Measured Moments

Measured, these moments of madness,

Scaled and graded by pain,

Treasured, as lessons in living,

To hold and look at again.

 

Reflected in face in the mirror,

Reflections, mirror the soul,

Reflective, meditative cognizance,

Reflexive actions our goal.

 

Aiming the arrow at inner belief,

Pondering shunned for the primal,

Intuitive action from gut reaction,

Warriors, born to be visceral.

 

Inherent, innate, insuperable,

What is right lies deeply within,

Say your piece, make your choice with action,

Take criticism right on the chin.

 

Repetition, pursuit and practise,

For expertise, hardily strive,

Understanding borne from experience,

Reassures you’ve learned, are alive.

 

Decisions, questions and problems,

Answers sought and bought with cost.

Measured, those moments of madness,

Mean nothing in life is lost.

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Life Glimpsed

In the land of a thousand journeys,

Under skies with a million stars,

Live people with many a problem,

Seeking answers from galaxies afar.

 

In a world where many are broken,

Where scars sear hearts and mind,

Live angels of light and healing,

Touching so others will find –

 

A home where no one is troubled,

Where joy is a lifelong gift,

To the home where love’s all abounding,

We take our troubles and lift –

 

Ascending, spiralling staircase,

Through voids in planetary worlds,

Tumbling to future pathways,

Mists of time and space in whorls.

 

Apparitions appear in the ether,

Soul from future and past,

Presence in present, ever and always,

Spiritual journeys to last.

 

Lifetimes searching for meanings,

Transverse paths do cross,

Lessons from self across distance and time,

None of these messages lost.

 

Subconscious; all recollections,

Surface when hurts should heal,

Sleep with the angels and spirit of self,

Mornings, all truths will reveal.

 

Momentary madness is all déjà vu,

Not life lived before or again,

But life glimpsed in pockets of future and past,

Touched, by memory’s stain.

Political Correctness. (When An Arse Is Still An Arse.)

There’s an arse that says

It’s a bottom,

A posterior, upright and fey.

It struts along,

Singing its song,

Hey, check me out. I’m ok.

 

There’s a language

I struggle to speak.

When I think I am right I am wrong.

I follow a lead,

I pay homage and heed

To the political correctness song.

 

But, sometimes, an arse is an arse.

Sometimes,pert, is not quite.

Sometimes, upright still gets it wrong, 

And, sometimes,

Arses talk shite.

Souls Searching

In my mind

I see a soul on a journey.

I see forests and plateaus and plains.

I hear souls

Whispering their troubles.

I feel them.

I don’t know their names.

 

Their faces,

Names and identities

In manmade terms purveyed,

In the soul quest,

Those mean nothing.

The essence,

Says all to be said.

Australia, Canada, America, NZ, Wherever. I Have A Problem

I’m slightly embarrassed to acknowledge this. A fellow blogger did a lovely piece that I read today on her woeful sense of direction.

http://thevanillahousewife.wordpress.com/2013/07/23/i-mean-the-other-left-2/

And did I sympathise? No, I empathised.  I do, as it happens know my right from my left. Unfortunately, this is no help when navigating. I’m always so many degrees out. And, stuff it, I can’t help it. And it’s shit. But, that’s life.

I am currently struggling with time. (I don’t know if this is one for thevanillahousewife. Perhaps there’s a uniformity to directional and time disability.)

(I’d also like to insert ‘spacial awareness’  here, as well. Because, bugger me, if I can ever judge how much parking room I actually need. No accidents yet. It’s just a tad embarrassing to always be leaving three or four feet between the pavement  and the car.)

My immediate problem, however, apart from money, MOT’s, bank accounts and….you get the idea, is, ‘What time is it?’

I know what time it is here, obviously. Well, obviously! For God’s sake, I’m not a complete imbecile.

But, I don’t know what time it is where you are.

People say things like, ‘Off to bed now. Have a good one.’

And, I’m like, ‘What? Why? It’s only blah here. (I was going to say lunch time, but I don’t even know if that’s right. Is anyone going to bed anywhere when it’s lunchtime here?)

I read that I might be posting when people are sleeping. Well, people are sleeping here in my house as I type. So what? If I’m typing and you’re sleeping? Is that bad? Will I wake you or something? What am I supposed to do. Stay up until some Godforsaken hour like (1.55a.m.?) and then post??

I can actually, actuaaallllly, work it out when faced with the problem and a pen and paper and lots of eager kids.

But, on a day to day basis? I don’t have a friggin’ clue.

Sorry if I woke you.

All Bloggers Are 22. Or thereabouts. Ish.

http://theofficialhowtoblog.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/how-to-tell-if-your-new-followers-are-real-or-not/comment-page-2/#comment-3023

I’m noticing when I read posts that everyone is around the same age. It’s remarkable. Everyone is youthful and spirited and up for a laugh.

I’ve worried about some of my posts and that they might offend some people for reasons I have not fully categorised. (Humble apologies for being an arse. I know this. I get it. No need to inform me.)

And yet, I have received such positive and surprising (to me) feedback from people who will never see their twenty-first again.

 

This takes me to the fair. Blows my mind. And, generally, I LOVE it.

 

 What a remarkable, amazing, stupendous thing that everyone is young at heart.

Nearly. (Except for that miserable bastard that told me to grow up and get a life. KO.  As my eldest daughter says when she’s being outlandish but trying to get away with it.)

I am truly in awe at this phenomenon.

There is only one conclusion to come to, I believe.

If you’ve never read the anonymous post below, it will explain what I mean more fully than I will attempt.

http://mrmom.amaonline.com/stories/CrabbitOldWoman.htm

For all the lazy buggers, (although it seriously is worth a read), I’ll elaborate.

I’m 52. But that’s just my chronological age.

I know it sounds like an excuse to be young and hip and trendy. But, believe me, it’s not. I don’t know that I ever aspired to be any or all of the above. I have an old soul. But the heart of a child. Or the other way round. Whatever.

Anywho, the point is…… yes. Within these decrepit, flaccid muscled, ancient, creaking, moaning, groaning bones lives the mind of a twenty year old.

Good, eh?

I’m going out for my twenty-first tomorrow. And it’s gonna be wild! Second time around is always better. 🙂