Tailored

The fabric of my life

a pattern above my head

is nothing short of typical days

a messy crisscross of stiches

hemming together

a dress

a shirt

a …..

Restart again

The fabric of my life

an apparel perfect to form

a weaving of colours

shimmering as the sun

shinning as the moon

hemmed together,

a piece

two pieces

three layers

Restart again….

The fabric of my life

as told by the seamstress

is a beauty

less seen, more felt

yet a while before it is complete.

 

 

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So this happened …..

I have been off my blog for a while now and have sorely missed my blogging family and friends. I hope the poems and photo explain why i have been off for a while.

Poems for my babies reflecting our breastfeeding journey:

May:
I’ve a riddle
A riddle indeed,
I am a place, a source
A season, a platform
for nature’s new forage.
What am I?
I stretch, I wiggle
bouncing off the board,
in leaps with a giggle.
What keeps you so, pray tell?
You ask,
I will tell you,
It’s neither boiled nor cooled
Neither filtered nor bottled
Perfectly fresh
On time each time
Mama’s liquid gold
All for me
Fresh as due on springs first morn.

October:
The halo is here
There’s nowhere to hide
Racing orbs of orange
Course through the streets,
Chasing fallen leaves and pumpkin shrines.
What’s this I see?
Tiny feet trailing
down the trick or treat path
I pray the heavens guide
them far from the headless horseman.
The halo’s here
But it won’t find me alone
I snuggle deeper into mama’s bosom
Safe from harm
Phantom or Hyde.

November:
A splash of colours
Green for the elf
Orange for the gnome
Brown for Rudolf’s calf,
And red for the squires home.
Something reminiscent of seasons gone,
A shiny memento for winters gloom.
And what pray ye shall a wee lad have
Something warm,
Something steadfast
A gourmet of nature’s finest
Mama’s milky cuddles
Ample burping shoulders
To shield me through the cold.

leo and logi

The story that is us.

The story that is us, is the story

of delicate tendrils stretching through red soil.

The gods foretold its future,

‘cursed is the seed left un-watered 

beneath the haze of golden rays.

For though it carries the future,

it shall wither like

the cracks on the heels of a sojourner in the desert.

The story that is us, is a story

of angry tears beating down viciously on a smile.

The gods declare 

it is a rainbow 

hope in the midst

of opposing yet interlinked natural events.

Tomorrow shall yet come,

as surely as the tortoise has a home in its shell.

The story that is us, is a story

of shoots reaching out to golden rays

beckoning for a hug.

Chanting  ‘I know not when nor how

but one day I shall spread my branches high to the heavens

and my roots down to squash hades.

The gods are bemused,

for the story that is us

is not theirs to write but for the future to unravel.

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To a fair maiden at court.

Where loyalty means naught,

gossip runs amok the corridors of gentry.

‘Tis wisdom to fold the tongue within

lest a knife they find beneath your breast at morn.

Alas not a soul will be held to ransom

for this ghastly deed; for it is the way of the gentry,

is it not?

To kill in the shades of darkness

 for the sake of a ale come ‘morrows eve.

Oh fair maiden ’tis the truth I speak

say not to one ’tis such that ails me.

What help is a Samaritan to a Jew

or a Jew to a Samaritan

if the oath of humanity is not revered by both.

‘Do unto another … as you will them do unto you’

Tis not help they seek to offer my beloved

but a morsel of fat they hope to gain

an offering to grease the sizzling pans of gossip.

For to truly help another

the sands on their heels must not be ignored

nor the scars on their backs.

From this they have been shaped

From this they must shape the future

guided with dignity

and not the arms of a narcissistic saviour.

Oh fair maiden heed my advice

Stay far from the morsel of gossip

it breeds you nothing but a soul fattened with maggots.

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If ….

If all the knives in the house were bread knives

with what would we butter our toast.

If all the knives in the house were matches

with what would we cut out vegetables.

If all the knives were the same

what a grace-less act it would be enjoy a simple meal

and a horrendous ordeal to chop the wood with a table knife.

If you and I were the same,

of what use is the day and night?

All for nought would be the

strings of silence played by the mid-night breeze.

All for nought the

chorus of birds at the command of a rising sun.


A hearty welcome to all new followers, viewers and faithful virtual friends, you gladden my heart. On this quest were many cry ‘abandon this infatuation’ I sincerely appreciate all those who haven’t dissented.

Happy Easter.

Profile me iced

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A white veil covers me, I fight to stay green.

How long before the cold takes over?

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Frozen over, doesn’t matter much

Rigid was my nature before the ice.

Now I am beautifully rigid, an enigma.

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Held up by that which should cover me

Standing but frozen in place.

Should I be hopeful?

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Cold feet. 

Often means dashed hopes

but only for a season ….

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Half frozen or half melted?

Depends on who you ask,

The sun or the clouds.

Depends on who’s time it is.

Depends on what direction you face.

Profile me iced.

Slain

On the altar of hope lies a crimson heart

char my doubts,

pray the wind at dawn scatter my ashes 

unto distant shores of pleasant pastures.

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the shores of an abyss lies a patched mind

swallow my pain,

pray  the waves at dusk snatch my memory

into depths unknown from which none shall return

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the cross of forgiveness lies a broken body

salvage my wounds

pray the dew of heaven nourish my flesh

healing every crevice blotting out every scar

it cries.

∗∗∗

On the altar of love, a voice beckons … 

’tis but for a season’ this too …

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Gaping love

She asked,

Where are the scars on your heart,

the bruise on your soul.

Where are the welt marks on your back,

the weeping ulcers on your heels.

A prove of

how far you would walk 

how much you would endure 

how much you would weep

if you lost my love

He replied,

I would walk the deep to prove it to you

But I wonder, would your heart let you recognize it?

Would the image in your mind 

embrace the image before you?

Perhaps your soul craves a martyrs love 

before the love of a mere mortal.

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