Tag: poetry

We will pay for it later

‘Isn’t this hot weather amazing’ I say.

‘We will pay for it later’ you reply,

as if nothing good can happen

without a bill being presented.

Sunshine now

means suffering ahead.

But what about all the storms

we’ve already weathered?

Don’t they count,

like money in the bank?

I am taking this hot summer,

banking little pieces of

happiness.

Memories to unfold later,

to be viewed through the glasses of age,

rose tinted or otherwise.

I will save up some of these rays

and let them warm my future self.

I will not live my life in debt,

with good times bought on credit.

Instead I will believe

that I deserve happiness now.

Heatwave

11pm in the garden,

the air like velvet on my bare arms,

unexpectedly warm.

A soft breeze caresses the leaves.

Two owls squabble

under an orange moon

as I savour the silky night.

Nights like this belong to other places.

Reluctantly I return indoors.

The owls sing me to sleep.

Forest Bathing

At a conference,

head bursting with ideas.

Talks about nature and wellbeing,

beauty, emotions,

the benefit of mindful ‘forest bathing’,

the importance of nature connections.

Invigorating subjects

dried up by windowless rooms,

air conditioning,

artificial lighting

and too many strangers.

–

Break time and I escape

into a bookshop.

Funny how I always end up in one of these

when the urban world becomes too much.

My shoulders drop as I cross the threshold,

calm among wood

pulped and pressed into pages,

the ghosts of trees.

A forest of paper and words,

and silence.

I feel at home

I don’t read them, just soak in the cathedral-like atmosphere

and refrain from buying another expensive notebook.

I feel the benefit of a kind of forest bathing,

a tenuous connection to nature

until I can get back to the real thing.

Security and adventure

Here it is again,

that old familiar tension

between security and adventure,

a central dichotomy in my life.

–

For a while now I have clung to employment

like a life raft through turbulent seas,

rescued from joblessness,

begging not to be set down again.

–

But suddenly today

a lifting, a shifting

physically in shoulders and upper chest

a releasing and then

a new perspective arrives.

–

I dare to imagine again

the freedom of breaking from the nine to five,

boarding a plane to who knows where,

making money who knows how,

I dream, and work looks a little dull.

–

It’s back,

that old familiar tension

between security and adventure.

In the past I’ve see-sawed between the two,

now I want to learn to balance.

A click of the shutter

I don’t have a waterproof camera

and my phone was wrapped in plastic, safe in a drybag,

for emergencies only.

And so I had no photos to share

to say I was there,

to try to convey the meaning of a moment.

But how often does a photograph really do that?

After all, there are other senses than sight.

–

So.

Bank holiday monday,

Coniston Water

the end of a scorching weekend.

Paddling south (first time in my canoe this year)

away from the crowds,

my arms remember how good it feels,

burn of working muscle

taking me further from the voices and barbecue smoke.

–

Past open water swimmers towing orange floats

who stop for a chat in the middle of the lake

unfazed by the deeps,

complaining of the cold water.

Past moored boats, and pine tree promentaries,

shingle beaches overhung with oaks,

until, at the south end of the lake

as yellow reeds narrow to reveal the start of a river,

I turn around to head back north and see

spread before me the calm lake

bordered by woods in the first flush of spring green,

low bracken-covered hills glowing

in the early evening sunshine,

the Coniston fells beyond, blue and slightly misty.

–

That is the moment I would have pressed the shutter.

But could that photograph record

the pleasant ache of shoulders and arms,

the gentle forward motion of the canoe,

the sound of water lapping,

a mind quietened to contentment?

–

One moment, containing

a sense of returning, of welcome,

a glimpse of childhood,

a farewell to winter,

and the seed of all the summers to come.

This is how it ends

Here, in this woodland,

a burial among the

emerging leaves

and birdsong,

reminding me that

life can be beautiful

and terrifying,

unfair and wonderful.

Don’t choose the winding path

of fear through life.

We all reach the same place,

eventually.

But lighter steps

and love

and kindness

make the journey easier.

This is how it ends

for us all,

surrounded by sorrow,

and love.

Everyday insights

Gripped by anxiety,

a looming hospital appointment,

I failed to notice the world outside

where the blackbird continued to sit on her nest in the rain,

and despite my unawareness

the symphony of spring carried on.

–

Then suddenly, I realized.

Anxiety again.

Welcome.

I don’t have to fight you any more

I just have to relax.

We are not separate,

you are not something to be held at bay

by techniques and force of mind.

You are a response to a situation,

my response.

–

Forgive me.

You have always been the frightened child

I pushed away.

Now you are welcome to rest here

until we both feel safe again.

–

A queen bee stopped on a flower, unnoticed,

unmoved by my revelation

as I wiped away a tear,

but I will remember.

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.