apple blossoms

they come in handfuls,
haaaandfuuuulsssssssss
floating through, to ground.

pink floaters like
boaters sailing on winds….. whispering:
shhiiiiiiiiiifffffvvvvvvvvviiiiiii….

she winds her hands and arms
into snaking eights
snsnsnaking sleaking shifting
as if to drag up the wind and make it sing….

apple blossoms never find their way…..
never, ever, find their way back home………
not when the insistent breath of life
has carried them off and
folded up their wings……….

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Love’s Song

Falling into your tired
and gentle eyes,
I found in you a
resonating thread
just glowing
like illuminations
from the silver moon
through the clear,
stark window pane.
I looked with my
humming heart at you,
and then moon,
in her vibrant wisdom,
threaded and melded
our sacred sounds with
the eternal line of time.
Time – which has
no beginning and no end
and asks nothing of we two
but to simply be
Love’s Song.

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Grey

 

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Grey…. I am not sure about this…….it’s more a pewter, but dull….

dull ……. oh…. so ….. dull…..”Dull as ditch water”, a grump riddled parent used to bark…… not about the weather, but about some creative piece I had written or drawn……

Dull – as – ditch – water………

I remember winters then. I remember snowdrifts, sledges, being pulled, but being scared, snowballs in the face ….. getting frozen toes and  jolly red cheeks…..soaking wet socks, the crisp nakedness of undisturbed fallen snow; where has it all gone?
oh, how I loved winter, then.

It’s this grey….. this grey that hangs around like a splodge of badly mixed paints, looming, ready to tip all over my world… but it never happens….. not today anyway…… it’s just grey……

Like my mood: incubating….. not dull, no…….never that.

Bare Bones

Bare Bones

 

Uncluttered and free

baggage of lost years

dissolve back to our Mother Earth.

Songs of intricate stories

held in bones where the Ancestors dwell

are aching bones,

petrifying bones,

shattered bones,

bones of courage where the weave of stories untold

gather back the fragments of our cracked open lives.

BareBones

 

Image: Bare Bones ~ Flick Cook

17th May 2016 ~ Snailwell

 

 

 

 

 

 

Full Circle?

cropped-dscn1473.jpgFull Circle?

She said she would never fall in love again.
Her first falling was when she was six…..
her cousin was oh, so handsome.
The last time she fell in love
was when she was sixty……
and she realised,
love had changed.
At sixty-two,
she thought love to be a winged jester,
a poser, a tiresome, cavernous voice
on her aching shoulder……
Now at sixty-three,
she notices the glimmer in her eyes,
as if a lover may appear at any moment.
She wonders if by 66 Love may have come full circle…..
“One never knows”, she whispers to the cat,
“One just never knows anything for sure,
not even about Love’s Messenger.” 

Wild

Seize the day as night comes slowly
to gather and hide the Light.
Be present in your breath for
therein lies the wisdom of your Life.
Crack wide the rigid bones of your ribs
for there, nestled within that cage,
lies the cavern of your wild and glorious Love.

~ The Voice ~
Alan Rickman 1946 – 2016

I feel as if I only had you
for a brief moment,
and now,
you
have
gone.

Somewhere out in
vast mystical wasteland,
there is vibration new ~
a chocolate velvet
clustered sound ~

floating ~
suspended ~
by
light ~

you belong to many
yet to no one at all…..
nothing could be
more right…..
Enjoy the Mystery.