Absence in Presence
Just before her flight left,
she came up
from the basement,
her cleaning tasks
complete,
and smiled at me.
In the background, music,
a Golden Oldie,
the Rolling Stones playing
‘This could be the last time.’
Present in her eyes,
and in my heart,
the thought,
more than a thought,
the knowledge
that those words
might actually be true.
Rock
You are the rock
on which I build
my life.
You are the fairy castle
planned in paradise
where the sun always shines
and stress is distant.
How often have I mapped
your inner islands,
traveled your well-known ways,
always discovering
new sacred spots
where I can immerse myself
in your inner serenity?
You are the fortress
within whose walls
I can forget my past
and create my future.
Candle Light
Candle light
softens your features
brings out the bone shape
makes me forget
the minor flaws
of ageing.
Bone shape,
rock shape,
land scape,
your face contours
traced by the flame,
counting the years,
like tree rings.
Beneath the surface
you are as you always were
and always will be.
When I look into your eyes,
I see your soul
dancing in the candle’s flame.
2
… who closes
the museum doors,
locking away its memories
dark descends,
waters heard but unseen
time unmeasured now
until the coming of candles
each with its symbol
lines that mark time
an hour here or there,
never accurate
seldom on time
a time that quickens
in a whisper of wind
the flame flickering
time traveling faster
one candle tilts
its waxen cataracts
tumbling time
cascading down
entering the void
that empty space
left by the spent flame
smouldering
where did it go
the light
I’d like to know
how and why
a lifetime
like a fire-fly’s spark
flits away …
3
… fifteen eighty-eight
the Spanish Armada
its crescent glistening
gunfire sparking
fireflies of flame
ponderous time
spaced out
relentless and slow
an unstoppable juggernaut
on and on
tides turning ebbing
ever-flowing
hill beacons burning
church bells
ringing out their warnings
God blew
and gusting winds
took them away
to the sand-dunes
off the Lowlands coast
flashes of flame
fire-ships launched
fire on the flood
the rigging ablaze
quickly cut anchors
now watch them go
shepherded
by sheepdog ships
on Ireland’s rocky coasts
ships and men
their time up
torn from the light
swallowed by night’s
dark throat …
What profession do you admire most and why?
Why admire a profession? I used to admire the fire-fighters when I was in Spain. Then I discovered that a small group of them were setting fires deliberately so that they could get double pay and danger money extinguishing the fires they had set. I used to admire politicians. Then I discovered that they weren’t always honest, had their hands in other people’s pockets, used their positions to entrench and enrich themselves, and pulled all sorts of tricks to stay in power. I used to admire priests. Then I started reading horror stories of child abuse, abuse of power, negligence of priestly duties. And these things aren’t new. In The Book of Good Love, (Spain, 1330-1343) written by Juan Ruiz, the Archpriest of Hita details how the celibate priests were ordered in a letter from the pope of the time to give up the ladies with whom they were living (and with whom they had children) to return to a life of celibacy. All fictitious, of course, but also based on a truthful reality, as was the Seller of Papal Bulls (as described in Lazarillo de Tormes – Spain 1554, and published anonymously because of its anti-clerical content).
I hope, with that short selection of potential professional felonies, I have made my point. In brief, to admire the ideal of a profession is one thing. But to admire the unprofessional conduct of certain individuals who ruin the reputation of their own profession is something else entirely.
Therefore, I would propose that we change the title of this prompt from What profession do you admire most and why?, to What professional do you admire most, and why? Now the question can be answered with ease. I most admire those professionals whose profession is a vocation. They do their jobs out of love and not just for money. They are dedicated individuals who put their profession and the people they serve before their own home comforts, wants and desires.
Such unsung heroes abound. The baker who gets u at 4:00 am, arrives at the bakery at 5:00 am, bakes, prepares, and wraps the goods, until 8:00 am when the customers arrive and the shop opens. This is done at minimum wage, autumn, winter, spring, and in the summer when the heat warnings go out and the bakery is a living hell, what with the ovens and the heat dome outside. The teacher whose work does not end in the classroom, but starts outside, when class has ended, and the students really need the TLC that comes from a teacher who puts them before his/her office schedule of 30 minutes student time a week. The general practitioner who does not retire at age 55 to bask in the sun on a Caribbean Island, but who continues his work, until at age 80, he can tend his flock of patients no more, and who then retires with grace, heartfelt thanks, and love from a job well done.
These are my heroes. These are the professionals that I most admire. Not the profession, but the person who performs that profession with skill, hope, love, commitment, and a dedication that reaches out to embrace that specific professional world, whatever it is, and the people who share it.
What notable things happened today?
One of my best friends passed away today at approximately 2:30 pm. She had been rushed into the Hospice and perished within days of being admitted. Such things are never easy, especially when the deceased person is younger than you.
My friend was a wonderful cook. To mark her passing, I made a traditional Welsh leek and onion dish for my beloved, who pronounced it good. Concentrating on the cooking enabled me to come to terms with a loss that is not only mine, but belongs to her family and the larger writing community as well.
My friend wrote prose, but was a poet at heart. Her creativity went beyond the written page and entered into her life, her relationships, and her cooking. A ray of sunshine in the kitchen, she brought the sunshine of her life to her guests when she presented the gifted poems of her food.
The title of the prompt includes the word “things”. A mutual friend contacted me with news of her passing. I contacted two more mutual friends and we shared happy memories – horas non numero nisi serenas – I count only the happy hours.
Covid came between so many of us, especially the older generation. It drove a wedge between friends, shut out mutual meeting places, destroyed regular reunions and contact. This passing of a loved one, beloved to many of us, helped us reconstruct the spider webs of friendship, allowed us to share our grief, and enabled us to see the world in a slightly different light – one of joy and happiness – joy in the love we all shared, happiness in recalling the best of those moments.
Vis brevis, ars longa.
Requiescat in pacem.
Pax amorque.
And no, Latin is not a dead language.
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.
Clare
by candle-light
Flames flickering, her shadow presence
confirmed by the chiaro-oscuro
of extraction from the formlessness
formed by the lack of electric light.
Still no power. Each passing hour
creates new tensions in her face.
It is growing late, but still I will
try to capture the beauty of the one
who long ago sealed my fate.
What words can portray my beloved,
here beside me for sixty-two years,
and married for the last fifty-seven?
Words fail me. As this half-light,
drifting her among flickering shades,
fails to catch her, half-caught, half-seen,
a hyphenated-image in candle-light.
Comment:
Today is our 57th wedding anniversary. We have been together for 62 years. Blessings to all – and may you all be as happy as we have been. Long may it continue.
If you had a million dollars to give away, who would you give it to?
The key word here is “who”. Who suggests an individual – children (just choose one and make the rest jealous), grandchildren (copy the above), a friend (wow, that would make the family happy). So, let us choose another set of words – If you had a million dollars to give away – what would you do with it? Now that’s a better question.
Look at the painting above. Bas Bleu was the name given to French women intellectuals who often wore dark blue stockings to show their difference. But check out Moo’s bas bleu – she has blue stockings, but not shoes. No shoes is a sign of poverty (or extreme holiness). I’ll go for the former. I would give that bas bleu and all her colleagues and lookalikes a chance at some security and a more secure intellectual future.
How? I would set up a needs-based scholarship fund for female students with special needs – indigenous women from the first nations, single mothers who need help, support, and encouragement, older women returning to the university, some of them with little or no financial support. This, I believe, is one of the most important things we need to do to improve our university system. A million dollars at invested at 5% would return $50,000 a year. That would provide five scholarships at $10,000 for five financially deserving women.
Can it be done? Of course it can. I know. I have already set the wheels in motion for such a fund to be established when my beloved and I have had our last twitch and fallen off the perch. Alas, the sum invested is a lot less than $1,000,000. I wish I had more to give. But every good thought counts and every dollar, to a person in need, is a step along the way.
Luminescence
Our world can sometimes seem to be a very dark place. Early yesterday morning, sitting on the back bumper of my car, breathing heavily, unable to shift the weight of snow, rain, freezing rain, ice pellets that had accumulated in our drive, I was gripped by the cold hand of old age and despair.
I remembered the talk show quiz games in which one option was to call a friend. So I did. He turned up after work, started the snow blower and did for me what I was no longer able to do for myself. He cleaned the paths round our house, at the back, to the bird feeders, and down the front the heat pump at the side.
He brought light and joy back into my world, made me realize I was not alone, and I gave him, as a token of my gratitude, this painting: Luminescence.
Those of us who are still capable of bringing light and joy to others must continue to do so. Whatever we do, we must not let the dark side and the shadows take over.
My friend – you touched my heart. I thank you.
rogermoorepoet 