There’s something about
the magic of a quiet
No rush hour traffic,
no manic struggle
to get anywhere,
the sound of the steadily
ticking clock on the wall
and yellowest of daffodils
brightening the darkwood piano.
Bliss is in the things which just ‘be’,
the things we don’t push,
the things we leave alone to live
their own purpose.
The clock on the wall
knows how to touch
the beating heart.
Sitting here by the fire, my feet still cold…..
and the sounds of high winds outside,
the ticking of the clock on the wall
and the deafening sound of no traffic,
fills me with delicious,
puffy cheeked smugness!
This is 3.30am ~ ‘ME’ time…..
No one will phone me,
I have no desire or need to
answer social media messages ~
unless I choose to……
No one will knock at my door…..
It’s just me, my books, pencils and paints…..
and the sounds of night before light.
to desire than than
the smell of seaweed
by a salt blown beach hut…..
Just sling me a green hammock,
with iced prosecco in a crystal glass
to moisten my wild whispering, wandering lips
and I will charm the sirens of the sea with my singing……
there’s minimal living in my simple space.
Come slide your aging, well trod,
pale skinned foot across the
threshold to be close to
mine and sing with me;
there are seasounds
in our souls.
I offer this up as a shout into the wilderness where the unjust rule….. I dedicate it to those I love who are suffering incessant blows to their lives and to all others in similar situations…..
*The Fracking of Lives*
Some people have lost everything,
some never had anything to lose….
Some are hopelessly unable to
survive their life crashing as it goes
on taking them down in spirals
on to their empty bellies…..
Some governments help those in need,
others place invisible guns to their heads
and say…. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you”
as they employ no sense of human discernment.
Yet instead, they stick to their mindless, heartless scripts……
I’m praying on the knees of my heart tonight
for those who will soon have not an ounce more to give,
not voice left to rage with, no tears left to cry,
no home in which to feel safe enough to cry those tears…..
not a crumb to feed their children – not one of them will be safe.
And still, governments sit on benches lined with bloods of many
which they spin into fine wines, fine foods and capacious rooms.
They spike the minds of the poor and massage the backs of
of evil men of trecherous acts….
Yet behind the hallowed doors of their white houses
and in the shadows of tall clocks by deep rivers,
their smiles and pen strokes annihilate the broken and lost.
Do they see the poor and sick in their suffering?
No….. they smell the stench of vile acts they themselves commit,
as the suffering are led away to be shoved deep into graves;
the fracking of lives.