Before you get stuck into today's poem, two plugs for two friends of mine.

Jacqueline Crooks is one special lady with energy enough for ten and a heart of gold, who works hard to encourage other writers, especially young writers. She has a writers' retreat in Spain to which I have retreated twice, to great effect. Now she is offering a week-long creative writing programme, comprising group workshops, one-to-one tutorials, readings and optional socials. All teaching and one-to-one tutorials will be provided by Richard Skinner, a published writer and tutor on the MA in Creative & Life Writing at Goldsmith's College, London.  There are only 6 spaces on the week-long workshop which will be held at a beautiful villa in the village of Los Ventorros. Visit http://francke-software.de/jcrooks/newsletter.htm for more details. For writers who simply want a quiet space to retreat and write without tuition or programmes, Jacqueline's peaceful writers' retreat in Comares is available from February 2008 onwards. www.writersretreat.gbr.cc

Peter Webb (affectionately known as spider) is a writing friend who had his 15 minutes of fame on Radio 4 this morning and I'm listening again to the repeat as I write this. Peter has worked on and off on a book for the last x-teen years, and I read the early chapters on a website called WritersDock within the H2T group. As a fellow sailor (but nowhere near as mad as he!), I loved every word of early drafts. I am waiting for my signed copy but know I can recommend 'Ice Bears and Kotick' which is now out and available on the net, Amazon etc, and a good boat chandler near you. The title comes from the direct translation of the Norwegian word for Polar Bear + Kotick is the name of the boat. The publisher is Seafarer Books. According to Peter (and I concur): it's a retrospective sailing narrative telling the tale of the first circumnavigation of the Arctic island Spitsbergen in an unpowered open boat. We had many adventures along the 1200km journey that involved polar bears, walrus, whales, realising the value of being alive and an extraordinary variety of ice. Through all of this the important journey was the internal one. It's an old fashioned, low budget story about what happens when you put everything into one big adventure. It might appeal to gap year students, lovers of ice and snow, lovers of Arctic wildlife, small boat sailors and oarsmen. Having said that my mother-in-law, who is in her seventies, loved it and she is none of these things. So I think that it's for anybody who is young at heart and can identify with the need to go out into the world to do something big or special, or impossible.

Peter is the only man I know who had the nerve to cut a chocolate cake in half for us to share and then proceed to eat both halves ... so that proves he had a need to go out into the world and do something impossible.

Now, having got that lot off my chest, here's today's poem.

Killing time

I sleep late, don’t dress
Bury myself, look
Between the pages
Of a paperback book

I stare at the stars
I love them, it’s true
They’re out of my reach
Far away, as are you
 
Now I’m clock watching
While doing the chores
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick ...
The pleasure’s mine. What’s yours?

Jesus! I’m so bored
I’m just killing time
Between then and when
I will see you. Sublime

You don't know what you've got till it's gone, so the song goes. And it's true.

Without you

Without you, my love, the day is too long
I find I’m whiling away the hours
I cook, but for one and I sleep alone
In the bed that is best when it’s ours

Without you, love, there’s no spring in my step
I drift when my hand has no hand to hold
I’m restless and cannot settle at all
I feel too alone and so very old

But I’m sure, my dear friend, as sure can be
You’ll be back in my arms by tomorrow
Till then my beating heart remains covered
In deep layers of uncuddled sorrow

Hurry home, do, hurry into my arms
I need you here, my sweetheart, by my side
Let’s enjoy each day as only we can
And stand fast against the incoming tide

Without you, darling, to light up each day
My life is as nothing, an empty shell
I’ll not cope when we must part for ever
And have to utter our final farewell

Yesterday morning, I finished a major project (on time, yeah!) and spent the day tidying up. I was very industrious, moving a bookcase from one room to another, repositioning a filing cabinet and sorting out its content, sifting through a file or two and putting waste into the recycling bin, etc etc. Of course, what I should have been doing was my tax return. I am expert at displacement activities ... which reminded me of this poem. I wrote it in April 2005. I have come a long way since then.

Displacement man

On the day you are born
You’ll find yourself torn
Twixt parents who love you.
But while a mother bears you
The number one man in a girl’s life
Until some man makes her his wife
Is her dad.
Sad? Terribly sad.

But dad’s are infallible.
And girls are so gullible
So for no reason why
A girl has to try
To find a man who is honest and true
Who wants to marry you …
Who asks for your hand …
Grand? Terribly grand.

You love him, till death? Well, tough!
He loves you, but not enough.
Not enough, not to stray
And then one fine day
You discover a solution
An amazing potion
Such a cunning plan
Seek out one more displacement man!

He catches your eye
And by and by
Your heart is entangled
Your thoughts strangled
As you transfer the weight
Of your afflicted mate
To this new guy for you
Displacement man, mark two.

He occupies your mind while
Off with the old, you trial
This love so new
So far away, and so not you.
It’s unreal and unattainable
Keeping you quite stable
Just out of arm’s reach
And yet still clearly in view.

While hope keeps ahold
And your heart feels so bold
You wait till you’re free.
And then - find that he
Evaporates into thin air!
And yet, do you care
As he dissolves, and falls foul?
You’ve no energy, e’en to howl.

But come, you must move on
Now that all three have gone.
What’s missing is touch
And you need it so much
So look around you today
Decide the game you will play
And remember, yes, you can
Always find, a displacement man 

What a week!

This time, seven short days ago, I had the whole day to myself, packing up the remainder of my clothes ready to bring them with me on my journey west on Saturday. Before then though, we had to embark on a journey which took us first to not-so-sunny Watford where we had two constructive meetings topped by lunch at The Gate in excellent company. We then continued northwards to spend a few hours with the grandson whose latest item of vocabulary is 'Really!' Not sure where he got that from, the little parrot.

Friday morning saw us setting off for Essex to attend a funeral. It was standing room only at the crem and the address by an adoring son had the congregation laughing and in tears; it was very moving. Back at the house, the caterers provided an excellent spread; and a life full of optimism and not a word of complaint was celebrated in true style.

Friday evening was spent nearer to what was home for a while, at The Albany having a quiet meal with friends. It was easy deciding what to eat - the menu was identical to the one at The Gate! I was the designated driver and would have woken with a clear head on Saturday had we not left the car at their place and walked home. Two bottles of very good red later ...

The journey on Saturday - on my own - was tiring. I met the rain near Exeter and it was double windscreen wipers from then on. It took ages to empty the car - it was loaded to the gunnels after all - and I have still to unpack most of the bags. Where shall I put things, anyway?

The past few days have slipped by, with me trying to complete a major writing project - the deadline for which is less than an hour away. I am going to make it - and then go back to bed. I can't survive on 3 hours' sleep in one night these days! Then, I am going to resume what was supposed to be a slowing down of life. If only ...

Life in the slow lane

The world whooshes past
I feel its wind on my back
But I'm determined to stroll
Along my new track

There’s no need to rush
Yes, I’m avoiding the strain
Trying to pass time gently
Here, in the slow lane

I've spent today poring over banks statements and credit card bills and receipts, trying to check there is enough money to see us through to the end of the month. I have decided that a trip to the sales would be inadvisable, regardless what the banners say!

Today's poem is another inspired by a MoreWriting Flash fiction prompt ...

Save and spend

Aye, the New Year Sales have started
And the banners beckon the brave
With letters as high as a house
The more you spend, the more you’ll save

Many years ago, my sister gave me a diary as a Christmas present. It had a rich red velvety cover and one page per day. I made a New Year's resolution to write in it every day, starting 1 January. My first entry was made on 7 January, noting that I was rubbish at keeping resolutions. I have improved over the years, mostly by setting myself less challenging resolutions.

Resolution revolution
 
I will, I really will
I hear everyone say
Words that they could have said
Yesterday, not today

I promise, I promise
To diet, and drink less
Try to give up smoking
But it’s hopeless, I guess!

It’s just the annual farce
New year resolutions
Trying to bring about
Lifestyle revolution

Today's poem is the product of another MoreWriting prompt. It includes the word 'shout' - a word that irritates one of my friends immensely whenever he hears it uttered; I know this, because he told me so. It's unlikely he'll ever read my blog but, in case he does - or for anyone else who is similarly afflicted - I apologise ahead of time.

Fire dance

Come dance with me: lick, lick, low, low
Underneath the fire’s aglow
Embers redden, ashes thicken
Hearts aflame, as pulses quicken

Pump, pump! Don’t let this fire go out
For when we can’t raise a shout
When tiredness replaces heat
We know it’s over and we’re beat

The beauty of the prompt is that it opens up a new train of thought and can lead you to realisations that might never have happened otherwise. If anyone out there wants to put pen to paper or tap those keys - poetry or prose - join a writing community website and take advantage of the impetus it can provide.

Today's poem - written as a flash on MoreWriting - reflects the variety of examples I encountered yesterday among friends at a drinks party: the wearing (or not) of a ring to show marital state (or not). My ring finger was bare, but I was wearing a new necklace ... of pearls, bought only the day before in Amelia's Attic.

Simple adornment

No need for gold
To underline our love
Or pearls of wisdom
To explain why or when

Just your hand on mine
Like this, yes, yes
Close, touching and warm
Togetherness

Such simple adornment
Will define, determine, how
The future will run
And, how it will end

New Year's Day and we are full of resolution, or maybe full of left-over excesses of New Year's Eve?

I have spent the day catching up on lost sleep and then, alone, filing. I have made a couple of phone calls - one, the letter that was to prompt it, has sat in my in-tray for nearly two years. Thank goodness, it's now off my list!

After the morning's sail (not me! him-indoors ...) we made it to the yacht club in time to wish yet more people a happy new year. Then we went walkabout. The sun was shining and, wrapped up in layer after layer, it was easy to not notice the cold.

Then we relented and sought refuge in the Fort ... Two glasses of Merlot later, I see things differently yet again.

Altered image

Her fine face broke into a smile
Its tension crushed the pain she felt
It lifted her spirit sky high
As she saw her reflection melt

She knew that she was safe at last
Secure in the knowledge of all
Knew her end was a beginning
As she answered the dear Lord’s call

Coming, she cried; and off she flew
To join the weathered wisps of cloud
Shaking her long tail feathers still
The beauty of which she was proud

And that’s the last we saw of her
At least, yes, I think that’s the truth
But when I gaze into your eyes
There’s my altered image of youth

At Christmas time, there is the romantic notion that snow would turn the whole event into something magical. This year, it was too mild, and the prevalence of coughs and colds removed any chance of romanticism.

Luckily, a Flash Poetry prompt on More Writing set me thinking along more positive lines.

Written in the snow

While footsteps to their future
Were written in the snow
A signal of his love
Was the truth she yearned to know

Her heart pierced by an arrow
A shot that couldn’t miss
Squiggly shapes: S 4 A
And a solitary kiss

When more snowflakes fell that night
It hid his pledge from view
But held tight in his arms
She was sure his love was true

About four years ago, I found myself in a position where I could not afford to buy presents for my family and friends. Prior to that, like many people, I had spent a fortune each Christmas, showering gifts on all and sundry. My reduced status was a self-inflicted situation; I am not complaining. My two offspring understood and I can't remember the details now; I think we just agreed not to exchange gifts that year.

However, I still wanted to thank those who had helped me to survive the previous six months; the ones who had shown themselves to be true friends. I decided that all I could give them was my time so I designed a gift voucher entitled 'Dreams come true'. Each one was worth an hour and could be exchanged for anything they felt I could offer. I gave many of these vouchers to a few close friends and they redeemed them over the following months. I helped one to choose a laptop; another, I trained to use PowerPoint in preparation for a job interview, and so on. Later, I realised I would have given this help even if the vouchers had not been there to exchange, but these friends would not have asked me; they thought I was always too busy and they didn't like to bother me with their IT problems. 

Having got out of the habit of spending, spending, spending at Christmas, I find the gift of my time - and even more so, my love - is one that is appreciated. It is not a cheap cop-out option. To make time for someone involves caring enough about them and - somehow - that involves caring enough about myself. A win-win situation that I have not yet quite fathomed out.

One thing I can do, if I set myself aside enough thinking time, is to write a poem, like this one. 

To the one I love

Christmas is the time of year
For all to gather around
When we plan to celebrate
And life’s harmony is found

On this oh so special day
To lighten the heart in you
I offer you happiness
To make your wishes come true

My gift, to the one I love
Is power enough to cope
The wisdom to know it’s right
To greet tomorrow with hope

Yes, you can walk on the moon
Leap with the salmon upstream
Imagining tomorrow
When our life mirrors your dreams

So, take me, please, when you go
On this journey that’s called life
I’ll be your best companion
Far better than any wife

I’ll be always at your side
Still there, when you glance away
Smiling, when you look at me
And loving you, every day

Boxing Day: the sky is (was!) a postcard pink and the tide is high. After all the run-up to Christmas, it's like a wave has washed over us and we now watch it recede into the distance.

We bought enough food to last a fortnight and then were not well enough to do it justice. Yesterday's turkey was without the trimmings. In the fridge, unopened packets of chipolatas, green and smoked bacon and sausage meat for the stuffing that we did not make jostle with the untouched cans and bottles bought in for a festive celebration. We saw no one all day although we spent time talking on the phone to each member of our families, wishing them a merry Christmas and comparing notes on the contents of feverishly wrapped gifts.

Not wanting to share our coughs and colds, we confined ourselves to watching hours of TV and that had the desired soporific effect. Today, we are not much better: still coughing and spluttering.  However, we must rally ourselves to join the fun at the Yacht club - and to wish everyone a happy New Year.

This poem was written several days ago. Not sure where the opening line came from now. I think I'd heard yet another lie slip past the lips of someone who really ought to know better.

Truth

Truth is an ally
Treat it as a friend
No matter
How much you lie
Truth’s revealed
In the end

It need not
Be uttered
No need to shout
When put under
The spotlight  
Truth will out

It's been a hectic week or so. I came down with shingles (yuk!) the week before last - thought it was insect bites to start with but a quick visit to the docs confirmed the diagnosis I'd worked out through intensive Internet research. Stress induced illness. Whatever next! I finished a seven day dosing of anti-viral horse pills on Tuesday and the worst seems to be over. For a change, I have been as good as gold. Resting now and then even.

I hadn't scheduled time to be ill, of course. Instead, I'd organised a surprise birthday party for him-indoors on Friday 14 December and the show had to go on. Since then, we've spent a weekend with my kids and grandson. Oh and we moved home. As I say, a busy week or so.

I wrote this poem for him-indoors and embarrassed him in front of all his friends by reading it aloud at the party - just before they showered him with party popper streamers and the cake was wheeled in. 

Better than all the rest

The years have flown past
It seems so unfair
To witness a pate
Shining through your hair
As the days shorten
And patience wears thin
The run is a jog
When old age sets in

But you fall well short
Of six score and ten
And with such hindsight
It’s clear, now as then
The spring in your step
The gleam in your eye
Serve to remind you
Of good times gone by

May your next few years
Be doubleplusgood
Embrace every day
As you know you should
Kind, thoughtful, loving
With you, I am blessed
So, I raise my glass
To, simply, the best

Today's poem (this week's poem!) started life as a Flash prompt on MoreWriting, but I didn't have time - not even the 15 minutes allowed - with a clear head, to write anything. But it's crept up on me as the week has passed. Bit like the blow from the Queen on the unsuspecting drone. Bit like the shingles with which I am currently afflicted. One minute, I was fine; next minute ...

Circuitous drone

The circuitous drone
Takes the long way home
He avoids the beeline
To his honey comb

He flies from bud to bud
Buzzing with pleasure
Stuffing his probiscus
Deep into treasure
 
As he drowns in nectar
Swells to twice his size
Why can’t he sense danger?
Why is he not wise?

Such short lived excitement
Wherever he’s been
Won’t seem worth the candle
When stung by his Queen

Had to take a break. The mathematician in me would like to see the blog days sequential AND matching 24-hour slots of time in my life but this has proved impossible recently. Usual problem: I've taken on too much. Too much coming at me from all angles. Angry about a lot of things and trying to stay cool, calm and collected because other people need me to. Dare not write how I feel. Dare not write?

Well, today I did. Today's poem records how I felt going up to town for a meeting last week. It was a good meeting but a lousy journey.

Commuter death

Did you miss me?
Where did I go?
Lost in’t minefield
Quick, quick? No! Slow, slow

Headed for town
Booted, suited
A sinking heart
Rat race recruited

Lungs fit to burst
And aching feet
Surprise, surprise
Cheap ticket, no seat

Squashed like sardines
Stench of stale breath
Glad I retired
From commuter death

I am basically a truthful person. I can tell lies, but I have to work at it if I am not to be caught out.

Secrets

Secrets steal a line
Burning a trail
Of lies through your heart

Old secrets smoulder
Embers remain
Where truth's ripped apart

And secrets will out
Will be revealed
If you're none too smart

In the last few days - they have been a blur - I read the offering of Paulo Coelho in his Warrior of the Light newsletter. He honoured a lady whose name escapes me; but now I look in my inbox, I cannot trace the newsletter and yet I know it was there. Reading it moved me.

She was a special lady who gave her life to helping others. She was alone but didn't mind too much. Her joy came from the joy she gave to others less fortunate than herself. Then she met the man of her dreams, fell in love and should have lived happily ever after. Except she died. Too soon.

I have found happiness and I would very much like to live long enough to enjoy it. However, my luck may not run. This poem was written a while back. I echo the sentiment.

When I go

When I go, I hope it’s quick
No long drawn out agony
With tears on the faces of those who still care

One instant realisation that it’s over
At last, a release from responsibility and woe
A gasp of relief

No pain, or very little please
A sinking into oblivion, a drowning?
Something that is no one’s fault

And then a drifting
Sliding into a dream of times gone by
Peaceful, with a smile

And the waiting, in limbo
For whatever comes next
There must be something that comes next?

Please God, let there be more …

Most of you realise that while I try to write a poem a day, sometimes I don't make it to the Internet and can't post on THE DAY. Sometimes, I am too hungover to face turning in the machine. Sometimes, I get sidetracked. Sometimes I wonder if you will notice. No one leaves a comment. Some of you email me, but that is between you and me!

Today's poem was written next Monday...

Quick,quick, slow, slow

Did you miss me?
Where did I go?
Lost in’t minefield
Quick, quick, slow, slow

I don't watch football. I live in a sport free zone. So, tonight, the phone hasn't rung; the writers' sites are quiet, and I have managed to write a poem.

Parallel lives

Our lives run in parallel lines
On tram tracks that never quite meet
All working for a common goal
The journey we cannot complete

Invention maps the way ahead
Sets in stone our final demand
But at junctions, these trains of thought
Cross paths, with the points in command

Stations litter the route of life
If only we’d stop and take stock
To check exactly who’s onside
Or to hear our body tick tock

Then time’s up, when the whistle blows
We go, on our separate ways
Head down, shoulders square, breathing hard
Living life, in a sport free haze

For some reason, I cannot write at the moment. I am silenced. So, I am relying on poems I wrote way back, revisiting how I felt and looking for parallels.

Today's recounts a day I met a special man, a stunningly handsome man, with extraordinary writing talent. We met at a gathering hosted by the BBC and he tried to make conversation with me.

Behind me, on my window ledge, there is a ship in a bottle - a gift from him. I will never forget his gentleness nor his inability to share a slice of chocolate cake in an equitable fashion. This poem captures our first exchange.

The first blush

“So, Anne, tell me something about yourself.”
I gaze into your eyes, a beautiful blue
My mind a total blank – flying, thought free
I know I am honest, sure of that wealth
But not who I am. She’s still so very new.
Unwritten. Where do I begin? Who is me?

“Not your life story. Just a slice. A talking point.”
Your words mark time in mid-air, hanging there
I dance! I realise, I dance, a moment too late
And I weave my tale of twists and turns and spins.
To stop the torrent, to slow it down, you touch me.
”Hey, do you know how beautiful you are?”

”Your face lights up. Such passion deep within”
I blush. Unused to praise, eyes brim with tears.
Words dry like ink as I try to think
And I totter. I clutch at a straw
”Tell me about you. I want to know more”
But what fascinates is this new me.

What makes her glow? Steals her breath away
What energy fills her mind with excited thoughts?
What tune does she hum? Who will she turn out to be?
Who will hold her today? Who will lay her down tonight?
How long before she succumbs to a man like you?
Ask her. She’ll tell all. And won’t spare the blushes for me.

And this is how it ends:

I think I feel (5)

So what of truth and lies?
It’s all the same in your head?
Truth is the white horse with the flowing mane
Lies slink across the ground as the snake shows his forked tongue
One is good, one entertains …

Continuing the same theme - if you will bear with me - or bare with me! -

 I think I feel (4)

How do I feel about words and deeds?
Words flow easily through my pen
Or on to keys but may stumble and fail to find voice
I feel I have no control over what appears
Just let go and watch the ink dry with new form

Deeds – an obligation – to do what is right
But a recklessness to do what is wrong
Risk averse to the point of inactivity
But an imagination of rich proportions
Makes up the gap between what can be done
What ought to be done. What I’d like to do
What I dare to do. And it appears in words

Words form the bridge for the deeds undone to become done
For the things I want to think to materialize
For the way I’d like it to be to become how it is

It goes on, this exploration into how every thing fits together in my head.

I think I feel (3)

I think, therefore I am
Am what? Thoughtful?
A channel for my spirit
For the spirit – the light?
Do I see the light? Am I the light?
Or am I still in darkness
Is it all just a dusky grey
Not black, not white
No truth in sight
Lead the way, take me there
I’ll follow as I must
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

Thinking and feeling are all very well ... what happens when they turn into words and deeds?

I think I feel (2)

What do I think about words and deeds?
Words are spoken thoughts. Pushed out by emotion.
Deeds are actions, can be carefully planned. Thought through
Or emotional outbursts – good or ill?
Unspoken words are just thoughts that do not surface?
No, surfaced thoughts that are suppressed
Undone deeds – no time or no inclination
Or denied due to convention

Had a strange few days. This poem - written in a rush on a coach between Dubrovnik and Montenegro - explains what I am thinking and how I am feeling, at the moment.

Today's poem is only the beginning. There is more to come.

I think I feel
 
I think thoughts, I feel feelings
I think I know how I feel
I feel I know what I am thinking
I cannot anticipate what I will think
I do anticipate how I will feel.

Sometimes my feelings surprise me
I am caught by a sudden sadness
Or a sudden joy, a glow from within
Many times my thoughts surprise
Where do they come from? Within? Without?
My thoughts, my feelings, are they equal partners?
Or does one underpin the other?
If I stop thinking, do I still feel?
To feel my feelings must I not think?
My thoughts are the voice of my feelings?

Being a Mathematician, I thought I knew how to divide by two. But, as I found out today, a half is not always a half!

Even Stephens

Fifty-fifty
Yes, that seems fair!
And yet, she gets
The lion’s share?

Even Stephens
Odd how it’s done
What’s left is yours
So cut and run …

I had the weirdest dream last night. I was on a hospital bed, kneeling with my legs bent under me to one side. I had two visitors, neither of whom I recognised. The lady was saying 'Ooh, I'd hate to have my legs amputated.' I shrugged. "It'll be ok," I assured her. She went on: "But it'll be dreadful. Think of all the things you won't be able to do." I thought and my mind was a blank. "I'll miss dancing," I said.

The man pointed to the wall behind me. Two false legs were pinned to the wall, making an X. I realised they were for me and started studying them. He ranted on about how the British designers were the best, but the NHS always did things on the cheap. "Foreign imports!" he spluttered. "It's a disgrace."

All I could think about was that these legs were longer than my own. So I would end up taller, and that would make me look slimmer. I was willing to give up dancing for that.

Today's poem is an attempt to unravel the dream!

Legless

The future never goes in a straight line
Never the outcome I demand
The twists and turns, and dead ends too
Serve to unsettle the present I planned

I hang on for death to the status quo
To my traditions, I hold fast
Yet I make plans to move forward
And trust the tide to wash away my past

So, what will it be like when I get there
Will tomorrow be free of stress
Or will I find we’re where we were
Still stuck, still going nowhere, and legless

Yesterday's poem illustrated the postive effects of attention, of being cared for. Today's reveals the other side of the coin: what can happen when attention is withdrawn, when you are rejected - if you depend on one other completely.

Barely breathing

Think no more of me; I evaporate.
Choose to be without me; I slip away
As wearily, night blacks out day.

Neglect to dance with me; and I stumble
Crumble, in rhythm to your tune, I sway.
Let go your grip; I lose my way.

Whisper no more my name; no angels sing.
Blanked, seeing nothing, you avoid my eyes
Threat’ning sky, no hope of sun rise.

Smile not; I wither completely, inside.
Blow me no love; I stay puckered, unkissed
Crossed off your circulation list.

Talk silence to me; I listen so hard
To those empty footsteps, to the echo.
You turned away; I watched you go.

Text to me never; I read not your thoughts.
Leave the phone on the hook; it never rings
And I cling to the void it brings.

Refuse to hold me close; I feel repelled.
As you deny your desire; I feel dire
No more hugged tight nights; no more fire

Stabbed, I bleed, I collapse, drowning in fears
Not wanting to lay me down; I feel numb
Distraught, I still want you, to come.

Let your diary stay clear; I’m not near
No appetite, barely breathing for one;
I am dulled, drunk, resolve undone.

Forgetting the joys; I can not laugh
Begetting doubts and low self-esteem
Your dismissal shatters this dream.

Today dawns in mist, and a lone bird sings
Did I exist, yesterday, in my mind?
When you looked on me, loving, kind.

Now a wreck, tearful, seeped deep in sorrow.
Life racing past; defying reflection
Of what was, brimful rejection. 

Today, I attended a Remembrance service at the Royal Masonic Girls School. A moving event, well planned, brilliantly executed. The service and laying of wreaths was followed by an exhibition of drill by the girls, all dressed in their white blouses and royal blue tunics.

It was close in the great hall, and the speeches overlong. As a result several of the girls fainted and had to be carried out by their class mates. The ones that remained stood their ground, attentive and patient. Then, when they eventually filed out, they left a scattering of poppies on the woodblock floor, reminding us of the fallen.

The level of concentration needed to perform the drill, the need to walk, nay march, in step reminded me of the drilling meted out at my old school. You were not given time to think; you just did what was expected. Even if you felt faint, you carried on.

Later, while wandering around the school, I saw a poster: You cannot reason someone out of a position they did not reason themselves into.

It is important to think, to have time to think, to work out why you are doing whatever you are doing, and to make sure your motives are right. To have a clear head!

Today's poem is the first of two linked poems. It describes the effect of a man on a woman although it could work the other way too. I wrote it some time ago but, today, I am reminded of the influence of others on us and how easily one person can be swayed by another.

I think I am

Think of me; and I materialize
As surely as night follows day
Be with me; I am there
Hold my hand; I know the way
Dance with me; and I sway
In rhythm to your tune

Speak my name; I hear angels singing
Gaze into my eyes; I see the sun rise
Send me a text; I read your thoughts
Talk to me; I hear you coming
Smile at me; I glow inside
Blow me a kiss; I’m near to bliss

Take me home with you; I am blessed
Cook a meal for two; I feel hunger
Pour me a long drink; I feel thirst
Talk of today; I listen to your tale
Speak of tomorrow; and it will arrive
Plan for the future; I become part of us

Hold me close; I feel your touch
Hug me tight; I feel secure
Say that you want me; I feel needed
Lay me down beside you; I feel desire
Stroke my heart; I melt at your touch
Caress my body; I want you so much

Make a space for me; I fit in wherever
Breathe on me; and blow the wind through my hair
Wake with me; let our day begin together
Make love to me again, here and there
Let me be warmed by the heat of your sun
No longer in a dark place; I have begun

But watch me carefully; as I open my eyes
I can see I exist when I look at you
Include me in your life; and I belong
Say you missed me; I miss you too.
Or perhaps I am a figment of my imagination
A dream, waiting, always waiting, to come true