November Again


An extract, my latest offering. 🙂

via November Again

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Being


This post is about being.

I am. I am alive, and I am blessed.

Little things accentuate the nature of my existence, round the edges, sharpen the lines; flourishes of detail, for example:

Blue overshoes.; like blue suede shoes but for the side of the pool. boredom.

The new laptop, A gift to write to the best of my being.

A lesson observation. The good and the ‘could do betters’.

The voices I use to soothe and to coerce. All my voices. A split personality.

A group of writers. What is their collective term?

The wife I have become and the daughter I was and now am.

The fights and the tantrums with girl I grew from just a seed.

The quiet moments of just seeing the two. Just watching.

The starred emails in my inbox. Love letters forgotten and then found.

The feeling of loss, the gaps and the holes.

The guilt and the resentment.

The discarded chocolate wrappers, the surreptitious gorging, inhaling.

The poems and the envy.

Those nights poisoned with doubt and double-checks and lists and questions. The tossing and turning and the ‘too hots’ and the ‘too colds’.

The sunlight in my room and on the right side of my body, at the right time of the day.

The pounding and the bleeding and cramping and the holding on.

The words which line my shelves, the ones spinning in my head, the ones I can’t quite catch,

The holding on and letting go and waiting.

The breathing in and the breathing out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nymph


burning_tree_by_azad03-d3cvkrw

There’s a tree in my neighbour’s garden

And inside, I see a nymph.

She’s trapped within

That rough, grey bark.

Frozen.

Heart still beating,

Eyes still seeing,

Mind still racing.

But they will slow soon too.

Years later she will forget.

Another form, she’ll take;

A reverse metamorphosis

Eyes still seeing

Heart still beating.

Only just,

Only then

It’ll beat to the rhythm of her prison.

No more restlessness.

She’ll take her cocoon

Sometimes she’ll remember

A previous life.

It will return like pleasant scents

Mixing in with

Stale odours of bark and sap.

And then she’ll be locked

In, once again

In the body of another.

Stagnant, stagnating,

Moss and lichen,

Vines which wrap and strangle

Until it stops everything,

Until immolation – a phosphorous grenade.

A light so bright

It will give eyes which finally see

After, only after

Blindness takes hold.