My ‘80s sister, Wimbledon day party, very heavy false lashes
This year my sister would have been sixty. As Mardi Gras is in the air, I authored the following poem in their memory, Gossamer consonance.
There is a photo of me from the same event at the end of this post.
Well my friends the time has come All night long fond memories Of us boogieing on down In Blackpool of ‘84 My wistful sister dreams as Lionel Ritchie serenades Confident dragon hearted A helping hand and support With impish sense of humour The eighties is our time to Raise the roof and have some fun Throw away the work to be done Curious invert spirits joined Relishing life’s offerings And let the music play on Play on play on Everybody sing everybody dance Lose yourself in wild romance Australia with my soul mate French lorry driver for Sis Our gossamer consonance stretched Ten thousand miles forty years I imagine them beyond the veil Forever young partying under Perpetual mirrorballs Yeah once you get started You can’t sit down Come join the fun It’s a merry-go-round Everyone’s dancing Their troubles away Come join our party See how we play
A wet day in South East Queensland, prefer for a whimsical verse and watercolour.
One of seven, my purpose is clear Learn from each other, trust them my dear Hunt, discover clues, stop for a beer Fog may descend, path no longer clear Senses enough to look, smell, touch, hear If we get stuck, can visit a seer Time to get moving, pack up the gear
This is the last watercolour picture painted today and the following poem from the storm the day before.
Summer storm Outside, deep air filled rumbles Echoed by pre-breakfast stomach gurgles Rapidly fading morning light rays’ Impeded by gloom grey clouds
Tinkle ping crash flash overhead Panes rattle in frames Storm’s expected to last for an hour Stan pants, shaking on my lap I type this on my phone with an index finger
Internet’s gone off, using mobile data Light rain increasing to very heavy in thirty three minutes The worst is yet to come
Drops pelt Hammering heavily on the tin roof High pitched whooshing increases ear pressure Tinnitus swells
Stan lies rigidly vibrating Momentarily stops awaiting the next sound On it goes seldom slows
Buoyantly supine quiescent Indolently inhaling Exhaling Heartbeats slowly strum eardrums Muffled glugs and gurgles murmur Sun’s sparkles glimmer Traced out onto umbrella’s canopy Stasis Water and air embraces Nine years awaiting this moment Complete serenity at almost sixty
Oh woe is me, obese me! I know, it’s just a wobble. This grizzling grown woe he, I groan, I moan, I hobble. Stiff soreness, new aches, new pains, Too overweight; I gobble. Energy waxes and wanes, ‘Not enough’ brain’s at the core; All good intent to nobble. I groan and drone on some more.
Drag my ragbag ailments out. Spring air’s chilly for my toes Is this a symptom of gout? Need socks with thongs to warm those, Believed ne’er the twain shall meet. Once airs and graces to show Now putting right on’s a feat. Sat while ironing clothes today, Stand to shower, shave’s too long First time for all, so they say.
Spirit’s lifted. Quite enough Of this meandering verse Boring readers, they could puff And drop dead, call the hearse!
In my haste to leave the house for work on Thursday, I left my phone at home. The 50 minutes commute in quiet contemplation went surprisingly quickly.
The return journey was spent squeezed between the sharpest armrest and a person who couldn’t seem to get comfortable in a seat with barely enough room for one person let alone sharing it with me and my portly stature.
Prior to sitting, they asked if I was saving the part seat next to me for someone. Could they sit down? I was flustered being in the middle of retrieving things I had spilled on the floor from my back pack. Hurriedly, I said of course, of course!
They seemed to be on a mission to call every person in their contacts with the same questions: What are you doing? What did you do last weekend? What are you doing this weekend?
Somehow, I managed to sketch ideas for variations on a self portrait I’m planning to paint in watercolour. The break from the phone provided space for inspiration to move me forward.
In keeping with last week’s water theme, the following is a poem entitled, More Precious than Diamonds. I wrote it ten years ago, against a background of drought.
Delicious drops of dew glisten in the
Cool light of dawn, slowly, slowly, dripping
From leaf from bud from twig. Clouds speed above,
Drizzle foreshadows a downpour, to drench
Landscape wide. Streams and brooks rush, swell, rise, run
Into rivers, flooding deltas, breaking
Free, flowing out to sea to oceans deep.
Dive into life giving blue, cleanse body
And spirit, swim west to sway with undines.
Grasp the chalice of aitch two oh. Deeply
Drink to link with Druids of old and new.
Oft’ used for scrying by many a seer
To reflect and look from seen to unseen.
More precious than diamonds, worth guarding well!
Below is a recording of me reciting this post including the poem.
When I write poetry, an idea seeds, lines sprout, grow forth and, bloom as if in shadow. At this point, I often haven’t decided on the form the poem will take.
During the 50 minutes’ commute to and from work, two to three days per week, I tap away with two thumbs on my iPhone 6 keyboard, typing into the Simplenote app.
Frenetically, refining, rewriting, and rearranging. Persistence and revisiting are key in wrangling with each word. The fingers of my right hand tap out the rhythm and count of each line on my right leg.
Reflecting on my writing is a strange experience as I’m no longer in the author head space. As a spectator, I often wonder how I managed to get the creation into the form it’s in.
Currently, I’m wrestling with unexpectedly challenging, auto biographical poems from before and after Fort Royal Fakery. In the mean time, this poem is one of my favourites. I like the way the words describe speed, force, and momentum of water.
Being born in the year of the Chinese water rabbit, with a Myers Briggs’ introverted feeling personality type, bodies of water calm, enliven, and sustain me.
When I saw the 1995 movie, Waterworld, it struck me that this dystopian future was a little too close to reality for comfort. It portrays the impact on humanity after the Earth’s polar ice has melted.
Whilst I have an affinity with water, I prefer to observe or swim in it rather than sail upon it.
You can read more about my creative journey on my blog theINFP.com.
The following poem, composed in 2019 is entitled
Scarce resource
Pouring down, hitting ground; transmutating.
Seeps slowly underground, no abating.
Gradually following gravity’s pull,
Channelled torrents churn to violently mull.
Cascading courses entwine, clashing. This
Roaring deluge crashes with a hiss.
Omnidirectional mist, high and low.
Fleetingly dancing, riding to and fro,
On gentle cavern’s zephyr, in the dark;
No living creature to watch or to hark.
Droplets traverse the void of chasm, old.
Catching hold, dingle dangle, dripping cold.
Rivulets forming, trickling, finding pass,
Slowly towards the edge, achieving mass.
Flowing from upon high to splash below.
Tinkling then momentary ripples show,
Moving across slow ebbing surface, creep.
Joining still amorphic pool, running deep.
Below is a recording of my recitation of the poem, comments will be gratefully received.
The other day one of my blogger friends, Larry Muffin at Home asked, how long I had been writing poetry.
My poetic epiphanies began at secondary school in the seventies, against a teenage background of gorging on horror, witchcraft, and haunting novels, researching paranormal non-fiction, and watching Hammer House of Horror movies.
In my mind, I wrote a serious poem about vampires. It was heavily edited, presumably to suit the appetite of my peers, and published in the school magazine as ‘Stake and Chaps’. My disappointment was extremely demotivating, I did not make another attempt for around fifteen years.
Inspired in the early nineties by regiments of sunflowers in various stages of decay in the Loire region of France, multiple A4 pages were penned. Regrettably, the first two poems are lost.
Fast forward to 17 September 2012, with much trepidation and gnashing of teeth my WordPress blog was born.
A solid soul in the blogosphere, Kozo began a monthly, Bloggers for Peace (B4Peace) challenge. Being inspired by his posts on Everyday Gurus, I wrote and published my first sonnet on 6 January 2013. Sadly, Kozo’s spirit has flown from our earthly plain. In Kozo’s memory, I have adopted his virtual {{{HUGS}}}.
Ten years on, the picture of my husband’s hands above are still the kindest I know.
Reflecting on the structure of the 2013 poem, I am unsure where I got the idea of writing a sonnet of 13 lines. It mostly has an iambic pentameter rhythm. I suspect, I drafted it with the idea of meeting a self imposed deadline then reordered the sentences to sound better. The considerate comments from bloggers at the time, reassured me that I was on the right track with my poems.
The following is an edited version of the sonnet, Kindness.
It’s a self fulfilling state of being, Not to be switched on and off; to be kind, It needs active listening, patience, seeing, Compassion, caring, and presence of mind.
I find heartfelt intent enriches the soul, And being empathetic holds the key, Altruistic respectfulness, the goal. Reflect on your deeds, feedback is free!
A whispering within the breeze is heard, Carrying a message from the divine, ‘Use feather’s touch of kindly hands and words, Bring forth light from within to share, to shine’,
Be aware to care, go the extra mile; Kindness can simply be a gentle smile.
theINFP 