Dodgy poetry alert.

My house is not shiny and new ,

it doesn’t have an extension

or an open plan milieu .

My house is tatty and old ,

it looks nice in the dark with fairy lights abound,

but in the cold light of day ,  its secrets are exposed.

Its been loved and used but is in need of care.

I often look longingly at others squeaky units ,

plush floors, cabinets that harbour secret passages .

I often feel envy at the cash that has been paid.

But i also remind myself that I have a home ,

not a shack ,

A roof that doesn’t leak rain

A door that does sustain.

A machine that washes my clothes and dishes ,

there are some in the world who are having these  wishes.

I do try to be thankful for what I have got ,

to not yearn for more.

I am after all but a spirit in  clothes of flesh.

My house reflects my physical home.

A bit worn out ,  prone to neglect.

Forgotten ,  put last. Bit by bit I need to repair.

To look at just one part that can be spared.

To not see the whole and sigh .   .

To stop procrastinating ! The end is not nigh .

 

 

Winter Cherries ūüćí

Trees that harbour winter cherries

Are like summer bushes ripe with berries.

They offer up promise and life.

Against the glowing yolk of a  New Year sunset

They stand glorious , whispering their magic yield.

Trees contain secrets that will never be told ,

their majesty is there to behold ,   yet

folk just walk on by .

As I stand to drink its magic ,   the sun sets behind ,

its glare forgotten in the winter times .  I can

behold the sun in all its glory .

My feet crunch the twiggy ground and I feel

small in this galaxy surround.

Cheeks bright with icy glow.

I yearn for solace in her cosmic force ,

to escape life’s disappointments.

Winter Cherries , ¬†they never cease to surprise –

my newly awakened eyes.

 

An ode to myself .

afterglow art backlit birds
The Wake – Up Fairy

 

I lie Still ,  desperate to remain good

my insides squirm.

The woman pads around the room punitively

Attending to any slight misdemeanour ,   the

twitches are recorded in her list .

Who will Be the Wake up Fairy? 

Slowly , I sense the others drifting off to sleepy realms

their breathes ; ¬†soft like the shore –

How do they sleep in this tangle of bodies?

Who will be the Wake up Fairy?

NOT ME

She knows that beneath the stubborn frame

I lie awake .  Disobedient child.

How I long to just submit , to drift away and escape the longing

to be the one who wakes.

The chosen child who gets to be the prized , dainty , wake up queen.

Time Stops.

Punished by the routine .

Sleep?

How to they sleep ?  I am 3 , perhaps 4 , I want to roar around and climb

I come to play , not lie here as part of her token regime

I shift my limbs

I just want to be me.

Perhaps there was a time when I floated among the others ,

crowned the Fairy Of Sleep.

But this is the only memory I have ¬†–

My first in fact.

Book ending the shadows of my existence .

As I Lay today , resting in the darkness of my yoga end,

I landed back in that room of limbs –

I took the hand of my childhood self and we chatted through

the expanse of time.

She is no longer alone .  I love her .   Now she is just me

And together , we can just BE.