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fading, jading, it’s all about aiding

I watched the news on tv tonight, which I haven’t done in a while, and every time I watch or read the news, it reminds me why I don’t watch or read the news. (And that it’s getting harder to get up off the floor from the fetal position…)

And as much as the internet frustrates me at times, I would like to thank it for this friendly reminder today. And being the responsible citizen I am, I thought I’d remind you too. I’m kind of hoping this is the solution we keep overlooking.

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low angle view of spiral staircase against black background

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

There’s a door down there I keep circling. A closet door in the deepest floor, and these stairs like optical illusions. Or as my mother liked to say, optical collusions.

These stairs of chalk.

 

Fiction

the end of drawing

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Fiction, prose

She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.

She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?

Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.

Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.

 

 

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pexels-photo-415371.jpegWP synchronicities…I was feeling an overwhelming desire to play the piano, which I haven’t done in a very long time, then this was one of the first posts I saw just a little while ago when I got onto WordPress. What a beautiful song, thank you for sharing it Stephen! 
And it sounds just as out of tune as our piano. Perfect.
(and this, not my own photo, is also kinda perfect)

 

(no one knows me) like the piano in my mother’s home

 

Oh burdens,

I see you looking at me, wondering what I will do with thee you

getting back to the start of see

and the art that shrunk inside of we 

the dancing child on a whirl of glee

escaping truths that stifled three

layers of self, intrinsically

defensive, now the wired psyche

is unravelling

ever so peacefully

 

 

Poetry

Pianofy me

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Fiction, prose

modicum

beach sand

Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

 

He studied her blanks, his heart a magnifying glass as he carefully copied out each jot that filled the lens. He often sat back, in surprise and wonder, sometimes awe, sometimes astonishment. Sometimes, sadness, that could not be expressed in any current language, he mourned.

He didn’t have enough colours. But the poetry, brought him to his knees.

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silhouette of graves

Photo by Micael Widell on Pexels.com

When my husband and I married all those years ago, cough…my mind wasn’t prepared for how well acquainted we would become with death, he especially. So much church and ministry life happens quietly, behind the scenes, as it should, and there are these extraordinary, jewelled moments, of being with people before, and as they die. These privileged moments of intimacy, I would not normally have had, and for the most part, I am very grateful for them.

One of my most precious life experiences was to type up the memoirs of one of our dear elderly church members, for his family. He dictated to me his life story. It is one of the most profoundly moving experiences I have ever had. His humility often moved me to tears. And on one particular day, it struck me just what an intimate experience it was, being privy to things no one else in his family knew about. But he died before we were finished, which devastated me.

It has been a few years now, since he passed away, and I still miss him immensely. His wife was, and still is, one of the organists for one of our churches. After his death, she still insisted on playing, even though her intense grief affected it. I remember one Sunday when she simply stumbled to a complete stop during the liturgy. The congregation kept singing, even louder than normal for her sake, and it was one of the most beautiful and heartfelt moments I have ever been a part of. It also made me think we should sing unaccompanied a lot more often! It was divine.

We are currently in a time of death – deaths always come in, at least, threes. And I have posted about this before, (my third post I think it was!) with this monumental clip, which I wanted to post again. So that it is in my face for a while.
And I hope you will enjoy it, too, even just for its gorgeous artistry.

 

Christian, personal, prose
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Fiction, prose

dehydration

He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.

He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening.  He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.

I mean, the ones in your silence.

 

 

 

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collaboration, Poetry, reblog

POETRY FROM THE LADIES

So Nigel, has done a lovely thing of reading a few poems, including a couple of mine, to honour the contribution to the poetry world by women poets. I love how he does his readings, and feel moved to be a part of this beautiful post (with a dignified giggle at the end 🙂 )

VOICES OF A HIDDEN SELF

My dear friends, I have today for your delectation something rather special. It struck me how many wonderful, famous and celebrated poets are women compared to say artists in the world of painting.

This is something I’ve also noticed within our own circle, and so I feel both honoured & privileged to have been given permission by the following poets to recite their work. Below is just a small sample of the amazing art to be found and enjoyed.

If you’ve a favourite piece you’d like read I’m always looking to expand my ‘Alchemists of word’ section. Don’t be shy or humble for I’m not a critic or academic, just someone who loves the written word.

VIKTORIA AT    MY BLEEDING WORDS

Ashes Ashes – by Viktoria

The dimming cinders of my spirit

Lay glowing feebly in the night

The smoke escaped my every merit

The arsonist: life’s pain and…

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