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Talking To My Heart

My heart has made a journey, within my body
as well as a journey filled with love

I soothe my heart with pleasant memories
with the words of love spoken to me

Over many years, many voices in many places
some are beautiful, some are really not

I have sat in gutter with addicts, giving them truth
dined with the wealthy, slightly out of place

My heart does overtime, in my body, and also
with my loved ones, and the needy

I talk to my heart because I know it well
I ask it to take rest, and also do more

Published in KnowThelf,Heal Thyself

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My poem, Silken Ribbons, got an award…

I always pretend to hear whispers of our world,
yet my mind always drifts towards that open void,
reflecting on kisses that undress the ache of my scars,

unfurling sorrows as if silken ribbons.
These will never wither,
but will be absorbed by you
when low moments come to mock.

And as time settles into evening,
your shadow will hang itself from my core.
And with sighs quivering between my lips –
my spirit will wrap itself around warmth of your body.
And when you stroke your fingers through my hair –
you will feel each aching breath of me.

Published in The Lark Written 2005

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The Two Of Us

When we loved
It was so good with us
Harmonious, knowing
What the other wanted

When you brooded
It changed everything
No lovemaking
No secret glances

I would laugh
When you bought me a double
Knew the sensuality
Brought fulfilment
I loved it

When so relaxed
You would pull me across
Putty in your hands
Willingly

I had to tell you to go
Jealousy was a choking jail
Second to your money
It became allowed too long

Published in KnowThyself, Heal Thyself
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Silken Ribbons

I always pretend to hear whispers of our world,
yet my mind always drifts towards that open void,
reflecting on kisses that undress the ache of my scars,

unfurling sorrows as if silken ribbons.
These will never wither,
but will be absorbed by you
when low moments come to mock.

And as time settles into evening,
your shadow will hang itself from my core.
And with sighs quivering between my lips –
my spirit will wrap itself around warmth of your body.
And when you stroke your fingers through my hair –
you will feel each aching breath of me.

Published in The Lark Written 2005

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Yesterday was trying…

A lot of people have been nasty to me. Some neighbours, and people who believe the lies told by Mr Jackson on Nextdoor.co.uk. His lies are incredible but people fall for the them without even considering there is another side to the story. The police are on it. I have received calls from quite a few numbers that are not contacts. This is harassment.

All this is no reflection on me. Two very lovely police officers spoke with me yesterday. I send updates as they occur.

Yesterday, I asked a neighbour to return a bag which I had used to take some books for their children. I had asked them to use the back as that is so much easier for me. They did not see my text until quite a long time later, when they arrived at their study session. Then I got a reply that it was outside my front door.

I was alarmed, as I fear theft. So I hurried downstairs but could not open it. So I rushed to back and used my trolley to go around and to my front door. Returning to my back garden, I somehow tore my favourite skirt, the bag fell down and I have only just retrieved it this morning when I went to water some newly planted plants.

My skirt is irreparable. I can’t even make a patch for it.

Meanwhile, I have been waiting for two weeks for my lead at SWAST to inform me of something. I have reminded them four times. I have made my boss aware. Finally, I emailed him and had tears.

My lead then provided what I needed, but with qualification. I read no further but thanked her.

All of this conspired to affect my breathing. Mainly my neighbour. Paramedics attended and nebulised me, and noted that my blood oxygen was varying according to how I sat. I had noticed this before. Fortunately, I work at my laptop lying on my tummy. So that is good for my breathing. And oxygen levels.

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Healing Is In Gardening

’The gardener digs in another time, without past or future, beginning or end….here is an Amen beyond a prayer’’ Derek Jarman

Gardening is in my family. My mother gardened, my Dad did too. My grandparents gardened, uncles on both sides of my family garden.

I believe that gardening is innate within us; it just takes a spark to unloose the desire to nurture plants. I watched my parents garden for years, vegetables, fruit trees, flowers. I asked my mother if I might have patch of my own but she said no. I may have fared better if I had made the request to my Dad.

The first opportunity to garden was when I was student in California. My residence had some plants so I removed weeds and sowed some seeds. It gave me pleasure in a pressured time and sustained me when I wanted to give up.

I later shared a house with two other people. I planted many spring bulbs, and perennial flowers. I don’t do annuals. The work is not rewarded for me.

My first garden that was mine brought me immense joy. Part of it was walled on two sides. Climbing roses, honeysuckle, clematis, all found home on those walls. I planted wild primroses from a friend in glorious disarray with other flowers. My planting was deliberately undisciplined. Nature knows nothing of straight lines. Imagine my horror when my mother came and put them all in lines. I was devastated.

‘’Besom lings and teasel burrs ‘’ John Clare

The soil has good bacteria and as we disturb it, we inhale them. Our immune system benefits greatly, and the scent is healing to our soul. The venture of gardening is therapy for stress, recovery after life changing events, and people with learning difficulties are given gardening to learn a skill. They flourish at it.

John Clare, the poet, was a keen gardener and he struck a close friendship with a head gardener of an estate. Their letters speak of many plants. Clare was an amateur botanist who used botanical descriptors.

We are soothed and calmed in a garden. We take in the scent of flowers, the serenity of green, the peace of it’s being. A garden is. It simply needs care. Consider this as you garden, or sit in a park.

Ling is an old word for heather, the plant. It grows wild here

Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself

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Love’s Condition

by Frank Mundo

Love’s Condition (2015) 
for Nancy

Do us both a favor:

forget our old and tired traditions.

Please don’t love me

without conditions.

Challenge me.

Always

Expect more from me and of me

always

or don’t assume I’ll be kind

or always make the right decisions.

Please don’t ask for my permission

or put either of us in that position.

Love is editing and revision,

like a poem

always

this poem

always

a first edition.

It only holds value

In mint condition.

Forget those good book phrases

and the ideal good a good world praises.

Challenge me.

Always

make me earn it

always

because doubt is an unfit benefit to give

because you’re in the presence of a fool

without exception

without worlds of knowledge

without knowledge of the world.

Life is improvisation and imagination,

like a book

always

this book

always

a signed, first edition.

Its only value 

is superstition.

By Frank Mundo

Frank is a buddy of mine who lives in the ‘burb where I lived in California, just north of L.A. He has written poetry that is so beautiful. He has books out Touched by an Anglo, Different, and others. He is so generous that he mailed them all to me here in the UK. He has encouraged my writing, and listened to some of my audio on SoundCloud. He remarked that his poetry should be read with an English accent. I love him to bits.

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Skeletal Skin

From Defenestration of Prague By Susan Howe

Skeletal kin

tilt
italic lunacy

long illness of little difference

Seventy memories
masks

singing and piping
to be

(half words)
beginning and begetting 

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The beauty in my life…

Photo by Belgium Tourism

I am so grateful for the beauty in my life. My daughter, my garden, my home, my friends. The smile of strangers that I pass. I always give my smile to people. It may be the only one they get that day.

I am in a wonderful community of writers. They give me support as well. It is hard to deal with inauthentic people, who use stock phrases glibly. I ignore it and it has no effect after the initial disappointment.

People ask if I feel the cold, as I’m wearing summer skirts. I try to explain that I need sensation in order to live well. In my garden it is sheltered and warm. The wind is cold outside my garden on my warm body. It exhilarates me and makes me glad to be alive. I do have my limits. Last evening I put a sweater over as it was cold.

I am serene and content. Oramorph helps with the pain. It is hard to describe the pain. Neuro pain is a category of it own. It is far worse than the pain caused by windchimes, and that was agonising.

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Like A Cat He Stretches AS I Tickle

As if commanding me to touch other parts

Or to get out the comb and tidy his hair.

He lies in the sun, fluid in his movements

Lazing, owning all he sees, surveying his land

Before drowsing, absorbing heat and sleeping

He has expectations as if he is my master

This my dog, O’Driscoll, not a man or cat!

He is the most catlike dog I’ve ever met

He cleans his paws regularly and toys with his prey

O’Driscoll is far to sexy for his fur and poses

On the rocks gazing out to sea, chest out

And that, oh that really makes me laugh

Some of the time he remembers he’s a dog

And is innocently earnest in all that he does

And of course every thing is his favourite thing.

Food — his favourite, walks — his favourite

Bones — nothing better, sleep — the best!

And naturally he does them all with diligence

He can look game to play with you anytime

Look disdainful if you get cross, or crestfallen

He looks embarrassed if you catch him doing bad things

Why can’t he lie on my newly washed clothes?

Or sneak out my lingerie to his lair?

He loves his mummy and wants her clothes!

So where would we be without O’Driscoll?

He gives us much laughter and sometimes tears

And we love to do with him his favourite thing

That means every single idea he has

His devotion is unwavering, loyal always

He lies at the door when I am out, waiting

Visiting my teen daughter regularly -duty

He will not eat anything until I return

He rolls on deceased creatures of the sea

Chases birds for fun, barks at cats with hate

He runs for a ball, but runs past me to score

A try for Ireland rugby team for which he was named

Published in Contemplate