Well Met

met her on the mountains

wind nettled in her hair

red brushed through by finger’d draughts

her presence barely there

a wisp of lass, no more than ten

her breath a breeze in flight

cat-eyed maiden stole alone

cut swathes in misted night

passed through me in search of home

thought between we two

hurry back and mind your step

and sleep the whole night through

but stay an eye for feral beasts

keep one true for wild

a third you’ll need for pleasant folk

a fourth to save each child

fifth may penetrate the dark

and sixth shall make it clear

rest, be thankful but remain

alert, of list’ning ear,

met her on the mountains

outfoxed chill around

heard her hist’ry in my heart

her words in silent sound

met her once but ne’er forgot

each puzzled piece she told

maid of ten, or so I thought,

a child too soon grown old

wisdom of the ages

in the figure of a lass

red-haired, nettled, draughted, dead

met her in the Pass

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Elegy

It’s beginning to look like I’ve given up writing poetry but, hey, what are lyrics but poetry set to music?

That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it as I’m thoroughly enjoying this foray into writing and singing the lyrics to accompany Johnny’s fabulous music.

He and his lovely wife, Lisa, both put an incredible amount of work into compiling the video.

Where you go I’ll never know,

it’s a dream,

cast alone as a stone

into a stream.

I am void when you’re gone,

just a shell of myself,

you leave me there,

I don’t know where,

when or if I’ll be reborn,

recover soon, without you, my other self.

 

Why you leave I can’t conceive,

where you go I’ll never know,

into night you have flown

while I lie here all alone,

tie me to you,

take me on the voyage,

where you fly

as I lay here to die,

without you.

 

Where you go I’ll never know,

it’s a dream,

left alone while you roam

in the realms of a world

that is your home

from waking days,

each night I pray

you will return to me,

I’ll never see what you’ve seen

as I lie here lost to dreams,

beyond the night you have flown

as I die a death alone,

tie me to you,

take me on your voyage,

into night, where you fly,

do not leave me here to die

bring life back to my dreams,

take me with you when you go,

where you fly,

I cannot bear to die alone

on my own, just a shell of myself.

You leave me bare,

I don’t know where, when or if

I’ll be reborn, recover soon,

my death to self.

 

Mind Strokes

stroked invisibilty, masseuse of mindless faltering assuage, permawarmth in comfort, tenuous the link between still present turn of page, a momentary lapse will see adrift the day and cosy fluff in brain begets the hour ponderous, each motion, movement slowing, eyes succumbing, stills the time, and all the while life beats and strains of happy chatter lick ice cream and giggle softly up above while this mother smiles inside and does allow a body’s need to slip away, a corner turning, urging come and rest the day is done, the beat goes on, slow tempoed now, the rat-tat-tat to rhythmic breathing, holding on determination, letting go, mere slip the cord, peruse the otherworld amid goodnight, stroked key.

Rest With The Angels

pale soft diffusion

steady, slow, to timely chirps

dreamland fades to morn


absorbing stillness

subtle changes filter shades

peace awakening


perfumed oils pamper

paced luxury kneads to sleep

rest with the angels


Prescription needed!

Spa days cure insomnia,

Doctor in the house?

For Science – ll

Earth date:- 6th March 2015

Last night was not one of Spain’s finest moments although I venture to suggest it will not be recorded in the annals of history by any of its contemporaries and only noted here. Their loss. In attesting to these findings I have duly taken note that the bouquet of the Spanish wine consumed was most pleasant, the taste on the palate equally so and that the requisite two glasses were consumed with ease.

This initial experiment proved to have positive beginnings when I succeeded in being asleep shortly after ten o’clock. Men In Black (version something) failed to hold my interest although I was impressed at Emma Thompson’s vocal impersonation of a Venusian in heat – at least, I think that’s what it was.

Unfortunately, for the purposes of the previously outlined experiment, it also has to be noted that I was awake again just after twelve, paid heed to the time, fucked a little under my breath and promptly fell asleep again. This was of short duration when I was awakened yet again just after one a.m. by my son ringing the house phone to request admission to the lab as he had forgotten his keys.  An unusual occurrence. Not the keys. The fact that the door was locked. It has become the habit over the years for last one in to lock up. This has resulted in the front door sometimes being left open all night. But not last night. I will not deduct marks from Spain for that particular awakening as it was not the fault of the country that my son is a plank.

As I write it is now coming up on two a.m. My go to drink at the moment is water and I will now attempt to catch the sandman’s coat tails before he pisses off entirely for the night….. to be continued.

Bloody hell! * 5.30a.m.

Geezabrek! * just after 6

Giving in – time up, anyway.

Spain will now unite with Italy in the lasagne stakes, a necessary addition to the dish, although one that always breaks my heart a little when adding to the sauce.

Apparently, cherry and damson are not conducive to uninterrupted sleep.

Earth date:- 26th March 2015

My findings are proving inconclusive and elusive. (Bugger! Rhymes!)

It should be apparent to anyone with an eye for detail that monitoring the experiment now entitled ‘Fucksakesletmesleep!’ has not been high on my agenda. I have failed to keep notes and have even failed to drink the requisite number of glasses per evening to substantiate any claims that might possibly have been made were I a more diligent scientist, advocate of homework or indeed drinker. Stephen-my-man-Hawkings must be birling at the lack of adherence to task and would, I’m sure, give me a rollicking for such neglect. (I’ve heard he likes a good swally. But that might just be a rumour. Started by me.)

Being someone who never gives up without a fight I have decided, this evening, to try again. I’m only doing this in the interests of my marriage and the now too often vacant space that lies to my left. (Well, when I’ve not sprawled there in my apparently neverending quest for more space, a better bit of bed and someone to fling a leg over.) The shadows evidenced on my husband’s face and the haggard look on mine as I cover the smudges of a morning are testament to the fact that sleep is ever elusive and fucksakeswhatsgoingongoodgriefgodalmightycharliebrownI’mdyinghere is now my favourite catch phrase – shortened, of course, to the aforementioned experiment title.

I am now of the opinion that my vitamin D levels are back in the toilet pan again and only a massive dose of unadulterated sunshine will see me right.

In exactly one week’s time I will be on holiday for two weeks and there had better be a sun shining high in my back garden. I have painting plans of the garden furniture variety and a couple of sun loungers calling my name. Pick me, pick me, I hear them cry from the garden shed. (Need to paint that fecker too.)

At precisely 2.30 p.m. – Earth time – I shall don my painter’s apron atop my scientist’s coat, open a bottle of red, splash some paint hither and to and test for road worthiness one of the two petulant loungers. And there had better be some fucking sunshine around, sunshine. Or there sure as hell will be plenty of wine.

I will bloody sleep again. ‘As god is my witness.’ ‘But I’ll think about that tomorrow.’

Right now, I’ve opened a Spanish number again. Got to give science and countries another chance, I think. So does Stephen. I’ve heard. Slainte, mark ll!

 

 

 

Sanctifying Sorceress

She’ll kiss away all contours,

frowns that mar the landscape,

life criss-crosses

from the crossroads formed,

this visage,

evening tones,

enhance as twilight,

banish petrified

with wave of hand passed over,

deliver, she is heard

amid the rushes,

sighing breath

temperate to risen blood,

quell beats

anon to death,

a sister, wife, a mother,

full-bosomed pillow cloud,

inducing coma, deep,

sanctifying sorceress,

breath of life,

banish wakefulness,

to sleep.

Still…

…cannae help it.. Then I’m going to bed. Maybe.

Blame Fridays that go into Saturdays. ‘Nuff said except for new songs. Just discovered. He’s great. So’s Ian Mckellan. I need to dance now. Then bed. Promise…ish. Cannae believe I’m still awake!

What a fine young man. Not Ian McKellan. He’s a talented auld fart. Must be over 40 if he’s a day. Pretty good at miming youth right enough. *taking notes*