A quick Update

A quick update

As many of you know I am unable to use my right hand. Well – with overuse, my left hand has started to complain and, as I was obviously not listening to it closely enough it is now shouting at me in the form of tendonitis and osteo arthritis.

This morning I had a hospital appointment and I am now elegantly decked out in a very restrictive (and I have to say ugly) hand and arm splint. I wish I was near enough to you all for you to autograph it! 🙂

I have been told in no uncertain terms that I MUST AT ALL COSTS restrict my time on the computer to – well – to much less than I have been doing. So this is to let you know that if I don’t comment on all your posts I’m not ignoring you, it’s a needs must thing for at least two weeks till my next appointment; I’m sure you will all understand. I am supposed to rest – I hate resting!!!! Hopefully when I see the consultant she will give me a steroid injection to encourage the healing process but that appointment isn’t till the 1st June.

This is a real bummer but I have to do as I am told – for a change :):)

Thank you all for being here, you make my life so much brighter,  and I will still be reading but the comments will be fewer.

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Stubbornly Determined

Stubbornly Determined

I need to stay in charge,

for a while longer at least.

I am not ready to pour myself

into a pair of soft, easy trousers,

delicious promise of comfy

waistband (broad, of course),

nice and high, to contain

escaping ripples;

so I continue to dress

horizontally, edging reluctant

jeans till they nestle irritatingly

on complaining, incredulous hips.

And if the early morning air is

tinged with a little colour as I

wrestle a mocking button and

zip, then so be it – as long as the

comfy waistband is waiting in the

wings, all will be well.

Through The Wood

This is a re-post from last year
when I had just arrived on WordPress.
Today is the 8th anniversary of my dad’s death.
I think he would have liked my poems

Through The Wood

I could see through the wood and brass,
his body cold, lifeless.
Seafaring man fighting for country,
raising three children,
ministering prayers.

I search persistently for lost life,
its fullness, its vibrancy.
Maybe it’s in the strange flower
I found in the garden,
the one I know I didn’t plant,
or in the poem that writes itself
seamlessly, despite me.

Life not extinguished – transposed.

Upstairs, Downstairs

Upstairs, Downstairs

Of course they have
a sofa each, they are
of the elite, they
live “upstairs”,
while servitors scurry
assiduously
salt curing ham,
polishing shoes,
rolling out pastry,
awaiting tinkling of bell
to proffer what is needed
for them to resume,
in glorious slumber,
the ruling of the world,
conserving crucial energy
to safeguard however
many lives they
may have left.