poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
Be bothered
Check each other
Layers off
Layers on
Gloves yes
Gloves no
Kick crampons
into icy snow
Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Stay warm
But not hot
Hydrate
Find a spot
Take a photo
Go wee
Be bothered
Poles out
Poles in
Ice axe out
Helmet on
–Always
Sturdy gloves
Feet sideways
Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Waterproofs
Wooly socks
Self-Belay
Avoid the rocks
Play in snow
And be bothered
Be bothered just so
He tumbles down the street, ice cold anger, burning hot rage; some of this becomes stuck in the small cobblestone alleys; where he rips off shop signs, and freezes window panes until they crack from the arctic chill. People tumble like leaves; hoods, and scarves held tightly with both hands, they fight against the rage, bend over–standing upright is impossible–yet they push forward. Shelter is so close. So close. A woman shouts above the howl; trying to tell her husband she found an open door. Yet all she sees are blurred shadows; snowflakes are slung at her face and eyes, so hard that the tears keep running. She cannot see her husband. He cannot hear her. With all her might she pulls the door open; it smashes close behind her. All of a sudden there is silence. And now her tears stream on their on volition.
Meanwhile, he keeps howling, raging, hauling microscopic ice shards at everything in his way. One goal. One goals only. That building up on the hill, the highest point, in this small town. Granit grey with coloured glass windows. He can see it; despite his rage blinding everyone who is caught up in the anger. There must be reckoning. He screams now as he heaves his full might at the building. They have angered the ancient ones.
Winter doldrums are days of a permanent grey. The sun remains unseen, and light barely breaks through the dirty curtains.
Hark! Sarnies to the rescue and a cuppa.
Coffee. Black. Strong. Fragrant.
You may have tea.
Small blessings are the strongest anchors of joy.
Each creating a colourful dot on my fairy light string.
Cold drops play a splattering song,
on the wet street and the hood of my coat.
I shuffle along to the 12 bar blues, somewhere water is leaking into my boots,
and the world around me is in brown and grey hues.
Winter doldrums are a never ending grey.
Where the day blends into the night and the nights won’t become day.
So I bring out the candles, light fire, fairy lights, books, chocolate and journals are all my favourite things.
I meander between stories and rhyme, as I wrap my blanket tightly.
Warm beeswax candles shine.
Shush now dear reader, just pause and listen.
Because in the right light even dull dirty grey rain drops with glisten.
Witchgrass Acre
An Ice age afterthought
Rocks salt the soil
witchgrass sprouts from tiny crevasses
Mammoth teeth strewn below ground
Teeth, geodes, rocks and sand
Blanketed by brittle clay
Stone age pottery brought to the surface by autumn tilling
Once I even found a bronze age brooch
Witchgrass Acre
Ancient land
A meandering river bed
An old side arm
Indentation across the Western end of the farm
This is where the floods go first
Witchgrass Acre
The ancient creeds are still walking along paths forgotten
Overlaid realities
Sometimes you can see their shadow
Paths come and go
Medicinal plants everywhere
Holler* and Rowan protect the parameters
Witchgrass Acre grows powerful women
*Holler is an old fashioned word for Elder Tree in German
Paths meander between realities
Today I walk along
Amongst the trees
Woodpecker greeting me with her staccato efforts
Tomorrow you are not there
You that path branching off at this tree
Tomorrow I will pass the tree and you won’t be waiting
Just to re-appear another time
And so I walk in between the here and now
Along the tree lined ribbon
Guided by the drum of a beak
Knee deep snow beyond the paths
Mountain pine branches bent by white weight
Stillness of a windless day
Monks’ chanting
In the Buddhist temple at the apogee
The only noise besides the crunch of snow underfoot
The chants an eerie iterance
In a silent world
Carrying us up the mountain
Breath visible in frozen air
I am in this world and other world
Walking the liminal space
Floating in a white suspense
Prayers as metronome
On a snow-muted day
I am here, and now
And always and everywhere
In this moment
Your rough-hewn hands
Move over my anxious skin.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A little twirl,
more emphasise as you move over my hands,
and out and away.
I ought to sleep.
Alas I can’t.
My skin burns from carrying the day:
smells, sounds, colours have seeped into my epidermis,
setting the organ alight.
My stomach churns with thoughts and questions.
My brain spin tales and stories.
It won’t stop.
So you begin to sing.
Let the sound carry all away.
Let the sound quiet the stories
soothe the stomach.
All the while your hands move in their duty
of gathering an anxious child back into her body.
Joyful chimes
Dance through the winter’s eve.
We are wrapped tightly,
In thick scarves and coats like down blankets.
Woolie socked feet, in big boots,
Crunch their way along the dark road,
Carefully determined,
Towards the sound of the bells.
Waiting are candle light, warm hugs from friends, carols to be sung, and nativity play.
Our noses numb with cold,
Mother, sister, me.
Stars decorating the dome above
Like the candles on our tree.
Snow is sparkling tinsel along the wayside.
We celebrate the light born.
Sun rising again and the days growing.
Stories blending into rituals,
Ancient tales in new dress.
The path, a road now,
Once carried mammoths,
And neolithic tribes.
And still we strive to the building on top of the highest elevation.
Coaxed by the sound of the bells,
To celebrate light reborn.
As we have done and will continue to do,
As long as the sun rises the next morning.
Dreams of frozen time
A pause in noise
Snow silence
Winter light
Crunch beneath my feet
A robin’s breath
Frozen in song
My Christmas wish
I am stomping through snow
Shouting ‘Ho Ho Ho Ho’
While in my thick mittens
I hold two fluff kittens
Where they came from? Don’t know!
Appeared like will-o’-the-wisps in the snow.
I think they are fae cat or wild cat or something entirely else,
But they are cuddly fluff kittens and my heart simply melts.
And they look at me eyes big, mischievous and scared;
So I am taking them home crackling fire in hearth.
Then I warm up some milk and dip in some bread;
And after, I tug them all cosy in bed.
Before the sun-up I hear a loud crack,
And some rumble, and tumble and maybe a smack.
And I jump out of bed worried sick for the kittens.
They were so small they fit both in my mittens.
Suddenly, though I hear a loud roar,
And a smash and a bang and a rattling door.
I rush out to see what is happening now.
Two humongous fluff kittens make an intruder cow.
My nerves are not sure what is taking more toll,
The humongous fluff kittens or the intruder troll!
Oh my jolly good golly what am I to do?
I don’t have a phone to call and ask you.
So, I do what I do when I am well scared.
I shout out loud to make sure I am heard.
“Ho Ho Ho Ho who was a bad troll
And broke my door making this huge hole?”
The kittens where hissing and fitting with wrath,
Almost as if I would have them take a big bath.
The troll was embarrassed and sillily coy.
He said he didn’t mean to destroy;
Just knock at the door and politely ask
For some hot water for his thermos flask.
But the kittens where hissing and growing in scale.
They did not believe the clumsy troll tale.
I am still scared of the troll and their size is appealing;
Even, if by now, they’re about to hit my ceiling.
‘Thou shall not lie!’ one of the kittens scorned.
‘I have seen you approach being fully armed.’
‘Ach this club’, the troll says his helmet askew.
‘It’s just my work tool, it’s what trolls do.
I live down the road under the bridge,
And if someone wants to cross I jump out of the ditch,
And holler: who goes and thou shall not cross
Or in the icy cold water I’ll toss!’
‘So you live off, of scaring poor folk on the bridge?’
‘But come to our home for water? That’s rich!’
The other fluff kitten was not well impressed,
Still suspecting the troll had planned a mean theft.
‘What am I to do?’ the troll pleads his woes.
‘This is really just how the troll story goes.
And the ditch is ice cold; the water freezing indeed.
I had hoped a nice tea would provide me some heat.’
‘Ho Ho Ho Ho’ I interrupt still very scared.
But also heating water on the warm cosy hearth.
‘Let’s all take a breath or two or three
And have a talk and some nice hot chamomile tea.’
My fluff cuddly kittens are not yet consoled,
But they shrink a bit down; their sizes controlled.
The troll takes off helmet and leaves club at the wall,
And sits at the table all grubby and tall.
The fluff cuddly kittens are eying him up:
‘You really ought to change how you do earn your grub.’
They chide him again and just for good measure.
Trying to ramp up what is called the peer pressure.
The troll hangs his head salty tears begin rolling.
‘What am I to do? All I know is do trolling!’
‘Hm.’ Kitten one says drumming her nails.
‘Uh hum.’ Kitten two says twitching his tails.
Yes he has two tails I had failed to notice.
Yesterday night I had other things for focus.
‘So what are you good with?’ I try to ask kindly.
‘Shouting, and clubbing.’ The troll says resignedly.
And with a big sigh more tears begin rolling.
‘I am so so so tiredly tired of trolling.’
‘Shouting could be a good thing.’ one kitten ventures
‘The king always needs heralds for his adventures!’
Kitten two interjects full of excitement
‘You could walk ahead shouting: hear hear the king and his compagnment!’
‘I love the sound of adventure!’ the troll sounds optimistic.
‘But you need to learn not to be meanly simplistic.’
‘I am no simpleton.’ the troll says upset.
‘It’s just, you know, the only story I have in my head!’
‘So we will help you to learn many more tales;
Of happiness, luck, sadness and fails.’
I interject quickly and fairly loud
the kitten induced troll chewing out.
Fluff cuddly kitten one hisses proudly,
And fluff cuddly kitten two joins her loudly.
Then they look at each other very deep in the eye,
And turn to the troll nodding saying: ‘All right.’
‘We are cathsidh the fae kitten kind
And stories are plenty on our mind!
We will teach you kindness and pride;
Even how to be kind to your own grubby grub hide.’
Then they turn to me looking somewhat abash.
‘We are sorry Santa, we should have asked.’
‘May we stay with you in your warm cosy abode?
And help you teach this silly dear oaf?’
‘Ho Ho Ho Ho’ I laugh in my beard
‘That’s a fun story, going to be heard.’
Writing for Healing 