New Stuff #CRUK #charity#hand painted crafts

Hi,  I just wanted to add a video and some of the new promotional things I made using my hand crafted items, as larger signage was needed.  I hope you’re all well!

Two dimensional
Satan has no place in art’s
man made persona

Streaming sunlight
on gracious passage of souls
golden heron fly

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Shah Jahan

Still out and about…

As it Comes

Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal as a tomb for his favourite wife, Mumtaz. He longed to preserve the love that he had for her.  With its creation, love, magnificence and memory has been preserved. I had the privilege of falling on the stairs inside that lead to the tombs proper on a visit – a treat from my dad while we were visiting family in India.  I was not allowed to continue due to the risks – enabled by the shoe protectors that tourists have to wear. So I mooched outside taking photographs…these are not those, however.

Shah Jahan

She wilted and he slept for one year,
fading like the blush of twilight –
riches do not protect the human flesh
or soul –

death permeates even our innermost
love.

In dark dreams, grief struck aching bones
and tortured sinews,
surrounds of a heart heavy from drought,
until he was woken with a…

View original post 168 more words

Samsara

As it Comes

hinduism-atmanbrahman

Since
‘Everything and all existence is connected’,
then we will always be, and so we will always
have you.

Kneeling on the dying repercussions
of an autumn caught just within the colder breath
and tentative icy touches of winter –
its fruition yet to unfurl –
I turn to face the dying winds.
Cradled in my arms, the flakes and fragments
of all that is left.
The tangible weight echoes
the palpable loss I carry –
you have gone from my world,
and left it empty –
inside of this vessel, microcosms of dust
make it as empty as when life
ceases to be – but, inside of here,
you also become extant.
But still
I can hold only that which would not fall
through my fingers, so
I will imagine a springtime that will come
to intrude on
this time just so a butterfly
can perch on my finger –

View original post 122 more words

Loved

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The first time,
you lay before me as magnificence –

the stars and the moon
were the clothes you wore –
a gift to my blackest of nights.

And while in your arms, I raced with you
through sun and sky, and as the earth
turned only to feel your heartbeat,

 I swear, I trembled when I felt it too.

You had no edges or centre – you
were love, and I trembled.

And I miss you.

 

Itiswhatitis

Back for a short while after completing what seems like a zillion pendants and zentangle light bottles… don’t ponder… lol.  I have an event this Sunday coming,  then a month of work/rest/restock then some more.  Needed to write so I did.  Garden is great, sun keeps coming – all’s good. Hope you are all well.  I shouldn’t ‘write’ myself off.  I will take it ‘As it Comes’! I can do both.

indiff

Your head feels warm
in my colder arms
as you hold me close,
oblivious, inside my turmoil –

and you speak to me,
only if you’re willing,
otherwise,
go live by yourself.

This fucking honey liqueur,
is too thick to pour,
but somehow it gets me drunk –
does it’s sticky glue create a distance?

Moths fly around me
hurling their abuse,
so please dowse the light –
god, you’re ignorant.

Are we to stay
‘ignited’?
Do we still make a good match?

Since you close your mind,
it is indifference, I feel,

and I wonder aloud
in all of my screams,

and I see the past streaming before me,
till it muddies my glass – it’s all unreal.

What the fuck was it
that we created?

Can we live up to that?
I feel a need.

I sang you songs –
and not inebriated,

I sat on your lap
watching TV.

I thought I belonged,
but was mistaken,

I don’t even belong
to me.

Stuck in the thick of it,
wrangling with these lacy honeyed sleeves,
I’m interrupted by full on indifference;

 it pours from orifices

I thought were mine,
but it is all the stuff that you bleed.

 

Silently I Go

This is lengthy and old now. I am off again. Enjoy your summer!

As it Comes

Winter-pond-iced-over

Words tremble and form on my lips,
outside in the middle of nowhere
on an old, abandoned field’s
icy, quiet calm – I can
see those words as frosted air
almost palpable, almost real.
Almost.
The memory of an ecstasy
ripples vehemently in rifts,
saying, ‘don’t let go –
don’t let go of the moment,
the tenderness and the journey
that has begun –
don’t let go of the time invested
and the heart’s own life span,’ –
I clap my mitts together hard,
I need to hear another voice
in the heavy, thick dullness
of meaningless, inside this bitterly
cold wilderness – an expansion
of existence.
Inside this perfect ring of O,
caution and doubt is excluded
by the wintry tourniquet
and deep seated bleakness.
Within this rink of fire
I have found a plan,
idly scraped into the dense snow’s
virgin white territory
of thoughts and decision making –
a…

View original post 357 more words

Chalk Bones

chalk bones whips blush poem

My cheeks inherited
these whispered blushes.
Above them sits one jewel
in the traverse
of my brow’s flesh,
a stream of teardrops,
permanently nestle
in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child
caught crying
in ink black darkness
where silver shadows
of pale moon would try and invade
my solemnity –
its own had wandered only to find
nothingness and me, hiding inside of it.

Occasionally,
we would dance
a reflection; swooning and
dipping, dodging emptiness,
faded scars and the morass
of past pain, unredacted, untouched,
left to degrade, as if it could.

Calm moon chalk
expressions would beat rhythmic
shadows on my chest, imposing
stoic interruptions
where my stolid heart should be;

and, still at press pause, afraid of my
own heartbeat, of my organs,
of mnemonic patterns –

myriad disjointed
memories have scattered
amid fabricated utterances

fluttering endlessly.  Out of control
in chasms of grey, fleshy matter –
pretty cacti run my veins –
flower buds seldom seen
are happy there
forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…
until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,
the pain of my disease
is ingrained,

it cannot be wiped away –
so the reflection oscillates.
I roll my cheeks one at a time;
warm flesh pressed hard
against cold glass,
my painted orange lips, linger,

and I pray my bones break
so that I might heal.

I resolve to stop this
dance of attrition – and smear
the neon shop bought mask,
swapping sorrows for sin,

and we wade out from the mire –
facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while
at least.

With cupped hands, I drink
the rhythm of the rain
still smothered in shade.

Ashen faced, I find I have, at least,
become whole.