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Category Archives: Writing

Time to Wake…#poem#poetry

Warning this one has been classed as dark.

 

Time to Wake

Shiraz is my choice
of wine now to have,
for sleep I need some help.
My throbbing head,
my shattered soul,
I take tablets for the pain.

I failed you see,
but I tried so hard,
I even gave it my all.
My best – not enough,
twas never enough,
no matter how hard I tried.

We are told what’s expected – of life,
how to be.
but never how to get there,
A hint would be nice,
or being told a direction,
if ever they did, they never told me.

So I glance at the picture,
the one of my son.
Tell him I’m sorry and cry.
Sorry I failed him,
that I fought and I lost,
but defeat may offer an option.

I tell of a plan that is plotted,
a gift from the sidelines.
Half a bottle has gone.
With it’s vanishing comes weariness,
I need to sleep
to escape – all of this.

Ive made my bed
its time now to lie
and place my head on soft pillow.
My eyes, heavy, they shut,
the darkness it comes,
and with it goes all of the fear.

As the darknesses embraces
acceptance is found.
It offers a strange kind of calm.
My head it is swirling
from all the wine had.
The temperature drops just a little.

I pull up my cover;
the leaves they fall off,
the woodlice scatter from under my body.
When hypothermia starts,
my body to shake.
A spider – walks over my hand.

A § M
5/8/2017

The Old Room…#poem#poetry

The Old Room

I used to come here,
tis a place from the past,
the walls they store a shared memory.
Of laughter and tears,
of shedding ones fears,
and building a sense of comradely.

Supplies neatly stacked,
on shelving where stored,
groups paintings adorned all the walls.
But cluttered now is,
the stock all around,
with paint splatter marring the walls.

Where once did I sit,
could not now I fit,
the table it is overflowing.
As I looked around,
no sanctuary found,
I feel as though I’m in mourning.

A § M
5/8/2017

 

The Song …#poem#poetry

The Song

Throbbing of base
vibrating the air,
as guitars they are a strumming.
Sung in a gruff voice,
with a pace that is fair,
tells a tale of epic adventure.

In harmony they play,
till one breaks away,
guitar it does a sweet solo.
They return to the tale,
the crowd it goes pale,
grim warning the moral this venture.

A § M
5/8/2017

Reflections…Week Twenty Eight

canstockphoto8630797The lady that runs the poetry/creative writing group has been on her holiday this week and with that free time one has been semi-procrastinating.

There has been the blue prints of a couple poems written and a short story for a competition has been thought of and thought on, to the point it is ready for the first draft to be scrawled out. Also the bare bones of another short story, for another competition, has been dumped onto my notebook pages.

But nothing’s been finished because nothing’s been started…Properly

The poems will be done by Wednesday, this I know, but I am going to have to push my wishy washy mind to have also done the first draft of one story as well, but that is the aim.

Somehow none competition stuff is easier to do because of publishing on the blog. A kind of prompt to get it done as it were.

There was a bit of a panic earlier in the week when I misplaced, and thought lost, my note book. I must now view oneself as a writer, for it was the contents of the notebook, those fleeting moments of inspiration and ideas that have been captured down, that held the greatest sense of loss. One has plenty of pads, and pens, and although there is a price attached, one has come to disregard the cost and therefore free my mind to the idea of  – ‘not wasted paper’; one will write anything down, even questions…Especially questions!

Onece the pad had been located and secured to be handed over the next day, a wave of relief came over me, but it was the next day when it was handed to me that I knew the relationship with that inanimate object had changed. Somehow it has become an extension of my psyche, and felt like a part of me had returned home.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

Reflections…Week Twenty Seven.

canstockphoto8630797My name has been passed along for consideration for an exhibition of writing, not a big exhibition as in National, but exponentially bigger in regards that one has even been considered.

My writing, has in the past, been subject to ridicule in one form or another. The only times I got detention was for my spelling or punctuation. English Literature was rejected as a subject, by the teacher, due to my inability to make legible a dip fountain pen. And ones attempt to further my writing skills at a creative writing class had me pulled to one side and told my English was not up to standard, I never went back, It was supposed to be a fun class.

So here one is, my writing’s being praised, especially my poems, and with it comes a kind of empowerment. One may not believe that my writing is good enough to win competitions, but it is good enough to be a contender, a far cry from where I was at the start of the blogging process.

The start of the journey was to ‘get out’ thoughts and feelings, to rid myself of demons in a way. It has adapted to thinking deeply about emotional connections to circumstances locked away in ones past, and to see how those patterns are now effecting the present. Some dots are connected quickly and some need more ‘digging’,  but it is supposed to be the journey that matters.

One thing is for certain, I believe that Miss Ross, and I am sure it had a H in it (Rhoss), was the best english teacher I had.

To prove a point, though a point is not needed, I have been looking at my old term book. Here are the differences in my educational history – teacher reports for english…

  • Feb 83, Andrew has made a satisfactory start to this years work.
  • July 83, Andrew has worked hard and has made some progress.
  • Then came along the teacher one does not have fond memories of.
  • Jan 84, Good- Andrew has worked hard and made pleasing progress. He must however improve his spelling and handwriting.
  • July 84, Spelling and handwriting show little improvement and are now sadly having a serious effect on his results. Oral work is very good indeed. (Why does this end statement seem like it was total surprise?)
  • Along comes the split to  Lit.(the above teacher) and Lang. (Miss Ross . Miss Ross also does the reports from now on.
  • Feb 85, Andrew genuinely tries hard – but his spelling is weak. He should read as widely as possible – This would help!
  • July 85, Andrew has achieved a very pleasing grade within his group in Language. He will not however be continuing the G.S.E. Literature course.
  • Jan 86, Andrew has always worked extremely hard and has produced some good work within this group, throughout this course.

I highlighted the two reports, nope, there is nothing outstanding about any of them, to show the two completely different approaches to teaching. The fist is to hammer away – “you will do it this way!!!” and the second is to find the way that best suited the student. My way was to read, a lot.

I have always found solace in a library; could this be due to the fact Miss Ross’s class – was held in the school library?

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

Paper Cuts…#poem#poetry

This weeks #poem#poetry is a bit of a long one, again chosen by the class.

Paper Cuts

You want the control,
come and then hit me.
You want the submission,
come and then beat me.
You wanted my fear,
come and then kick me.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Time stoped the bleeding.
Scrapes stopped the stinging.
And bruises would fade,
where boot contact made.

But it’s just paper cuts.

First I was distraught,
Each time I was caught.
But I became numb,
for beating to come.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My running day ends,
from you and your friends.
When turning from flight,
and starting to fight.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Along with the pains,
then came the names.
Not delivered with wit,
but hatred and spit.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings public,
your put on display.
Teachers they join in,
with things that they say.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Children start chanting,
the things that all say.
Twisted, contorted,
by end of the day.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My head it would rattle,
when I dared to tattle.
Was told it not matter,
what children did natter.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings harmless,
the banter just fun.
Snowflakes are harmless,
unless by the ton.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Some wording distorted,
and used to control.
changing their meaning,
destroying their soul.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You alter the tone,
it carries a threat,
Misheard the meaning,
“cause I am upset”?

But it’s just paper cuts.

World seams so slanted,
I’m put in my place.
Can it be better?
depends on your face.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Your words the damage,
numerous in time.
wounding is mental,
paper cuts, so fine.

But it’s just paper cuts.

One cut is painful,
more than its size.
When you have several,
the pain it will rise.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Cuts that your words leave,
slice into, my soul.
Never quite healing,
there taking their toll.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You keep on slicing,
it’s day after day.
never quite seeing,
what others, will say.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

You weakened my strength,
you’ve taken my hope.
Then it’s all my fault,
I “just conna cope”.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Not the one hurting,
and feeling the pain.
You can’t conceive it,
the pain in a name.

Because it is just paper cuts.

Inwards it’s turmoil,
viewed outwards as “shy”.
What was expected?
You cut me, I cry!

It’s not just paper cuts!

Bosses, no different,
their stature to prove.
Skilful word twisting,
their ego’s improve.

It’s never just, paper cuts.

Doubt plants a small stone,
in every new cut.
Open wound festers,
as cannot it shut.

It comes with the paper cuts.

Now socially awkward,
not clever with speech.
Your cuttings have taught
me “what I can reach”.

I feel alone with the paper cuts.

I’m now in training,
defending myself.
I have new skillsets,
improving my health.

Enough with the paper cuts!

I will not listen,
and travel your way.
If you don’t like it,
you don’t have to stay.

I’m stopping your paper cuts!

Paper cuts it’s never been,
just one on its own.
Your words of wounding,
are yours now to own.

You get to own your paper cuts.

Used them unknowingly,
in words that I use.
I should know better than,
poke fun and abuse.

I get to own my paper cuts.

What I’m now learning,
as child should be taught.
Socially skilful,
the bully to thwart.

Eradicate the paper cuts.

Now time to end them,
there’s no room for buts.
With skills will defeat
them, end paper cuts!

A § M
19/6/2017

The Notebook

canstockphoto8630797It felt strange carrying it around at first, then I made a change, which felt random, but now I feel much more comfortable about it.

It is not a notebook for shopping items, nor appointments, it was, at the start, a reflective diary, but now it’s mainly for ideas that seem to get lost from the moment I have them – to when I reach a place to write them down. Those brilliant, wonderful, exciting, fantastic ideas that would propell a story line or enchant a blog reader.

Alas those ideas have gone, the notebook had them running for the hills, running so not to be captured. They run well! But one is persistent

I saw things at the supermarket, perceptions of reality or glimpses of alternate states,when on my exposure therapy, sitting waiting for the others to finish shopping, I grabbed my notebook and put pen to paper, to capture the moment. Suddenly and without warning people looked my way, I could feel my face warming as the blood began to add scarlet blusher to my cheeks. More looked on, more blood pumped to the cheeks, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar I sheepishly closed the notepad and placed it into my bag.  My shamefull glow took a long time to dissipate, even with eyes cast down to the ground.

A different supermarket, a different response, although the other chap sitting on the bench with me kept looking over at my spiders scrawl. One has different writing styles – dependant on the situation, from scrawl to calligraphy. When embarrassed…my writing could rival that of a Doctors scrawl.

There is no way he could read what was being written, but try he did, his attempts were not even that subtle. Almost as though giving up, he picked up his persciption bag, leaned onto his wooden stick and joined his wife as she trundled away from the checkout. I watched as my inquisitive stranger left the store before returning to my notepad once more.

With nobody paying attention an idea formed in my head of ‘could I?’

Could I?

  • Pick an idea from what I see to write a blog?
  • Pick any idea?
  • Any subject?
  • What about…

I picked that subject and started writing, I wrote a couple of pages, then on the next trip at the other supermarket I wrote some more, next trip was the same. At six pages I thought – there is enough here to easily write a blog, a long one at that, but is there enough to be the backbone for a short story? I haven’t written a short story since school, even then they were more the middle of a longer one; according to Miss Ross. I have had no desire to write a short story, so have no idea as to why that thought came to be. Is there a writing infection one can catch?

That is why I have left the ‘subject’ a mystery.  If the story does not work out at least I will have a blog post without announcing the story was a bust at my fingertips, only to see the idea materialise on someone else’s post.

The notebook now also contains an idea for a children’s book, Park notes and blog ideas.

I now miss it when it is not in my bag, my phone has ideas for blogposts on it, but it is not the same as pen on paper; and one loves ones tech,

Now when an idea pops in for a visit I have no care as to what it is I am doing, or where it is been done. Out comes the pad and pen to capture the moment for later apraisle.

One has found a way to practice mindfulness in places that cause most anxiety to such a point my surroundings become only the story one writes.

https://www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/the-blogs