My Anxiety

My anxiety is a Jill of all things, yet Mistress of none.

By that, I mean that she likes to learn about things, gets easily excited by them

But she only ever learns enough to just about squeak by in polite conversation at enforced social gatherings.

My anxiety knows if she somehow managed to trick people into believing that she is intelligent & inciteful

Then the conversation will somehow become less polite, become forced out through gritted teeth & painted on smiles.

So she says only enough to be seen as polite, then scuttles back into the shadows with a book & a pot of tea with almond milk.

My anxiety can sense when I am enthused by something, & steps in to halt my progress with a gentle rebuke, turns butterflies to palpitations.

“What if…?” No. No. The attention garnered by being good at something – anything – is too much to bear

Better to remain averagely mediocre & easily forgettable. Now where did she leave that book?

My anxiety knows that I function best when I am rested, am more approachable & alert.

So she waits until I’m standing on the precipice of sleep, then jerks me awake – & away from that free fall that I so willingly long for each night

Asks a series of deep reaching questions, guaranteed to keep my mind whirring , unable to still..

My anxiety knows that I could become her worst enemy , learn techniques to soothe & calm

Talk her around to my point of view.

And that scares her, and so my anxiety has vowed to always be my very, very closest friend.

Accidental Anagrams

It is a strange man, I conclude, who would laud a dual

Have the news of his victory sewn as a prison uniform.

Stranger, indeed, the sea pigeon committing acts of espionage

In order to obtain the oats hidden beneath the conical roofed oast.

And the Sherpa sings a phrase whispered by the Seraph,

From which an Angel will glean the correct Angle to disprove the fakery that media provides.

Top brass opt to stir the pot,

Overstep the mark, while churning out top verse to stun and amaze the nuts, and kooks fleeing ever onwards through barren heath scape

Capes flapping like Ostrich plumes over the rich sot as they pass.

Lady Libertys’ Shame

Life, liberty and justice for all

Except for those that 45 wants behind a wall

Bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses

I’ll keep them dirty and sick, confiscate all their assets

Locked in the dark, ripped from Sons and Daughters

Deny all their right to food and to water

Lady liberty does not stand for this

She sees you and she’s tired of all your bullshit

Freedom from the Crown was fought for in your history

So how can you persecute these people? It’s a mystery

Mr President you do not get to pick and choose

Those that you deem worthy to raise the Red, White and Blue

So choose to make your mark as the President unkind

While Liberty joins her sister Justice, and wishes she was blind.

 

 

This was written on July 4th – American Independence Day. I hung off posting it because I didn’t want to cause offense. However, I think whatever we write, whatever we post always has to be personal and relevant to us as writers. And that in itself makes it likely to cause upset to someone else who may not share our own views, regardless of the subject matter.  Also, I have had some quite upsetting news regarding a family member this morning, which has brought the message home that life is too short to spend time worrying about other peoples perceptions. 

LIFE IS SHORT.

We each need to live it in our own way, and if we see something that goes against all human decency and morality, we should most definitely stand and raise our voices against it!

 

 

Elemental Healing

“It’s raining” you say, as two tiny teardrop shaped water balloons fall past the window, and burst onto the ground below.

They leave abstract patterns where they land, and I gaze at them in wonder. They are beautiful. Like Jackson Pollock was temporarily in control of the weather. I voice this, & you shake your head, as you run around closing windows and doors against the ingress of this ‘artwork’.

“Going to get drenched, sitting there” you say, and I take this as my cue to move.

A sudden burst of electricity crackles along my skin. Fine hairs stand to attention as my nose detects that petrichor aroma of newly dampened earth.

I rush outside as the clouds burst, reclaimed sari silks swishing around my calves. I hear you behind me, shouting from the safety of the house…I do not register your words.

I am racing the raindrops to the old willow tree that stands at the gate. I will not win. I never do. By the time I arrive, Grandmother Willow is chuckling at my efforts, her long sinewy limbs quivering with mirth. Throwing my arms around her, I share in her joy. She maybe roughened and bowed by age, but ever sturdy and calm, she guards our home as she has for millennia.

I hear her voice in the rustle of her leaves, and smile. She pitches her words against the deluge that now falls, and I nod. I have always understood her.

Stepping from the shade of her embrace, I dig my naked summer feet into the earth. Watch the newly made mud rise between my toes. It brings a calm that I feel at no other time.

Energies rise. Follow meridians that even acupuncture can not unblock. For the first time in months, I feel free.

At the next crack of lightning, my head throws itself back, and a moon wolf howl launches unbidden from my throat. I open my arms, and my heart, and swallow the mother’s tears as she seeks to heal the parched soul of her daughter.

Supply and Demand

The Fly – aware of the fleeting nature of his life – seeks beauty in his surroundings

He thrills in the gossamer silk of her web

Shudders as his wings are caressed, even as they are entrapped

Gets lost in her myriad eyes

And longs for the moment when he will finally be devoured.

The Spider waits patiently for the Fly

Fine tuned for each infinitesimal movement that announces his presence

She welcomes her victim with exquisite pattern

Woven from her own body with care, and intention.

The Fly goes willingly to his death

Trapped by the sigils that mark his everlasting curse.

Blackbird sits high above

Watching with dew-bright eyes

She waits – head tilted towards her nest and the shrill open maws of her hungry chicks.

The threads tighten and sway, and she swoops in, an uninvited guest at the party

Balletic movements in synchronous choreography with the Fly’s muse

Unaware that she herself is muse to another Mother with feline mouths to fill.

For Kirstie, on her birthday

Remember those hazy childhood days?

Friendships formed in primary colours

Scabby knee red and exercise book blue.

70s fashion, and extremes of weather

Long hot summers spent queueing for the stop-tap when the water went off

Icy cold winters with snow up past welly tops.

Dodgy school performances on a raised platform

Changing room showers that only dribbled tepid spray

Striving to achieve all that life could offer.

And then a sudden high gap

Pushed higher by education, miles away.

Years passed…and yet…

Memories lingered.

A quiet internal sigh at each pass of Thornley Avenue.

A tiny digital bell.

An invite.

Would you like to accept a long, lost friend?

And now…

Our days have passed in a blink

Lovers. Spouses.

Still we remain alike, and akin

Our friendship burnished by time

Now shining bright with love as we reach our golden year.