I am going to write a poem.
First I shall take an
O R D I N A R Y
Say … Thinking ….
Now when? I ask –
Was the last time you stopped at
And wondered if anyone
Would ever write a poem
About a bustop?
I doubt anyone will, you
Would have thought
Really, there’s little
Inspirational about it.
(Happy National Poetry Day)
Yet Barely green
A nascent filigree
Adorns these boughs. The windflowers
The drowsy wood
Weaves dreams in evenlight
A pheasant clacks her brood to roost
Through blazing woods
Savouring love, I hold you
Against my heart to forestall
Glistening white, the
Night-wrapped sentinels brood:
Tall, wary, above the beech mast.
Subject: Because: Last words should not be bitter.
Date: Sat, 9 Jun 2012 10:55:58 +0100
Words were our friends, Joe,
Before they were our enemies.
With a million, we wove palaces and
Embarked on journeys beyond our bodies, deep
Into the Soul.
Allow then, the Poet, to write the Scholar,
A better ending.
I will pour into the ground, the venom that
Makes me feel like death,
Will you lay down the ill-tempered blade
That you hold against your heart?
Be with me, now,
Atop a sweet green hill
We intended only Love.
Let me take your hands in mine,
Draw you closer, hold your gaze,
For the eternity it takes to speak,
In silence, all that needs to
Pass between us.
At last, three chaste kisses
Cheek to cheek to cheek… .
Letting each other go,
Taking our separate paths.
A better ending.
A new beginning.
I have a friend, Melissa, who is battling cancer. She is a Christian, and I am a fellow–traveller, so I offered to write a prayer for her:
I will, I say, and I am true to this,
Light a candle every day, and I will pray.
I am watching the flicker from the well of wax
I am listening to the rain at the window
I am wondering about the wind and
The absence of noise, this Sabbath,
This quiet day, on the Huntley road.
I am waiting for Melissa’s words.
I have prayed for you all on that slow march
Through the cancer wards, with wounded lives.
I am not, I say, at all glad, or going to plead.
You must, Divine One, flickering in the flame,
You must understand, there is no sense to this!
What can I say? What are Melissa’s words?
Make sense for us, Dear One, of this weirdness, this pain.
(You think him silent? I tell you, he is not! )
I want you, he says to be joyful. I want you
To sense the depth of love, to know
A longing, and a fulfilment.
I want you to gather up all that is
At peace in you. (You can do this!)
Put an end to fear, stand right here –
In the flickering flame and offer THIS
Your Self – your Prayer – Your Faith.
For your friend.
I drove unthinking
Past a stop sign –
Deep, deep, into the desert.
I sat beside self-pity and said
How much better it would be
Were I Young and Beautiful
(Even self-pity laughed!)
Well, the tears came.
And they were sweet. So sweet.
You see, I have been in the desert.
Beneath brilliant skies.
Drowned in silence.
Discovered my true Name
And – when you were asleep –
I whispered it to you.
I learned that it is not
The Hopes, Dreams, Lovers
That are gone, that matter,
But what remains.
Though we will never kiss
Or behaviour with such
Here, in the Deep I walk with
Something of you.
Something very precious
Not guarded, or owned.
Not quite understood.
I am writing this from bed. I could get up, I probably should, but as I have everything at hand, and no urgent errands to perform, I see no reason to budge.
My lovely little cottage is under attack. Benignly so: It’s having a new kitchen fitted. I contemplated re-locating with my daughters, you know, doing an old-style ‘Royal Progress’ from Jen’s in town, to Kate’s in Droitwich, finishing up in Bristol with Hannah. This may still be necessary, but for the time being, I am making do with a field-kitchen in the spare bedroom.
I am contemplating giving one of the half- dozen or so good little cafes in town my lunch-time custom. I had forgotten the day, and don’t know the date. I am thinking a lot about senility as David’s funeral approaches, and wonder if I should be worried about forgetting that today is a Public Holiday I decide not. When I was working, the public holidays always arrived smack in the middle of school hols, and therefore had no impact. I’m pleased for those of you who fall upon these havens of respite with relief bordering on ecstasy, but for me, they’ve always been an irritant. So many of you are out and about enjoying yourselves, that you’ve clogged up the roads and confined me to my home.
Returning to my self-indulgent introspection on the health of my wits:
‘Are you losing it?’ Questions that would land me in hot water.
Q: “What day of the week is it?
A: “Haven’t Cared Since I Retired, Unless it’s Friday, and even then, not so much now. 🙂
Q: “Who’s the Prime Minister?”
A: ” Haven’t Cared Since The Children Took Over”
Q: “What’s The Password To Your Bank Account”
A: “Oh! Come On! I’m Not That Stupid.”
The answer to that one, is actually, “I Don’t Know.” I don’t handle the accounts. Ray’s not that stupid either… .
I almost always do a little relevant research in the writing of this Blog – for my amusement, you understand, your education is your own affair – so I searched for the ACTUAL questions that a health professional might ask me when tackling any decline in my mental acuity. Couldn’t find any. Though I did find reams of material on the Mental Capacity Act of 2005, which is an amazingly reassuring document. Granny’s not getting deprived of her eccentric lifestyle until she’s well out of it. Being Granny, I’m well pleased about this.
I did, in the course of my research, find an online ‘Test Your Own IQ’ Site.
As a retired professional brain-wrangler, I could see that it was as sound as they come ( which isn’t THAT much
of a recommendation, actually, as I have no respect for IQ Test, but what the heck, I’m old and wanted to see just
how past it I was getting.)
HO HO!!! I’m not going to reveal my score, but I’m feeling a whole lot less depressed than I was when I started
out this morning!
Take comfort. You can forget what day of the week it is and STILL be a genius!
Lying in wait for death –
I sprang out, a little precipitately,
And rather too soon. Embarrassed,
I tried to look
Death, un-phased, (For he’s seen everything: Let’s face it.)
Tipped his hat,
And ventured a cheery, “Good Morning”
Which, frankly, I found a little off-putting:
” Am I too early?” I enquire,
Unconsciously imitating a granny,
At the bus-stop, with her Bus Pass.
“And, If so, do you mind if I come back
Death put aside his scythe
Plumped down on a handily placed Wrought Iron Bench,
“I’d very much appreciate it,” he said,
(His voice! Quiet, melodious – I know! So unexpected!)
“If you would walk out with me today-
I have an occasional longing for a human face
That isn’t quite so … . ”
(In deference to the dearly departing,
He left the sentence hanging in the air.)
Up for anything, me,
I look him in the sockets
” MacDonalds?” He grins, holding out a sleeve.
Tucking it under my arm,
I step out:
Our first date!