Home business, home education and health challenges: what makes us tic?

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Long enough

I didn’t know you very long,
But I knew you,
and I loved you.
Present tense.
And I miss you.
Present tense.
I miss the first steps
and smiles
and trials
and laughter
and joy
and all the million little heartaches
that would never,
in a lifetime,
add up to this one.
This giant
There’s inexpressible comfort
that I will see you again.
And I know we will know each other.
Run to me when I reach
the pearly gates,
my son.
Greet me with open arms.
I’ll know it’s you,
welcoming me
just as we welcomed you
so very few


Your Tiny Perfectness

Sweet angel boy
Joy of our hearts
Our Father took you home
too soon.

Your tiny perfectness
Arrived complete,
bundled with it’s own unique
variety of love.

Infinite and boundless,
we could never anticipate
the joy of your arrival,
the pain of your departure.

Your journey here on earth so short …

We cannot blame Him for wanting you Home …
Who could resist your sweet face?
Your enchanting fragrance?
Each little toe and finger and dimple and curl?
Your tiny perfectness.

Knowing you are Home,
and safe,
and happy
does little for our grief.

We miss you, darling son.

The album of our hearts
is full of empty pages.
The space we kept aside
for your first smile
first word
first step
riding bicycles
and cars
and learning incredible things.
Instead, so soon, you got your wings.

We miss you, precious angel.

But knowing we will see you
(not too long from now)
and share your joy
and peace
and precious laughter –
that gives us peace
and hope
and faith
and strength for the journey we travel
without you.

Morning Fairies

Little feet have grown,
but not their pitter patter.
Wombling down the passage
they bring me dreamy chatter.

Watching as I work –
trying to catch the early hours –
I hear the tales of dreams
and ponder their mystical powers.

Sleepy golden heads,
warm and pulsing hands,
faintly glow with echoes
of somnial magical lands.

The sun outside my window
melts the night away.
Day pokes fingers in
and wipes the sleep away.

The magical enchantment
seeps back into their skin,
and the glow simmers into hiding
somewhere deep within.

But I can see it hiding.
I know where it lies.
Auriferous, enchanting,
It simmers in profound eyes.

Black and White, Dark and Light

Unable to move.
Deep grey fog engulfs me
and I cannot see the way.
How did I ever have hope
How was there ever
any joy?
The world fails utterly to have meaning.
Not even black –
(that, at least, has a certain ebony elegance,
a dark and thrilling excitement) –
But no. Not for me.
Deep pitch is a luxury
I clearly don’t deserve.
The grey and countourless mist
my life
to its farthest reaches.
Nothing has shape. Nothing has meaning.
Nothing is true.
As if the misery weren’t enough,
the sheer boredom
threatens to overwhelm …

Like a blanket fort,
warm and neutral and breathless
(and probably of my own making)
dark and quiet despair encloses me
in its familiar, ancient arms.

Someone lifts the lower edge
of the heavy grey drapes.
A laser-point of sharp white light
assaults my eyeballs.
I recoil …
for a moment …
and then I am awake.
The stupor dissipates so quickly
I doubt its very existence.
No matter, I don’t have time to contemplate the dark.
Everything is light!
Joy suffuses the earth with fireworks of light and colour and sound and happiness and productivity and being capable and achieving things and having things to say and saying them and doing things and being awesome, generally.

(This is me, truly.
That dark and grey and lonely tortoise
lurking purposelessly in her shell …
that was just a short (and justifiable, right?)
from the Me I Am.)

Never mind that.
I needs it.
Ooh, time to start running.
Let’s meet friends.
Let’s finish all the things
and find some more
to do.
Who needs it?
There’s so much LIVING to do.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Run! Speak! See! EXPERIENCE!
The world is light and colour and joy and BEING!

Yes, this is me.

Wait …
what’s that in the corner,
over there?

Excuse me,
has someone lost a bit of fog?
Only, it’s lying on the floor
messing things up
(and it surely isn’t mine).
Could you come and get it?
Only –
it’s getting bigger.

Sleeping and waking and God’s own music

The opalescent
cheshire crescent
of an adolescent moon
beams a mischievous hello.
Wake up!
Play with me.
Leave your slumberland
and see my stars.
Don’t miss the dawn!

The night’s deep sleep
welcomed with gentle meditation.
What is outside of you?
Calm the raging
inside your head
and BE.


bungee from the gutter
and meet the ground
in gay abandon
Drizzle bedazzles the darkening leaves
(we need the rain).
The rain’s foot soldiers hit the ground
feed the earth,
burrow to her heart,
find the motherlode.
Deeper streams carry
the watery infantry home
to the sea.
(The good ones get called up again).
Shhhh zhhhh
Obstreperous wind, never one
to be left out
Turns earth and fauna
into night music.
Frogs croon in many voices
(no croaking).
Even the generator next door
(banning silence and darkness and peace)
is a sweet kind of music.
It is without.
Be still.



Mother Nature’s beatbox
backs the vocals
of bugs and frogs and bats and nightjars
and foxes (whatever they may say)
and the gentle nightmusic
lulls me to sleep.
God’s own lullaby.

The moon is a mischievous Loki
to the sun’s giant blonde
Naughty, playful little sister.
(“Stop sleeping” she whispers
in her tinkling silver voice).
Stars tumble off her tongue
as she laughs
at my sleep-bedecked eyes.
“Be awake! The night is far spent.”
And I’m up.
The magnet-pull
of silver night
and fiery dawn (I hope)
and deep velvet silence
before the day’s song starts …
and morning pages …
I am no match
for their powers of seduction.

I am awake.

On waking early

Dawn fingers creep lazily
over the slumbering horizon,
their flow so languid
it could almost be mistaken
for stealth.

Indolent early birds ruffle dormant feathers
and coo their musical hello
across the valley outside my window.

It is the best of times.

The clock on the wall marches
on its tick-tock hands,
marking the passage of the day.

Seconds slip through my fingers
like soup through the tines
of a fork.

Almost imperceptibly,
the early morning inkiness turns
a deep wedgewood blue.
Where, just a moment before,
there was nothing but consuming
black velvet,
now shapes emerge, defining the
edge of the day.
(perhaps that’s why the sun is late)
Naked branches of trees
(shedding early for their winter sleep).

Now the birds have joined us in throng.
The dense silence outside my window
is an orchestra of trills and music.

The joy of being.

The dog whose howl woke me
lies sleeping contentedly
under the desk where I work.
His brother snores dreamily nearby.

All is right in the early morning.

The page of today lies before me,
untainted by spot of ink or thought
of failure.
Its crisp whiteness is alive with possibilities
and hope.

Perhaps today I will achieve.
Perhaps today I will finish what I have begun.
Or at least begin.

Perhaps today.

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