For My Dad

Transparent skin on your long fingered hands I didn’t notice before the same hands as mine and I belong Not in slipping sands, alone, but from you, made by you And I realise your flesh is less and veins blue are seen Under the beauty of your frame and so I realise with tears We are the same

Each day that I don’t see you there is a fear I won’t again And that is too much pain for me to bear because of death Visiting me long ago and I pushed my face against your neck No letting go, wanting life, wanting you to never let me fall You carried me

Your eyes still smile at me and humour from all my life is near I make you laugh despite my fear and swallow the rising wail Of grief untold, not yet borne, but dreaded though I steal the time That still is left to us to share. I hold my breath and do not dare To go far from you. I hold your hand often cold and want be told Death is not near

I’ve known you young and middle years you never changed Or spoke untruths. You walked and walked for search of solitude But now I will not let you alone I will not leave you to the world That in your head baffles you and yesterday is forever gone If I could bear it in your stead you know my love for you understood And I am still your little girl sat on your knee

Chrissie Morris Brady

Published 2014

The Path Less Travelled

Poem published.

The paths less traveled
Are full of roots to trip on
Stones not smoothed by footsteps
Cobweb webs hang from trees
Like dewey curtains, thick
The grass is long, staining your feet
And branches will whip your face
Or scalp as wild birds call
And sing, unused to humans

Don’t take your horse for a while
Find the rabbit holes and loose roots
Spare him falling and breaking his knees
Or losing a shoe, cast stones aside
Lead him, talking the while to stop him
Spooking, and if he should be spooked
Go back and tie him to graze

This path is not for everyone, only brave
And courageous who are willing to learn
A different way to live and give
It is for those who have nothing to lose
Who stand true and strong in self
Knowing their wit and agility
Having already faced in life
The worst and best it has

Choose carefully, return is not sure
You may fall and lie wounded
Or fall and break your neck
Might be better to take the path
Commonly travelled; no surprises
No discomfort or risks
Just a comfotable stroll, no hastles
And no euphoric reward

Chrissie Morris Brady 2014

Still not great…

Today is a better day, although I can’t say it’s been good. It’s pouring with rain and the wind is estimated to be around 80mph. They reckon a month’s worth of rain will fall this weekend.

I feel for the people in flood areas. Techically, I am in one, and I’ve had lots of flood warnings by phone. But the waves won’t reach me. The harbour wall was raised last summer, so now when one is out on the Quay there is a low parapet along the edge, instead of a drop into the sea.

Earlier, I realised I’m due at the theatre tonight. I thought it was in March. I don’t mind braving the elements, but I’m in no mood. On the other hand, it’s music I love, and seeing people, both of which are healing.

Also, I can get cash and some food. The pros outweigh the cons but I feel so ick and bleeeaaaagggghhhhh. As Snoopy might say.

I got some housework done, and ate something. The first I’ve eaten since Thursday. I find it hard to eat when someone spews anger over me. Someone phoned me about that, and I was aghast that the angry person had lied about several things in the last few months. I hate losing faith in people like this.

I will tell the truth to my own hurt.

My daughter came at some point. She helped with a few tiny things around the house. She did not present her best self, and said some hurtful things.

I just got an email to say one of my articles on medium has been curated. That means a publisher on medium has published it and now I am one of their writers. Live Your Life On Purpose publishes articles about slices of your life and how you live it on purpose. Not just going one day to the next, only having a job to pay the bills. Having no resilience or passion.

Meditation still works for the nerve in my leg. I have pain elsewhere, and I have a skin condition that is weeping.

Poem published…

by Ariel Chart

Fill My Lens




My mother’s photos show us standing stiffly beside 
this or that. My little daughter stood to attention 
next to something.  Her cowlick licked into submission.
I never posed her or confined her, my daughter
is a free spirit to fill my lens, her hair adrift
in waves and the wind. Brimming
with life and joy, pondering, taking it all in.
Her early years are never far from my eye.


Take the photo. Take it now.

Chrissie Morris Brady



Chrissie Morris Brady lives on the South Coast of England with her daughter. She is much travelled and has worked in several countries, sometimes as a cook. She gained her degrees in Psychology at USC, and worked with recovering addicts in Southern California for several years. She has been published by Anti-Heroin Chic, Ariel Chart, Hedge Hog Press, DeadSnakes, WISHpoetry, Bournemouth Borough Council, Scarlet Leaf Review and other publications.

Poem at ‘The Voice’

Writing With Light

Take the photograph now. The light will change in moments, in murmurs, in breaths. Don’t ask them to smile, that is not the memory. Take another photo, half a stop up,again, half a stop down. We can write with light  if we don’t seek a pose.
The light has changed now. So have the murmurs, the breaths. Laughter may have died to another mood. Capture it, the sense of it.Fragile, the memories we keep. The camera often lies, but more, our uncertain minds don’t retain what was, but rather, what we wish it had been.
Yet we recall the things we meant to say, or wished we could have said, or not said. If we could have loved better, or found love elsewhere. Friendships that we have still are and those we lost or ended. 

More poetry published…

A Black Boy

by Chrissie Morris Brady / July 28th, 2019

He was a black boy
His only hindrance was the colour of his skin
He dreamed dreams which were neither black nor white
Dreamed of a future that was bright

He was a black boy
Gunned by coward in the darkness of the night
He was you and I when we were young and carefree
His blood was red, not black or white

On Dissident Voice

Poem Published by Scarlet Review

For David

I drank your adoration, it made me glow
in truth, I was used to being the golden girl
you liked my dresses more than my sister’s
I was chosen for your team, football or hide go seek
we’d meet at school in the woods and kiss
just like at home in the shrubbery or the den
always together, you saved me for yourself
and I wanted for no one, no other friend,
though I had them

You loved my long, long, thick hair hanging heavy
my contrasting dark eyelashes enthralled you
you sheltered me from the rain and warmed me
Your family moved away while I was ill
in hospital, how could they do that?

I look for you still

Poem published by Ariel Chart

(a poem after sexual violence)

 
It Might Rain 

Looks like it might rain
The flowers will welcome it

The holiday makers
Will be disappointed

Their plans of ice cream
Gone awry, cloudy skies

Looks like it might rain
A day for baking then

Knead the dough real hard
Let it prove, repeat

Chrissie Morris Brady

Chrissie Morris Brady now lives on the south coast of England with her daughter. She is widely traveled and has lived in several countries. After gaining her degrees in psychology at USC, she worked with recovering addicts for several years. She continued her practice in the UK.
Chrissie has been  published by Anti-Heroin Chic, Ariel Chart, Bournemouth Borough Council, Mad Swirl, Plum Tree Books, Scarlet Review, Dissident Voice, Democracy Now and other publishers and anthologies.††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††

Published – The Three Little Pigs

http://madswirl.com/author/cmbrady/

After the wolf had been roasted on the fire,
the three little pigs lived happily in the house made of bricks.
They grew, plump and no more little,
so they packed some food and looked for another home.
They walked up hill and down dell
until they found the perfect farm.
The rest of their story is told by Orwell.

editors note:Conflict to contentment, complacency to conquest. Watch how your story unfolds. – mh clay