Advent Day 12: I’m grateful for writing skills.

http://m.mic.com/articles/98348/science-shows-writers-have-a-serious-advantage-over-the-rest-of-us

Apparently, I’m just that little bit less crazy because I write stuff regularly. We scribes don’t often have stuff to be smug about, so I thought this was rather nice. We also tend to be a bit more sensitive and neurotic, so this was reassuring. And vindication. 🙂

I’m grateful for writing skills.

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I’m grateful for amazing friends.

I don’t know what I did to deserve them; my best friends in the world are just the most wonderful, solid people, from whom I have learnt, and continue to learn, much about love, life, loyalty, survival, friendship, beauty, courage and wisdom. Thank you, Universe/Life, for my BFFs, one of the foundation stones of my life, without whom life would mean much less.

I recently wrote this for one of my best friends (you know who you are!), who has allowed me to put it up here:

You are shiny pastel powder-coated steel
from the forges (fuelled by broken love and wings)
that turn to ash the petty weaknesses and peel
back the gauzy childhood layers to reveal
rare liquid diamond crazy-angel heart-strings.

Yet Life glazed you with a heart upon your sleeve
and set you on such winding, wondrous paths
which you tread with an ancient grace and ease–
and yours was such a complicated weave!–
with no bitterness or helplessness or wrath.

Old soul, you bring a light into the lives you touch;
generous of spirit to a fault, and gentler
than those spoilt by more, beaten by less– such
defines your unshakeable core. You give so much
love, time, and trust; you own the things that matter.

I’m grateful for joy.

we drink so deeply of our Sadness
but are never as indulgent with our Joy
whether fleeting or hard-won
we fear that the return of darkness
will seem darker
after revelling in the sun

but it’s in our revels that we gather
growing lungfuls of light-filled air
that clear the cobwebs or damp
so when the darkness comes
again, we treasure
the space that we can spare

I’m grateful for poetry.

Or, at least, what I think poetry is! I had intended to write and complete several poems to join in on England’s National Poetry Day today, but I’m only happy with one of them. 🙂 Perfectionism really is the enemy of Getting Things Done, eh?

I will walk away
I will walk
Slowly, don’t look back
But don’t look back
Again
And forget how our
Worlds collided
For one crowded hour
That felt like bliss
Like a star-crossed second
Like this:
Like foreheads touching
Lips glance lips and
Hands twirl hair
Smell of crushed grass
Sweet musk scent,
Your neck, soft thin skin
Pink, pale, smooth like
Powder, like feathers…
Tissues. Like tissues.
Then you turned away.
You’re fragile, I know,
Like crystal, water-glass.
So I will walk away,
Trailing feathers…
And not look back.
Again.

Moments of connectedness.

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Strip us all down to our bare copper wires
And we buzz with the same electricity
That runs through all our bones;
Those of all who live and who ever lived.

We are the distillation of the stars;
A swirling million billion voices,
Soup of stats and numbers, glowing
Dots on green and blue and white.

We are vessels, channels, catalysts
For the collective wisdom of
The infinite well of experience
Beyond and before the time and space
That we drew and named.

Each lifetime contains this rainbow fizz,
This primal essence that is given,
Or bestowed
Or impelled
Or bequeathed
Or wrapped
And tied with paper and pencil.


Picture attribution: Tranquil by Hugh BellAttributionNoncommercial Some rights reserved by HTB. Photo has been cropped. Copyright belongs to the creator. Use of this picture in no way indicates an affiliation with the creator of the image, nor does it indicate that the creator shares the views reflected by the text.

Flea markets.

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And in a dark-filled corner was a real live memory
Like a genie in a dusty cardboard packing box
Faded dress and brittle paper, white wax candle,
Mottled photos, brown and sepia, yellowing socks.

Flea markets all over the world have almost always exactly the same stuff, just with minor culturally-different tweaks. Always, the boxes of old vinyls, stacks of watched DVDs, old and strange cutlery and flatware, T-shirts advertising which rock concerts you or your adult children once went to. Like a life, a little era, a small portion of an existence finished, over and cleared out– all the emotion, the sounds and noises, the images, faded and dry and stored in the attic, on sale to find new meaning, purpose, and breath.

I’m grateful for flea markets.

Long summer days.

picnic

Summer is life and warm, open hearts
lying on lawns and brand new starts
Summer is laughter and shorts and cotton
tops. And the grey and cold and dark forgotten.
Human beings are solar-powered; we run on sun
in daylight hours; come undone, un-spun,
in its long absence. We are thermal-powered,
we seek the heat of beach and sand, and flowered,
flourished in the glow of fire and of lush lazy days.