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.
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.
I lie in my bed.
Right arm arcing around my head.
Like a waxing moon.
It’s almost 3am I don’t need the clock to know.
Silicone ear plugs block external sounds.
Soft orange glow of my salt lamp.
Gentle contented purr of sleeping feline .
Words of yet unbaked poems float across centre stage of my mind.
Pad and pen are just out of reach.
I sigh Pendle witch hangs from my ceiling sways in the breeze of the window sitting on her broom legs dangling metal rimmed glasses perched on her nose .
She knows my nightly dilemma.
The canal bank sleeps.
Ducks and geese huddled together settled
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Meditation takes me to the
The bardic door in my mind creaks and swings open wide.
A vast library beckons long wooden table and open fire, walls of ceiling high book cases winged back chair and footstool.
Words flow like the raindrops running down my window.
I rise from my bed.
Pick up my glasses and my pen.
The Pendle witch smiles as ink pours onto the page the story unfolds and grows.
Time doesn’t exist here.
This is the land of stories, magic
Of tribe anything is possible here.
Words are powerful.
Write it, chant it, sing it, speak it.
Hold out your hands.
For it shall be.
Hello my oldest sacred friend
We talk every day I am always grateful to see you outstretched reaching across as I walk towards you.
Telling you my deepest secrets my hopes and fears
You always have time to listen
No judgement, always patient if I am lost for words you gently wait until I find them.
When I am tired or greaving you have brought me comfort as I have leaned against you. I have felt you gently gifting me your energy.
Draw from our mother Earth and father sky
Your love for them deep rooted and out stretched reaching up your limbs you give daily thanks and gratitude for this beautiful place and the life that we have.
Some would say you are silent, our conversations are one sided.
How foolish they are.
They walk by and miss the sacred magic you hold.
Daily we change together.
Growing older and wiser
Learning and sharing this place this life time
Today I am reflective and thankful for a beautiful weekend.
You are dressed in the most beautiful shade of green.
As you reach out over the water sheltering beautiful pink foxgloves.
Your leaves fluttering I sit beside you and we watch a lone honey bee dip in each bright pink flower
This is my favorite place
My sacred place.
We speak of tonight’s dark moon
The things in my life that are no longer needed
You listen absorbing my words and reassure me.
You are my constant ever changing by the day by the season
I have watched your leaves fall many times
Each time you stand vunerable but strong
Still gazing upwards to the source of all.
And holding on fast rooted to our mother
My luminal beautiful friend
I am forever grateful for your wisdom and guardianship your magic.
May you speak the language of wren’s and Stones sky and roots always.
In my darkness I found the courage to lite a candle within myself.
Embracing the shadows that lead the way to inner enlightenment.
In the darkness I found my true self.
I was not lost.
For the flickering of the light.
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.