Hot off the press …

Hello everyone,

As most of you know I am taking a break from blogging. But I am visiting briefly to share with you all the lovely news that my dear friend Glenda,
(spinningthewheels.wordpress.com) has just had her first collection of poetry, Rock and Lodestone, published by Bennison Books. All profits from sales of the book will go to The MS Trust.

Glenda’s work reflects her gratitude for life, her love of nature and family, and intertwined with this she charts her ongoing journey with Progressive Multiple Sclerosis. I hope I can persuade you to support Glenda by buying a copy of this wonderful collection, at the same time, supporting The MS Trust in their vital work.

Bennison Books

Bennison Books is proud to announce the publication of Rock and Lodestone by Glenda Kerney Brown.

The following is taken from the introduction written by the poet James Nash whose books are published by Valley Press and whose work has also appeared in many anthologies:

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An update, a poem – and au revoir

Hello to all my dear blogging friends. I have decided the time has come for me to take a break from blog land. I have been blogging full on for over four years and it’s time for a break.

There are two main reasons for this. First, I feel somewhat in a rut in my daily life and need a change of direction. I have a host of novels waiting to be read on my kindle and a bookcase full of excellent poetry books to read. There are also some wonderful day time radio programmes on radio 4 here in the UK and I miss so many of them; this needs to be rectified. I will, of course, still be attending my great writing group on Fridays and rising to the poetic challenges. And I am in need of getting out of the house more whenever possible.

The second reason is that very soon work will begin on our home to install a downstairs bathroom for me with disabled facilities. In order to do this an internal wall will have to be knocked through and an extension erected at the back of the house. As you can imagine this is a huge project and is going to need much thought. planning and there will be mess!!

Thank you all for your wonderful consistent support and encouragement, without which my blog wouldn’t have survived. I will still pop into WordPress now and again to read some of your work when I can. And I will be back!

So the following poem will be my last post for a while. As you know, most of my poems are born from personal experience but the following one is not a personal one in any way at all; it is merely a situation I chose to practice writing a Petrarchan sonnet, my very first attempt!

Beautifully Broken

They promised each to other from the start,
a pledge of love so readily endowed.
Yet still they fell, and she keeps wondering how
it seemed so simple then to break a heart;

to scatter hurt and leave it there to smart
and shatter every promise, all the vows
they made and broke so easily somehow;
the sacred ones to say they’d never part.

But real love does not succumb to fear;
it holds fast; a silken thread upon a web
as wisdom weaves its way along the years

and sews each tattered line of word and deed.
Love is all there is, and deepened will not ebb,
as brokenness sheds light, then disappears.

The Same Song (Sonnet)

I look at you and see a helpless smile;
my pain is yours, we share each piercing wound
that bleeds and weeps and shocks us from denial.
The fear is real and shouts but without sound,
it s volume rising till we can’t be heard.
We feel a shaking of the earth beneath
and while most days we will not be deterred,
emotions are awash with silent grief.
But each day sees us here and still we breathe;
our gratitude for life together soars.
Your painful smile diminishes and we’ve
come through another day with hope for more.
And though life’s tough and sometimes we will rage
We sing our song together from one page

Entirely Here

Feisty is how I would describe her,
but of late, she has taken to allowing
such closeness, that from time to time
our foreheads touch, ever so gently,
my hair whispering sweet nothings
into the the furrows
of her all-knowing feline face;
wonderful whisker tickling moments.
I could be wary but I’m not;
I trust her and she returns it,
her head bowed as if in prayer.
She smells of fresh pine and
the cool earth after summer rain.
I breathe her in, hold the breath,
breathe her out;
no thoughts of time we can never bring back,
no fretting about tomorrow’s fate,
but a fleeting moment of peace
that life has allowed
in the deeply reassuring company
of a happily purring old friend,
both of us,
entirely here,
now.

Reprieve

The final poem this month from ‘Dancing in the Rain’

Chapel was compulsory
in our household,
unless you were almost dead
which was how I often felt
after Saturday night at the
youth  club,
or to be more precise
The Red Lion pub.

“If you don’t come then
you’ll peel all the vegetables
for dinner”

And God didn’t approve of jeans either
unless you were catholic
then he didn’t mind one way or the other.
But we were Methodist to the core,
a weekly dose of pleated obedience –
below the knee.

Arrows of hell fire and damnation
fired from the pulpit
aimed solely at me
because I was the one who
didn’t want to be there
and God knew it.
I was marked down in his
book of badness every week

But even if God hated me
attendance was rewarded;
one more reprieve
from the ever increasing
slipperiness of
the slope I was now on
heading swiftly toward
parental shaking of heads
and the shameful label of
“bitter disappointment”
which was  the last thing
in the world
I would ever want to be
because that would mean
I had failed

Mirror (Sonnet)

Another poem from my book, ‘Dancing in the Rain’

Bevelled edge of leafy flowers and vines
a keepsake that I hang upon my wall.
This mirror that I see before me shines;
it seems the years were minutes after all.
Sweetest face you are never far from me,
memories like a favourite food each day
and in my heart I know I’ll ever see
the way you always helped me find my way.
And now that time has passed and you are gone
I see a person looking back at me,
she’s older wiser and a little drawn
and though I know it’s me who I can see
you’re looking back and smiling at the grey
and in this glass it’s you I see each day.

All This

The next few posts on here will be poems from my book Dancing in the Rain.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dancing-Rain-Chris-Moran/dp/1507602103/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1438865224&sr=1-1

A big thank you to all my blogging friends for your ongoing support and encouragement without which I know I wouldn’t still be writing. Special thanks to Diane Denton, author and artist, who not only designed the lovely front cover, but who also encouraged me to approach Bennison Books when I was all set to self publish. Thank you Diane for helping me to reach a dream.

https://bardessdmdenton.wordpress.com

All This

Alone in the house this morning,
except for two cats and a dog
basking in behind-the-window January sun;
they could be meditating.

Leaf shadows of the eucalyptus
quiver on the wall
like bewildered butterflies
and the patio door is ajar.
A feathered chorus floats into the room,
a melodic liquid song.
The kettle boils.

There is something extraordinary
in these ordinary things
and I am happy;
I have learned to love the music of silence
I feel I could sit here for hours
just watching the measured breathing
of two cats and a dog,
listening to the sound of
hope filling an open window,
and sipping tea
All this,
and then soon, the edge of spring
like the edge of youth,
where everything is about to become,
and nothing is yet past.

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.

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

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?