Hope

Silent Light

Silent Light

Silent light,
          breaking soundless,
dispelling night’s mists,
          lighting up flowers,
so graceful,
          when decked out in light.

At night,
          the moon turns into a mirror,
a silver boat
          suspended in space.

Silent,
          its light enlightening
the heart’s dusky craters,
          the mind’s gloomy shafts,
where hidden treasures hide,
          waiting for the light.

The Value of Space

Space, round an object,
     reveals its aura,
its implicit innocence.

Consider the shimmer –
          a sunlit orange
basking in its basket.

Observe
          the pride of the cat,
nestled on cushions,
          its coat prickling
with sunlight.

Space
          surrounds us.
We walk within it,
          live because of it.

Space
           fills us.
Water
          in our body’s sponge
a part of us,
          as we become
a part of it.

Author’s Notes

We crave the space around us, the silence between words, but invasive noise destroys us, body and soul. We must seek the sanctity of silent light and space.

What does freedom mean to you?

Daily writing prompt
What does freedom mean to you?
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What does freedom mean to you?

When I look at that one word, alone on the page, I think, above all, of the multiple meanings attached to such a word, then I think of how it can be twisted in so many ways to make it mean whatever the speaker wants it to mean. So, let me begin by asking, what does freedom mean, in general, not in my own specific case.

Freedom – “the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.” Interesting – no mention here of right or wrong, of truth or lies, of harassment or of perjury. Freedom – speech with no hindrance or restraint.

Freedom – the “absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government.” Wow! The first is very interesting but the second is extremely problematic. We need a definition of despotic and of government. We also need further clarification as to who decides what governmental despotism means. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder and if there is no arguing about taste, is the definition of despotism purely subjective? Who shall guard the guards? Does a despot consider himself or herself to be despotic? Do his or her followers? Or is it only the people who suffer and become victims of the despot’s hands, feet, orders, laws, commands, bullies, or general conduct?

Freedom – “the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved.” This is certainly much clearer. Thank you.

But consider where this very brief analysis has led us. And we haven’t even started on the Biblical meanings of freedom – “freedom from sin” – “and the truth shall set you free” – and here we are only scratching the surface of the possible religious and philosophical meanings of what the Spaniards call libre albedri’o, or free will.

What does freedom mean to you?

And now we move into the personal and the personal circumstances will change for each one of us. In my own case, freedom is my new Nexus 3 Rollator. It allows me to put aside my canes and walk around the block, something I have been unable to do for several years now. Wow – freedom to walk on my own, just leaning on my wheeled walker. Freedom to talk to my old friends, many of whom I have not seen or spoken to for a long time. Freedom to meet and talk to new neighbors, many with their lovely children and wonderful dogs. Freedom to breathe in the fresh air of early spring and to visit the flowers as they start to grow. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to see with my own eyes. Last month, I had my lenses laser-polished and now I can see again with 20/20 vision. Wow – that is really freedom, to to be able to read all but the tiniest print, without needing to use glasses. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to be able to cook, shop, move, live, without excessive pain. My new powers of walking have helped me with that. Long may it continue. It is also the good fortune to have enough money and strength to live in my own house and not to need a care home or regular home help.

Freedom – Such a magic word – such a powerful word – such a personal word. The freedom to choose to be myself, dependent on nobody else – and long may that freedom continue.

What do you do to be involved in the community?

Daily writing prompt
What do you do to be involved in the community?
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What do you do to be involved in the community?

Covid started a long period of isolation for many people of my age. We started by washing everything that came into the house – beware of touching things, they might carry the Covid virus. Then it was wear a mask and avoid crowds. Then it was telephone calls, parcels of groceries left on door steps, groceries ordered online and then picked up by car, no visitors, avoid crowded places…. At times, it bordered on hysteria.

That was 2020. But Covid wasn’t over. I have cut my own hair since 2019 and I still avoid crowds and wear a mask. As I emerged less and less, I saw fewer and fewer people. Old friends faded away, some, the less fortunate ones, permanently. Most ceased to visit. Gradually communications ceased.

2024 – May -01 – I purchased a new Rollator – a Nexus 3. For a week now, I have been out walking with it. Thirty minutes a day. I go round the block. I also visit the local park and walk the trails. Life is still out there, waiting to be lived. When I walk round the block, neighbors come out from their houses and talk to me. I have a little seat on the Rollator and can sit and chat with them for as long as they want. Old friends have returned.

Yesterday, I met some new friends. “We haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?” A boy and his mother. The boy took a liking to my Rollator – he was three years old. He climbed on it, sat on it, tooted a non-existent horn, rang a non-existent bell, and brum-brum-brummed a non-existent engine. What fun we had. I told his mother I was an author and asked her if she would like a copy of Teddy Bear Tales to read to her boy. She said yes and when I see her next, I will give her one.

So, back to the question – What do you do to be involved in the community? I walk around the block and now I carry copies of my poetry books and short stories in my little carry bag. When I meet people, I offer them gifts of poetry and prose. Sometimes they say yes – and that is how I get myself involved with the community – as the Island View Bard.

A Broken Heart

A Broken Heart

What does a broken heart look like? Good question – and I, for one, don’t know. Maybe my artist friend, Moo, does. He painted this image of a Fragmented Heart the other day. Not that his heart was broken. He told me he was interpreting the words and feelings of a close friend (who shall remain nameless) who has been having the feelings associated with a heart that was actually breaking. Tough times, eh?

Rejections get me down and annoy me, but they don’t break my heart. I submitted a short story to a magazine on January 4, 2023 and got a rejection letter yesterday, May 6, 2024. It was a form letter, 16 months after submission, just to say “no”!

Of course, the few acceptances that I actually do get make up for the many rejections, as is always the case. However, there seem to be fewer of these acceptances as my thoughts look inwards and I turn from ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ (Johannes Pfeiffer). In this day and age, I fear that readers seek entertainment and distraction and prefer the light-hearted to the heavy hand of deep thought and poetic authenticity. And remember, I do not distinguish between poetry and prose, as many do. For me, poetry is writing, be it in poetry or prose.

But back to the theme of the broken heart. Here are three linked poems.

Old Wounds

“The slow wound
deepens with the years
and brings no healing.”

The Minister by R. S. Thomas

How deep time’s wounds
have cut and carved,
not just in flesh and bone,
but in the embers
of that slow-burn fire
 they call the heart.

Memory and mind
have also played their part.

Some days, those wounds
don’t ache at all.

But there’s no real healing,
and a moment of madness
or a knife-edged finger nail,
careless, in the dark,
opens them up again
to bleed afresh
and remind us
of the frailty of the flesh.

I Remember

“I remember so well how it was back then.
I was lonely, my heart so broken I couldn’t
count the pieces, nor put the puzzle together,
 although I tried so hard to make it whole again.

I still bear scars, trenches dug so deep,
lines gouged into my body. I can’t always sleep.
Nightmares pave a crooked, cobbled way to day.

Some nights, I wake up suddenly from a dream
and scream the way that stuck pigs scream
when, hot, their blood comes steaming out.
Other nights, in pain and panic, at shadows I shout.

I search for someone to care for me. I want them
to understand my grief and help me forget the thief
who stole my joy and left me this life of disbelief.”

Signs of Age

What is pain, but the knowledge
that we are alive, and relatively well,
and still on the green side of the grass.

Long may it last. For when the pain is gone,
we shall soon follow. And this is age,
and age is this pain, and the painful
knowledge that we are no longer young,
can no longer bend the way we bent,
or touch our toes, or even see our toes,
some of us. The golden arrow pierces
the heart. Fierce is the pain. But when
that arrow is withdrawn and the heart
no longer feels alive, why, how we miss
that pain, how we weep to find it gone,
perhaps never to come back again.

Pain, like rain, an essential part of the cycle
of the seasons, of the days and the weeks,
and all the months and years that walk us
around the circadian circle, in time with the earth
and its desire to open its arms, and welcome us,
and greet us, and bring us our rest, from pain.

So much wisdom sewn into the wrinkled skin,
the gap-filled grin that glows with humor,
the crow’s foot signals of old age,
or merely those we associate with ageing,
and the knowledge that, yes, many
have walked this wobbly way before,
and many more will follow in our footsteps.

Take your pick – ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ – but I know which I prefer and ‘still I live in hopes to see poems of authenticity.”

Prompts and Impromptus

Prompts and Impromptus

The creative process is different for each one of us. I think of three different creative modes.

The Quarry and Treasure Trove – I write in my journal every day. I have done so for nearly forty years. For me, it is a treasure trove of creativity and I can return to it anytime I want to to revive old memories and to research old moods. I think of it as a quarry that contains valuable images and metaphors that can be used in different ways to create and recreate. I also find that, as I journal, I distinguish between that which is mere dust and ashes and can be abandoned, and that which is a genuine gemstone that can be polished and published. Writing regularly helps me to distinguish between the commonplace and that one piece of gold that emerges.

Impromptus – Some people, like the cat above, wait patiently for inspiration to come. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, they blame Writer’s Block or something similar. While you can sit and wait for inspiration, using the methods outlined in The Quarry and Treasure Trove you can ‘go out and make things happen’. Seek and you will find. Knock and it will open. Now that’s inspiration for you!

Prompts – The creative writer can also use prompts. I have used those that appear in Word Press, but only in sporadic fashion. I do not use them everyday. In fact, I have been a bit down and otherwise engaged recently, and my visits to social media have been very limited. I apologize to my friends – we few, we happy few, we band of siblings.

One of my best friends has been helping me through this rough patch. She has been putting together a book of creative prompts. She converted that into a webpage called  judyandco.com and I highly recommend her work to anyone who, like me, gives up the ghost for a little while, and then wishes to regain the creative spirit. As she wrote to me only this morning – “there’s a bunch of free stuff on there” -.

So, for those who need a kick start for their creativity, try clicking on  judyandco.com – I am sure you will find inspiration there.

It’s A Small World

It’s A Small World

Light returns to Island View after Monday’s eclipse. Here it is post the total eclipse and daylight is being restored. It was a wonderful experience, totally unlike the last total eclipse we saw, at Skinner’s Pond, In PEI, on 10 July 1972.

That one was unexpected. Nobody talked about it. Nobody said a thing. We travelled to Skinner’s Pond, the birth place of Stompin’ Tom Connors, just to see where he was born. We parked the car, put the dog on a leash, and walked on the beach. Normal sea-side sounds – waves, sea birds, wind among the dune grass – swallows rose and fell, twittering joyfully. A world at peace. Then it happened.

A shadow moved across the sun and the world started to darken. The dog went wild, strained at the leash, started to whimper. The bank swallows began to gather, then, as the darkness deepened, they dived for their burrows and vanished from sight. We shivered and wondered. We had no glasses of any kind. We avoided looking at the sun, and just experienced the world as it darkened and became colder and more silent, save for the sound of the wind in the grass. As the light returned, the dog settled down, the swallows emerged from their tunnels and took to the skies, twittering again. Life, light, and warmth returned to normal.

Monday’s eclipse was so very different. We weren’t intending to watch it, other than on the television. While I was out shopping, early that morning, I joked with the people I met that, during the eclipse, I was going to tuck myself into bed and hide my head under the blankets, in case it was dangerous. [Yes, I have read Day of the Triffids and seen the movie. Now that does date me.] On the way home, I met one of my neighbors. Was I going to watch the eclipse? Once in a life experience. Did I have the right glasses? He told me to avoid normal sunglasses. Told me I wouldn’t get the right glasses now. All sold out. He gave me a strange look when I told him of my decision to bury my head in the blankets – just in case – so no harm would come to me.

Several news items turned up on my computer. In one of them I read that approved special glasses – true specifics and details given – had vanished from the stores in Fredericton. Only one place still stocked them – Canadian Tire, South Side. Ha! I drove back into town and there, on the door of CT-South, I saw a sign – Eclipse Glasses available at Check Outs. I joined the line up of late buyers, bought two pairs, and headed joyfully home.

When the eclipse started, I drove around the block, looking for the best place from which to view it. I parked here, there, and everywhere, tried my glasses out – a small, black line, curved, was slowly and silently invading the sun’s disc. I drove back home and discovered, after an experiment or two, that our back porch was the perfect spot for viewing. We put chairs on the deck, sat down, and watched as the blackness on the sun’s face grew larger. No beach view this. The Island in Island View is in the St. John River / Wolastoq, on the other side of the hill. No sea gulls, no swallows, in our garden. In fact very few birds at all.

As it grew darker, we could hear the soulful hooting of some mourning doves. They soon grew silent. The crows, on the other hand, rose up to defend their territory, just like they do when a hawk passes over and puts its shadow between them and the sun. What a racket of sheer defiance.

Through our glasses we could see wavy lines of light flickering around the visible parts of the sun’s circumference. Occasional red streamers, flared up and out. Then the eclipse became total. We took off our glasses and for two minutes and seven seconds (or so) we basked in celestial glory. Breathtaking. Spell binding. A mystical moment of myth and magic. We sat in silence. Then, the spell broke. The sun emerged from its moon shadow and light returned. The earth warmed. Life was as it was. Nothing had changed, except for us. Light broke where no sun shone, and suddenly we realized so many truths.

How tiny is our world. How enormous is the space around us. How mighty is the universe. How fragile are we humans. How small and insignificant is our world. How glorious is our existence, the joy of life, of witnessing, of seeing such power and such glory. The joys of knowing that we are sentient, and alive.

Two images of partial eclipse – with clouds – Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists (KIRA, June 2021).

Solar Eclipse

Solar Eclipse

(Devil’s Kitchen, PP. 118-120)

            … with my angels … face to face … the ones I have carried within me since the day I was born … the grey-one … winged like a whisky jack who arrives in dreams… the white-one that hovers dove-like as I lie asleep … the multi-colored-one who wraps me in his feathered wings when I am alone and chilled by the world around me … the black-one who flaps with me on his back when I can walk no further and who creates the single set of footprints that plod their path through the badlands when I can walk no more …
            … ‘the truth’ my black angel says to me … I say ‘he’ but he is a powerful spirit, not sexed in anyway I know it … and yet I think of him as ‘he’ …awesome in the tiny reflection he sometimes allows me to glimpse of his power and glory … for, like Rilke, I could not bear meeting his whole angelic being face to face … as I cannot bear the sun, not by day, and not in eclipse … not even with smoked glass … this is the moment of truth when human values turn upside down and earth takes on a new reality … wild birds and bank swallows roosting at three in the afternoon … and that fierce heat draining from the summer sky … I remember it well … and the dog whimpering as a portion of the angel’s wing erased the sun until an umber midnight ruled … a simple phenomenon, the papers said … the moon coming between the earth and the sun …but magic … pure magic … to we who stood on the shore at Skinner’s Pond and sensed the majesty of the universe … more powerful than anything we could imagine … and the dog … taking no comfort from its human gods … whimpering at our feet …
            … during the eclipse I saw a single feather floating down and knew my angel had placed himself between me and all that glory … to protect me … to save me from myself … and I saw that snowflake of an angel feather bleached from black to white by some small trick of the sunlight … and knowledge filled me … and for a moment I felt the glory … the magnificence … and there are no words for that slow filling up with want and desire as light filters from the sky and the body fills with darkness … and I was so afraid … afraid of myself … of where I had been … of where I stood … of what I might return to … of my lost shadow … snipped from my heels …
            … I don’t know how I heard my angel’s words … ‘the time of truth is upon you’ … ‘all you have ever been is behind you now’ … ‘naked you stand here on this shore’ … ‘like the grains of sand on this beach’ … ‘your days are numbered by the only one who counts’ … I heard the sound of roosting wings … but I heard and saw nothing more … I felt only midnight’s cold when the chill enters the body and the soul is sore afraid …
            … ‘it is the law’ my angel said … I saw a second feather fall … ‘and the law says man must fail’ … ‘his spirit must leave its mortal shell and fly back to the light’ … ‘blood will cease to flow’ … ‘the heart will no longer beat’ … the spirit must accept the call and go’ … ‘do not assume’… ‘nobody knows what lies in wait’ … ‘blind acceptance’ … ‘the only way’ … ‘now’ …  ‘in this twilight hour’ …  ‘now when you are blind’ … ‘only the blind shall receive the gift of sight’ … ‘all you have’ … ‘your wife’ … ‘your house’ … ‘your car’ … ‘your child’ … ‘everything you think of as yours’ … ‘I own’ … ‘and on that day’ …’ I will claim it from you and take it for my own’ … ‘now I can say no more’ …
            … the sea-wind rose with a sigh and one by one night’s shadows fled … the moon’s brief circle fell away from the sun … light returned, a drop at a time, sunshine flowing from a heavenly clepsydra filled with light …
            after the eclipse … birds ceased to circle … a stray dog saw a sea-gull and chased it back to sea … and the sun … source of all goodness … was once again a golden coin floating in the sky …

… on my shoulder a feather perched … a whisper of warmth wrapped its protective cloak around my shoulders … for a moment, just a moment, I knew I was the apple of my angel’s eye … and I knew that one day I would meet him again … and understand …

Devil’s Kitchen
Short Stories and Flash Fiction
Click here to purchase this book.

Hope Springs Eternal

Hope Springs Eternal

Easter Sunday and the world is reborn. Early, this year, yes. March 31. But all too often in April we see the snow disappear and look out on watch for the geese. Some have flown through, just a few. We search for the flowers, and one or two are pushing upwards in the garden beneath our window. I see a green fuzz on the crab apple trees on our front lawn and the same sign of green around the tops of the tallest birch trees. The crows are flying in pairs, sharing the same branch, and huddling shoulder to shoulder. And yes, the world feels good. Our world. The little world of Island View.

There’s something special about the Equinox. We can feel it in our bones and in the bones of Old Mother Earth. The standing stones of Stonehenge have measured the Equinox for thousands of years, as have the stone circles that can be found all over the British Isles. Even in our garden, in Island View, we know when and where the sun will rise above the ridge as, each morning, we predict the kind of day.

But, when I look to the world beyond my world, the signs of spring are few and far between. I remember swimming in the sea at Pwll Ddu every Easter, on Easter Sunday. When I look at the news, the beaches of my Gower childhood are now polluted. Signs – Caution – Do not enter the water – abound. The boat race took place a day or two ago (depending on when you are reading this). For the first time in 190 years, the winning team was told NOT to throw their coxswain into the water, nor to enter the water themselves in that glorious after-splash of famous victory. The waters of the Thames are so polluted that serious illness might occur. “Oh Thames, flow gently while I sing my song.”

“Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” I don’t know who said that, but I echo those words. Where are we going? Why are we going there? What can we do about it?

I look at the Easter Message – Northern Hemisphere – the spring rebirth. The world reborn in flowers. I look at the news – or do I? I no longer want to look at the news. I no longer want to read about the shipping disasters, the environmental catastrophes, the mass shootings, the road rage, long term Covid, misinformation and disinformation, fake news, wars and rumor of wars.

I love the Spanish word – ensimismado meaning to go into oneself. So, I go into my little world, into myself. I retreat into poetry and painting. I try to recreate my childhood world as I knew it, as I still want it to be – full of love, trust, goodness, kindness, softness, beauty, and, above all, faith, charity, and hope.

Marx once said “Workers of the world, unite.” But fewer and fewer people are working. A song of the sixties said “You alone know what is right, lovers of the world, unite.” Now I put out my own cry – “Creatives of the world, unite.” Let us join together to creatively build a better world and to fill it with joy, light, faith, hope, and charity. And the greatest of these, my dear friends, is charity.

Who are your favorite people to be around?

Daily writing prompt
Who are your favorite people to be around?
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Who are your favorite people to be around?

Creatives – because creative people need support in their creativity and need to believe in themselves and in their creations. I wrote two days ago about Rejections and Silence – while both are needed by creatives – rejections to help perfect and polish – and silence in which to create – too many rejections and too much silence can result in alienation, depression, and the suppression of creative acts.

“We few, we happy few, we band of siblings!” Not quite what Harry said before the Battle of Agincourt, yet can we, the readers, be absolutely certain that what Shakespeare said he said was actually what he said? But we share the spirit of creativity with creators big and small, famous, infamous, and struggling. That is why we need to band together, to support each other, and to ensure that creativity isn’t killed by the straitjacket of a nine to five job, or longer, or the multi-employment that has become so necessary just to survive in our diminished and diminishing world.

“What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” wrote W. H. Davies, one of the great Welsh poets. And he concluded this poem with a parallel couplet: “A sad life this, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.”

I hope you like the painting that heads this prompt that is turning into a joyous rant. It is by one of my creative friends, the poet-painter Moo. He calls it Spotted Coppers and he painted it last night after watching the Midsomer Murders episode that dealt with the theft of valuable Spotted Copper Butterflies. Intertextuality – one text leads to another, and the butterfly becomes a TV episode becomes a painting by a friend becomes a rant prompted by my computer and written by me.

That is the circle of creativity and it blends into the circle of friendships, and creative artists are both competitors and friends, for “whether creativity survives or no, I’m sure is only touch and go.” Another line that another great Welsh poet, this time Dylan Thomas of Swansea, might almost have said.

So, who are my favorite people to be around? Creative people, of course, with all their passions, energy, warts, flaws, and their constant need of encouragement and support.

A Masked Ball

Masked Ball

After a two-week lay-off, the Dance of Colors returns. What caused the lay-off? Absolutely nothing. I grew tired of posting, of writing, of throwing my paint on the waters of the web and waiting to see what, if anything, happened. Well – nothing happened.

Steven King, On Writing, says “Paper your walls with rejections.” And I have done, pages and pages of them. The secret is ‘never surrender’ – ‘never give up’ – or, in the language of the WWII Prisoner of War Camps – Nil carborundum illegitimi. You can Google the meaning, if you can’t read Latin. It is a euphemism for ‘never despair’.

Rejection is one thing. Silence is something else. When I check my notebooks I find submissions, some sent several years ago, that are still unanswered. There is simply no response. It is as if the writer – submitter – does not exist, is not even worthy of a form letter.

I ran into that wall of silence during this two week lay-off. Does it matter? Probably not. The creation of art is as much a monologue as it is a dialogue. Bakhtin calls it ‘a creative artist’s dialogue with his time and place.’ I think of it as ‘this creative artist’s monologue with his time and place.’

Footsteps – I leave them here, I leave them there, you can find those footsteps anywhere. But beware the footsteps left on the beach at low tide. You will not find them on the beach the day after you leave them. The tide will have risen and washed them all away. In spite of that, some footprints are here to stay.