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.

Advertisements

Solomon’s Light

Who cares
about avoiding cliché?
Your presence is like
a magic patch of sunshine
on grey November days.
When your smile
peeps round the door
there is a bright light and
my fears know that for now
they are beaten;
you are the breath of fresh air
that I crave.

And today
when you toddled
full length of the room,
successfully for the first time,
bearing a gift especially for me –
two stickle bricks in a pan –
I knew that this was the start
of something big.

November 2014 004

Teacher

 This poem was inspired by one written by a dear friend,
Cynthia Jobin.  Her poem was written in December last year
and is called “Beau”. Please visit Cynthia
to read her terrific poetry

You wander in and out
so slowly now,
painful limp of age,
a hip joint not quite what it was.
But your needs are few;
warm spot on the sofa,
promise of occasional fish,
a small patch outside
for private stuff and
a spoonful of fresh air –
your entire world
now on the space of a stamp.

And yet you waddle quite happily back in,
settle yourself on my knee
a purring little engine ticking over,
dribbling pleasure,
closing bliss-drenched eyes
as I stroke your chin.
We remember Christmas
how you played with a fallen bauble,
scored an invisible goal and you
looked at me as if to say,
I’ve still got it!

Do you crave anything at all,
your gone life, the lost wild?
I don’t think so;
you are not wired up like we are,
have no expectations.
You have nothing to re-learn

whereas I, on the other hand,
could learn much from you.

The Tree, Heraclitus and Me

 From where I sit at home my gaze falls every day upon the same tree in the garden.  It has been a focal point for thoughts, reflections, doubts and fears, my coffee companion and a calm source of inspiration for the beginnings of many poems, which leads me to wonder where I would be without all that surrounds me in my particular corner of the natural world, its beauty and how it speaks to me. The tree appears like an old sage, calm, stoical and accepting no matter what; I could learn much if I took more notice. It weathers storms as well as scorching sun without expectation or judgement, and today it is telling me in its own gentle way that very soon all will change, and it will be okay.

I don’t like change, but as we know it is the one constant in life. I researched the origin of these wise words; they were said by Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher pre Socrates; he lived 500 years BC. I think he and the tree in my garden would make a good team.

So, how do I manage this constant of change in the context of my illness and its pernicious nature as it steals more and more from me? I think, sometimes, not very well, although this may be a little harsh (tendency to berate myself lingers), until I remind myself or receive a reminder from elsewhere that tomorrow’s bit hasn’t been stolen yet, so why dwell on something that hasn’t happened.

Life’s journey takes us along many different roads; some of them we can feel are unwanted and, for me, Multiple Sclerosis is one of them. Along this frightening path so far I have stumbled over stones and tree stumps of disbelief, denial, grief and despair many times. Some of those tumbles have been headlong. I have sustained heavy bumps and bruises, most of them very distressing, but maybe necessary, to bring me to awareness within that I never thought was accessible, of coming to know myself with all my imperfections and faults, learning to acknowledge them without judgement, rather like the tree. As time passes, hopefully what I continue to learn will gift to me some wisdom to reflect on all I have accomplished in the past and to celebrate it so, rather than bemoan the fact that those things are no longer possible for me to do.  I am presented with daily challenges (we all are), and I can either use these as opportunities for growth or see them as an obstacle in my way; the choice is mine.

The road is long. As a friend of mine says, who has travelled alongside the debilitating effects of MS for many years, “We do what we can till we can no longer do it, and then we find something else we can do”. The key for me is to keep on finding, and feel a sense of peace and contentment with it despite the changes, a new satisfying place to arrive at. I visualise a purple hillside strewn with heather where I can allow myself time to simply be, and admire the ever changing view of my part of the natural world.

Today the wind blows wild. Leaves are falling up instead of down; a few branches are broken, others have snapped and fallen to the ground. The tree stands tall, roots grounded firmly in equanimity.

 Image

That Day

Very late August 118

The feeling you can’t explain
when everything seems just right
and nothing could be wrong,
even though you have a list
as long as your arm
of things you would want to change.

But not on that day
when the bee dived headlong
into an unknown depth,
stayed for unconscionable time,
then emerged intoxicated,
head to toe in smudges,
powdery white – hint of blush.

And when birds sang from the
very tops of swaying trees,
because praise calls out to be sung
from the highest point.
So where else would they go
to sing their own precious song

that filled me with so much joy
on a very special day,
special only because it simply was,
and made all the more precious
because I knew only too well that
like most things in this world
it was going to end,
not in a blaze of glory way
as is often the case,
but softly handing itself over
into a comforting, slowly darkening
in-between space.

Very late August 123

Catpig

I drew a cat for him,
at least that’s
what I thought.
He looked at me,
suspicious eyes
full of knowing,
wry smile.
Was I serious?
Yes,  I was,
but two year olds
are smart.
That’s not a cat, he said,
it’s a pig.
He belly-laughed,
snuggled his tiny frame
against my eager warmth;
a moment shared,
intimate trust,
contentment.

I’m rather glad it looked like a pig.

Wendy L. Macdonald

My faith is not shallow because I've been rescued from the deep.

Pitching Pennies Poetry

the work of smzang

Grit Flow

courage, resolution, strength of character

Veggiewitch

Manifesting abundance & sharing my truth

The Fat Damsel

Poems To Survive In

roughwighting

Life in a flash - a weekly writing blog

Some Good Things

Musings of an explorer...

Poet's Corner

Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges

Seasonings

Just a little poetry...

Traces of the Soul

Whispering insights of this, that, then and there

Gramma Krackers

Words of the Wise Krackers

dVerse

Poets Pub

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry

Connecting Beyond

Beyond The Known

Awakened Words

Poetry and Other Ramblings