I Know Yellow and Blue

 

I have heard it said that purple and mauve

stand for  memory,  nostalgia, or loss.

Lavender scented cupboards spring to mind.

 

I know that purple is yellow and blue,

mixed by an artist’s brush

 

Summer skies, cornflowers, sunflowers,

sunshine and bluebells in spring,

daffodils, delphiniums,

bunting across the street,

blue doors in white walls

under an awning that flapped in the wind,

a boat on a tossing sea breeze,

blue ripples across the bay,

a beach ball of summer stripes thrown up to the sun,

the bucket and spade we left behind

on that glowing yellow day

 

Our memories shine in full colour

or age to a lesser thing

 

 

 

My Obsessions

this is a found poem – it comes from my tag cloud on this blog and so it consists of words I use a lot in poems……….

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My Obsessions.

 

Ancient bards and books,
a breeze full of butterflies
above the Celtic hills.
Cities, clouds, the dance of death,
a desert dragons dream,
dreaming dreams with evening eyes
of fateful fantasy and fire
with firelight in the forest garden
where a girl with a haiku
plays a harp and sings
of heart and home and horses.

Imagination kindles lakes,
leaves, land and love,
love, always love,
magic memories of moons
moonlight, morning music.

At night, the oak overshadows
oceans of passion
paths of peace and perfume,
poems of rain and ravens,
the rocks, the river,
roses by the sea.
The sky a silver smile
when the snows come,
then the song of spring,
sunlight and starlight.

Time towers above the trees.
The wings of winter spread again
above a woodland made of words

sea salt

i was winnowing salt
from the summer sea
with a silver sieve
for healing
when a fairy came to me
she showed me its impurities
and how to cleanse the salt
at an eternal flowing spring
high up in the hills
when all was made complete
she left me sitting on the shore
alone
with sea shells at my feet
she called out to me a blessing
with a last flutter of her wings
and i have not forgotten her
or her gentle words

blue, silent and deep

blue silent and deep

loud white rolling

green light through wave curl

sun sparkle shimmering

draw back slow and heavy

rush fast towards me

hold my eyes for hours

captured in your spell

moving with my breath

and the moons pull

spin me in your force

pull me down

and throw me out

gasping to the sky

my father

it was not until i found myself swimming alone

that i realised he was my rock

taken for granted always there

though i had watched the life source dim

with regret and compassion

 

there is no other rock out there

in the endless sea

now i see why he tried to teach me

to float to dry land, each time i swam off

flailing my arms about

 

Gannets

in an empty room
i held my breath
in silence
with thoughts of a lonely granite rock
far out to sea
where the cry of birds is deafening
where the surf spray rises in air
and the high sky above is grey

Travel Tales – # 1

Having seen a phrase about a mountain path beset with tigers I recalled a dream I had in which my dream horse (a frequent visitor) was unusually allowing me to guide and choose our path (usually I just go where I am taken) and I began to ascend a very steep mountain track and my horse began to struggle but yet still obeyed me until I felt ashamed of the damage I was doing to the horse so I stopped and apologised. My horse immediately forgave me and turned to pastures and galloped to the sea. I took this dream to mean that if we ‘’go with the flow’’, that is Awen, we learn far more than by forcing our own view and decisions upon our life and the way – the sea is not high like a mountain (where perhaps I had foolishly wanted to ‘dominate the peak and look down on all’) but it is a symbol at the very least of the source of life and it ‘’goes with the flow’’, and the moon.

I have also written a poem about a year ago about encountering a dragon in a steep place and the Tower (interspersed with some comments from ordinary daily life when when my dreaming is not looked upon favourably by others).  All I longed for was peace by the river (with my muse) in the realm of imagination and the natural flow of the path. Obstacles can be overcome with some determination but most of all with imagination.

 

Escape from the Tower

 

Climbing the mountain, trying to reach the tower

Confronted by a dragon, endlessly asking me riddles,

While a great storm gathers all about us

Thunderbolts roar, lightning reflects on my shield

 

(“What do you do in that room all the time?

What are you thinking about?’’

I stop and get the food

And gather the rubbish that needs to go out)

 

I am losing my footing on the slippery rocks.

The dragon flashes his eyes with desire

I have to succeed, cannot be overpowered,

I call on the rain to quench his fire

 

(“Always off in imagination,

What’s wrong with you?

You spend hours on that

And it’s not even true’’)

 

I answer the final riddle, the dragon steps aside.

My way no longer barred, I struggle on up the mountain.

The tower reaches up to the clouds

Eagles circle above, come to help me in my troubles

 

(“I know you have talent?

Why don’t you use it?’’

“I work too!’’ i say

“You could work more!’’ says she)

 

The eagle carries me up to the princess, we hover.

She reaches out to me. I swing her onto the eagles back.

My arm circles her waist, her hair flies in my face.

She leans back on me in relief.

 

(“You always were some other place,

Even as a child. No different now than ever.

Why can’t you just be normal,

And stay in reality?’’)

 

We circle together above the now sunlit valleys

Looking down from above, we avoid all the cities and castles

And land in a summer meadow by a singing stream

She adorns herself with flowers, I dream

The Death of my Blood

 

I died out on these moors, my bones are here.

I feel them in the pooled reflections in mud,

the wind in the bare gorse and the crows’ flight.

 

Later, in the mines, under weight of rock

darkness enfolded around me. No hope.

I knew I would die when the lamp guttered out.

 

The next time I was spared the mines labour.

Instead they sent me off to their war in France.

No grave when a shell blows flesh apart.

 

Many times I have died at my fireside.

I once burned in  flames for heresy.

Never have I died in the sea.

 

The death I would wish for is the pure one

with the mist and the crow on the moor,

to rest in my own land forever at home

 

Crossing the Bar

dreaming of shipwrecks

ragged rocks

pounding surf

wind turning fast

this ship rides the waves

as we aim for the Pole star

leading us homeward

watching for lights

and the beacons that blaze

no more cross currents

no undertow darkness

we are sailing for land

on a swell and wave

 

cutting through sea spray

the boom and the crash

of the thundering breakers

as we cross o’er the bar

from sweet tidal ocean

the moonlit path reaches

the beautiful river

and harbours embrace

bringing us back

where we are remembered

for just who we are

 

drop anchor

make fast

and sing of the sea