

intriguing, destabilising scientific theorem

and established religious dogma.

Until we can prove our existence to you

beyond all shadow of doubt, that we

have survived the transition that you call "death",

we will remain in the shadows - silent

and just beyond your comprehension.

STARDUST

Last night I dreamt of Woodstock:

riding in on Matthew's lyrics 

or, perhaps, their time-honoured echo -

an ecstasy of incense and mud

beneath bare feet;

hunger, thirst; sense of belonging

with half a million minds

united in peace and love;

bodies swaying out of time

to Hippie bands, stoned and elated;

golden flecks of stardust

beneath the blue infinity.

An ocean of tents, souls entwined

within canvas on stony ground

of Yasgur's Farm.

Invisible time traveller

from fifty-one years

in the future - here, but

etheric, ghost-like,

trying hard to push through

time's forbidden barrier.

Born too late, yet

desperate to be part

of the legendary Summer of Love,

where there is no hatred, no greed,

nor any Reaper's curse

of grim pandemic...

Oh God! No!!

Paradise is fading fast

as I'm yanked back into the waking hell

of twenty-first century isolation

and my lockdown prison cell.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIHfuihoz70    Please skip ads to watch!

WINTER BLUES

The trees are stripped bare now

like naked bones picked clean

by the sharp beak of ravenous crow

in winter grown too lean.

Hill and dale are brown and dead

and birds no longer sing.

Of the coming months I'm full of dread,

winter's really not my thing.

North winds shapeshift leaves into devils,

while high above dark clouds

are banking up in rippling levels

as if sombre burial shrouds.

Each blade of grass is turning white

and solid as miniature swords.

Jack Frost's spell with stinging bite

brings a vision of frozen fiords.

What counter-magic can I devise

to banish him far away?

For he's the cause of summer's demise

and I'll make him pay some way.

Those days of bathing in the sun

on sandy beaches are gone,

and staying indoors is much less fun -

oh I feel so put upon!

But in my heart last summer's bees

still hum through the vibrant hues

of bluebells, poppies, roses and peonies...

to ward off these winter blues.

BROKEN

By some miracle I still live,

breathe, and my heart beats out

it's crazy tattoo into the silence

of the midnight street. No

living soul is here to see

my bloody, gaping wound

that reeks of love's battlefield;

or the guts that hang out,

mangled and totally screwed up

by a renegade amoroso.

Never. For my agony

is well concealed by the darkness

and it's dreamlike distortion

of sidewalk and shuttered terrace -

all of which in daylight mocked

the enormity of my fractured world

by their complacent ordinariness:

everything is not alright!

Don't they know I'm inwardly dying

from a mortally injured heart?

Even as my shattered trust

silently screams out it's hurt

into the deserted ether,

so, perhaps, this dreadful void

you've left me in

will in time become the impetus

to grow past you and put aside

my broken dreams

so that, more foolish than any clown,

I can dare to love again.

TO YOUTH

You've departed but I remain

the same person, but outwardly changed.

Only in dreams can I reclaim

these ageing features rearranged,

and once again become best friends

with my mirror. How I've been short-changed!

                            

Old photographs that I stumbled upon

evoked the excitement of yesteryear

and revealed at once time's spiteful con:

eternal youth? A lie, I fear!

Smooth skin banished, passion vanished -

life as a crone would be much too drear.

NO!! My spirit will not succumb.

Inside I'm sixteen - and I'm staying here! 😉😉

THE POETESS

For Chloe...

Her days consist of redefining cognition:

solitary - and she wouldn't have it another way

for she loathes distraction - she lies on her bed, curled

like a kitten, purring when the right words come.

Wanton, bare-breasted, feminine; she sculpts

fanciful images from abstract truths

that come across as alluring promises,

like ripe red apples from immoral blooms.

Her eyes twinkle with playful mischief

as stanza follows stanza across the screen,

hoping she'll be remembered after she's gone

as imagination's great interpreter...

but, too immersed in erotic metaphor, she eludes

the real, the solid, a lover's touch. 😉😉

GOODBYE

They fail to comprehend my grief:

because you weren't human they set you apart

and valued you less than a worn out shoe -

but what does it know, the cold cold heart?

Into my life such joy you brought.

My friend, my confidante, what on earth will I do

without you here in this lonely life

that has suddenly grown pointless without you?

You never uttered a hurtful word, 

never lied, cheated nor stole;

but just gave and gave without ever taking.

You were such a beautiful soul.

A vivid memory is all I have left

to carry me through my days,

of your cute little face so full of trust...

I'm left in a heartbroken daze.

My tears are falling like raindrops now,

each one a reminder of you

more precious than a glittering diamond

in the deepest shade of blue.

Those eyes that looked on me last night

are blind now, and beneath the earth

you're all alone and in the dark.

Oh my little one I so yearn to unearth

you this very moment and bring you home,

to hold you close to my heart and say

all those things I've left unsaid -

like how I've loved you more each day

and how your absence will leave such a hole

in a world that's turned upside down.

A part of me died with you last night,

in emotion I fear I'll drown.

Well I guess it's time to say goodbye,

but I'd much rather say see you soon -

for I know we'll be reunited someday

and for me that day can't come too soon.

Rest in peace, my precious Spot.

My love for you will never die...❤❤❤

THE ARCHAEOLOGIST

 

No use searching for Prince Rupert,

you've missed him by almost four centuries.

Take a look at the high ridge

that is Edgehill.

It's sandstone summit,

sunlit today and silent,

where he proved his military skills,

became a Royalist hero

and the darling of Charles' court.

What a phenomenon!

Did you really assume

you'd get to know him

by simply digging here

and attempting to interpret your finds?

No chance.

That enigmatic and elusive personality

is beyond reach to the scientific mind,

is a puzzle that teases yet defies categorisation.

If you can only see past the coins and broken fragments

and seek him instead with your Soul,

then time will perhaps reveal it's secrets

with a precious glimpse of the black Barbary horse 

and it's rider, resplendent in matching armour,

as he turns to glance in your direction.

Only then will the connection be made,

downloading into your mind

a powerful impression of who he was.

This is the real thing.

Hi everyone!😊

Not quite out of the woods yet, but will visit you as often as I can. Been really missing you all.

Do hope you are all well and happy xxxxxx

PREDATOR

 

Wild, bleak moorland -

the wind strangling me with my own hair,

gagging my voice; and the the distant hills

glowing in a patch of moving sunlight, like disembodied Souls

flitting across the horizon.

I tasted the singularity of the heather,

it's woody stalks,

the incense scent of it's purple flowers.

They had a prophetic quality, a great poignancy

that was exquisite, almost torture.

There was only one proper path.

Muddy, stony,

it led to the bridge over the stream.

And it was dangerously exposed out there -

anything moving could be seen for miles,

and a Red Kite possesses telescopic vision.

The agonized shriek  

sent a spike of ice through my veins.

The flapping of great wings was barely audible

as it swooped and swallowed the lizard whole.

My footfalls hastened onward.

I felt the unevenness underfoot,

and an inward stab of empathy.

How it stung me, that little death.

A hungry Kite. A meal without a plate.

But I, too, had recently eaten - such hypocrisy!

Another's life force ingested,

too deep inside now to rectify. It was my teeth

that had torn into a chicken's flesh,

albeit killed by an unknown predator.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for your kind messages of comfort and support. I appreciate them so very much. I will visit you all again as soon as I can...

Please stay safe and happy😊 xxxxxx

MORGANA

Morgana, my Muse, what ill-conceived
petulant or thoughtless act -
what secret of sorcery did you keep
from the Priest at my christening, that
was a blatant act of blasphemy,
when the Holy Water on my brow
burned and sizzled into vapour,
while all those present gasped?

Morgana, who intrigued me with stories
of Avalon - that legendary Otherworld
peopled with Priestesses, Sirens and other
disquieting beings. I wondered if they were your sisters,
whether it was you who'd invoked
those pale-robed hooded women
who nightly circled my girlhood bed
while chanting in an unfamiliar tongue.

In that harsh winter, when the snow
fell three feet deep and broke all records
and my Father had to dig us out, you lit
a candle and called upon Ariadne.*
After that all hell broke loose:
the spiders awoke from their hibernation
and prowled the dark recesses of our house.
Terrified, I was convinced they had come for my Soul.

Once, beneath a Midsummer full moon
I glimpsed you dancing, white-robed, in the garden
while humming to yourself a haunting tune.
I was mesmerized, transfixed in my window.
You resembled a Goddess, I thought,
all ethereal in the silvery moonlight
as you spiralled faster and faster, leaving me breathless.
Then a cloud obscured the moon and you vanished.

I remember holidaying once in North Wales,
when you presented me with a map of the region
and pointed out to me all the lakes and springs.
Well, you spent the entire week dragging me
across the breadth of Snowdonia: hours and hours
over rough and dangerous terrain - but for what?
It's vital that you learn from the land, you said,
Her savage nature is mirrored within you.

One morning at three o'clock I saw you, Morgana,
standing before me at the foot of a moonbeam,
in a pool of white light that filled my room
with a million sparkles of Angel dust
that I just knew couldn't possibly be earthly.
And yet, they collected like snowflakes
in my hair, on my pyjamas and my quilt. Reach out!
It was then that I realised I was more than just flesh and blood.

Every moment now, wherever I go
they shadow me - Seven of the Avalonian Nine,
their faces obscured within oversized hoods,
with robes shimmering from a setting sun
that never goes down nor rolls into dawn.
For this is the timeless realm you initiated me into:
like Priestess, the Neophyte - my destiny
is to uphold the Traditions of Avalon.


* Ariadne is the Druidic Weaver Goddess.

MAUDLIN

Scattered like skittles beneath full moon,
these whisky-swigging girls foul-mouthed curse
the Royal Oak landlord who threw them out
and left them in the gutter squirming like maggots.

Laddered tights and bloodied knees,
brains addled - what, why, how did they get here?
And what is it that stirs up such galling angst
that drenches them now in bitter tears?

Escaping the lockdown to live it up

without any conscience - why should they care

if tonight's binge on alcohol and rebellion

kills more of us...as long as they survive?

ROMEO

Through the portal of recurring dream you return
with bizarre temptations that disturb equilibrium
and banish all hope of restful slumber: the wee hours robbed
of the self-control that checks an inner tempest.

Now resolve is vanquished and wild yearnings plague
body and mind. It's a kind of insanity
that ushers in addiction, where fantasy takes flight
like a ravenous vampire, quitting only at the rising of the sun.

Fractured Utopia haunts waking moments.
While you stand heroic in retrospect, I lay
breathless in dishevelled bed and psychic knots,
mesmerised by the after-image of sheer perfection.

A Shakespearian Tragedy, almost:
Romeo's touch from beyond the restless grave -
overpowering, intensely erotic - yet painfully unfulfilled.
Poor Juliet...

GOTH

For Tatania...

Black was your colour.
If not black, then indigo. But black
expressed who you were.
Midnight black. Was it night?
Was it the black of Dracula's cloak?
Black for invisibility in the dark.
Oh yes, how that appealed
to your need for anonymity.

When you had begged and cajoled enough,
our shared apartment was all black. A tomb,
disconcerting at night. The jet-black carpet
with it's fluffy pile and inky depths,
and the curtains - a raven velvet darkness -
sheer nothingness, falling from ceiling to floor.
Pillows and duvets the same. Same
black velvet even tacked to the ceiling.
A sombre tomb. A church crypt - Transylvanian?

Only your face escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
a passing funeral possession,
a surreal and gloomy scene.
Your eyes glistened - you seemed to revel in misery,
like the Grim Reaper on his rounds. And you adored
black tulips, because they reminded you
of the dark night of the Soul.
Claustrophobia, morbidity, you were
spiritually buried alive.

Floor-length leather coat: a swathe of darkness,
a black shroud.
Your lips and eyes were coal black too.
You delighted in black.
It felt safe, protective, like
being back in the darkness of the womb.
It suited your wounded Soul.

Your every word sounded mysterious,
your East European accent hypnotic.
You'd whisper in my ear, dripping black,
weeping black crucifixes - at least a dozen of them -
and then, sometimes, a silver skull among them.

White would have suited you better. White is healing.
White could have illuminated the tomb
where you'd interred your heart
away from all possibility of further damage.
But white had become your Nemesis,
the demon you'd buried inside you.

In your pit of black you felt safe
from all things white...

like the Albino
                      who once broke your heart.

ODE TO MICK

At the beat of his drum kit
female hormones rage.
He covers Hendrix, resembles Bolan
in glam rock costume
with leather platform boots,
and has even paraded as Jagger.

Groupies, he assures me, mean nothing at all,
are simply ego stokers:
bleached hair, pouty lips; good to be seen with
on an album cover
or in a nightclub - no substitute
for me though. At least, that's what he claims!

But how his eyes belie such noble declarations:
each ogling a stark betrayal
that wounds, unsettles, penetrates my armour;
his fame secured so dearly,
at such expense to my confidence.
Is his body as faithless as his eyes?

Pretty girls hanging around the stage,
swaying in ecstasy to his lyrics and the mood
he's so cleverly created, each one hoping
post concert to sneak away with him
for a notch-on-the-bedpost hour of passion -
that will drive another sword through my heart.

YOU

You?
You haunt my dreams.
In the nocturnal landscape
your form takes shape:
with eyes tight shut
you're distant, but
I feel you here
so close it seems
I'm touching you.

You
warm my nights
and loneliness banish,
make inhibitions vanish.
Like restless wraiths
denouncing their faiths,
we laugh, kiss, get drunk,
yet never descend into ego fights.
I'm addicted to you.

You,
when in capricious mood,
can drive me crazy
with meanings hazy
of perplexing metaphors -
but even this quirkiness of yours
utterly captivates...
evokes wild desire, without being lewd.
Oh how I want you.

You
know I exist
just to be with you,
in spite of vehemently denying it's true.
In reality, it is my brash oath
that I, alone, can love for us both
that finally gives my game away:
for I am a fanatical fantasist -
the one who invented you! 😉

CELESTIAL NOCTURNE

High up in spatial indigo,
pinpoint specks
of whitest light

twinkle en masse,
like fireflies
in the midnight sky.

Distant clouds
roll by
like waifs

and in boundless expanse
the full moon
beams bright.

Flashing red
plane lights
pass through Heaven

while, invisible, my essence
drifts through space
on silent wings,

consciousness spinning
in blissful ecstasy,
higher and higher

where adroit Elementals
float by mistily
on anomalous thermals.

Up here, where serenity
reigns in perfect harmony,
the Universal Vibration
                            fills my Soul.

YOUR NAME

By the hapless uterus cruel fate took hold of me.
It twisted, it crippled, it tore out my Soul;
it rendered my world no longer whole.

I crumpled in it's grasp like a worn-out dress.
I stumbled and fell into a kind of hell
that held me fast in it's prison cell.

My life dropped out of consequence like a raindrop in the ocean:
hour stretched into year, and year into dismal eternity
that wiped out all hope of blissful maternity.

A marble gravestone still pins me by the heart.
It bears in deepest ebony pearl
your name, your name,
                                  my precious baby girl.

On the anniversary of my daughter's passing...I still love you with all my heart ❤❤❤

ARCHDRUID

Motionless he waits at the forest's edge
beside the stream from sacred spring
just before sundown, that threshold time
when owls and nighthawks take to the wing.

He's dressed in feathers and tattered robes
held together with bindweed twine,
and a skull-crowned staff is his constant companion
that's been with him since the beginning of time.

In his blue eyes there's a kind of madness
that tells of years spent in isolation
and contemplation of the meaning of life,
in the severity of wildwood habitation.

The impressionable mind could be forgiven
for mistaking him for a woodland shade,
for his appearance is uncommon and Otherworldly
as he flits like a deer between thicket and glade.

Now emerging from a tree to deliver his prophesy:
a torrent of utterances in archaic tongue
that tells of the doctrines Christianity ousted
and the slaughtered Druids, their accomplishments unsung.

The old ways are lost now, he mournfully laments,
are replaced by technology's virtual living.
Oh what a disaster - I see it coming -
mankind's undoing through lack of thanksgiving.

The planet that sustains you must be respected,
sincere atonement is the only way.
You cannot continue just taking, taking,
or she, herself, will implode one dark day.

And I feel his warning in the fibre of my being:
in blood cell friction, Ancestral recall,
where I'm spirited back to the age before light,
to Arthur's Camelot where I'm caught up in thrall.

The Once and Future King he's tutored
in all things chivalrous and in justice true.
So why can't WE reflect this today?
I can't help thinking our reasoning's askew.

"Oh why won't you return, Lord Merlin," I plead,
"And remind us of all we've so carelessly forgotten -
like how to selflessly love and forgive,
and so heal a society that's become so rotten?"

I never left, the Archdruid replies,
It's just those cannot see me who are spiritually blind.
I dwell in the oak trees and I speak through the wind,
if you'd find me, then leave preconceptions behind.

You and the land have always been one,
but materialism has fractured your souls.
The macrocosm is still mirrored within you,
but your selfishness has filled it with myriad black holes.

Now returning to my century I clearly see
that moment in time when we planted the seed
that has grown and grown like a morbid tumour:
each soul incarnate debased by greed.

So I've made the decision to step aside
from the insanity that possesses mankind today.
I am a Druidess, my vocation is my work
with Merlin to keep annihilation at bay.

ABUSER

Dedicated to Cindi, and all those who suffer in the shadows...with deepest compassion.

If the sun was a man, he could be your kinder twin.
Both of you possess the power to caress
with your warmth - or to incinerate with impunity.
Both of you dazzle. But his warmth
lifts my spirits, whereas yours masks an appalling ferocity.

Your first kiss branded my soul. But then your possessiveness
imprisoned me in a merry-go-round of degradation.
There is no escaping a serial abuser
once he has groomed his chosen victim.
Oh why can I not stop loving you?

I'm aware that the sun, too, can sometimes scorch,
but at nighttime he is powerless - unlike your kind of torture.
That cremates me with relentless continuity.
Day and night I am mentally and physically broken.
Sometimes, even death would be a welcome release.

Nowhere is safe from your sadistic corona. It's searing strands
would find me on the far side of the Universe,
like the grotesque telescopic tentacles
of some fiery alien Medusa.
I am burning...burning...eternally burning

in your brutal, terror-ridden hell...

FIXATION

For more than a year now I've passed him in the street,
in every season, in all weathers:
sun, rain, hail, snow, gales, thunder.
By now I'm familiar with his entire wardrobe:
the smart city suit, the long black raincoat
with it's wide lapels and matching umbrella,
the indigo denims with slashed knees, his
lime green jogging suit. I often think of him
and the way his long dark curls
fall about his shoulders. And I long to know more.
His neighbour says he's only seldomly home, but when he sees her
he blows her a kiss. Oh if only that were me
I'd be ecstatic - just to be acknowledged by him!
Oh you sad fool - do you really think he'd notice you??
With the day off one Wednesday
I followed him (at a safe distance) to the park.
He was walking his Afghan Hound. My heart was racing.
I desperately wanted to go over and speak to him...

I am such an introvert. How do you approach
a man like him? God knows! But I long to, SO much.
Occasionally - and this is the cringeworthy bit -
I actually follow him home!
He almost caught me once, loitering
just inside his garden gate, behind a holly bush.
I had to hold my breath as he passed by,
so close I could smell his aftershave.
That fragrance has haunted me ever since,
evoking such exquisitely compelling fantasies!
Perhaps one day I'll find the courage to actually speak to him.
How I'd love to see him glance in my direction, to smile at me.
I frequently see an image of him in the fog.
But then it vanishes - deep longing's delusion, I guess.
Wind-driven mist can play peculiar tricks on the overimaginative mind!

Too often, I am compelled to walk that street.
Sometimes, I wish I were beautiful. But I'm not.
Other times, I wish he had a penchant for plainness...

Recollections of a seventeen-year-old me!! 😉😉

THE GREEN MAN

Watercolour by A.P. Barrow

He was never meant to be a cartoon character.
He is a noble Spirit of the Forest
to all those whose minds have remained open
to the Old Gods, the old ways of the Ancestors.

Still, he remains our powerful protector,
one of our greatest teachers: Nature's map
of the cosmos within each Soul,
clothed in leaf and bark and vine.

Vibrant green and composed of Oak,
he is Herne's messenger - less a creation of man,
more pure Elemental: wildly loyal
to the Druids of Clas Myrddin, both past and present.

And how he gasps at our selfishness, bleeding sap, as our
wanton destruction of this precious blue globe tortures him.
Now, more than ever, we need to unearth our roots.
He is our final, our only, hope.

Thought I'd take advantage of my once a day permitted local exercise time...


THURSDAY: Deadwater Valley Walk...

Knox Pond.

King's Oak, reputed to be over three hundred years old!

The King's Chair...I felt like a queen! Lol




FRIDAY: The Monument...

Hoping to meet the spirit of a Cavalier. 😉

SATURDAY: Deadwater Valley Nature Reserve...

A cabin in the forest.

Hope you enjoyed "walking" with me...and thank you so much for your company! 😊

ROBIN of SHERWOOD

Finally finished my painting! Yay!!! 🙋

My humble tribute to this fabulous TV series of the 1980's. Hope you like it! 

Have a great day xxx

SALIM

For an old friend...

There was the homeland Salim described so vividly

in the military post room, where he showed me photos

and presented me with an ornate copper coffee pot.

He tried so hard to teach me Arabic, but

I just couldn't grasp it. All that 

reading and writing in alien characters -

and from right to left - really screwed my head.

The next week he'd be returning home to his child bride

and swapping army uniform for traditional dress.

Perhaps I'd never see Salim again, but

in my mind's eye, I'd haunt his whitewashed home

and linger often beneath a scorching Omani sun...

A LOVE STORY

It is the most romantic thing,
the story of a wedding ring
that now I know off by rote -
a happily ever after quote.

His elaborate tales that glorify
the origins of my brother and I,
and the onward genetic multiplication
that began with mutual adulation.

Oh how her appearance brings such thrills
when she enters with arms full of daffodils.
And there's a moist softness in his eyes
as he watches her cross the room and sighs.

"Can you picture," he whispers with a wink,
"a letter written in purple ink
from an unknown author, asking to meet?
Well I'll tell you this, my heart skipped a beat!

Incredulous, I so wanted to believe
but didn't want to appear naïve,
and so I nearly gave it a miss.
Imagine if I had! Remember this -

don't be bashful and afraid of stigma
when fate presents an intriguing enigma,
but grasp it with both hands and
forget even trying to understand,

because who knows what joys untold
may well be waiting to unfold.
Some experiences compare with no other,
for instance take a look at your mother.

Just behold that beautiful face
and for a moment the notion embrace
all that I could have thrown away
if scepticism had won the day!"

SCRAMBLING

For Paul Gedzyk...

There is this memory of two wheels
churning up a spray of mud
high into the Boxing Day air.
Then the blue blur of your helmet

as you enter then leave my vision
in an instant, grappling with thin air
while your bike performs elaborate somersaults
in the opposite direction.

My heart is pounding with dread
as I approach the scene, my head
full of images of your broken bloodied body.
But you are fine...this time,

just resemble some grotesque mud monster
rising up out of the ground, as the crowd
rush to your aid. Trembling, I head to the pub
for a double brandy...

BIRTHDAY

I awoke with a frown
to a birthday in lockdown -
was it worth celebration
in such isolated location?

But then I thought I would try
to somehow rectify
this strange situation
of mass trepidation

by banishing self-pity
and creating a pretty
dinner for one,
wholly homespun.

Well, I mean to say,
it matters not today
that I'm cut off from friends
for my emotion transcends

such trivial needs,
when my heart bleeds
for all those who've lost
loved ones at such cost

of broken heart
and life torn apart,
while my loved ones remain
so I'll see them again

when all this is over
and we're once more in clover.
Oh how grateful I'll be
then if fate has spared me!

My birthday lunch 😊😊

THE PATHOLOGIST'S WIFE

Here in my kitchen, preparing the chicken for dinner
- clearing the body cavity of giblets - my thoughts
are with my husband in his autopsy room,
where he's carefully dissecting the recently deceased.

Back home, he will recount vividly the gory details:
the deconstruction, the blood - diminishing my appetite,
while he dines with ravenous gusto!

I picture him in his green scrubs and latex gloves,
handling his scalpel with deft precision
as he carves and excises with cold detachment.

I, too, will slice into the chicken's dead flesh
through skin and muscle to bone,
until nausea characteristically overcomes me.
In all but this, our occupations are similarly matched.

But from then on, the similarity ends: his subject
died from a stroke, whereas mine was intentionally slaughtered.
Blades carve them both, but the Soul consequences differ.
His conscience is clear, but can the same be said of mine?


The roasted chicken is steaming on the table -
it somehow reminds me of a stillborn baby...
and Karma descends heavily on my head.

ALPINE HEATHER

There is this mountain,
a gigantic peak in my head.

It's summit is often concealed by dense cloud
that relentlessly seeks to devour it.

Halfway up
there is a moss covered ledge

where I sit alone
in all weathers, all seasons -

a ritual of defiance
against bleak melancholy.

I forged you from the elements.
I breathed life into cold stone

that I knew would never return my love.
I took your indifference,

your cold rejection,
and cast it into the raging winds

like a restless spirit -
the howling, a Banshee in the dark.

I am all delusion,
all granite.

Like alpine heather in the wind,
I'm victim of my own resilience:

dying of a battered heart,
yet disgustingly, sickeningly, immortal.

HUNGER

So, you've procured the last can of beans?
Keep it well concealed. Hide it well
beneath your coat while walking home.
If anyone spots it, they'll likely kill you for it.
And if you surrender it, then I'm afraid you'll starve.

Hunger is knawing away at your belly,
the metal cold against your ribs.
You have to get it safely home.
If not, all hope is lost...

What a rigamarole!! And just to go out in search of a can of beans!
I feel like a bank robber!!! 😉

DEPARTURE

Just in case the virus claims me...😉

I want to end up in Merlin's Cave
engulfed in it's dank darkness
beneath Tintagel Head,
my ashes scattered there
by a white-robed Druid Priest.
And with me cast some bluebells,
poppies and my favourite pentacle,
all my unfulfilled dreams,
my many mistakes and deep regrets.
And I'd like a barbeque, with vintage wine
for family members and friends -
but only the genuine ones -
outside on the beach
when the sun is overhead.
And music, too. Something offbeat
like me, accompanied
by words that don't rhyme,
so loud through speakers
mounted on the castle walls
that tourists are drawn to investigate.
Build a stone circle there if you can -
it need only be a small one -
to mark my final departure point.
But, above all, be happy.
I want no tears, just celebrations.
Remember only the best of me...

So sorry I'm falling behind with my visits, guys. I am quite unwell at present, but will catch up with you all again as soon as possible. 
Please stay safe...😊😊 xxx

ROCK CONCERT

No night for introversion:
inhibition's desertion,
touching another plane
spotlights aflame.

Instruments clashing,
Rockers smashing
the barriers of time
with off-beat rhyme.

My senses airborne,
I'll fly 'til dawn.
Bathed in dry ice,
a kind of paradise

materializes
that tantalises
dormant recall
of retro thrall.

And your face I see
in front of me
painted bright
in moonless night.

And I'm suddenly high,
perceptions awry.
It's Day of the Dead
inside my head,

and Mexico City
looks really pretty
at midnight with you,
it's lights pink and blue.

As the drumbeat intoxicates
far more than the opiates,
it's your eyes hold the key
to the unlocking of me,

so deep and so dark
in front of the barque
up there on the screen.
You're suspended between

reality and delusion -
oh please not illusion!
I so need you to be
on the podium, you see.

But now the band changes tack
and draws me back
to earth tonight,
where fantasy's flight

leaves such a hollow
that seems to swallow
my thoughtform of you
in pink and blue.

Now silence falls
at the death of applause,
and it's time to depart
with such hope in my heart...


Very best of luck this weekend, Checo!!

( Needless to say...this was written before the 1st race of the season, in Melbourne, was cancelled!) 😉

SUNDAYS AT UNCLE BILL'S

Visiting Uncle Bill was always amusing to my brother and I.
The adult's favourite topic was politics,
and that subject almost always became heated.
Bill and Mum could never see eye-to-eye
and then when the debate inevitably shifted onto the Monarchy,
well, Chris and I would catch each others' eye
and try hard to stifle our giggles.
Mum's face would gradually turn bright scarlet
with rage, while Uncle Bill would reach
for his whisky bottle with shaky hands.
He was firmly anti-establishment, and she
was staunch Royalist. They were never 
going to agree in a month of Sundays - and yet
they still insisted upon goading each other
into all-out war!
We children would eventually slip out unnoticed
and head for the meadow and then the river beyond,
our suppressed laughter finally bursting free
in an avalanche of choking gasps.

Oh how we relished those Sundays!
The distraction from boring homework
somehow brought us out of ourselves.
We saw things more clearly: the duplicity
of the adults, who severely chastised us
for arguing and fighting - when here they were
doing exactly the same thing, and right in front of us!
But we could forget all that
while we were climbing the weeping willows
and racing our boats made from leaves and twigs
on the fast flowing current.

Towards lunch time, though, we would
slink back to the house, all morose
and apologetic for having disappeared
without permission. And we accepted our telling-off's
without protest. We knew from experience
that it was futile to point out the hypocrisy. We were "mere children"
and so were required to obey without question.
Unfair. But that's just the way things were.

THE FLOODING OF IRONBRIDGE

Water everywhere,
Venice has come
                            to Ironbridge.
Everyone is distressed
by their material losses,
                            the flood damage.
But Poppy is captivated -
the novelty if it all
                            fills her with excitement:
the sun reflecting
on the surface of the water
                            making pictures,
glittering, star-spangled...
an Angel's face here,
                            a darting mermaid there.
To a six-year-old
it is such a magical
                            unique adventure.
Travelling everywhere
by boat instead of car
                            is exhilarating.
She never wants it to end.
She wants it to rain forever,
                            to live in a houseboat.
But Mummy and Daddy
aren't happy at all
                            and try as she might,
Poppy just can't understand it.
What is this thing they don't have
                                                    anyway?
She thinks it is called
                                Insurance.

PUPPETEERS

Invisible yet infinitely influential,
thoughts are compelling, often disruptive:
intentions are twisted up, identity
shifts into hazy confusion.

Thoughts emerge from a tangle of words
spiraling out of the mind's deepest recesses,
only to implode into a black hole and disappear
into the stream of universal consciousness.

Do we really understand their significance?
Do our thoughts define us
or, perhaps, we define them?
That is the ultimate conundrum.

A lone thought breaks away
in convoluted metaphors
that taunt and confound the brain
into critical overload...

No fixed idea checks the downward slide
into devastating inner conflict.
Through the mind, interpretation fails
and a mere seed of comprehension alone remains.

Yes, thoughts are the ultimate enigma: non-things
with the power to create or destroy all things.
They play us like fiddles.
They are the Master Puppeteers.

TOMBSTONES

Written on my late Father's birthday...

Bonfire burning in the apple orchard at the day's end
beside the big house bordered by "trees of heaven".
If I could cheat time, I'd return there again
to collect all the windfalls with you
and pack them in a box for the neighbour's pigs.
Then, our task over, you'd tell stories in the glow,
while marshmallows toasted on a fork.
                                                                 Oh such magical days!
Those moments in time, since you've been gone,
return to haunt me often...and with such yearning
to behold just once more your beloved face.
But time has encroached right up to the house
and the orchard has long vanished beneath
an asphalt street and strangers' homes:
tombstones to the memory of us.

FEBRUARY, 2020

Ferocious south-westerlies cut to the bone:
a merciless invasion from the Arctic
that intensifies my anxiety and sense of separation.
Today feels like the end of an era...

It's February, and storm Ciara is battering the land.
You, too, are agitated and anxious to be gone.
Jangling nerves make you snappy. I picture you alone later
in the taxi scribbling notes and frowning,
deep in thought. And my heart aches for your nervous uncertainty:
new career in an unfamiliar city - a huge step up.
Sensing your thoughts: Am I up to the challenge? Will I succeed?

Trying so hard to absorb it all for you, to
free you from what I know is gnawing at you inside.
It is my destiny, my duty, willingly undertaken.
The definition of a mother's love.



Lingering now on Portsdown Hill,
the city below aglow with lights.

And knowing you're down there somewhere
in your lonely hotel room is emotionally draining,
because I know I must leave soon for home without you.
But it's so hard to tear myself away,
so, so hard.

A spectral umbilical is tugging at my heart.

PETS

Let me consider you capable of speech
and higher function:

the notion of scales made flesh and fins made limbs;
a metamorphosis into cognitive being

so we could converse and share a joke or two,
exchange anecdotes and life experiences -

to know what it's like to be you, and you I;
to truly connect and touch Souls.

Whatever you believed you were when I chose you
and brought you home to live with me, you are so much more.

If I could, I would give you an ocean to swim in
with rock pools, caves and weed to explore.

Oh how I wish I could see through your eyes
and know what you think of me -

food dispenser, perhaps, or jailer?
But I never wanted to be either of these.

No. I wanted to be your friend, protector,
surrogate shoal, to earn your respect.

Because it is such an honor to have you here.
I am your humble servant...and I love you to bits.

EVA

Cursed with delusions of such grandeur,
your life was a work of art
forged from the low self-esteem
that tortured the depths of your heart.

With such aplomb you wore your masks
that disguised the authentic you
for days and months and years even,
until you believed them true.

With past retold of a noble birth,
you rubbed shoulders with the elite
and even moved in circles Royal -
they all found you "oh so sweet."

Yet just below the surface bubbled
of discovery such a terror -
what if they should find you out
and realise their error?

So you pretended even harder and
still deeper buried the truth,
for the worst thing you could ever conceive
was to incur your idols' reproof.

But you looked and acted the part so well
that no one could ever guess
this beautiful and elegant socialite
was an orphan and penniless.

Still the pressure of keeping the lie alive
was building up deep inside
and daily threatening to erupt,
so at times you'd vanish and hide.

Then when you hit forty it all imploded
and you suffered a breakdown because
your past caught up with you and exposed
the Earl's daughter who never was.

HOME MOVIE

How love deceives!
The romance, that close bond
into which we entered

so eagerly, now dissolves in tears.
Passion has gone cold
and resentment enters our hearts.

The dream, in it's rosy detailed glory,
has faded into formless grey -
like a precious memory lost in time.

Then there is the loneliness - the mourning
for the still-living other. Oh how it hurts.
I have become invisible.

While new lovers celebrate the night
I walk in circles,
a ring of self-questioning: where did I go wrong?

Laughter cannot come here,
we have forgotten how to play.
In a home movie,

two strangers deceptively happy, in another life.
Time has stolen their identities.
What has unraveled us?

Venus and Mars? Maybe.
Too much scorched earth -
we were doomed from the start.

JANUARY AUBADE

Observe this expanse of glowering sky
in slate-toned pagodas to winter's freeze
where north winds bite both nose and eye
and the blood retreats from bitter breeze.

A robin sings out mournful madrigals
to awaken slumbering daffodil buds,
while naked boughs bow like praying Cardinals
reflected in the unseasonal floods.

Crowding around a hanging fat ball
chirping sparrows compete to eat,
as blackbirds wait for crumbs to fall
beneath a lichen-encrusted seat.

And as Nature's cycle begins again
euphoria transforms my world-weary brain...

THE ACTOR

I am an actor. Stage lights dazzle.
The director
barks out instructions, tearing

the expectant silence
into shreds of meaning.
Fellow actors await

their cue, their time to shine,
become leading stars.
Competition is intense.

Time-worn boards creak
underfoot, woodworm-honeycombed.
Even the scenery has faded

into yellow-brown forest.
And we characters, we characters -
God! We are even more wooden today.

Voices too flat,
ridiculous
parodies, like drunkards

trying hard to pretend they're sober.
My costume
doesn't fit, constantly slips

from my shoulders.
Oh my, how the dream has crumbled!
Oh Caesar, how you elude me!

Striving, even in sleep,
to become you.
But your mannerisms defeat me.

Frustration abounds.
The betrayal I suffer
is wholly subjective.

Ambition, ambition,
I have exhausted myself with trying,
with agonising -

never quite good enough.
Let Brutus
plunge his dagger deep.

Let my demise, at least,
ride on mercurial wings
into resounding applause.

I am the actor
the Bard's pen defines, owns.
I am the blank page...


Dedicated to my son, Ayrton.