Monday, 22 April 2013

Not been very well, at all, last week. I've been trying to do too much, and the inevitable happened, the old C.F.S claimed me. Any way, having done as little as possible all week, I was well enough to attend the Taize service, a healing service, at our Cathedral on Saturday. It is such a wonderful service, I always feel better afterwards and this time I felt so much better that I was able to go for a swim the following day, with a reticent husband to keep an eye on me  (he was very concerned about his hairy back being on show, I told him men are mean't to be hairy, at least he doesn't have to shave his legs!)
But I digress!  The reason I mention my health is because I had been trying to do a poem a day for National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWrMo) but hey ho, that's the way the "cookie crumbles" I suppose, so I've got one I did earlier, much earlier.....

Chronic Fatigue

I'm waiting in the waiting room of my life,
I'm too tired
to notice the time.

I work when I can,
But my dreams are mine.
My fantasy is energy.

Just to walk, just to run,
just to ride horses,
and go partying,
when the day is done.

To swim twenty lengths,
to paint big pictures,
to throw big pots,
to eat big dinners,
Just to finish the housework,
it's asking lots.

I'm a part-time worker,
when I'm well.
When I'm not,
I lie in bed a lot
and the boss puts me
through hell.
I'm not skiving, I say,
But it doesn't matter either way,
because I'm not greasing the wheels of industry,
the fault must lie with me.

Chronic fatigue is not about getting out of work,
or about sponging off the state.
Its all about the length of  life lost,
to an endless wait.

Promises of a day,
which, may be years away.
When I can work full time,
go home, and still have
some energy to play.

Chronic fatigue isn't funny
Its about money.
How much won't I earn,
while my illness only allows
reduced work hours.

I have part-time lolly,
for a part-time life.
All savings are gone,
The "rainy day",
lasted too long.

I want to get well,
I tell the walls.
But I must have faith,
and wait for my redemption.
I look forward to my last day of waiting,
To get my life back,
To be able to earn my pension.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Spring is coming

Walk slowly down the garden,
tread carefully on the lawn.
There are fairies in the daises,
they came here with the dawn.

A baby deer waits for his Mum,
under the apple tree,
while watching Fairies playing,
and eating Cow Parsley.

Squirrels scold the Fairies,
for having too much fun,
but they're too busy, burying nuts
to see what work they've done.

The little folk are so worn out,
by the afternoon,
they have to nap in Honeysuckle's leaves,
while waiting for her to bloom,

They are waiting for blossom time,
as they tend to Daisy posies.
Then they can drink
Honesuckle wine,
and sleep among the Roses.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

View of the Fens

From Bluntisham's pit,
Little London,
I climbed.
Actually I ambled,
Squinting in spring sunlight.
Sharp air in lungs,
and cooling,
I bumbled up,
to the Heath's heady heights,
and fresh air delights.

Views of open farmland.
Orchards of dark twisted
military tree trunks.
Tall gravel pit sheds,
level with my feet.

Millennium wood,
copse I think.
Naked Silver Birches,
Young Hornbeams
bustling, rustling, paper leaves,
bejewelled Hazel catkins,
Silkily swaying tassels,
corkscrew willows,
golden crinkles
threading through,
Brightest blue.
pussy willow,

Sunlight on a mad March day,
Strobes through hedge trees
Highlights the winter wheat,
and soil furrows,
The water towers,
all sharp and neat.

A plume of smoke crosses the land below,
A veiled backdrop,
to the layers of trees
orange and red tinged foliage
blue-greys, and khakis,
in tight,

A red tractor rumbles past,
and the bird scarer fires,
a sudden

Friday, 12 April 2013

A Beach Hut

I'd like to have a beach hut,
Anchored in Holkam Bay.
With a big veranda,
from which to view the day.

It would stand among the sand dunes,
Pink and glittered, with patterned shells,
In waves of rose-bay-willow herb,
and edged with Canterbury Bells.

Inside there'd be a kettle,
a fridge for champagne
and two comfy chairs
should it decide to rain.

A tray of pretty china,
from which to take high tea,
and refreshing conversation,
between my cat and me.

Thursday, 11 April 2013


Embattled walls of ancient rock
Keep me in towers
I'd abide in bartizans,
peering through tiny windows
looking for arrows
running up spiral staircases
winding to the roof
on slip worn treads
grab a shaky hand rail
or, a rope that slides when you stumble,
Memories lurk in thick stone walls.
A place of safety
for perpetuity,
time and space apart,
defencive mountains,
moated not Loched,
made to last forever,
by history's craftsmen.

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Memories of Scotland

Fresh dark air at an emptying train station.
Feeling the strength of the mountains around me,
at midnight.
Waking up to see Ben Nevis for the first time
Riding a penduluming gondola,
to Ben's summit in a February gale,
very scary, without a parachute.

Travelling past Loch Eil
and meeting the mountains there.
They glow golden in the low light
with skirts of
rust bright bracken,
and ruby birch tree buds.

Such beautiful mountains must be female.
with their memories,
alluring and strong,
They thumped at my heart,
like a begger at a rich mans door,
 I had to let them in.

Whenever I am relaxed
it's because I'm with them.
Feeling Loch water wash my feet.
Hearing the waves
rustle their pebbles.
As the waters of the Loch breath out, so do I,
as the Loch breaths in,
so do I.

I am with the mountains in the moon light,
as I fall asleep, and an eagle watches over us.
I'll keep these golden mountains in my heart,
and they will keep it beating strongly,
so that I may be with them soon, once again.

A stag stood proudly,
saluting us,
like a figurine in a shaken snow globe.
But the train hurried past,
we had to go.

Monday, 8 April 2013

The Healing Box

I will make the box
with golden light,
Pulsing with a trillion diamonds,
energy bright.
Wishes and dreams,
my souls guardians
Dragonflies and Hummingbirds,
in iridescent flight.
I will put into the box
Love and joy
Too precious to loose,
Hate and distrust,
Too painful to keep.
Out of the box
lighter than incense,
I take my health, and
Balance it,
A white flower,
growing at my finger tips,

Sunday, 7 April 2013


Flaunting, haunting daffodils.
Dancing for joy,
Full of frills.
Gasping, wide open mouths,
Pronounce the glory
of these wondrous hours.
Sacred light through golden curls,
Joyous, ephemeral, petal swirls.
Stars in the daylight
and ghosts in the twilight.
Released, twirling, spring dervishes.
Risen from wet soil,
Uncoiling into the blue,
Talking gaily of clouds
Sunshine and spring rain,
Remembering the blackbird's song,
Above a blossom counterpane.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

The Charity Shop

Delicate and blue
Papery glass pitchers
Old pearl necklaces
Frivolous feathery Fascinaters
Glass preserved dandelion clocks
Pretty china crockery
Pink patterned jam pots
and a baby brass elephant.

Those once loved things
Were idolised in their day.
Precious and polished,
and carefully cupboarded.
Hoarded and dusted,
and lovingly fingered.
Sitting now on a shabby shelf,
at the back of a store.
Waiting in a sordid tangle,
of many other,
once loved,
in a stuffy shop,
for charity,
to be redistributed,
and make others happy,
to be loved once more,
to clothe the needy
and feed the poor.

Friday, 5 April 2013

On holiday in Donegal

Honeyed peace,
trickling gently.
Seeping into long forgotten DNA.
From the mountains,
to the Lochs,
and sea,
Washing my worries,

Thursday, 4 April 2013

The Female Menopause (a simple explanation for men)

The Menopause


Don't get in my way!
I'm THE Change
Do not make me angry!
I am a tsunami!