The Search

He’s no longer here
in the present
just an echo
of the past –
left behind in
little clues
for me to find.
A name in a paper,
a face in a photo,
a name whispered
in sadness…
One by one
they reveal themselves
as I sift through
all the grit
to find the
nuggets of gold

Mirror to my Soul

Like the surface
Of a lake, my words
Sometimes mirror the sky –
With meringue-cloud mountains
On an azure sea,
they are pleasant
and floating freely.
Yet, at other times,
The agitated
Forest green counterpane
Barely contains the
Darkness and hidden demons
That lie beneath…

Open Communication

photo credit: Google images, accessed 4.2.14

She says she has a penpal. From a penpal website…
Apparently it’s a young lady in New York who is the same age as her who has the same interests, blah blah blah! I am sceptical. In this age of the virtual world, where everyone can pretend to be what they are not and give the appearance of living their life in a goldfish bowl, is there such a thing as a good old-fashioned penpal anymore?


Six Words for Saturday – Catching Up


moments alone.
Pen to paper.

Musings of a Midnight Nature

Midnight Musings

My brother knows me too well – he knows that I’m often to be found typing away into the middle of the night. My creative drive seems to wake up at about ten pm and the other night I finally got to bed at four in the morning. Obviously, this only works when it is the weekend or the holidays and I don’t have to get up for work two hours later. It is the same with whatever I am creating. When I had my little salt dough craft business I would be baking at 3am quite regularly. Now writing has taken hold I frequently find myself lying in bed thinking about what I would like to write. Last night I got up twice to jot things down and, in typical disorganised fashion, I had to scrabble around to find something to make a note on. Well no longer! I have been given the perfect Christmas present….complete with a (ok rather backhanded) compliment. ‘Midnight Musings of a Sleepless Genius’ it says on the cover and it is filled with lots of inspirational quotes and blank spaces to fill in by torchlight, candle-light, gas-light…whatever.
He thinks I am a genius. Wow! Ah hold on… ‘sleepless genius’ that suggests sleepwalking, sleeptalking, sleepwriting, being in possession of involuntary genius genes is not really a compliment at all – unless by association he is claiming to be full of it himself…hmmm

A little Embroidery

They say
You should write
About what you know.

Being Invisible

I didn’t notice her earlier but I see her now standing outside Boots the Chemist dressed in a cherry red collector’s vest – the only thing that looks cared for on this object of neglect and poverty. People pass; some give a dispassionate glance, some studiously look in the other direction. Sometimes she will hold out a magazine and say a few words… this solitary island in a sea of shoppers.
All give her a wide berth.
From this upstairs waiting room I see that few deign to answer her, one man shakes his head and walks on. She looks resigned as though she has done this many times before, is used to the cloak of invisibility granted by her fellow humans. It starts to rain and she doesn’t react. Passers by run for cover to get to the nearest doorway, nearest warm dry place.
When I come out of my optician appointment she is gone, I crane my neck up and down the road to see if I can spot the torn gold velour skirt, the patterned socks and blue moccasins. I presume that she has gone to seek some shelter of her own.
Then as I look back across the road I see a grubby cream elbow poking out from behind the street bin. Sitting on the pavement, still on her pitch, now some people look down at her as they walk past or as they drop the waste of their lives into the receptacle on the street.
I point her out to my daughter, wanting her to appreciate how fortunate she is; I guess her sister, my eldest, is of a similar age.
Later, on my way back to the car, the rain still teams but I must run over to the chemist to buy few essentials and to get some change. My ticket on the car has run out – as I rush out of the shop and hand over the few coins needed – equal to parking my car conveniently for two hours, she takes a copy from the blue plastic protector they are wrapped in and passes me one.
I feel sorry that I didn’t find any more out about this young woman on the street but she has moved me to write…so I do.

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