Stories


Each of us has a story
To tell 
A map  of our life 
In each of our cells
In the way that we move 
In the people we see
Is calmness evident 
To the people we meet?
Is clarity seen
When doubt prevails?
Does persona encourage 
Or do we doubt ourselves?
When I’m sad, I don’t scream and shout,
‘I’m fine,’I say and shut it out;
Reflection of a mirror
Or have I lied
With the true map of my life
Folded neatly inside?
Being true to myself 
Admitting defeat 
To share the journey
Is a silent relief 
Imperfections accepted 
To be seen as we are
Loved by someone near 
Not from afar.

Through Lent in Pandemic


In getting things wrong,
In getting things right,
We are changed and transformed;
We are not who we were
Twelve months past,
We have changed;
He has changed us;

We walk not alone
Cast like boats adrift;
Our stories 
His story.

His presence
In our presence
Underpinning
The narrative, 
Affirming relationships 
One to another
At one  with Him
For our journey
Is His journey.

Words

With few words 
More is spoken;
Stories layered with meaning 
Shaped to carefully chosen prose,
Painted figuratively stirring feeling;
Words -though blameless in their form-
Do  heavy fall when wrong tone 
Chosen;
Words coined and light of touch
Like feathers
Softly lay
their whispers, 
Covering  hurt with gentle healing
Raising smiles,
Laughing,joking,
Teasing-
Living.

Squally March Afternoon

A rush of air sucks breath
From the lungs
The stride shortens 
Head lowers 
I dig deep
Peppered by bullets 
Of shrapnel as hail
Stings the face
And skims
The tops of the hedges
And turn into
The sunken lane 
Where primroses hide 
Like 
Porcelain tea cups
On rattling shelves
And acid celandine
Stands askew
With bent petals 
Made ragged by last night’s 
Storm 
Not yet spent
Violets creep close to the ground
As the roar in the trees above 
Drowns all other sound
And the low sun peeps
From under the veil 
Of inky grey.

Anthology

Running in the Slow Lane Here is the link to my book.

Never had I expected to write enough to publish a book but I have found myself doing so as I have come to love the written word.

Playing with words has become as natural as looking out of the window and I find myself with phrases turning in my head. Observations of the year are in these pages – many on nature and rhythms of the year and other musings.

We Were Warned


Hail ricochets the window
With trembling and vibration, 
Coursing through the bed frame
Like a road worker’s drill;
The storm pursues its path,
Relentless as its intent;
We were warned 
The forecast said;
As in the darkness
Spring is torn from its bed
Sap is centrifuged in stems
Anchored roots are tested;
The ash will give up branches
Of buds which will never open
To be repurposed 
As spring will rebuild
Renewed.

For now there is nothing 
But to listen,
To lifting slates
And to thundering rhythms
And things being carried
Into the night.

Composition

Life’s  juxtaposition 
Units lacking alignment 
We move in concentric circles
Following circadian rhythm
Or randomly stake position; 
Do we strive to find common ground 
Security in similarity 
Or defined by individuality?
Free radicles are we who find our way  through choice 
I trace the rainbow through the rain 
The drops which slip down the glass 
I move through rooms like chess in play 
I make my way across the board 
With stealth
(Sometimes it’s luck)
I compose a thought
And find my path.

Written originally for the Ekphrastic Review

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges