knitting season

 

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the air has turned cold.
my thoughts turning, unfold
and you turn,

as I’m tugging
on the ontological thread
that glistens in the tread
of your psyche.

the air has turned night
and this thread
warms me alive.

 

(Marble image and wedding image from Pexels.com)

this is not about clowns

person holding purple petaled flowers
Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

So here’s a thing, our lives have taken an interesting turn because of a cancer scare for my husband. He has had pancreatitis for years, and we were told a long time ago, he most likely will be a candidate for cancer at some point. Now he has growths in his pancreas. One is not currently cancerous, we are hopefully finding out more soon about the other one. We are remaining optimistic at this point. But they are large growths and one of them is in an inconvenient place and we will still have to make decisions on what to do about them.

Continue reading “this is not about clowns”

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.

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what 
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words 
if you press your ear against the stone." 

He hated this place. But she promised it would 
be the last time. And it had started to snow. 
It would hopefully slow the others down. 

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look 
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful 
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting 
from the tears frozen on her face. 

He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.

 

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

Safer Ground, part two

 

Safer Ground, pt 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

no one is around (part one)

She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always 
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen 
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang 
instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before 
they never saw him again.
 "Little girl, there's safer ground..." 

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

 

Lyrics:

Continue reading “Safer Ground, pt 2”

watch me walk, sometimes running, sometimes skipping, probably some tripping…

 

I typed my thought in

to the search bar of my mind

and lo! it timed out!

~+~

My brother and I were discussing the Beatles, and I reminded him that in an interview, Paul McCartney was asked what it was like to be the best song writer in the world. He said something like, “I don’t know, ask Neil Finn!” Thus began another CH listening spree.

This song was, firstly, a Split Enz song, (1984) appropriately recorded at the end of their life as a band. Then CH re recorded it at the beginning of its life. It was a big deal (the dissolving of Split Enz) for Australia and New Zealand.

This Easter has been a time of new beginnings for my brother and me. Can you hear me smiling? And, as much as many talk about walking away from toxic relationships, or people we just don’t like, or maybe, we are just spoilt and things aren’t going the way we think they should, for me, this is about walking away from the terrible thought patterns I had developed over the years. I honestly can’t think of anyone I want to walk away from. I would much rather walk away from the bad way I have handled some things.
Here’s to new beginnings. And to wiser loving. Of others, and myself.

 

 

confession

A while ago, I had some pretty serious depression. And I knew it was depression for a lot of reasons, but most disturbingly, I had lost complete interest in music.
(This blog has been some wonderful therapy.)

Over the last week, I have felt moved to spontaneously sing love songs. I haven’t done this for a very long time, when I think about it, and, admittedly, it was over chocolate. But still, it was a very good sign.

I confess, though, there was some slight collateral damage…

Me: (opening fridge and seeing the chocolate chip hot cross buns I had forgotten about. My heart bursting into the chorus of “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and Wings.)

I…….LOVE…….YOU…….
(notes dripping smiles)

Husband: (in another room) Awwww, I love you too, Honey.
(Pause. A very distinct pause).
Did I hear you open the fridge?

I kid you not. He actually asked me that. And then he said:
Are you actually singing to the hot cross buns?

Now kids, we will be married for twenty two years this June. That is a whole other post that I probably won’t write. But, I will say, we are at a point where we can laugh heartily at our foibles, rather than be so offended by them. Well, in this scenario, I can only speak for myself when I say that I wasn’t offended.

I am pretty sure he was laughing, too. And not in that sympathy way…pretty sure…

(I did find it alarming, however, that he knew exactly what was happening without witnessing any of it. Come to think of it, being a sort of introvert, that kind of offends me.)

But I really did think it would be a one off deal. The whole thing surprised me. Until a couple of days later, after we had a glorious evening meal outside in the spectacular autumnal caress of divine weather known as autumn – he had cooked up a lovely, well balanced summer meal for himself, and I had a punnet of strawberries and a snickers bar, you know, the things I would imagine you would pick from the trees in the garden of Eden.

I took our dirty dishes (or in my case, packaging) inside.

Sunshine,
my only sunshine,
you make me happy…
is, of course, not what was
BURSTING OUT OF MY HEART AS I HELD THE CHOCOLATE WRAPPER…

ALP

So after FFP and I figured out how to share this, because I am a bit share illiterate, and we are staring at our screens wondering where the ‘reblog’ button went…I am giving this a go…

If you are so inclined, click on this. I thought it was a gorgeous piece. And by piece, I mean the poem, as lovely as the artwork is.
LOVE it FFP!

(Also, I love that it’s not on Valentine’s Day).

 

Enigmas like this Don’t come ’round every bend: How best he be told, (In language aptly bold) Of the love, The constant LOVE I have for the storm of him? My impassions brimmed, I aim at words to tell it all, Make other love-claimers ashamed, Inadequate– Though even my claim is not Commensurate To the […]

via Alp — Fitful, Fearful, Phantasmal

tonight, while 5 year old niece performs surgery…

on her owl backpack,

“Doctor Vanessa,

she does have blood in her wing

so she’ll be fine.

But there’s no milk

or strawberries

or blue berries.

Or furpleberries…”

“But she’s allergic to furpleberries” I remind her.

“Oh yeah, don’t give her furpleberries”.

Serious silence sinews our thoughts together.

 

“Dr Vanessa,

I took off her heart

so she won’t be sick anymore.”

 

“Why, Dr Bailee,

you’re a genius…”

 

After contemplating the important work we’ve accomplished,

eight year old niece decides we need a song. Her currently favourite song.

(If you are so inclined, please sing and dance with us):

 

 

(featured image artwork by Dr Bailee)

 

 

it poemed through your death…

image3-2

…the colour from her dream,

it drained right through dimensions,

the syntax, and the stream.

Euphonious not to mourners

the notes unveiled in grief,

but heaven writes the harmonies

and descants of relief.

A young life filled with purpose

and at peace with what was granted,

the air broke into sombre tears

and drenched our hearts enchanted.

Our thoughts fragmented bloodlessly,

were washed and torn united,

we shared the pieces silently

a mosaic of love requited.

We will never be the same again

for all the death we’ve seen,

my heart is full of unexplained

it bows to deeds unseen…

 

(This was the recessional song for young Tyler’s funeral. That whole experience was incredibly moving. We hadn’t been in touch for a while as he had moved away. His Dad shared the story that a couple of weeks before his accident, his girlfriend had a dream that he died. She was, of course, really upset by it and discussed it with Tyler. He talked about what he would want if it actually happened. One of the things that came out was that he wanted to be an organ donor. So as of that morning, his Dad informed everyone during his tribute, that two men had been saved by his kidneys…)

what are the words for mothers’ day?

ponders myself

a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains

perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.

The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.

For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.

And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…

 

IMG_20170515_141250_588
My beautiful mother in the 60s before she was married. Always loving on everyone. One of my biggest regrets was never recording her angelic singing voice. She won’t let me now! We’ll see…

 

sometimes two darks make a light

he wore his strobe light

to precise his own sight

incising surreal

into a savoury byte

 

she wore lightning cloud

it fireworked the shroud

the diaphanous shield

of cataract crowd

 

they met late one noon

not a decade too soon

their time in half life

when lit by half moon

 

they laughingly shied

and together they cried

out relief of their failing

when hopeless they tried

 

synchronisation

endless illumination

their timing instead

fuelled love’s fascination-

 

of dark with the dark

love’s company,

divine spark…

 

you know I’ll only say wiedersehen

what a recondite day for a funeral

the sky the colour of wind

with it’s abstruse way of connecting

and a restless need to rescind

 

the boundaries of pre conceived notions

that death is a part of life

we weren’t created to be separated

I’ll never stop thinking we’re rife

 

with the agonies of dimensional distance

cunning, convoluted and cruel

I thank God for blessed reunions

and perfuming the stench of death’s fuel.

 

 

the book with no names

Easter Tuesday 018.jpg

So for those of you who don’t know, I am married to a Lutheran pastor.

I could seriously write a book about what life has been like in the last 20+ years living this reality. The thing is, if I did, I would have to kill everyone first. Because changing names wouldn’t be enough.
I jest, of course!

But, these people are dear to my heart. My husband is the pastor of five churches and our churches are small. And of course, microcosms of greater realities. There are times I have enjoyed worshipping with big congregations. The fellowship can be incredible. However, for people with anxiety issues, being welcomed into a smaller community has been an extremely healing thing for them, and we have witnessed beautiful things that literally brings tears to my eyes.

One of the highlights for me was when a very reclusive gentleman, who has some serious anxiety issues for a number of reasons, finally joined our smallest congregation. To say that it terrifies him to join a large group of people, would be a grave understatement. So to see his ongoing healing from the love in that community, has been nothing short of amazing. Last year, he called our house to wish me a happy birthday on behalf of their little church. It is hard for me to put into words what that meant to me, because I know the agony he would have gone through before he made that call. (Please don’t tell him I wrote about him, he would die! 🙂 )

I truly feel blessed I am a part of all of this. And I will always be proud to be a part of these families. Warts and all.

(And thank you WordPress, for being another “family” I have come to love.)

 

the journey doesn’t end here…

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

she thought,

(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…)

song meaning

 

 

sepiated

img_20170212_233703_199

(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…