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Reflections…Week Forty Eight

canstockphoto8630797Have I watched that many ‘girly’ flicks and programs that I am, by doing this, copying the very format that the writers have used?

From Carrie (Sex in the City) to Erica (Being Erica) and Marin (Men in Trees) I too seem to be ending an episode (my week) with a monologue. True my very existence may not be the most interesting at this moment of time, but I do feel that the very people that I am meeting on my recovery are.

Sometimes I do not even know if the very people I meet are actually here (supermarket-meeting-poetry/poem), or my mind has created a person to teach me something. But for that moment in time IT IS important and interesting.

As an artist one spends time observing, even here my mind now sees things a little differently now, and then in whatever style chosen, places either a ‘true representation of the scene, OR the heart of it, the emotion, the feeling, the movement, the sound or the serenity. All with the flow of the paint and the movement of the brush, to no longer see what is being created but to just let it flow out onto the canvas.

As a wordsmith in training, one spends time observing, reflecting and creating an artwork of language. To simply place a series of words down for a poem is not simple at all, each word is lovingly placed, replaced or simply repositioned. All I write is done this way. A beat or rhythm of a journey taken with the words lays beyond the shape and form of the very words themselves. A wrongly placed pause can disrupt or even alter the flow, sometimes to the detriment of the wording used, dulling its edge.

A reflective diary is used in some therapies, a way to explore our existence, look for the ‘faults’ and find a better way in dealing with the situation, how then did this therapy get entwined into our TV? Was it intentional to pass on the lesson of reflection to improve our life, or was it just placed there by accident? A concept that outgrew the original pitch once the ratings came in? Or was it just a writer being honest about not having the perfect life and trying to work things out?

And thus the question leads back to me. Am I just doing what I am told, or am I part of a solution by doing the reflective monologue of my life?

And will you someday, in some form, be the ‘interest’, the focus, of my artwork?

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

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The Old Men … #Poem#Poetry#Prose

The Old Men

The old men in this isle will stop,
when they’re on their weekly shop.
Magazines they read, for a while,
as one by one – stand single file.

A trolley they have with nowt within,
appears their shopping, yet to begin.
Partners will come and take it away,
glance up they will – with nothing to say.

They make no move, their partners to chase,
’tis not yet read, may loose their place.
When finished they will dawdle on,
’tis then they think – where have they gone?

A § M
3/12/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

A Stokie Thanksgiving… #Poem#Poetry#Prose

A Stokie Thanksgiving

 

The American flag flaps with a vigour in strong gusts,
gently retuning to rest in the sparse lulls of the Stoke wind.
Thanksgiving the celebration, for the Clubhouse Network.

As burgers are flipped and ‘dogs’ are turned,
fat drips and lands with a sizzle.
Flames from the hot coals lick the burgers edge.
The smell is carried on plumes of smoke.

Joyful chatter is carried also with the wind as spirits are high,
but few stay outside, braving the nip in the air of winters approach.
I sit on the bench, taking the one dry section left,
covered it seems from the rain of the morn.

Downwind of it all I sit, watching, observing.
Being part of it all, yet ever so separate.
Until, unnoticed, I slip away.

 

A § M
3/12/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Shoes…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Black buckled boots that old ladies wear, polished, clean and smart,
walk with the brown leather shoes that old men wear, with pride in their heart.
Tan lines of stress marble the surface.

Tassels on toes, with every step jiggle and sway,
child with soles flashing, around checkout will play.
Exhaustion on the mothers voice.

Sandals paired with socks are made to walk alone!

Trainers are common, rarely are clean.
Except fro the old folk, who keep them pristine.
Even the soles show no dirt.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Doc Martin’s on mans feet are worn,
paired with ladies battered pink Converse, looking lovelorn.
Neither look happy.

Then there are walking boots, my choice of footwear,
from supermarket to hilltop, they go anywhere.
— But here they do sit.

 

 

A § M
10/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Blank Blank Blank…#Poetry#Poem#Prose

There is nothing to write,
I’ve been at it all night.
Here is pen, and pa-per,
and there’s notes, to re-fere.

But with no inspiration,
there is just desperation.
I scratch head for a thought,
brings forth nothing, nada — nought.

I stare unto the page,
for what seems like an age.
But nothing will come,
and nothing is done.

I scribble at the top of the page.

A § M
6/6/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Fall…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

The leaves are falling from the trees above,
covering the ground in a blanket of colour.
All around I see squirrels – hopping and jumping from one pile to another.
They stop, and sift through the leaves, searching for the nuts hidden bellow.
Some, they eat, right there where they found them,
others run up to a branch preferring to be out of sight,
only coming back down after the meal is had.

I observe one who takes his nuts to an old garden shed and enters in a hole not repaired.
I wonder how safe those nuts are, stored on a seed tray, left on the floor.
Not used for the winter, undisturbed, with a lock on the door.
Sheltered from the wind and the rain that has been so present of late,
and from the cold and the snow that winter promises to bring.
A bag of straw, saved for next year, makes for a comfy chair to lay back upon.
Relaxed, not having to remember where it was those nut were buried.

Yes, I think that this clever little squirrel has got winter sorted for this year.

 

A § M
10/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Reflections…Week Forty Three

canstockphoto8630797Another week has gone by without a poetry posting, they are still being written but the ‘class’ has had no ‘leader’. The reason why is because of a cataract operation she has had, normal services should be resumed shorty.

One has continued to write them, or at least put the bones and flesh upon paper, ready to stitch up as a Frankensteinian creation. Plucking parts from here to place there, or discard altogether. Placing a little life into the body so as to see how it moves, graceful is the aim, but it rarely is anything other than clunky, lurching around the room, leaking.

What a lovely image.

However disturbed that vision, One cannot describe the process any other way. Swathes of text can be circled and arrowed to re-arange places, crossed out, reversed, placed back in again, slightly different, crossed back out again, and given life through voice. Only then will one decide whether the life be removed and the process restated or left to heal and bloom.

One then ends up asking…”Is this a blessing or a curse?”

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017