I observe myself
And see
At this moment
I am happy.

And I am glad
For Happiness and I
Have not been well acquainted
In the past.

Hello, Happiness
What brings you my way
And I wonder…

If Happiness could reply
If it would say
I’ve always been there
Just waiting for you to notice me.

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The Time of Your Life

I recently joined a creative writing group and wrote this piece following my first meeting.

The Time of Your Life – that well worn phrase
Favoured cliché of my mother
Kids happily playing – yes they’re having the time of their lives.
But what does it mean to me, now?
I recall a time I felt, well, betrayed – almost
Perhaps that’s too harsh a word.
I’d gone to a meeting in good faith
With people I knew and trusted.
I didn’t expect such a question.
Meant as a challenge? A taking stock?
Draw a clock, we were told
Mark on it where you think you are in life.
Stark reminder of mortality
Of ageing
Of things I didn’t want to think about.
The Time of Your Life – a time of enjoyment
That was my mother’s meaning
Sounds good. And positive.
And yet, there is this subtle hint
That this one time can never be surpassed.
This is THE time
No other can ever be so good.
But every moment passes
The way of every other.
Some with relief, some with regret
All future is fleetingly Now
Then gone.
Gone, but not quite gone
For some lives on in memory.
Gives colour, texture to the now
The me that relishes this moment
Would not be me without my past.
The time of life
Is now.

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A modern psalm

I don’t suppose you have to be particularly ‘religious’ to have heard of the hymn How great Thou Art. A song where the writer pours out the feeling of their heart and soul at the awesomeness of creation and anyone who sings it is caught up in that sense of wonder.

I was pondering the way the ancients did something similar in songs we know as psalms. They talked of creation in terms of water separated into that above the sky and that below the earth. Not a notion that exactly fits with the science of our day yet a powerful image and one that can be adapted, perhaps?

spiral-p1010064Lord God of creation
You, my God, sustain me
Sustain my life, all life.
You pluck energy, matter
From nothingness
And leave black holes.

The ancients talked of separating
The waters above the firmament
From those below.
And water, to them, meant chaos.

They knew you brought order from chaos
And order means existence and life.

The science of my generation
Is different
But the principle is the same.

Matter and anti-matter
Would fuse and cease to exist
If it weren’t for your sustaining power.

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Just eight posts in 2016
Not the way to influence the world!
Do I aim to?
Now there’s a question
Reminds of a story someone once told me
– I’ve a feeling they might have got it from Jonathan Sacks originally

There was as man who set out to change the world
When he realised he couldn’t,
he thought he’d settle for changing his county
When that proved too much
he decided to focus on his town
That too, was beyond him
But surely he could change his family
Eventually, he realised
The only person he could change
was himself.

A story of defeat? Or of realisation?

If everyone set out to be the best person they could possibly be
and devoted all their effort to the task
together, we would make the world a better place.






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Not a resolution…

… more of a dream

One day
Perhaps there will be time to write again
To write as I always longed to write
For the pleasure of creativity
Not simply as a tool
Conveying meaning
That must be conveyed
But dreaming dreams
Of far off worlds
Exploring life in contexts new
Finding insights
This world hides
Uncovering hidden truths
In lands of fantasy
Bringing treasures to the human race
One day
Dreams briefly glimpsed
Will materialise upon the page
Unworldly wisdom captured
And lived
One day

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This is the day



Six hours into the longest
darkest night of the year,
more hours from
the reluctant dawn,
John turned his face to the wall
and breathed his last.




nativityIt’s three years this evening
since Dad died.
But I shall not spend the day
in mourning.
There’s a group of children
I shall visit
Taking Gabriel, Mary, Joseph,
and a donkey
To tell the story of new life
in Jesus.


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Out of Practice

f-tree-p1010581I set up a separate blog for posting my
family tree about three years ago but haven’t had
time lately to do anything with it.

You may have noticed I’ve not done all that much
with this one either!

But this morning I woke up thinking about this
picture that Mum embroidered for me back in 1990.
I wanted to post it on the Family tree blog but can’t fathom  how to make it work! Talk about out of practice!

I did finally work it out – can be seen here.


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The night is dark
All are asleep
nastieSave me
Alone I face them
The demons, the gremlins
Who are these faceless creatures
Of the dark?

They tell me
I will die
That something bad
In my blood
Will get to me
Before my labours
Can bear fruit.

But there is anotherdaf
Where darkness is soft
And peaceful
Where I step out boldly
For I am loved.

This night
Is the hidden
Side of light
The womb of the dawn
Harbinger of hope
Assurance of eternity.

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Picked from the garden.

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A Story

Once upon a time there was a cupboard full of toys. One shelf belonged to the cuddly toys, mostly old, worn and threadbare. There was a monkey with scratchy hands and a moth-eaten waist coat, a velvet elephant with a missing ear, a piglet with a missing arm, an assortment of bears and a cat whose whiskers had been pulled out.
A very small boy lived in the house. He had a favourite bear called Teddy. Teddy did not belong in the cupboard with the other bears; he, along with Woolly, the boy’s comfort blanket went everywhere with the boy.
At bedtime, the boy, Teddy and Woolly would go to the cupboard, collect the other cuddlies and, the boy’s arms overflowing, they would all make their way up the stairs to bed.
One evening as the boy struggled to place his short legs one in front of the other on the stairs, he wobbled a bit and the cat fell from the pile bouncing down the steps to land at the feet of his sister. She picked it up and tried to give it back to him. But he didn’t want it.
The girl was left holding this dropped, rejected thing. She didn’t want it; had never found a use for stuffed toys. But its rejection tugged at her heart and empathy welled within her. So she took it to her own bed. And there it stayed for years and years; recipient of her confidences, partaker of her hurts and disappointments, sharer in her hopeless dreams; emotional anchor holding her soul in place as she went about her daily life.
Until another claimed her soul and acceptance, not rejection, became the order of the day.

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