Don’t look back

I’m never really unwell. Possibly because I don’t have time.

Some weeks I work 40 hours in my paid job n.h.s community mental health.

Then another 30+ hours at our retreat and working with my soul midwife patients.

When I see it written down its madness.

But it’s my life and I have no other option at the moment.

My paid job pays my mortgage on the retreat. Puts fuel in my car, food on my table.

Allows me to provide free breaks and free soul midwife service and therapies .

I’m trusting the universe and I know that eventually I will be in a position to give up my job and devote all my time to cancer patients.

Anyway I digress I’m I’ll.

Not part of the plan but hey ho

I swear it’s when I stop.

My body goes yay.. she’s still and I get a cold or virus.

I’m crap at nursing myself every one else just not myself.

Nurses make crap patients.

So good friend of mine offers me shamanic healing today

I lie on the couch surrounded by aroma of sage and without trying I’m totally relaxed.

I’m vaugly aware of Chris at the head of the table

I’m immediately taken to the beach.

My guide Richard is there waiting we fall into step.

Where are we going I ask.

You already know he says.

In that riddle sort of way I hate.

I sigh and walk. The wind blows gently the sun is warm

Then we step into the familiar cave with the carved seat in cold smooth stone I sit down and he sits beside me

I’m aware of my breathing

Then as we both stand up I feel detached .

I’m walking behind Richard and myself.

On my back I can see a huge moth

With purple wings. Wait aren’t they purple curtains?

There before me is the window I looked out of so may times as a child.

My bedroom window.

I look through it the view is the same

Old oak tree.

Green fence

Old shed.

My bike leaning on the gate.

The porch roof under my window covered in green

Lead pealing off.

I pick at the chipped paint on the window sill.

I glance around

Old record player one knob missing pile of 45 records from Woolworths.

Humpty Dumpty poster holding glass of beer on the wall.

Dressing gown on back of the door.

Old black wool coat with red lining on my bed no duvets here sheets and coats.

Purple curtains.

The house of death has me again

Moth wings

I’m now aware of a pain.

In my root chakra.

Ouch I bend my legs up.

Why are we back here I ask Richard?

You never really left he says.

The pain comes again stronger.

Like a contraction.

I’m back in my body beside Richard.

He holds my hand.

As I turn away from the window the moth wings go back to being purple curtains.

You don’t belong here says Richard.

I hesitate.

He smiles waiting .

I walk towards him and don’t look back.

The weight had left me

I hear chris chanting the pain lessens

I sit up.snd I’m back in the room .

The water is cool.and fresh

I’m home in our cottage

Where I belong.

Thoughtful.

Reflecting.

Thank you my friend.

For guiding me home. ❤️

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

Posh things poem by Tony Walsh.

Im driving to work this morning listening to radio 4.

There is a poet on being interviewed he has a strong Manchester accent and he’s talking about his working class life in the 60s

I slow down as I listen lulled by his voice familiar northern tones of my childhood.

He’s talking about poetry nights that go on in most towns

How they are such a melting pot of people.

Friendly places

I smile to myself and promise I’ll make an effort to go back I love performance poetry but life has been manic and I can’t remember the last time I had a poetry night out.

I miss it.

He carries on and reads a poem called Posh things

I’m catapulted back to the council house of my childhood.

Posh things like paying for your school dinners

Posh things like fitted carpets

I’ve pulled over because I’m crying.

It’s such a powerful poem

I love it.

I start my car and continue to drive into work.

As I pull into the carpark I vow to make time next week to go out.

Thank you Tony Walsh

For reminding me of do many things

And reigniting my poetry passion

You can hear posh things follwing this link.

https://m.soundcloud.com/tony-walsh/posh-things

Knight in a v.w van.

Save me from the mundane

Pull me back into your world.

Make me feel alive again.

Remind me that I’m your girl.

Burst my irredesent bubble of invisibility.

Wake the passion within me.

Tell me that you still see.

The wild and untamed rebel

The one who stole your heart.

She calls to the world from deep within me.

Finding it hard to play her part.

I know that I have wondered

Far away from your side..

I’ve been lost in barren places

Where my past and demons hide.

Many times you’ve come to my rescue.

Carried my soul back to our door.

Wrapped me in a cocoon of unconditional love

Keet my monsters behind a steel door.

Old trees and water.

With a history spanning a centuary Carr Mill dam has hardly changed at all.
It offered the residents of the estates surrounding it a consistent link generation to generation .
There were of course natural changes. Trees had matured, dirt paths had worn around the edge of the water and been made safe shored up and covered in chippings.

The block of shops and minature railway line built in early 1960s has long since disappeared in it’s place the back of a hotel famous for cheap beer and Sunday lunches.

The boating club and beautiful ninteen arches bridge still stand proudly. Speed boat races on a sunday the familiar wizzing noise of the boats could be heard from my bedroom window Generations of ducks.like generations of the same families breed there and never leave.

But for the most part the Dams gentle evolution had gone unnoticed.
In a sheltered spot on the far end of the Dam where most walkers tend not to bother walking the passage of time has been noticed the least. It’s here should you look you would find an old oak tree growing between a steep enbankment and the Waters edge.
The bottom of this huge tree is hollow an arched almost door shape big enough if you should want to you would fit. Why? It’s a fab place to sit to think, hide or read.. It was a huge tree then when I sat there wondering it’s age as a child and my children sat there too whilst I sat on the bank wondering what it was about this place that seemed to pull me back to visit.

That huge old tree I knew each curve and knot as my children climbed and hid around it I remembered sunny days spent here with a favorite book or sneeking into the farm in the next field to.stroke the old black mare. It was quite a magical place. It was my go to place for decisions I was there the night I decided to move to Wales I haven’t been back there for over seven years now but I’m pretty sure nothing has changed since I lived opposite.

The road down to the the dam is full of pot holes not unlike the canal path I now live on in wales
I’ve always lived by water and woodland and I’m sure it was Carr Mill dam that sparked my passion and love for solitude and nature. My go to tree is now on a canal bank.
One day maybe I’ll go back to the estate and the Dam
If you ever find yourself there before me go sit by the oak tree. Take in the view and the quiet.
sit on the moss by the water you may see a dragonfly or two. Say hi from me

In a flash – I’m back

Sometimes I’m still there.

Suddenly.

Unexpectedly

Without warning.

A smell, a taste, a song.

Catapulted at the speed of light.

Flick of a switch.

A blink of an eye

A tactile cine film begins.

It’s running inside my head in high definition

I’m suspended in time.

Back in time.

A prism of light of dark of terror.

A different dimension a parallel world.

It will always be there never very far away.

Operating on a different frequency

Like an old valve radio slightly out of tune.

Then that something, anything turns the knob,

Adjusts that channel pulls the two dimensions together

Past and present become one

Jolting me back into the nightmare

Silently I’m screaming but I know that no one can hear me.

Invisible

Lunch time you don’t really see me.

Sitting by the huge school bins.

Hiding with my dog.

Hating being in school.

Listening to the dinner ladies

Spouting the same old monologue.

Angry on the inside

Quiet and shy on the out.

Screaming inside my head.

But unable to let it out.

Scared by all the feelings.

Going on inside my head.

Wanting someone to make it better.

Or wishing I was dead.

My escape is drawing, painting and writing.

Imagining a better life

A world were things are wonderful.

With no one to hurt you

Or school bullies and family strife.

A world where lumps in your throat

Don’t block the words you need to say.

Where families love each other.

In a loving normal way.

But drawing painting dreaming.

Are not going to change this world.

So I will keep this label of a rebel trouble making girl.

Old weathered hands and treadle sewing machine


Old Weathered Hands.
I think its human nature when we lose someone we love our greatest fear is forgetting the simple things about them.
The sound of their voice, their smell, precious memories.
However in reality I’ve discovered as I have grown older I’ve remember more not less.
Lizzie my Nan I remember her long thin silver hair.
Gold heavy creole earrings weighing down her tiny earlobes, her faded blue apron my little Nanny.
Little but loud, northern salt of the earth she always said it exactly as it was.
Most of all I remember her smile.
How she would pretend to be annoyed when I’d shout Nanny at the top of my voice through the letterbox at all hours of the day and night. Her house was my sanctuary the smell of furniture polish and hotpot.
I’d watch her as I held up the flap of the letterbox as she hurried down the hall exclaiming ‘Jesus, Mary and bloody Joseph, I hear you calling in my bloody sleep! I’m changing my bloody name to Rumplestitskin!
I remember her baking cheese onion and bacon pies on tin plates and egg custard tarts on a Sunday.
She would send me to the outdoor at the flying horse pub with a empty jug to have filled with stout old tea towel to cover the jug. Id try to walk back without spilling it sneaking a mouthful as I walked.
Our trips round to the shops she would carefully apply her tangerine lipstick and tie her checked hair scarf the we would call into the bookies for her each way bet then the butchers for bacon ribs and the paper shop for twenty John player specials.
Bingo was on a Friday night down in the church hall park street in fingerpost
Me and my cousins Gary and Phillip on one side of the table nan and her friend Lizzie Ducker on the other.
She would give me a card to mark.
‘Nudge me if your sweating’.. she would say.
I’d be terrified!
Smokey church hall jesus on his cross watching the bingo. Womens eyes fixed on bingo tickets biros moving quickly scribbling out numbers.
‘House’! Someone would shout and there would be a sigh from everyone else.
Walking home we would call in the chippy bag of salty chips in yesterday’s newspaper between us.
Then home tired ready for bed my cousins in back bedroom, I would be snuggled up warm in Nanny’s bed beside her. The weight of old blankets and coats with silk lining to keep us warm.
I still have a piece of that overcoat lining.
Silhouette of leaded windows on the wall beside the bed reflected from the old street light on the peeling blue flowered wallpaper.
Sometimes I’d go to bed before Nanny. Lying there listening in the dark whilst she stayed up late to sew on her old Jones treadle sewing machine.
The sound of that treadle was magical as she worked to make me dresses it often lulled me to sleep.
The simple things. Her old biscuit boxes one full of photos. The other full of buttons both full of stories.
Stories of her family friends the man across the street who had got stuck in a tin bath.
A big faded button from a coat she had worn that my grandfather had bought her she held it in her hand like a diamond eyes closed smile on her face transported back to him.
Photos of child she had raised and loved as her own as well as her own three sons.
Photos of my grandfather who I knew from her story telling not from memory as he’d died when I was too young to remember.
She taught me many things my Nan, pastry making, sewing, names of plants herbs, that when I got nettled there would be a dock leaf to fix the sting not far from the nettle. To star gaze fortune tell and to always bide time never to act on temper.
How to win at cards although I never managed to win her once.
I remember combing her hair and sitting running my finger along the back of her brown weathered hand, tracing the blue veins of her old working hands grafters hands.
As I sit her now holding my granddaughters hands looking at my own hand in hers it is brown weathered blue veins meander and they tell my story.
Beautiful childen Tamika Tiger and Emilia Willow I wonder what your memories of me your Nanny will be?
I hope you will remember my old weathered hands and how much you made me smile.