Cherish

Murillo_immaculate_conception

Immaculada de Soul:  Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban

I speak low lest
my love evaporates
before e’en kissed
by your infant’s breath,
and beg before day’s
whispered hush
ascends to nightfall;
small child, look at me
one last time
before you crawl away as slow
as time roams vast.

Too soon tomorrow’s
branches, laced
with the chirps of sweet song,
will bow to cradle this dear life –
and since time nor death
show mercy –
warm arms, other than mine
shall hold him, and voyage with him
to a strange, beatific world,
where all will be waiting.

In 2018/19 I beat my targets. In 2021 I beat my target of £3,000 despite a one year gap due to the devastating Covid-19 tragedy. Would you support me in raising funds at this critical time? – – I am just about at £4,500. Every little bit helps. This article is pinned, but please do explore my writing!

In aid of CR

Hi,  If you can donate a small amount and give whatever you can (even the price of a solitary cuppa) to help Cancer Research and Breast Cancer Research.  In these devastating times, charities are being hit as hard as the next.  Work has to carry on behind the scenes.  Vital work.  As a breast cancer survivor, I can sincerely say that your help is more than appreciated.

Cancer Research is not government funded and is responsible for a high percentage of the major breakthroughs we have seen to date.  Without you and me, those breakthroughs will not happen.  Regardless of the amount or where you live in this world, your generosity will one day give the gift of life.

On the JustGiving page, you will find verification.  It will also tell you all about my story, reasons and action plan I’ve used and for the foreseeable future.

Thank  you very much!

Anita

JustGiving - Sponsor me now!

 

 

Chronic Canvas

chronic cnavas

Picture: Jay Nabonne

charcoal clouds smudged by thumbs
once haughty –
leaned before angled perpendicular
with promises of black line afterlife; mid air

heady, hung like his smokers’ lungs –
fringed, black laced –
grieving for some time
and for something sinister – brooding
but not quite imagined, not quite
realised on life’s stark canvas
where thumbs are shadow puppets
still stuck in contemplation.

how does one recreate visions of the dying,
and paint death’s culprit edges, dimly
lit by shadows inside wheezing
last breaths?

smoke filters fraying cushions
of shape shifting disease –
hidden, toxically poised – exhaled,
life is spent nervous energy and regrets –
all bad scions; not a good wash for pretty
pastels caught in a ridiculous tango
with painter, thumb and a wispy capacity
of mournful oxygen rattling alone on canvas.

 

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