Inner Worlds

Imagine yourself

as an unusual kind of Russian doll.

A little plain on the outside

features worn away

wood chipped

colours faded.

Not really fitting in

with the colours and fashions

tastes and preoccupations of the world.

But inside

Oh! it’s like walking into a temple

There is a painted dome, midnight blue

studded with stars

And if you look really closely

you will see the stars are real

twinkling

stretching out into

infinite space.

The inside of this doll is bigger

than the outside,

like a tardis.

Time and space mean little here.

Rich fabrics and jewels shimmer on the walls

but also trees, landscapes

an ocean.

Birds flit from tree to tree

and an imaginary cast of thousands

act out plays, ideas, novels

while music flows like wine.

At the centre, not a nest of smaller and smaller dolls

but a heart, beating in time with the universe.

Images and ideas flowing in from outside

are turned, shape shifted, into something beautiful

or something terrible,

and this place goes on for ever.

Imagine this is you.

Now, take that shimmering  inside

Create

Project it into this world

say what needs to be said

Light up our lives.

 

This Creative Life

There were holes in

This one wonderful creative life

It had got a little threadbare

Over the years

In need of darning

Tarnished

A light had dimmed

And now, I’m adding threads

Wild snatches of music

Experienced from the inside

Part of a circle of people playing

For themselves and for each other

Sharing tunes and memories

And weaving a richer life

The warp and weft of friendships

Reacquainted.

Stories, rhythms, rhymes

And the hills of the Lake District

My hills

And a scattering of colour, paint on canvas,

Feeling the lines and texture flow from the brush in my hand

The peace of deep, relaxed movement

Taking time to reconnect

The wake of a canoe across the lake

Adding a silvery thread

All combining

All absolutely necessary

Now I know what I’ve been missing

All of this is what I need

Now there are no threadbare patches left

In the tapestry that is

This creative life