OFFERING

If only I could write today
Of what I truly feel,
Looking at the world through blind eyes,
I read the words of those who see and leap and walk,
Who live in such a different world, it almost seems
That we are aliens, strangers to each other,
Yet still made of the flesh and blood
That draws us close together,
I struggle to know that I belong,
Yet write as if I do,
Illusory? Perhaps,
But sometimes illusions have to be,
For otherwise
How could we
Bear the pain of blindness?
How do I write my Goodbyes?
How do I say “So long”?
And yet today,
The tree stripped bare
Said it all to me,
For I too am stripped bare,
Of all that I once knew,
Of the colours of my life,
Of beauty, of frolicking in the breeze,
And now, I am empty handed,
Except for my words,
I offer you my words

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FROSTED

Frosted
Windows, new world
Of patterns and rainbows,
Shimmering in winter’s sunlight,
Puddles
Of ice
Beside the dark green pine forest
Crunching carpet of grass
A bird flutters
And calls

#FOWC – Classified. MOTHER AND THE PROSTITUTE HANDBAG

FOWC with Fandango — Classified

I don’t know where it all started. This obsession with red, I mean.

I think it could have been at the Baths Hall. That’s where she met my Dad.

“Went out with Francie. She wore a bright green dress and I wore a bright red one.”

Well, Francie, her cousin, was known to be a bit brash, and it seems Mother was not going to be outdone!

“Danced all night we did,” declared Mother. Then your Dad asked me to dance.

“Nice red dress you’ve got there,” he said.

Mother preened herself.

Next thing, they were married. Then nine months later I came along.

“Honeymoon baby you were,” she said to me. “We didn’t have any money. Your Dad ran off to join the army,” she said.

That was where he got the taste for the stage. It was the bane of Mother’s life, this taste for the stage.

“I wish he’d get the taste for doing some PROPER work,” Mother said.

“We never had anything. I used to go to the railway track to pick up bits of coal for the fire.”

It sas true. We never did seem to have anything. Grandmother made my clothes, and there always had to be the red dress.

Despite being poor, Mother always had to wear make up, and the lipstick HAD to be bright red. She had the knack of looking like a film star, even though we had nothing.

They fought all the time. Mother always started it. This love affair that Dad had with the stage really got to her. He produced shows. We all had a part in them. Once, I was a gnome. I had to perfect an evil cackle. And at the end we all had to sing, “If you ever go across the sea to Ireland.”

He got quite famous, my Dad. Everyone in the town knew him.

He died when I was in my fifties. A sudden stroke. “I don’t want no black at my funeral,” he said,

So we all wore red dresses. A right sight we all looked, lined up behind the coffin in our red dresses!

Mother was angry with him for dying. There was no one to drive the car now, you see. A lovely bright red one. She never did forgive him for dying.

But her penchant for red never left her. Red shoes. Red handbags. Red everything.

It was about ten years after his death. We had to take her to the doctors. Mother, that is. She couldn’t walk very well by now. But there she was, in her fur coat, bright red shoes, and red handbag. She got out of the car in the doctors car park, her red hat glowing. Soon, she was back though.

“I forgot it,” she said. “I can’t go in there without my prostitute handbag.” She picked up her red handbag and off she toddled.

Me and hubby sat in the car waiting for her.

“I wonder how she’ll be CLASSIFIED” hubby saud.

“Dunno,” I said. “She might be certified, never mind classified.”

COLOURS

If I were you and you were me,
What different colours would we see?
For I am blind and you can’t hear,
What different things would we hold dear?
The grass is green, what does that mean?
It could be blue, things only seem
To paint a picture bold and true
That means the same to me and you.

If you were me and I were you,
How would we hear the colour blue?
It’s not just words that shed the light
On all life’s questions big and small,
There’s none that mean the same to all,
I wonder if you’ll now agree
That different shades we all will see,
That white is black, and black is white,
But all has meaning in Love’s sight.