Crying Over Spilt Tea

This morning I spilt a full cup of tea
over the bed;
my hand simply gave way.
It happens.
Everything soaked through
including myself, and

you, the stoical carer
already overloaded with
extra chores, and a time  schedule
that used to belong to me,
rose calmly to the challenge,
stripped the bed,
placed stained linen carefully to soak
and went out the door
to collect our grandson
for the day.

From the corner of my eye
I could see it – disability
sitting on the sidelines
gloating, large as life
with a smugness I could have slapped.

Sometimes I feel like a child.

But unlike a child,
I watched your face as you
cleared the mess;
the pursed lips, unassailable truth
in the extra crease on a forehead,
that said
this wasn’t on today’s list.

We said nothing;
silence grew louder
until we both heard it –
the sadness, sobbing softly
for our loss.

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Sonnet for You & On Waking

Two fabulous poems by Glenda. Please visit her blog. She is a very talented poet.
https://spinningthewheels.wordpress.com/2015/07/25/sonnet-for-you-on-waking/#respond

Spinning the Wheels

I’ve decided on these two poems for my next post because they’re about that old, favourite haunt: love. These concern the one who has my heart and makes it live. They had to come first: they’re not the only poems that I’ve written about us, but they are the most naked. Hope you like.

I am in the process of upgrading my computer, so if you post concerning these and I don’t get back to you immediately, please know that I’ll be trying my socks off to do so just as soon as I can.

Sonnet for You

When thoughtlessly I turn to meet your eyes,
The ripest recognition floods me through,
In blind and helpless love, my old world dies,
Calling to question things I thought I knew.
The new life sucks us in, we have no choice,
No chance to mull “could this be my true love?
How…

View original post 145 more words

A Fly’s Purpose

I do not know the purpose of a fly,
yet it must surely have one.
Don’t we all crave direction?
Maybe we are aiming for heaven.
But this poor thing,
(I say ‘poor’ because I hate to see
anything suffer, even if
it is carrying a thousand germs)
thrashing itself against my window
time and time again,
a failed suicide attempt,
has clearly lost it’s way.
I see this as a cry for help,
wander over to the window,
open it and set the fly free
to flit into the moment of its life,
into the hub of nature’s ways.
And what could be closer to heaven than that?

My first blog post…

My dear friend Glenda now has her blog up and running! I’m sure you will be delighted with her fabulous poetry. Please follow her to read many more lovely poems in the future.

Spinning the Wheels

Baildon Bank

I thought I’d start my blog with the poetry that burst out as I was trying to come to terms with my sight failing. All I had was a diagnosis of Optic neuritis, there was no mention of MS at that stage, it would take a relapse for that particular diagnosis… Oh yes, Baildon is the village I grew up in and the Bank a wonderful heathland where I would walk the dogs. I changed the title of this piece slightly but little else.  I leave it as I felt it.

Glenda.

Optic Neuritis 1; Sea Change on Baildon Bank            1993    

I wade on footpaths I have run
before my sea-change,
now damage has become my home.

birds cartwheel fragmented fins
to crash in static corals where
once beeches played in sunshine;
far below the muted purrs
of deadly barracuda winding
single-minded ways along the road
do not…

View original post 282 more words

Transformation

A warm summer’s evening,
the kind of day when
bedtime forgets it’s name and
little ones refuse to tell.

You wore a denim shirt
tucked in, but not quite,
to your trendy knee length shorts
like a cool teenager.
You were chasing a balloon
with your big brother.

When did you stop being a baby?

Was it one night last week
while you were sleeping?
A mysterious unfolding,
a sudden beating of wings,
a flying off into the unknown,
into the boundless landscape of
your very own pure and precious ife.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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