Dream In Reverse – Across The Pond Mix

Once again I have had the absolute pleasure of collaborating with Johnny Ojanpera on a song. Johnny’s fabulous music drew some lyrics from me that he very kindly allowed me to sing to his composition. I hope you like it. I personally love it. Well chuffed. 🙂

Scatter my world

Dream in reverse

Lost in the mazes of mind

And the chases, I’m cursed

Scatter my world

Dream in reverse

Lost in the mazes of mind

On repeat, oh so cursed

Fragments of planet

Earthly confusion, all an illusion

Piecing together the portions

Of dreams in reverse

Fragments of planet

Earthly confusion, all an illusion

Piecing together the portions

Repeated reverse

Repeat the pattern

Backwards I’m travellin’

Eye over shoulder

Looking behind and ahead

Waking in dreams in reverse

Neither living nor dead

Repeat the pattern

Backwards I’m travellin’

Eye over shoulder

Looking behind and ahead

Waking in dreams in reverse

Am I living or dead

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the dream in my head

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Reverse the nightmare

Am I living or dead




Reverse the dream in my head


Implosion, explosion

Purpled contusions

Dreams in reverse

Where I hurt and I heal

Expansion, contraction

Nothing is real.

Dream in reverse.

Reverse the dream.



The Meaningful Key

Minus mic,

his voice still carried,

barely and with just enough humour

to detect genuine humility

and passion.

He spoke

of early sadness,

not being good enough


finding meaning.

He spoke

of childhood,

of family split

and dodging school

to fail.

He spoke

of finding

worth in himself

through purpose

and work

and sharing

a shed

with rats,


scary spiders

and other youths

in a far-off land

where native children

were taught in awe and desperation,

drinking thirstily,

desperate for education.

He spoke

of forgiving himself

and his mum,

of whispered prayer

to find strength.

He spoke

of changes

in direction

to aspire

to doctor dream,

of local service

then returning

to Africa,

giving back

what he had found.

He spoke

of waiting soon

his first child –

to spontaneous applause

at his awed thrill.

His face lit

the stage.

A lad, I thought,

of tender years

for nothing


his glowing face.

But experience

lent truth

to his age

and joy in life.

From sad and broken beginnings,

he spoke,

while I choked back tears

at radiant happiness

and a voice

that spoke

to youths

and adults alike.

He spoke

of finding

the meaningful key.

Do Tell

There’s a wide-eyed wild woman in my house this morning. I’ve met her before and given her short shrift on my way out to work. My husband commented on her presence this morning with the words, ‘What time did you come to bed last night?’

‘Late’ is a perfectly valid time on the writer’s timepiece. It is just vague enough to have been reasonably early or heading for the hay as the birds twitter.

I wasn’t that late last night/this morning. But, good grief, I have to get this writing malarkey under control. Truth be told, I don’t really want to because too many years have passed wishing for just such dedication. And now that I’ve found it I’m scared to jinx it by being too controlling.

And I’m not so hot on the discipline thing anyway with regard to certain activities. I know myself well enough for that. I would have made a lousy soldier. I prefer to rely on impulse and compulsion in some areas of my life. Too much of it is dictated to by routine and rote. So, sensory pleasures must be allowed to flourish whenever possible. A more regimented routine is difficult to imagine at the moment.

But when I viewed myself, looking and feeling somewhat like a vampire – all white-faced and red-eyed seeking a good blood source for a much-needed feed, I have to consider whether I’m not neglecting my health in the name of the written word and thoughts.

So, I have to make some sort of effort to exert some discipline and self-control and rejoin the land of the living. But I don’t know how to switch it off without switching it off! Up too late writing, then thoughts disturbing my sleep. And hubby’s, I’m told. I’ve always talked in my sleep. Apparently, now, I also knock hell out of folk!

No selfies on this one but think Macbeth and three crones. I’m not Macbeth. But Shakespeare must have had a peephole into my future when he wrote that one. Maybe that’s why it was set in Scotland.

What do others do? Give in and go with the flow glad to be pouring forth on paper words that might never see the light of day anyway? Take pad and pen everywhere? I already do that. Try for a timetable? Take up running? I hear that’s good for keeping the thoughts flowing while getting fresh air. But that’s hubby’s love and I didn’t like it when I tried it. More than once, I might add, to give it a fair crack.

The weather’s picking up so maybe garden writing like last year. Sun and words, a wonderful combination. But it’s so hit and miss yet. And I can see clouds rolling in from here. I’ll never make my first year blogging anniversary at this rate. And I don’t like the coffin look. So do tell.

Photo Inspirations

Can’t resist these amazing photos. http://abbyromana.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/inspiration-photos/

I couldn’t work out how to reblog and include poems…..so, hope this is okay. 🙂

Inspiration speaks.





This dagger, jewelled,

Betrays what fool

Dwells within my heart,

Pierced by pointless passion,

Blood seeps and so I start

To see the lie, the hand that held

Such gilded handle so,

Aimed at trust and honesty,

Life essence leaks, though does not show.




Love’s Token

This gem is my token

Of love so unbroken

By distance and desert so dry,

Claimed from a source

In joy, no remorse,

A token between you and I.




Discovery in nature’s lore,

Plants and seeds and flowers,

Creative combinations heal,

Disdained by higher powers.


A pinch of this, a drop of that,

Mixed with loving care,

Pharmacy from olden days,

An alchemist was there


Using all intelligence

And belief in natural wonder,

Progress paints as foolishness,

Pulls folklore asunder


Till chemical analysis,

Tested in a lab,

Discovers many honest truths,

Declares some potions fab


And so creates, from synthetic means,

Equivalent in components,

Elemental particles,

Not really new proponents.


Dismiss ye not the forest glade,

The jungle and the seer,

Purveyors of all healing powers

Thrive, in giving, without fear.





The Tryst


A tryst here played

For months and days, in

Secret hidden garden

Till lovers recognise the lie.

Two hearts, too quickly, harden.




Lantern Light


This lantern light that floats to earth

Kissing, gently, lake,

Restores belief in magic power,

Innards quicken, quake.


Revealing planetary orb,

Reflecting light above,

Drifting self, amniotic sac,

Bask in glow of love.




A Misty Way


An avenue of sentinels

Guard a mist way,

Only brave and wonder-filled

May pass, where secrets play.


Inviting stroll or fearsome quest,

Truth lies out beyond,

Where, shrouded in a foggy haze,

Souls dance on golden pond.


Too late for some to turn back time,

Reverse the footsteps’ call,

Lost inside another world,

Most beautiful of all.

End of an Era

My old primary school is being demolished this summer. A new, purpose-built, hi-tech, all-singing, all-dancing structure will take its place. It will have all the mod cons – interactive white boards, projectors, dedicated IT suite, an elevator, disabled facilities. You name it, it will have it.

I don’t know that it will last as long as the current, yet-to-be-demolished version. This particular edifice has been standing for around a hundred years. My dad went to it, my brothers and sisters and I went to it, my children have all gone to it. Two of them are currently there today. My youngest still has five years to go there.

It’s quite an ugly building. It was built over three levels and constructed of blonde sandstone. It looks like a giant cuboid standing on one of its smaller sides. It has mesh on most of the windows to prevent break-ins and vandalism. It looks like a prison. And I am sure there have been plenty of children who have gone through its doors and felt that it was exactly that.

But I have some fabulous memories of my time there. I met my favourite teacher of all time there. I had the pleasure of being in the Primary seven class of this young (then) woman who just ‘got’ kids. You knew that she understood every one of us. She was patient and kind and had a fabulous way of putting her lessons across. She made everything worthwhile learning. It was in her class that I fell in love with Greece and its myths and legends. It was in her class that I realised that, even although I was quiet, I was noticed. She inspired me to give of my best. I worked my tail off for her approval. And I loved it. I blossomed.

I later did a teaching practice in the school myself as a student and she was still there. I was still in awe of her. I even posted a little note through her door at the end of teaching practice to tell her what an inspiration and fabulous teacher she had been. I was still too shy to say it face to face.

She retired some years ago and I still think of her. She never married. Teaching had been her life.

Thank you, Miss B.

It was in this school that I first did any acting. Well, if you can call it that. One of the teachers was particularly talented at art and music. He put on some mean performances. He wrote lyrics to classical pieces and had us all singing our hearts out on stage and feeling that the Oscars were just around the corner. He should probably have taught music in the secondary school. So, Mr. W, thanks for the memories.

One other teacher in my third or fourth year there was so old-fashioned. She used to wear an orange checked overall to protect her clothes from chalk dust. She had the girls curtseying and the boys saluting during a particular topic. I think it must have been ‘The Victorians’. We loved it.

‘Good Morning, Miss B.’ Curtsey. Salute. Such fun.

My first year in the school I was in a class that had an open coal fire. And a rocking horse. I so wanted a shot on that horse but pushier children always got there first. Sods! We practised our letters on small chalk boards and worked out number bonds with Cuisenaire rods. God, I sound like 120.

Parts of the school have terracotta coloured ceramic tiles covering the walls. These are to be removed and used to make a mosaic. Primary seven children will do this. So one of my daughters will be doing this as a last act before leaving for secondary.

Tonight there’s to be an open evening and a Mass to celebrate the end of an era.

My sister’s hosting a little after party too so there will most likely be a few sherbets and some tears.

Two days until the end of term and this school closes forever. To be flattened to the ground. But the memories will live on.