The Better Life

 

Today I walked a thousand miles

In search of something new

A better job, a nicer house

One with a better view. 

I turn around to glance behind

To see what I have left

My babies' cries, some tangled lies

A husband quite bereft

I keep straight on to do what's best 

To make another life

No more mistakes, avoid the fakes

No worry and no strife. 

And round the bend I see a man

Who looks both tall and strong

He reaches out, I think why not

This new thing can't be wrong.. 

He turns out fine and he is kind

I fetch my babies back

All sorted now, all good I vow

There's nothing that we lack. 

They're better off I tell them oft

But still they stare and cry

They send me mad and make me sad

Our peace is on the fly. 

We've got a lot, the better life

I pushed away the fears

The years pass by, I smile and sigh 

But underneath, the tears. 

Always ask for the true story (part 2)

 

The egg is only half the story,

someone replied.

Margaret Atwood doens't know evyerhing.

The whole world doesn't exist

from only the eggs.

Everything matters - look for the parts, 

All the parts (phew!)

How they fit (ohhh)

Where they're buried (get a spade).

Look for new parts 

coming later

those still coming (yes)

And always ask for the true story.

The never-ending,

ever-changing,

full-of-love

... true story.

But you knew that, didn't you?

The night

 The long night

passes slowly

This time will not come again.

Making dream tables

Think 

Plan

Dream

Measure 

Find the shape

Reveal the treasure.

Always ask for the true story (part 1)

Egg by Ajagap
   

 Don't ask for the ture story,

said Margaret Atwood,

     It doesn't exist

     There is always           

     More to know 

     A box in the attic

     Some letters

     An old photograph 

     Inside the egg, 

     the whole world

     

Daniela - attempt at an explanation

 Daniela

is her own self. 

It is true that she contains 

bits of you

Bits of a girl I once taught

Bits of me

But she is not you

Or that girl I knew

Or me or anyone else

She is her own self,

Complete and ever changing as she moves through life.

 

She won't do what I want,

Doesn't feel how I expect.

She often surprises me.

And I like her a lot. 

The Comfort Song

Look at this pebble

black and white

Washed by the sea

In the morning 

Look up at the sky

It is sometimes dark

But the light will come

In the morning 

The rose smells sweet 

Then the petals fall

But buds will come

In the morning

Go to sleep,

our mothers said,

It won't be so bad

in the morning.

What counts

 It's not how much we are loved

That counts

We can't add it up

We shall never know

(except it is larger than large) 

It's how much we care for others. 

So you, my love, are up there

With the angels 

My soul goes on journeys

My soul is pulled here and there 

to the places where my loved ones tread their paths 

In Australia 

In Shipley

In Okinawa

Paths of pain and pleasure - some awful pain.

And to the places beyond

To Mabel, my mother

To Herbert, my father

To Jim

And to Sam

And possibly, Ron.

But the others are lost

I can no longer see them

Jacqueline 

Canitz

Dick

Kit Gleave

Who would have thought it?

My soul goes on joureys

In sleepless nights

And in the quiet times.

It goes right through you

 

It’s much too cold

(but not snowing,

Not pretty or dramatic

Grey and windy

Occasionally wet)

I need to hibernate

Until the weather warms up.

Brrrrr……

My dad liked roses

 My dad liked roses

He saved  his money

To buy books about them.

He grafted new roses on to cuttings

On to wild rose stems.

He liked scented roses

Look here, he said.

This one's called Peace.

People came from neighbouring villages

And the nearby town

To ask my dad about roses.

He was glad to help.

And gave his knowledge

And his cuttings with a grin.

In the winter we made

Rag rugs to lay on the hearth.

My mum drew patterns on the hessian

And we filled them in with rags of the right colour.

It took longer than you’d think.

And my dad made roses 

out of crepe paper.

His favourites were the tea roses

Small and contained and mostly pink

Although yellow ones, too.

White ones not so often because

They were a bit boring (I thought to myself).

My dad had epilepsy and arthritis and bronchitis

And before that, TB.

At 12, he had been sent away to either live or die.

He lived of course, and later, he marvelled and

Was proud that every day without fail, he could go to work.

He wasn't supposed to make it beyond 30

But the doctors got it wrong.

He laughed

And on Sundays,

he sang around the. house.

When Dad retired, he went back into the garden

Stayed there from dawn till dusk

Growing cabbages and potatoes

Humming a little tune

And tending

To his flowers.

When I went to visit

He would go to the shed and pull down a cabbage

Or wrap up some beans

Or whatever there was

For me to take home.

.

In summer, when the roses bloomed

between the rockery and the greenhouse

I would walk up there by the big privet hedge

And bend down to breathe in the scent of the soft floppy petals

round the heart of

Peace.

Elephants

 My mum liked elephants so I bought her one.

Elephants never forget.

Neither do people.

My mum was tall and thin.

She once had long, dark hair.

She played the piano.

And the organ.

And once long ago, the mandolin.

Elephants are huge but they can still be hurt.

Size doesn’t matter whatever anyone says

My mum brought me cough stuff in the night whenever I coughed.

My mum bought me the things I loved

Nothing too much trouble

Nothing too expensive, despite a careful life.

My dad, too. I’ll write about him another time.

My dad liked roses.

The time will come

 He said it was a good scattering

Sam’s ashes left in Malham Cove.

But he couldn’t think about it now.

Later when he is on the plane

When he is in between

this place and that

When he is nowhere

Then he will allow himself to think about her.

For now, the present is 

Hard enough.