Fantasy of an Old Girl
There is a playground
in my comedic soul,
where heart and bone,
muscle and blood
come together like
Cow jumping over Moon….
pirouetting like a deer.
Little dogs do always laugh
when I lollop on by,
trying to catch a
dishy old dish and
spooning round spoon….
Ah…. an ageing old girl
catches the tail of that moon;
It’s the quickest way to heaven.
Dedicated to Peter Thompson, The Old Boy
What the Heart Desires – stream of consciousness.
Am I slave or barren witch
upon the tuffets of grass
out there in some secret, isolated nook?
Am I the crashing waves flinging myself
against the frozen, howling rock?
Do I gleam and glare as the curtain falls
with a crash and the audience flees?
No – I am the bronzed, scorching sun
who devours the stars of the night
with its fingertips whitehot.
For I long to be as they are, suspended weightlessly
longing to be plucked from the midnight blue of night
and tucked neatly and gently into a warm, soft paw palm……
I am the Siren who calls into the
shocking sounds of the turbulent sea
” Come home, come come ….. for I dance at your feet
and run away with your mind of dreams….”
I take my ground and I lengthen and widen into
world of the Creative and Creator…..
THIS is where I long to be.
Twilight and I am nestled up the corner
in my generous chair
completely holding my rounded form
like a mother holds her baby so tenderly.
“I am not ready for winter”
I mewled in my little mind
as the street light simmered its nauseous amber
and the fire waited to be warmed up
by matches, paper and crackling kindling.
My thoughts are flitting and monkey like
as my body, a little anxious,
wants to dart back and forth
tidying, cleaning, packing for my trip….
my trip…… my journey to foreign parts
where one goes to support an only child
through major surgery.
Brain surgery.
This is not easy and yet,
tears just will not break through the torrid barrier
of respectablity, capability, politeness,
societal expectations…..
I actually want to scream –
yes
I want to scream a viscious and vile scream.
It is not about being a victim
or the noxious stuff
which negativity is made of.
It is about
the incredulity of yet another wretched
entanglement of Life and Living’s experiences…..
I can accept AND I can rage…
Do not come to my door
attempting to stop my voice or hers….
or
the voluble need of anyone who is in pain.
Join with us and scream
that it may turn to laughter
as the truthfulness of all things
falls into place.
It’s not that the ticking of the clock, that beats down the door to my ears, just to be heard by me. It’s that this steady, warm, heart beat in the room only sounds like it does, calm and round and steady, when all is still at night and only my breath moves the air. The electrical storm in my head becomes audible as I listen with awareness, as computer, lights, appliances all vibrate to form the soundweave of 21stC existence;
Once upon a time I could sit beside my father and hear the woodworm eating a chair. I could lie in the clover patch and hear the Plovers overhead telling me where to find the four leaf specimens….. now there is little of that in our external world….
I find the four leaf clovers in me. I hear the mastication of ideas in my mind and I resolve to live and go on living, before it’s all too late.
BubblingWordClouds 