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Showing posts from September, 2018

Behind the Wall

Behind the Wall

What is the story you have never told? That is the one which will free you to tell all the rest. 

So the advice goes. I think it’s true.
I know which story I have never told.
And certainly it’s true that I never can seem to get on with telling the rest. (I make abortive beginnings at times, but they fizzle out.)
I don’t even have to make that story public once it is written, I tell myself. I just have to write it. Just for me, to free me.
I am 78. In less than two months I’ll be 79. Surely I can do it by now? After all, it was 36 years ago! (36 years ago … and yesterday.)
I imagine myself starting to write. The first sentences form in my mind.  They are graceful and easy.
But then the wall rises in front of me again. It is high and wide and very thick. It is made of bluestone blocks. It is topped by rolling scrolls of barbed wire, razor sharp.
It does not exist physically any more. The whole place was torn down years ago, to make way for a new suburb. (I wonder how people live…

The Farewell

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The Farewell

















Afterwards I photographed roses in my friend Maureen's garden, drank black coffee on her deck, and showed her my new Tarot pack (called Everyday Witch) because it's light-hearted.
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It was a kindly Memorial. We were glad we went. The cemetery was peaceful with its lawns and trees and flowers growing, and the flowers people brought. Maureen laid our bunch, gently, under a spreading tree in the shade.
I hugged various old friends I hadn't thought to see there. Penelope's reach into the community was one-on-one with each of us. None of us needed to say anything to each other – knowing the depth of love in every connection with her: impossible for anything less.
Death makes us all poets! Many had written poems for her after she died. They were read. Several of us wept. Yet all of us had certainty that she was now with God, and happy.
When we toasted her, we instinctively raised our glasses high, in celebration, to the sky. There was no anguish, even though we so loved her. (The…

A Way of Understanding

A Way of Understanding

Deep silence in the mind is a void, we are told – but I see it more as a tunnel, a conduit taking awareness out to meet Larger Mind ('universal consciousness') and merge with.


Another nonet for Fussy Little Forms at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Keeping Watch

Keeping Watch

In the hushed solitude of late night – communing with moonlight and owl, drifting clouds, oceans of stars – I gaze down through the pane at our little street in its calm, still, slumbering, silent dark.


A nonet for Fussy Little Forms at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Nautilus

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Nautilus

















Curving gradually through pearly and nearly translucent fragile white chambers which once contained a living, moving creature of the sea, culminating in a spiral not golden but logarithmic – this beautiful shell is dead, a lovely skeleton ghostly white, unearthly pure.

A second 'fib' or fibonacci poem written for Camera FLASH! at 'imaginary garden with real toads', this one word-based rather than syllable-based.
Shell image by Edward Weston. Fair Use.

Oh, Sweet Mystery

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Oh, Sweet Mystery
















That coil: shell, ear, cochlea, unfurling fractal or visible Mandelbrot set – is it the building-block of life (blueprint, pattern, form)? Symmetry attracts be- lief.

A double fibonacci (or 'fib') written for Camera FLASH! at 'imaginary garden with real toads', where we are invited to be inspired by this Shell image, which is by Edward Weston and available for Fair Use. (This poem is in the original fibonacci form, based on syllable count.)

The Arrival of Spring

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The Arrival of Spring

for Penelope
We stood on the steps of the temple in white tunics edged with gold.
We saw this as we worked together reading energy, sitting on the floor of that big room, where I used to live.
We saw lionesses prowling, loved and tame, in deep caverns,  their padded feet threading  through sand-coloured pillars.
People filled the atrium, looking up, awaiting the High Priestess and the ceremony for the arrival of Spring. Young priestesses, glad and proud, we stood at the top of the steps either side, like twins.

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Now the candle I burn for you sits on my Egyptian altar – Sekhmet one side, Thoth the other.
I have said the Prayer for the Dead, which my friend the Hermetic Magician taught me long ago.
(He, like others dear to me, died as Winter began to turn. And here in this country, now, today is the first of Spring.)
As I spoke the words, I thought: She cannot have far to go in her journey towards God! I thought you might merge at once, and seemed to see that, you becomin…