Blind Ripples

The time will come, as sure it must,

When flesh and bones return to dust.

Ere this happens to mine state

I challenge life, what may await

Round corners I have yet to veer,

On roads and paths that I must steer

As true to self as I can be

While hurting none as best I see.

The trouble with my self-direction,

Modus operandus, introspection,

Is, I can’t see what acts I do

May taint the world for me and you.

I struggle on as blind man feels,

Alerting senses to what’s real,

Believing that my ripples cast

May count for something that could last

Into eternal consciousness

And, somehow, one day I’ll be blessed

By loving light that comforts soul,

Suffuses dark when all is told

In story of my life on earth,

That task completed had some worth.

Blog Tour

A very fine poet, Paul, a master with words and imagery, invited me along on a blog tour. I’m chuffed to bits that he reads my blog and makes lovely comments.

Now, I also feel a bit guilty because Ali invited me on a blog tour a wee while back and I agreed and then didn’t follow through on my side of the tour. My bad. But, here I make it up to her and, hopefully, send lots of new readers to these two wonderful bloggers. Both write fabulously well, leave me standing at the starting gate, so to speak. So I’m delighted that they each extended the invite and urge you to check them out.

This is my absolute favourite of Paul’s. I had to read it over and over again and eventually made a reading of it for my own pleasure. It’s a wonderful piece of work.

Ali’s writing is so often full of humour and this one appeals to the teacher in me and the love of a fine anecdote expressed just so.

 

The three questions I am to consider are these.

Why do I write what I do?

How does my writing process work?

How does my work differ from other genres?

 These questions  certainly got me thinking about how and why I write and when it all began. So I penned this. With a pen!

 

Poetic infancy, I guess,

began with a doodle,

a scribble on page,

just a mark

till letters’ formations

revealed their delight,

their sensory quality,

their spark.

 

Like moth to the flame

of the pencil and pad,

to the ink draining

out from the pen,

I scribbled and drew,

no clue what to do

but still the flow

raptured and then

 

I found out in books,

those worlds in the pages,

what magic

an author creates,

I gloried in them,

hid out in my den

while kids danced and larked.

My fate

 

was to wonder at words,

their meanings, their source,

to be spellbound

by even their spelling,

to capture each one

how they’d become,

connotations,

their secrets concealing

 

in Latin, in Greek, all the words that we speak,

in the French, in my own mother tongue,

I found that one word

may erupt as I think,

while feelings

course from

my lifeblood

to ink.

 

In angst of my teens,

I defined all my dreams

in writing,

who I was, the why of existence.

Years charted of life,

senses refined,

thoughts penned, but

only for my own subsistence,

 

to reveal who I am,

what I feel, what I think

how my mind

plays tricks in the light,

I wrote for myself,

filed the pads on the shelves,

opened new,

wrote into the night.

 

Till one day in June,

of two thousand thirteen,

at behest of my brother,

I clicked

on WP’s pages,

typed up some old stuff,

and haven’t looked back.

What a dick!

 

I now feel to have been

so shy to reveal

with the family of all

who love words

my offerings today,

as I make my own way,

not in forms recognised

but in floods

 

of joy that I’ve found

in expressing myself,

in floating, eyes gazed

to the sky,

that nothing is worse

than a tongue if it’s cursed

to a silence

that tells its own lie.

 

Now you’ll be sorry you asked

for a blog tour from me

‘cos bugger!

I just don’t do brief

but that’s just my style,

I’ve tried haiku and twitter

but syllable/character counts

feel like thieves,

 

reducing outpourings,

that I have to confess,

just splurge like

waterfall’d blurbs,

all the A’s and the B’s

right through to the Z’s –

no process –

just a huge love of words.

 

And pens and paper.

A bit of a fetish actually!

 

 

Why do I write what I do? Because I have to, always have.

How does my writing process work? Like a waterfall.

How does my work differ from other genres? Not a bloody clue! And don’t, frankly, care. They’re all words.

 

I’d like to invite a few others to this blog tour whose work I admire.

Cole, whose eloquence in words and thoughts on life and meaning entrance me.

http://colemining.wordpress.com/2014/06/03/poets-priests-and-politicians/#comments

She’s coming to Glasgow in September so we’re going to have a good old natter about politics and music and life. Over a couple of glasses of vino, of course. Looking forward to it, Cole!

I only came across this blogger recently and he has quite a distinct style that I really must try in that his poetry is prose is poetry.

Daniel at

http://danielswearingen.wordpress.com/2014/06/27/merle/

Now there are so many more I could mention whose blogs and words I love. But I figure you’ll have more than enough marvellous reading material when you visit Paul, Ali, Cole and Daniel.

We Became

You

saturated me,

poured scented unguents on oldest wounds,

rotated my mind

with fingertips

tracing

temples’ ragged edges,

breathing calm into my hair

from behind

where I could not see 

the belonging in your eyes

but felt it flow,

airborne and tactile,

as arms around my whole.


Your

healing 

wrapped round my relief,

touching

deep,

reiki

to soul’s silent

pain.


You

fed my thirst,

quenched my need for soothed release,

old child to new woman born, 

fast-forwarded time by touch and breath

and whisper’d nothings

unspoken.


Your

being

became as mine,

tendered lips

proferring union,

chosen in one single, breathless kiss

to flame a glowing taper.


You

became

me

as I flowed

into you.


You

left on a breath

with part of me,

two divided

but one.

We became.

Interlaced

In prophecy, she comes to you,

dream beyond pannier’d delights,

floral fragrance, cocoa’d core,

soft and sweet, delicious bite;

warm to touch,

essential meal,

butter’d melt

to taste, reveal.

No crumbs of comfort,

hearty sight,

fulfilling pain,

harvest, excite.

Slumber’d eyes,

token taste,

supped crimson tongue,

refinement, interlaced.

Sensory Treasure

I whisper in your heart

to hear your hurting,

I kiss your tears

to taste away your fears,

touch your hands,

absorbing all your feelings,

snuggle close, scenting

pain-filled, broken years.

You gaze into my eyes

to know I’m seeing

all within your soul

you can’t convey.

In sharing all our senses,

flowered open,

love and understanding

feel a way.

I know your soul

by breathing in your essence,

believing all

my senses may reveal,

caring for you whole,

nothing concealed,

and treasure all the scars

I help to heal.

A Special Knowing

 

 

Some sounds cannot communicate,

Frustration writ upon her face,

One in class of only eight.

Disability, no disgrace.

 

His features formed in such a way,

Some may shun, avoid,

But hugs and cuddles and to play

Wants this gorgeous little boy.

 

Others too, though less severe,

Outwith my thirty years.

One day spent with angels who

Reduced my heart to tears.

 

They taught me more compassion

In the hours I spent with them.

For me, a timely lesson

In a different sort of pain.

 

A superior sort of knowing

In singular children who

Require some special teaching.

All involved, so extraordinary. And I bow to you.

Forget Love?

No one forgets; and I don’t forget.

How can we forget when we love?

It buries down deep; infuses our being,

Suffuses our senses; leaves our thoughts reeling.

 

Who can forget when they’ve loved? Even lost?

Why would we want to though love counts a cost?

But the cost that it counts is a price that, once paid,

Cherishes life and feelings we’ve shared.

 

It harbours belief in fortunes they tell

And harkens to kismet and spiritual bell.

It listens to prayers and hears when we call

It values our worth and shares out to all.

 

Hurts they will come from the knife edge of love, but,

Though razored through, we heal and behove

Love to all others, for once we have known

Amity in lives, it must then be shown

 

To all whom we meet, with a zest for our living,

A passion for life, a thought to what’s given

To others who seek a touch and a taste

Of what lies within all but proceeds from all chaste;

 

The fountain of life, with a stream gushing forth,

Channelling energy and life-giving source.

We bless and we keep those moments we feel

The love of another for love feelings are real.

 

Love lasts forever though some may depart

For love is eternal in soul and in heart.

Those gone now, departed, by death or from choice

Loved once, if but briefly, still cause to rejoice.

 

My mind is awash with the feelings I feel

A wondrous reunion with spirits, all real.

Those whom I’ve loved, those loving still.

That’s all. Just a force that works with free will.

 

Love’s never lost. Never I say.

For into the ether love travels and stays.

It lurks in the corners of those ever loved

And grows or diminishes as life takes its course.

 

But once it’s created in hearts and in minds

It flourishes, flies and source it will find

Where all may return to the plain we were born, till

All love shines in splendour, the most glorious dawn.

Senseless

I never felt it coming;

Spectral form seeping through

And into,

Wisping and mingling

With my air.

Breathless seductions

Tasted,

Inhaled to mix with my blood;

Cells cleaving,

Time transfigured.

 

I never heard him leave.

He glided through the door

Soundlessly,

My sigh at his parting

Louder than

The soughing air

Around his form.

He melted into nothingness

But left with my heart.

I never saw it leaving.

 

I never sensed such silence;

Void without his voice,

No beat from a heart.