WHERE ARE YOU

Soft rays fall gently as I remember
Days in Your Presence
When my heart was full
And birdsong filled the air
The warmth of summer’s breeze
Danced on my skin
Until the whole of my body danced too
Hearing the cries of Your love
In the calling of the birds
“Come my sweet one come,
Follow Me wither I go,
Across the sky
Onto the sea
Soaring above the mountains
Follow, follow,
Let Me hear your sweet voice sing
As we become One with the Universe
I love you, I love you,”
And I believed
And followed
Emptied myself of all but You
Together we danced the Dance of Love
Ate at a Banquet fit for Kings and Queens
Bathed in the gently flowing water
Drank from the water that gushed from the rock
But now the soft rays turn to darkness
The wind blows cold
No longer do I hear Your voice
Calling, calling,
I am alone,
Abandoned
Sightless
No longer can my feet dance
No longer do we twist and twirl together
In the Dance of Life
For now I live in darkness
Unable even to tie my own belt
In a place where I did not want to go
And in this place
I cry out Your Name
“Come to me, Come to me”
But there is no answer
“Where are You? Where are You?” I cry
The wind blows the sound of my voice back at me
I look up
See a Cross in the sky
And in that moment
Know that You are with me

AS I STAND BEFORE YOU

As I stand before You, I kiss Your feet,
In that moment we are one,
In suffering sore we each other meet

In the darkness of our grief we each other greet
Yet in the midst we sing our heartfelt song
As I stand before you I kiss Your feet

This darkness shines with light in scorching heat
Searing my soul , the fire of love burns up all wrong
In suffering sore we each other meet

Oh joy unspeakable that nought on earth can beat
My Love and I join with the happy throng
As I stand before You I kiss Your feet

One day I will take my glorious seat
In that New City where I shall belong
In suffering sore we each other meet

So let me cleave to You my Love so great
Until my time on this dark earth is done
As I stand before You I kiss Your feet
In suffering sore we each other meet

ONCE THERE WAS A MAN

Once there was a man
Who stole the key to my soul
He keeps it because he can

It always was his plan
He created my role
Once there was a man

When it all began
He only had one goal
He keeps it because he can

I am the also ran
Who fell into the hole
Once there was a man

My life is now a sham
I hear the death knell toll
He keeps it because he can

Slaughtered is the lamb
I hear the thunder roll
Once I knew a man

THINK

Set me free
Set me free
From this life’s prison
This body
Doomed
Decaying
Rotting
Putrid
You, my prison guard
Waiting
Watching
Gloating
Oh the power!
The power of your mind
So clever
Such carefully chosen lies
You built my house
And now I must live in it
Trapped
In a fine web
Oh what a fine weaving
What tapestry you create
Beautiful
To the world
To be admired
But what’s the inside word?
Think

ONLY BELIEVE

Trapped
Drowning in deception
In a helpless body
Animal
Fit only for the trash
Sweet honeyed words
Like sirens
Where are the rocks?
I know there are rocks
And tiny stones
Each with its own murderous intention
I speak reality
From prison
An inner craziness
Takes over my soul
Tied in bonds
Of helplessness
How could one be so sick
How could one be so wicked?
Even words mean nothing
Let the world see my heart
Only believe
Only believe
All things are possible
Only believe
Believe me
Yes, all things are possible
Beyond the imagination
Only believe

HOW CAN I KNOW?

How can I know You love me when so far
Are you remote from us beyond the stars?
How can I ever know You as You are
While here on earth held by my prison bars?
Here in my loneliness I cry to You
Knowing from traces that You are the Light
I need Your Light to touch me, see me through
Get me through the darkness of this long night
If only You would come to earth to dwell
That we could see Your face and know Your smile
Oh that we could know that all is well
If only for a very little while
And then I heard You gently telling me
“I came one day to earth to set you free.”

SHE SAT THERE AT BLACK BANK

She sat there at Black Bank that day
Searching for an ancient way
So many souls had gone before
Vagabonds and thieves galore
What was it now that made her stay?

Mesmerised by such tales that lay
In memory’s store in gold and grey
Could this really be the door
She sat there at Black Bank

Transfixed she could not walk away
From ghosts that brushed upon this clay
They crept into her very core
Clasped within their ancient lore
Nothing could these spirits slay
She sat there at Black Bank

SHAVE OFF THE YEARS

Shave off the years that held your heart in fear,
Start now at this new place, shorn
Vulnerable, exposed, but free.

For so long now your life was ruled, your ear
Heard only guttural sounds, desolate, forlorn,
Shave off the years that held your heart in fear.

In vulnerability find love’s meaning dear,
It is for this that you were born,
Vulnerable, exposed, but free.

Take the risk, your liberation ynow is near,
Your fear has always been your thorn,
Shave off the years that held your heart in fear.

Grasp, in your nakedness, this void, and steer
Your life to pastures new and warm,
Vulnerable, exposed, but free.

Learn the truth, wipe every tear
Precipitated by the storm,
Shave off the years that held you in your fear,
Vulnerable, exposed, but free

BY THE FIELD

I CAN’T REMEMBER IF I HAVE POSTED THIS SESTINA BEFORE OR NOT BUT I WAS SITTING BY THE afIELD AGIN THIS MORNING AND IT MADE ME THINK OF THIS POEM

I sit one day looking at the fields,
A flash of colour takes my eye,
It darts so fast across the water,
I am mesmerised by such deep, rich colour,
It lands quite suddenly on a branch,
A beautiful tiny kingfisher.

For the very first time I see the kingfisher,
In a dyke surrounding the fields,
So close it sits on the swaying branch,
I see it clearly in my eye,
I am entranced by its wonderful colour,
Gently flows the water.

It sits looking at the moving water,
Containing fish for the kingfisher,
How amazing is its colour,
Matching the green of the fields,
Showing up on the grey-brown branch,
I can hardly move my eye.

I see it fluttering in my eye,
It starts to dart across the water,
Flying off the swaying branch,
This beautiful little kingfisher,
The wind blows gently on the fields,
The grass a shimmering green in colour.

I become aware of deeper colour,
Wherever I cast my eye,
Whether it be on the sky or on the water,
On the wild flowers in the fields,
Or on the little kingfisher,
That fluttered off the grey-brown branch.

Inside I thank God for that grey-brown branch,
My life now is full of deeper colour,
Brought into being by the kingfisher,
On which I feasted my eye,
As I look at the colours in the field,
I thank God for the moving water.

The sun shines on the water enhancing dancing colour ,
Even the brown-grey branch, that draws my eye,
Catching the shimmering green of the field, reflected in kingfishers wing.

I LIVE

Though my flesh is numb
My God sings within me
Though my eyes look emotionless
I feel deeply
Though my legs are lame
I dance in my heart
Though my body knows pain
In my soul I have joy
Though I grieve
My mourning is turned to dancing
Though I walk in the desert
Streams of Living Water flow
And the desert blooms
Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow
I live

AS INCENSE ROSE

Sitting in the Sanctuary
Tired and lost
She felt a distance
A chasm
Between her and others
In the long womb
She struggled
While holy incense rose
Yet inside
She was dead
Just like once before
In a womb gone by
But on that day
Love triumphed
And down the corridors she came
A kicking and a screaming
Today
Love triumphed too
With a kicking and a screaming
As the incense rose to heaven

RIVERS FROM THE TEMPLE

And so now I know
“It’s alright to cry,”
For far too long
I have held my tears
And now
I must let them go,
No longer keep them captive,
Release them from their prison
Not in my eyes
But in my heart,
Sometimes I think
That if I were to cry
I would cry for ever,
For grief has been my life,
Pain unsurpassable,
Yet still I smile,
For me it was the better way,
For if my tears were to flow
They would be like the rivers
Pouring from the temple,
But golden like the temple,
Leading me to Jerusalem,
The Eternal City.

BREAD

Do you know
The loneliness of her heart
Sometimes life seems so cruel
As she reaches out ……and finds only a stone
She hungers for bread
For her hungry soul to be fed
But she goes unheard
Her suffering unnoticed
By those who are fed at the banquet
But in her heart she knows
That she is not the only one
That out there are many lepers
Untouched
Unfed
Hungry for love
To them she turns her heart
And touches them with her love

FALLING RAIN

A POEM

And so now I am alone
In the eerie silence of a life gone wrong
Shall I unpack my case
Such as it is?
All that I have is my body
Wracked with pain
But it is mine
No one can steal it from me
Like you stole my soul
I sit here in the dark
Remembering
Is it good to remember?
A line was drawn one day
When the pink blossom bloomed on the trees
And birdsong filled the air
A line which I can never cross over
Again
Never go back
On one side is health,
Busyness
Mountains to climb
On the other side is cancer
Blindness
Confinement
And you chose to abuse that
My helplessness became your fruitfulness
Such as it was
And so where are my fruits now?
Do oranges grow in the dark?
Apples tempt us?
And what of the serpent?
I lie in the dark and the silence
Hearing only the falling rain

THEY SAY SHE’S MAD YOU KNOW

I saw her last week, my friend,
Every time she stuns me,
They have called her mad you know.

She sees with eyes that others do not have,
Her insight knows no bounds,
Her intellect so keen,
She always has an answer for the wise guys.

I saw her today, my friend,
Still, she stuns me,
Still she sees with eyes that others do not have,
Still her insight knows no bounds,
Still her intellect is keen
And still she has an answer for the wise guys.

But today, she dies,
Today she is mad with pure clarity,
Such that her mind cannot bear.

I raise my glass to my friend,
The one I thought I knew,
And toast her brilliance
So bright as to scorch
And sear her very soul.

I am the one who is mad,
She the pure prophet.

She’s gone now, my friend,
You know, the one who is mad,
They took her away one night,
Kicking,
Screaming,
Biting,
Fingers flicking light switch,
On, Off, On, Off,
Signalling in code,
“Help me, Help me, Help me”.

No one heard, because of course,
She’s mad.
No one heard the sacred
Screaming out from the deep,
Roaring,
Wailing,
Cursing.
Because of course she sees,
With eyes that are her own,
The truth that others cannot bear,
And neither maybe, can she.

She’ll be back soon,
Quieter,
Sedated,
Normalised,
Will she still see, with eyes that are her own,
The truth that others cannot see,
That drove her to her fate?

Beside me now,
A CD,
That once she gave to me,
That tells me of her soul.
I finger it in awe,
Tears fall slowly,
I caress the truth,
Her clarity,
And cannot bear the pain
Of my love,
Or hers.

RESPONSE

I said “Goodbye” to my friend,
I was moving on,
We hugged and kissed,
Her eyes were bright,
Her love intact,
She was quite “normal” now,
But behind the “normality”
I saw Hope shining,
The Hope that looked like madness.

THE WILD GOAT OF DERBYSHIRE

I don’t know how it happened. Well yes, maybe I do. I was always the Wild Woman of Derbyshire, so why shouldn’t I have ended up in a tiny stable, with half doors low to the ground, looking into the eyes of a goat with bright yellow eyes and saying,
“I don’t know how we ended up here, but you and me’s in this together.”

I didn’t actually know this goat. In fact we had only just met. In the stable. Just a minute or so earlier, I had been shoved strongly and forcibly into the stable by my friend, Brenda, who was in a frenzy, saying,
“Quick. Get in there.”
In a bit of a daze, I found myself faced by this goat. I was a bit worried about the horns, but not nearly so worried as I was about the bright yellow eyes. I mean, NO ONE had bright yellow eyes – not even a goat. Well, as far as I knew anyway. And it was STARING at me. I don’t know who was more frightened – me or it. I didn’t know its name, but I thought I had better introduce myself.
“Hello. I’m Lorraine,” I said.
Well I wasn’t exactly expecting it to answer back saying,
“Hello. I’m Roger,” or anything like that. But it just STARED at me.

It seemed quite docile, and so I took pity on it, and started stroking its back. But suddenly we were taken up with the sound of a loud shout.
“Come on you little bugger. Get back in there.”
It was Brenda, the Wild Woman of Derbyshire Mark 2 yelling at a horse that was intent upon galloping for England around the field. The field was almost a quagmire. Derbyshire is famous for its rain.

Me and the goat looked at each other. We were beginning to gain quite an understanding of each other. Neither of us really knew what we were doing there, but we both decided we had better make the best of it.

Out in the field, mud was flying everywhere. And wouldn’t you know it – the horse, having completed its gallop for England, decided to roll in it. My eyes went to Wild Woman of Derbyshire Mark 2, and there she was, trying to wipe mud out of her eyes.

Me and the goat looked at each other again. I put my left arm around it – well, as much as you can put your arm around a goat – and we snuggled up together. I assured the goat that this was better than telly. We both settled down together. All that was missing was the ice cream and popcorn. I wondered when the Interval was going to be.

Just as that thought crossed my mind, I became aware of a Ssssh-ing sound. It was Brenda telling us to keep quiet. The horse was moving towards its stable, which was right next to the little one that me and the goat were in. She didn’t want it disturbed as it began to enter it.

Eventually, a seriously mud splattered Brenda came and opened our stable door, saying to me,
“You can come out now.”

I looked at the goat, and it stared back at me with its yellow eyes, and I said,
G’bye mate. See you again soon. I’ll bring the popcorn next time.”
It just looked at me with its yellow eyes, and as I began to walk away, I could have SWORN I heard it say,
“My name’s Roger. I’m the Wild Goat of Derbyshire.”

NEAR MISS CAPITAL

If Chapel- en le Frith, in Derbyshire, was the capital of “Sticky Ends,” Bakewell could be said to be the capital of “Near Misses,” at least where I was concerned. Its bustling, yet peaceful and homely nature belied what lay beneath its glossy veneer. Yet, it was a place that I was drawn back to again and again. To live in Bakewell was my deepest desire, and each time I went there, I would eye up convenient bus shelters on the outskirts, wondering about the possibility of camping out in one semi permanently. Though they were open at the front, I imagined in some way fixing some kind of door on , or even just a thick curtain, having a sleeping bag and a primus stove, plus a few home comforts like cushions and the like, and calling it home. Summer and Spring would not be so bad, and maybe Autumn too. But Winter was a totally different proposition. Winters in Derbyshire were nothing like winters I had ever known before. In fact, it was one Winter that I had my first “Near Miss” in Bakewell. When it snows in Derbyshire, it seems to snow like no other place on earth, and even the snow itself seems to have a character all of its own. One minute there is nothing there, and the next it is feet deep.

And thus it was that I found myself, one seemingly innocuous winter’s afternoon, sitting in the tea shop above the china shop, suddenly watching a growing drama on the streets outside. There I was, drinking my coffee and eating buttered scones, little knowing what was about to come.

But, there they were, cars, buses, motor bikes, cycles, and people, slithering all over the place. Just outside the china shop was a roundabout, only on this late afternoon it was more of a slideabout than a roundabout. Going off to the right of the roundabout was a steep hill, and however hard they tried, cars just could NOT get up it. Knowing that the way I was going to go to leave Bakewell and get home was fairly flat, I did not panic too much. But I knew that I needed to leave quickly. Coffee and scones suddenly did not seem important. I hastily left the teashop and headed to where my car was parked. As I walked, I began to realise that I was probably not going to get out of Bakewell that night. So I did something that I was rather loathe to do. I abandoned my car and somehow or other managed to walk up the steep slithery hill past the Church, to the Vicarage. The Vicar and his wife were friends of mine, and I had stayed there before, but was not sure what would happen if I turned up for the night uninvited. However, upon opening the door and seeing me standing there, the Vicar exclaimed, “Oh, I am SO glad you have come,” and hustled me into the living room which was filled with a wonderful homely orange glow from the rather old fashioned table lamp on a side table. Soon, the Vicar and his wife were filling me with hot chocolate and sandwiches, and offering me a tartan nightie and bright red dressing gown. I felt fit to do a Highland Reel, which was far from what was happening down in the main street, according to what a caller at the Vicarage said. There, cars were getting stranded, and the hotels were getting filled up. I heard, the next day, that some drivers had to spend the whole night in their cars, as there was not a bed to be found anywhere. I had had one very “Near Miss.”

Another rather “Near Miss” involved another Vicar – this time, a woman, Lisbet. Lisbet came from Sweden, and had been a Vicar at St. George’s in Scunthorpe. We had got to know each other through our academic work, and when we moved to Derbyshire, Lisbet moved back to Sweden. A couple of years later she suddenly rang me saying, “Do you know any good pubs anywhere?”

“What – in SWEDEN? I exclaimed.

“No, Derbyshire,” she replied.

“DERBYSHIRE” I yelled down the phone.

“Yes, I’m in Bakewell.”

“I’ll be there,” I shouted excitedly. “See you at the pub in the market square in half an hour.”

So there we were, the Swedish woman vicar and the wild woman of Derbyshire, loose on the town. Suddenly, as we sat there, the police appeared in the pub, and a police dog was sniffing me all over, refusing to budge. A policewoman came to me and searched me, the dog still refusing to budge. It was the first time I had ever been in a Drugs raid, and what’s more, singled out by a dog as a suspicious character. To the police woman’s disappointment, nothing was found, and I explained that I had a bitch on heat at home, and that was what the dog must have been smelling!

Afterwards, Lisbet and I left the pub hastily, feeling that we truly had had a “Near Miss” and imagined what would have happened if the vicar from Sweden and the wild woman of Derbyshire had ended up in clink for the night.

Another “Near Miss” involved the vicar’s wife and a cat. Well, kind of. I had been tempted to buy a cauliflower from a particular shop in Bakewell, as they were on display outside the shop. For some reason, I decided not to. Later, the vicar’s wife informed me that the local wild cat was regularly seen peeing on said vegetables! Everyone in Bakewell knew about this, but those of us who were more visitors, even if regular ones, did not know this. Another “Near Miss.”

There were many more such Near Misses, but despite that, Bakewell was where we wanted to live, and in fact we did begin to purchase a Grade Two listed house not far from the river . We were informed that the house had never been flooded . At the last minute , we pulled out because we realised that we would be very restricted in what we could do to the house. Shortly after that, the whole of Bakewell flooded! Probably our biggest Near Miss of all.

We no longer live in Derbyshire, the capital of “Near Misses,” but one day I will tell you how I got stuck in a stable with a goat with bright yellow eyes. Watch this space

A HALF DECENT DEATH

THIS IS A PIECE THAT I WROTE A LONG TIME AGO AND IT IS A TRUE ACCOUNT. IT WAS WRITTEN IN AFFECTION FOR MY FATHER, IT IS HOW OUR FAMILY WAS

Don’t know why he had to go and do it. Die, I mean. He always did want revenge. All his life he’d been dying – then, he finally went and did it. Shocked us all, he did. Never thought he’d really do it. They were all the same in his family. Never did anything by halves – everything for maximum effect. Take his mother – woke up on Christmas morning, wished them all Happy Christmas, and then – died! Would you ever. She was another one – spent her life dying. When she did it seemed unreal – just like with him. My Dad, I mean.

Well, he just went off to the doctor’s one morning. Not for anything in particular. Never guessed he’d got this up his sleeve. It’s almost as if it was all planned. Only two days before, he’d said to me, “I’m going to die.” Well, tell us some real news, I thought. It’s just one of his games again. Stress, he said it was. Couldn’t take any more, he said. Any more of what?
I wonder how he managed to do it? I mean – it’s not easy to die to order.

The doctor wasn’t especially worried – just said he had a slight heart irregularity, so he was sending him into hospital as a precaution. Knowing my Dad I expect he was pleased as punch. The doctor told him to go home and pack a case; the ambulance would be there within the hour. I can just see him walking home with a spring in his step, dead chuffed. Bet it was the most sprightly he’d walked for years!

Packed his own things. My Mum just let him get on with it. After he’d walked into the ambulance carrying his case, my Mum rubbed her hands together. “Good,” she thought. “Now I can decorate his bedroom.” I didn’t know that until afterwards – but then she told me.

They hadn’t slept together for a long time. Right bone of contention that was. I remember taking him to the library with me one day. Had to get some books for my project on Victorian prostitutes. “I’ve not had sex since your brother was conceived,” he said. Well, my brother was forty two then. Hell of a long time to bear a grudge, I thought. Found it all a bit disgusting really. I didn’t want to know about that. I was driving my car at the time. What a way to trap somebody! I was forced to listen. I couldn’t put him out on the motorway. Motorways brought him out in a cold sweat when he was inside the car. God knows what it would have done if I’d put him outside of it. It might have killed him!

Anyway – next thing my Mum knew was that the consultant was ringing her from the hospital. “Does your husband always slur his speech?” he said.
“Well, not that I’ve noticed,” she said.
“Was he alright during the night?” he said. Well I mean – how could she answer that one? Honesty was the best policy, she thought.
“Oh I don’t know. I don’t sleep with him,” she said.

“We’ve got to do some tests,” the consultant said.
“We think he might have had a slight stroke in the ambulance.” Just like him, my Mum thought. He never could do anything by halves.

Ten days it took him to die. Took us all by surprise. I mean – he didn’t look too bad when we went to see him. Tried to write us messages. All wobbly they were, and in big letters. Wrote the same word over and over again, and then kept pointing to it. Some of the letters were missing. We had to guess what the word was.

He did try to speak – but he couldn’t. That was the first time I’d known him lost for words. He always had something to say on everything. And he always had to be right.
“They think I’ve had a stroke,” we managed to decipher. Well – it couldn’t be too bad if he could get that across.

Never thought he’d die! Silly old bugger. Why didn’t he fight a bit. But no. He’d been waiting for this chance all his life, and he wasn’t going to blow it now.

We did everything to try and make him live. Brought him food. Jam sandwiches. Those were his favourites. We should have known when he wouldn’t even eat them. And then when the Chaplain came in. I mean – my Dad was an atheist. “Don’t let no bloody parsons near me when I’m dead,” he used to say. But there’s no telling what you’ll do when you think you might be about to snuff it. You could see his eyes light up. He put his hand up to him and smiled at him. Wanted to speak to him – well, as much as he could. Maybe he was playing safe. Needed to be on the right side of God if he might be going to meet Him soon!

I’ll never forget one day. He wanted to go to the toilet. Well – what a palava. He could hardly get out of bed. The nurse came and helped him. I could tell he wasn’t really up to it. He was so weak. Why couldn’t they have got him a bedpan, I thought. Why did they force him to walk all that way? I was almost crying. You wouldn’t do that to an animal, I thought.

We sat there, silently. Then, all of a sudden, it happened. We heard a wailing and a shouting. A chill ran through me. It sounded like an animal. There was fear in the voice. And desperation. The wailing got louder. “WHAT THE……” And suddenly I knew. It was my Dad. I began to shake. What the heck is wrong? I thought. I started, as if to go to him. But suddenly there were all nurses there. He’d fallen off the toilet, and was on the floor in a corner behind the door, crying like a baby.

They got him back into bed. “We’re short-staffed,” the nurse said, brightly. “He’s alright.” My eyes looked into hers, screaming at her, “That’s my DAD. That’s my DAD.”

It was all downhill after that. Soon, they moved him into a side room. The blinds were pulled down. We had our privacy. Not that he did. He kept pulling the sheets down, exposing everything. “Eee, Eee,” he said, pointing to his nether regions.
“It’s alright,” we said. “You’ve got a bag.”
We pulled the sheets back over him – but he fought, insisting, “Eee, Eee.”

We couldn’t win. Gave up in the end. Let him lay there with it all hanging out. Wonder if it was the first time my Mum had seen it in forty two years? He started to get agitated. They came and gave him an injection. He calmed down. We knew this was it.

My Mum brought a tape recorder in. Played an Abba tape. He liked Abba. I got hold of his hand and danced at the side of the bed, and sang along. “Let’s have a party, Dad,” I said. He always did love a party.
He looked at me with a look in his eyes that said, “Yes – let’s.” It was as if, for one moment, he forgot he was dying. Seconds later, he fell into a deep sleep. Soon after that, it was all over. He died to the sounds of ‘Dancing Queen.’

My Mum still doesn’t know why he had to go and do it. “He should have fought,” she says, putting her fists up to heaven. Just like he did when she was about to go at the end of visiting time one day. And that about sums it up. They spent their whole lives fighting. Now, my Mum’s bereft. She’s got no-one to fight any more. Gone down to seven stone. Nothing to feed on. She’s fading fast. I’m waiting for the call.

POETRY IS POETRY

Poetry is poetry. Just that. I like to experiment with different forms of poetry. I like to write all kinds of poetry – light, dark, humorous,in between. Many of my poems do come from my experiences of life. Either my own experiences, or what I have observed. I have cancer. I am blind. I am in physical pain. Sometimes I write candidly about that. I still experience great joy in my life that is ebbing away. I write about that. I write about living. I write about dying. I write about death. I nearly died a while ago – I saw into eternity. I write about that. I write about being in a different reality to everyone else. It is my world. I write about my world. I write about the Divine – because I have experienced it – we all have the Divine within us, wgatever name we call it by. I might write about the Cross one day – because that is part of my own faith. The Dark Night of the Soul, which is painful, but which purifies us if we allow it to. I write as I AM. This is ME. Sometimes I am sad. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am ecstatic. Sometimes I am hurt. This world is slipping away for me. I write as I want to. I am so grateful that so many people read my writing, and that they find inspiration from it. I am so moved by all your wonderful Comments, and your love. Please keep coming. Much love,

lorraine

UP A PEAR TREE

Up a tree she cast her eyes down
Knowing that grandma would wear a frown
But in her heart she did not care
So happy she was to be right there
Unseen she knew she was all alone

“Don’t climb that tree” she heard the sound
Of grandma’s voice of warning drowned
By desires that o’ertook her in the sun’s glare
Up a tree

Soon she realised, looking round
That she was stuck just as she’d been warned
She couldn’t climb down this tree called “Pear”
When grandma’s voice came loud and clear
“I told you you’d get stuck and now you’re bound”
Up a tree

IN THE COOL OF A SUNDAY MORNING

In the cool of a Sunday morning I say Goodbye
A lifetime of striving now gone as the sun rises high
Limp is my body pale in new morning’s light
Fighting for me now ceased in the ghostly white
So weak is my wavering voice unable to cry

Betrayed by a single kiss my reward comes nigh
No time in this world now left to even ask why
With no strength in my voice my fingers curled up tight
In the cool of the Sunday morning

How swift does death come as here this day lie
Pale the white horse that rides on forever by
I walked so long by faith and not by sight
The darkness comes as I walk in the blackest night
I hear no sounds of angels singing for me on high
In the cool of a Sunday morning

THOUGHTS?

Sometimes we are in conflict. We have two sides to us. Maybe even more than two. Which one, or ones, do we put on display? All are equally “us.” All are equally true. Sometimes we want to write from one of those perspectives, thus making the others seem unreal. We are all such a mixture of things. Sometimes our lives are made up of a mixture of so many things. Sometimes we can see stars from the mud. Sometimes we can only see the mud of our lives. No life is perfect. Sometimes we can see the Divine, sometimes we cannot, and sometimes we cry out in agony. All of these things are valid. All of them are ”us.”

No one can stereotype anyone else. And that is the beauty of writing. We can be what we want and need to be from one day to the next. Our lives are so mixed. I will not deny the pain, indeed the agony, of mine. But nor will I deny the “god” bits in it. Though sometimes I cannot see God. He or She or whatever, becomes blotted out by the pain.

So, if I scream in agony in my,poems, then it is still the same person who can also write glowingly about the Divine. I think this might be true for all of us.

Thoughts?

PATHS

Paths stretched
In front of me,
Now I had reached a plain,
Wide open space, a new path called
“Come now,
The scenes
Here are different, and now, once more,
I will lead you, follow
The voice that calls,
Come child.”

LET THOSE WHO HAVE EARS TO HEAR, HEAR

Let those who have ears to hear, hear,
For what am I listening?
You are listening for my silent scream
My scream of pain too deep to utter
Bound by the mercilessness of those who hold me captive
Did you know I am in chains?
“Break your chains” you say,
“Fly, free as a bird,”
“Let me see you flying high, soaring,”
As if my spirit could undo those chains,
And I fail, again and again and again,
I cannot meet your requirements
Because I am nailed to this bed
In the hot sun I am given no air
I cannot breathe
I struggle for breath
Do you see my face go blue?
I know my place
I also know there is no choice
Because I am sick
Because I need help for only the tiniest thing
But mercy is not mine
I heard you cry that day I was told
“Mrs. Lewis, you have cancer,”
Sobbing in the kitchen on the phone to your sister
“She’s my other half,”
Yes, and to you I am bound
A possession
An object
That feeds your narcissism
You suck my lifeblood
And live on me
You climb on my shoulders
So you are higher
You steal my soul
And now
I am dying

A SECRET CRY

I don’t want to be married to something of this earth
Seedy, creepy, respecting no one, not even himself
I want to be the Bride of something out of this world
That respects, honours, loves more than life itself
Those things I could never have
But I will settle for respect
Yet that is the most elusive thing
What am I without respect?
What am I without honour?
What am I when the very basics of life are stolen from me?
Every minute a nightmare
A non person am I
But this is secret
A secret cry from my bed of nails
Who will hear?

Dreams..

Verses of Soltitude

I’m the music

That ceases to sound after a while.

Broken threads or dead corals in the beach

Which aren’t arranged in a line.

I’m the sea you can dive deeper and deeper

And still not find the pearls.

Or you can wait for a winter morning

As the fog of the night clears.

I can be foretold rains

In a village cursed with drought.

I can be some dull memories or thoughts

You simply left unthought.

I love the darkness

For it suits my pursuit

Like pristine clear waters or clouded sky

So disciplinedly unscheduled.

As a stranger of the same land

Or veiled beauty of a desert women-so shy

Born of some deepest carvings or passions or secrets

Like undiscovered islands. Let them not die.
– King of Monks

View original post

MY BELOVED

How does my heart know
That my Beloved stands beside me
In the Sanctuary of my world?
The veil tears from time to time
And suddenly I see
What others cannot see
The Holy is revealed
To the one who reaps joy
In darkest night
For luminous is the dark
Dazzling in its beauty
Here dwells the Holy One
In glorious light
That darkness cannot hide

THANKYOU

I would like to say a heartfelt thankyou to those of you who have nominated m for various awards. You are all very kind, nnd you have said some wonderful things about me. I am so grateful.

But I need to say that, being newly blind, and still struggling with how to do things on my IPad, I find it impossible to do what is requested of me. Sadly, I have had to not go in for any awards. Not sadly for me, but sadly for you all who think so much of me. I am really sorry.

There are only certaiin things that I can do on WordPress, and they are just the very basic things. Even typing is hard for me.

So, a big big thankyou to you all. And for all your lovely words about me. Hugs to all.