‘I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream’
- Vincent Van Gough
I retreat into my garden,
leaving my worries in the locked down house.
Searching for space.
Looking to space.
The night wraps its arms around my world-weary mind.
I lift my gaze,
absorbed into the vastness above.
For the first time today I draw a deep breath
from the space between the stars
lost in a wash of indigo, azure and violet,
a kaleidoscope of colour within a night that feels so black.
My eyes adjust to the darkness above
drawing forward more pinpricks of light,
flashes of white-hot hydrogen lost in the emptiness.
A million stars spiralling with planets stuck in orbit,
providing an infinite amount of possibility.
Did Van Gough know
when he painted those swirls of colour,
so small and hastily marked
that he could reflect a feeling so well?
That lying here on my weather-worn bench,
with blanket-clad shoulders and a cup of something warm,
I could lose myself so easily
within the same starry night.
And all the children chirped, feed us feed us
And all the children buzzed, feed us feed us
And all the children purred, feed us feed us
And I said, drink up my sweet children for tomorrow brings adventure and misadventure to teach you to fly
To sing to dance to fall to fall to fail
To breathe with your eyes
I watch the last remnants of sludge between the cracks in the pavement,
waiting to see if they might come back to life.
Yesterday, they had been mounds of feathery snow,
draped across the shoulders of the ground,
a monumental white cloak.
Yesterday, I had been myself,
pressing footprints into the powdery mould,
leaving behind marks everywhere I went.
Now the cloak had unravelled,
leaving behind homeless brown threads
squirming under the sun.
I poke at them with my foot, urging them either to disappear
or to come back as they once were.
I poke holes in myself, urging myself either to melt away
or to start again.
Not from the ground up,
as advised by wise mothers and grandmothers
and mysterious strangers meeting in galleries,
thinking themselves philosophers.
But from the sky down.
Born as a pearl of ice, sailing downwards,
throwing my colours onto the earth,
lighting up the air,
dancing with the flurry, with the rest of those wanting to start again,
until we cover the land one more time.
giving it that funny tint
of yellow and pink,
that makes us look at everything
As if we have magic words at the ends of our fingers,
ready to paint stories on the world,
just like the first human to forge a grunt with his lips
and watch it linger in front of him,
or use whatever he could find to trace his mind on a cave wall.
We leave a stain,
and then we start again.
I want to be
someone who can’t cope,
and live off jam and toast
cups of tea.
Stay in bed sleeping
until that becomes tiring
then spend hours watching TV.
Mooch about in my dressing gown
stand at the front door talking to passers-by,
employ myself with ‘roll-ups,’
and having a good lusty cry.
A fragile vessel, filled with fear
So long you were mishandled
touched by the fingers of rough men, making
you sing. You are scratched
What once was smooth
now tells a tale of
all you have been through
To be held
gently, but held high
Wear your scars with pride
Embrace the light
Reflect it back
so all can see
the beauty that lies within you still
the summery warmth of plucked red raspberries
meets the chopped ruby stalks of rhubarb
dancing like scarlet in the mixing bowl
tickling my appetite with visions of delicious desserts
and wonderful honeyed tastiness
melding in a glass baking dish
tang and jammy-ness
tingle my tongue with crisps & crumbles
smoothed out with real butter, rolled oats,
cinnamon, and sweetness
served warm in a wee bowl, dolloped
with ice cream or yogurt or eaten plain just like that
What a bizarre
And painful thing,
To be burdened with being human.
Because, it is,
So difficult to exist as I am.
Why make a creature
Who can ponder their own existence?
Who can feel such intense emotions?
For no particular reason?
What a peculiar sensation it is
to realise I will never be anyone but me.
There are no thoughts
I can have that aren’t mine.
The only way to escape my own mind
Is to die.
And for now, I live
Even when I want
Can it be stopped? Will it turn off?
Perhaps come to a halt, wind down.
How to dampen it? Make it slow.
Need a control rod for the brain.
Stop the neurons firing away
Prevent the memories forming
The still pictures stored in the mind
Those miserable regrets surface
Never the many good times had
Not the happy always the sad
Dredging up the times I was bad
Hiding all the times I was glad
Why won’t it let me be asleep
Needling my psyche with nails
Preventing what comes naturally
Instead I toss and turn and fret
Pillows flatten with my head’s weight
The mattress creaks and its springs moan
The duvet presses down on me
Outside the night seems bright as day
A clock ticks loudly somewhere close
I’m resigned to insomnia
Forever awake brain buzzing
Until the alarm starts again
Bee sups at light blue translucent petals
Attracted by scent and nectar and colour.
Scent and colours unnumbered abound in the vast array of flora and fauna in the world.
We stop to marvel at a flower, maybe linger a while ,
Noticing patterns made of light, shade and any
Rain landing on the petals and leaves
And any movement in wind of a gentle breeze dozily nodding head to a gusty gale head and stems dancing vigorously and leaves gesticulating in time
Texture; hairy smooth spiky
Its design; intricacy of stem leaf veins roots
Scent breathed in, mild or sharp, floods our noses and takes us beyond ourselves as we relish that moment of stillness and quiet
Take in its colour pale or bright, single or several colours or shades
Trying to hold all that in our minds and senses when we get home.
O Lord Your wondrous works of creation attract and like the bee we sup and are nourished in our faith;
Your provision for the bee
Clothing the flowers and trees
Your daily provision for us
Be it physically, emotionally or mentally and
Providing delight and beauty
An abundant, not a drab and dreary life.
Help us look around us like a bee for the things that nourish not destroy.
This fire in my mind is consuming.
Guilt eats into my soul.
Coughing and traffic tear into me.
Memories haunt me.
They will not let me go.
I cannot seem to escape.
Thoughts of death and disease persist.
Where do I go for help?
To reading like fiction and novels.
Words describe the torture,
The coughing,the traffic,the guilt.
There are telepathic voices too,
I am grateful,very grateful
For Sahaja Yoga meditation,
Shree Mataji and the Sahaja Yogis.
I cling to a lifeline.
My heart lives, but precariously.
The water flows I breath the air
The wind it softly blows
I look at you, you're not there.
The sun it shines the moon golden as it glows
My tear asks one question
Where are you my love right now.
The leaves have linked with autumn bonfires swirl the air
I look toward the withering branch
I wish you all my care
The snow it softly falls the ice begins to crack
Seasons gently come and go
I will be here if you come back.
You don’t know my mother, but she curses your name.
You don’t know my sister, but if she saw you, you’d better run away.
You don’t know my dad, but he hates your guts.
You don’t know me, but I know you very much.
You’re the reason I get anxious, the reason I have self-doubt.
The reason I can never seem to get the words out of my mouth.
The reason I overthink and the reason I’m sad.
These reasons are never ending, fuelling my way down.
Despite all this, we are roommates.
I know one day we will learn to live together.
But for now, it’s a struggle, but I know it’ll get better.