Notification brings me in

hands conserv

I’m apparently celebrating  three years of WordPress, which also means, I am reminded of the reason for my blog and the bare, three years without my dad.  But, please, when you find yourself there, do not despair;  remember that life happens.  It is what it is.  Enjoy your life, regardless.  I know he would be thrilled that I have embraced more than he ever saw as an inclination within me.  I got married.  I continued to write, became published, even became the activist in word and deed.  He always saw that, but I did not.

I don’t have it in me at present to write.  I could reblog, but for me, that doesn’t always  matter.   What does matter is that the souls of the young are not tarnished, not disillusioned by life in whatever form it manifests.   I can just ask from experience that you – love it, live it, create, and be your best to help this world and those that inhabit it.  We are ALL sentient beings with feelings.  To that end, we must campaign, build a better life for us and those without a voice.  We need to campaign,  petition and nag our political parties to eradicate endless suffering of us and our animal counterparts.   We should not be allowed to rule with impunity… simply because we can!  Climate change is real as is death and taxes.  Learn from it.  Use it.  If only to leave behind common decency.

Golden yellow cups
dressing the fields in harmony
soon drowned in water

Smells

326201072930PMst_bruno_flake_pipe_tobacco

St.Bruno-smoking kills-writingasitcomes

I have a section in my blog called Ghosts from the Shoebox.  I took some verse, accidentally stumbled on, and kept writing.  Anyway, ’tis there, lol.   My dad smoked a pipe, and in it he stuffed St Bruno pipe tobacco, which I loved the smell of and crave it now.  Probably why I became a smoker. But in November 2018 it will be 10 years since I stopped smoking, and 3 years since my dad died.  With my husband in the US for a family visit and me dwelling as the day is resting, here I am.  My dad is the reason for my blog to begin with. So bear with me .  And ever the activist, please, please do not be tempted to smoke, take drugs or anything you are curious about.  It is not worth it!

Newspaper clippings,
old stories spilled on the floor.
No smoke, no cigar.

All good stories emanate from
tall skinny houses
with their cracked secrets
and crumbling walls?

Great monologues
came from those giant shoeboxes
and pipe tobacco –
the houses I have left

to tobacco flakes
from an old St Bruno tin –
they inherit occupancy.

There are no rooms for emptiness
or spaces for grief.
There rarely is smoke
without heartache.

Trailing Echoes

imagesW40L7DF4.jpg

Just as the season
howls its might in my face
flush with twilight’s
fine colours, and just as shy
echoes trail
like vine leaves
climbing my stone wall’s
surround of cold comfort,
as if to say farewell,
I think of you.
I oft savour our soft voices,
evaporated since, and remember
a warm breeze as evensong
amid the petiole’s dance steps
tickled by a flickering moon
caught betwixt branches,
as if to say
you were here,
and you think of me.

Say You

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‘Sing to me,’ said the melody,
‘Cry to me on my lips.
Tell me the tune on a rainy afternoon
Play it for me as I sit.’

Swaying in time with mortality
we’re singing in case we might scream,
our lullaby turned to gut wrenching yearns
when the harmony wavered and slipped.

‘Play me your song, make a symphony,
hum from your quivering lips.
Cling to the base as I wonder the pace
Tell it to me as I sit.’

Our hearts beat in time, but mechanically,
and strays from the voice that it hears.
A love song is born but the time is to mourn,
sorrow’s words are the tempo’s eclipse.

‘So cry then’ said the melody,
‘cry until it makes sense.
Use me to grieve, wear your heart on your sleeve,
maybe soon life can commence.’

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