Pandemic Memories

 

I boxed up some of the things I wrote during the pandemic and added an introduction. 

It annoys me a little that I didn't feel able and still don't feel able, to craft some of these words into something more resembling poetry. I know poetry is more than the careful selection and positioning of words, more than rhyming, which can either seem to validate otherwise discarded thoughts, or give perhaps a false impression that the chosen words fit perfectly and are therefore true. I feel it's in the rhythm of writing that truth is carried and the sometimes stilted rhythms of my own thoughts reflect the fact that I haven't yet resolved my feelings. 

These memories are yet to be processed fully. 

The almost invisible words in yellow read  ' washed with the rain of our tears '

and perhaps this rather cloying phrase does nearly accurately express something about how I felt and still 

feel about that terrible time. 

*****

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***

Littered with mistakes and annoying repetitions, If I write another, it will be different and not a correction 

This last one is clearly unfinished since I have not written about Love's role within Time. 

🌈

One Drop

 

A Scientist, a thinker, believer in miracles,

He sought someone to make a glass vessel,

To simulate a raindrop.

Filled with water, the only other requirement

was light, 

Plus an observer;

Someone to see the rainbow.

The world felt dark those days,

Yet there was light,

And sometimes there were rainbows.

The scientist, the thinker, the believer,

Set out to create rainbows,

Measure the shape of them,

Share their secrets.

One drop,

Something magnified,

Caught in the light.  

Marvellous.

Hope #Satsplat

 

" You're exhausted, I'll take over. " Mrs God left Him in the care of Raphael, went to the Pearly Gates and drew a triple rainbow around the Earth so that everyone would feel hope, then, summoning Gabriel, they went together to bring the prodigal Lucifer home. 

After half a lifetime of telling each other jokes at bedtime, Mme Duchamp had run out of idees. Then, inspired by a glass of water, she whispered in her husband's ear ' I'm leaving my teeth in tonight mon cheri, and I am filled with hope. " at which M. Duchamp roared with laughter. 

She holds the bottle up to the light; 

Deep amber containing a rainbow,

Jewelled droplets suspended within,

Held by a substance acquired over aeons,

Her potent concoction called simply hope,

As she unscrews the stopper,

It's aroma escapes.

Change of View

 

Today a heavy blanket of grey is covering our vault of blue and trailing veils which soften the myriad shades and tones of the green quilted fields beneath.  

It isn't dull. Bright golden leaves adorn the oak and other trees as if all summer they have drunk the sun and others nestle their auburn heads together, I think they're whispering of the spring that's yet to come. 

Eight line poems

 Through Windows

There was sometimes a telegraph pole,

Once I looked out and saw a shadow

of a huge owl sat against the darkening blue,

I only saw him as he took off suddenly.

Now there's trees, or cars, or sheep,

What to focus on; the tall lampposts,

Do we like to see the stars and comets

From attic window sky-lights. 

                         -

It's dark and we're pretending we're not home,

It's quiet but we're expecting trouble.

My superstitious heart wishes something,

But I sit and watch the gathering night,

Ignoring it's mumbling and

Remembering brightly lit faces,

Laughter and in the far away spaces of memory,

Simple happiness, just silliness and joy. 

This Autumn

Listening to acorns hit the deck ( literally ) It’s making me laugh ( inexplicably ) The season’s turning ( inexorably ) Closing my eyes I soak up the sun ( luxuriously ) Taking these moments as they come ( miraculously )

This Book

 

This Book

Opened up

What kind of diary are you;

Thoughts turned into marks ?

In the alchemy of your imagination

I see the ripples of creation

Thought waves radiating,

Sometimes

A momentary pause

To read this palm

Now the next

Look up and wait,

Until you see its story.

Rainbow

 

ROYGBIV

Five bridges spanning

Colours joining earth and sky

Deep blues fading in

Dark Fantasy

 

Auron went mushrooming at first light one day with her mother and father. The faerie field yielded up some treasures for them and they walked along the hedge, gathering fruits, then entered the wood at the top of the hill.

Auron and her father could hear the trees talking, as always. Mother either ignored them or pretended not to hear them, Auron wasn't sure why. Once she'd asked, mother, can you not hear the trees talking ? and she'd replied, with a shrug, what if I can, it's no business of mine. 

This day, the trees sounded animated, agitated and by the time the three sat down to rest beside the pool in the clearing, the tree voices had reached such a cacophony of sound that their individual voices were indistinguishable and the whole sounded like a long, sad drone. 

The little family sat in silence, listening, even the mother was paying attention now and as it eventually subsided to a whispering wind, their attention was drawn by a quiet, deep voice emanating from a nearby ancient oak. 

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To fall with grace

You said I was like a feather

I felt more like a gyroscope

You said the wind will blow me

And so I climbed back on the rope

Now I'm feeling like a woman on a high wire

One slip and it's a long way down

Turn my world around I want to hear

the sound of my parachute opening

As I'm floating 

Towards the ground.

 

Paths

 

How many paths without a beating heart did you travel along

is not the sort of question one expects to form a song inside

one's head whilst sleeping soundly 

until alarm bells ring outside me and I have to set this day

into its proper motion

with that notion walking right beside me.