Friendship is simple.
It’s also complex, but let’s ignore that.
It can be what we want it to be.
Well, sometimes. There is such a thing as unrealistic expectations but that’s not what this post is about. This post is simple. This post will simply concentrate on the lovely simplicity of simple friendship.
Take the friendship cats offer just as one example:
Can’t get more simple than that. (And when I say simple, I may mean complex)
Then there is the simple friendship of my
five six year old niece, who I have posted about before with her awesome stories. She is also an amazing artist. Here is some of her work, capturing, once again, the simple friendship cats have to offer:
This cat is obviously simple, as it is talking to itself. (But wouldn’t you agree, this art is simply incredible?!)
I love our nieces. And our nephews. All of our family. But especially the ones who are cute. Pure and simple. They make me feel noble things like this:
And that’s pretty much all I think can be said for friendship. Please do not correct me if I am wrong.
[And please do not steal the artwork from this page.]
For my friend’s adorable cat…and now, truly in his honour and with gratitude for the short time we spent together…(drawing by my niece).
furtively felining into the room,
unannounced, unruly fur unadorned,
blinking in reluctant wakefulness,
he stares into my dishevelled mind,
eyes sparking in the recognition of likes,
“it must take a long time brushing that out?”
pawing my cerebral textiles
for a loose thread of understanding,
I roll it into a ball
to play with later.
Weighed down by the fire
we sink into the magic napping carpet…
originally posted 9th Jan, 2017
I had the pleasure of spending some rare time with an old friend a few days ago.
The mother of Basil (RIP) actually.
Sometimes things do come together to create the perfect non storm of connection.
We sat swinging our legs from her wonderful, new verandah. The weather was perfect. Could have been scripted. We were transported on our own friendship stage (cf video).
I truly love those precious moments of a collective soul sigh. Thank God for old friends. Old Nick Cave loving friends.
And then I remembered I had written about friendship before so I won’t go on again.
(And if I do say so myself, I don’t need to. I think that old post, bursting with profundity, says it all… I could be kidding, wink…)
tried to leave its bequeath
in the hope
it would heal
in the last
the sunder striking
the darkening claps applause
love’s tears, healing pause
(I’ve always loved this song. I like to think of it in the humble voice of Christ sometimes).
But she really did love those tiles.
They were hand made
and placed with loving
carelessness, in haste.
She picked them for practicality
for their water proof qualities
(not thinking about salt water, of course),
and their quirkiness,
something different for everyone.
He helped her peel them off,
“it’s time for a renovation”, he said.
And they exchanged those looks.
The knowing one she thought she always had
he now wore.
Because really, he knew this was no renovation.
It was simply an unveiling.
(‘Cursum Perficio’ was engraved on tiles in the entrance to Marilyn Monroe’s last home. It wasn’t actually in mind when I started writing this, it came afterwards, hence the title…)
This is a reworking of a poem I wrote a couple of months ago, after visiting an old friend in Arizona. These gorgeous trees surrounded our camp site. A night by a campfire, sharing sorrows and burdens with an old friend, is one of the best things in life imho. Thanks to Charles, the reluctant poet for inviting me to join ‘the back side of the night’ theme started by The sailor poet. I really appreciate their encouragement, as well as that by Davy at Davy D blog. Thanks Guys!
How those maudlin woods enticed us
adorned so enchantingly with unprecipitation
and the black of trees’ core,
begging interpretation from the sympatheticly dressed.
But we decided not to indulge them.
We held hands instead.
And ran through.
to the back side of the night
where together we watched
the eyelid opening at horizon,
where we no longer dream
of windows wiping clean…
swirling and seen
as we drift into sleep.
so long in the past
our impressions were cast
our friendship to keep.
our young minds so moved
the lyrics manoeuvred
to capture the steep
rise and the fall
of broken hearts’ call
the standing that’s reaped.
Thirty years on
our friendship, blessed, strong
lament’s aura seeps
into sympathetic hearts
For dear Melissa, my friend from high school, the times we fell asleep to this gorgeous song. (I was so tempted, Mel, to write, “manooved” in the poem 🙂 )
And to those who struggle with serious addiction. My heart is filled with empathy ❤
I had never heard this before. But it’s gorgeously sweet.
the seismic shift
as you lift
from this world
the cosmic drift
as you slipped
from the swirl
from the furl
tears are tipped
heart is ripped
from the swell
it was time…
The gifts you leave behind
there are no words for,
this bouquet of memories
leaves a scent of a doorway
to concertina-d time,
where I’d wake in the night
so gently enveloped
by the musical dreams
of a fellow insomniac,
composing your art on piano,
transposing your sight onto canvas,
pressed up against the glass in wonder
at our endless sight.
But the only glass that reveals now
with the ends of sand.
(I took this photo yesterday of my father. He still works as a landscaper, at 83! He helps to take care of this beautiful property for his friend, who died a couple of years ago. He helps to lovingly tend it for her children who currently live elsewhere.)
your whispering legacy haunted
those delightfully enchanted trees
they bashfully danced to the harmony’s spell
you cast on ebullient breeze.
gentle tread of your variegated spirit
autumned now with so much grace
I know you have moved on in silence
but our movement here follows your trace.
the impression of a loved one’s silhouette
caught tenderly in a still frame
is a clear photographic injustice
to the care that he takes in your name…
Thirteen years have already passed and I still remember the way Dresden’s venerable spirit soaked through my pores.
But it wasn’t until my beloved friend started to sing, that my heart translated the stories she told me, the unspeakable truths of her tormented past.
Never have I been so moved by sound. Perspective winded me in all tenses.
If ever anyone should bow to any sense of venerable, it was now, at her humble feet. I took a photo, one that should be in the dictionary…
my dear friend
my old friend
my forever friend
so happy we reconnected
and friendship should always be celebrated (didn’t expect this did you? Ha. Gotcha. Plus, I always liked this song! Just thought of it today after we parted. Girl, how you make me laugh.)
Above all those others, keep flying… ❤
written so beautifully on the map
to leave a lasting impression
and reminds me of a song
(I never understood),
your people so rare
they’re fireflies as we pass
filling my eyes with tears of relief,
the embrace of the scent of a dreamed past.
this floury cloud
clothes me in the silk
of your colours undiminished
by winter’s gloom –
these gifts so sharply edged
but now willingly, intuitively blurred and fall softly
into these waiting arms of gratitude
(this video is beautiful. And I agree with the sentiment of the video producer, no one place is God’s country. Well, except that Sedona, may, just may, have made me question that a little…)
the scroll and the screen
the drip from the downdream
picking right in my mainstream.
the gasp (of suscitation)
Did I mention I love snow?
- Praying and wishing you moments, and more, of peace and beauty this holiday season (without any nasty plot twists at the end) from a very grateful heart.
“They I said it wouldn’t happen again,
a sight not to be seen for another __ years.
“My ears filling with expert voices
trapping the scurrying feelings
insecting in the inescaping
infecting the elucidating”
nourishing the swell
between us –
your eyes telling me
under the indiscriminate trees.
Which are as beautiful within the flood as without.
smiling in the sudden illumination…
what door I came through
to get here.
the here of you.
I would board it up
with orange tape
strung like the scent of warning,
and burn the clothes on me
that are weft with mourning,
sewing these curtains instead,
these curtains of you imbued thread.
the windows left bare to the healing…