Crossing Over

Running downhill, on and on,

the orange sun bearing down

on me.

Scorching me, 

burning me up

until

I come to a river cold with ice.

Icy water flowing too fast.

Too fast.

Faster than I can run.

Flaming under that bridge.

A bridge to somewhere 

from here,

from where I am.

But where is here 

or there?

And is the bridge real

or a bridge of dreams.

Or, a bridge for my dreams,

leading nowhere.

If I cross over

will I plummet

into the nowhere

on the other side.

Shall I try?

Or shall I stay here

running

looking for the light

until

I find it.

https://uglywriters.com/2022/12/31/crossing-over/?fbclid=IwAR16QlkTmOeA5INGBRR1hKIThoM05BhZFNHbE4J3kxDhFGy6tsS7GkcH14s

 Squeeze

Don’t squeeze too firmly

you never know what will emerge

from inside solid walls

and even caring hands can be destructive.

But sometimes

something beautiful can emerge

from that which is destroyed.

So sometimes

it’s good to take a chance

give a squeeze

and wait

and see

the new growth burst into being.

https://visualverse.org/submissions/squeeze/

 Unicorn

I shouldn’t have done it.

I’ve always shunned 

the spotlight,

always feared it.

Unlike the horses and dogs 

who play the game, 

perform,

do what’s expected

by their human providers, 

by their audience.

I’ve always been afraid 

of being seen

onstage

just in case

I was taken short

and golden notes

fell from my arse

and made 

rainbows

brighter 

than the spotlight,

upsetting

the lighting engineers.

I think we’re all the same,

we unicorns,

shy creatures.

That’s why we’ve 

survived,

hiding

in dreams.

http://www.theworldofmyth.com/?fbclid=IwAR2fSEMAQKsMFmIWLVY3axgC_wFmZrka3bWeTfw9seg4aV1TEkqy2VJutN0

 Icon

To discover an icon painting course 

in a mountain town in Wales

was unexpected,

but as a lover of the unexpected 

I enrolled.

Tad, the Orthodox priest looked authentic

with his black robes

and long beard.

That was unexpected too.

There was no gold there

only slate

which was not suitable

so we made do with paint

and shiny foil.

Tad was pleased with the results

and congratulated us all.

We gave them to his church

as expected.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges

 Beloved

She said, I was her heart’s desire,

her beloved.

Sometimes

I think

she meant it.

I think

sometimes

I felt it too.

But now I feel 

empty

of desire

I feel

only strangeness

holding her heart in my hand.

I feel it pulsating with life.

I feel the blood flowing like tears,

while she lies still,

so still,

empty

emptied 

of desire

heartless,

like me.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_Winter2022.pdf

 Shrouded

They’re shrouded in mist almost

as dark as the shrouds

they wear to cover themselves,

to cloak themselves 

for their journey.

Shrouds like dusty abayas

uniformly grey,

shapeless,

bloodless,

formless,

lifeless

grey.

Only their mouths still red,

stained by their final feast.

The feast of what was left.

And now there’s nothing,

nothing any more.

No more.

Nothing.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_Winter2022.pdf

 Feed The Flames

Gather round

the hearth

it’s a cosy place

if the fire is burning

and we’ll keep it burning

never fear

the flames

flickering

dancing

alight

alive,

a living fire.

Gather round,

we’ll keep it burning

the home fire

watch 

closely 

let yourself

be hypnotised

bewitched

be mesmerised

by the flickering flames,

waving and dancing.

Listen to them 

as they crackle

and scream

as a living fire must.

Gather round,

never fear

only

feed the flames.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_Winter2022.pdf

 Sore Fingers

At night my long hair was wrapped

in rags - pristine strips

of thick white cloth.

Sore fingers, my mother called them.

My unruly curls bandaged

into six stiff sore fingers,

to be unravelled in the morning

to reveal

shiny ringlets

ready

to be tied in bunches

with broad, bright, bias cut ribbons.

I wanted plaits.

All the heroines

in my childhood 

books had plaits

I dreamt about plaits

fantasised about plaits.

No more sore fingers.

I wanted plaits.

Sometimes I untied the ringlets,

to my mothers displeasure,

and made untidy, unsuccessful plaits.

Plaits would ruin my hair, my mother said.

Would spoil it’s natural curl,

destroy it

in some

way

never

specified.

I didn’t care.

I hated ringlets.

I hated sore fingers.

I wanted plaits.

https://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=9469

 Mellow Yellow

I’ve never been mad about saffron,

or turmeric, come to that

and the colour yellow

doesn’t suit me,

makes me look

strangely 

washed out,

or so I think.

I like the colour though,

love daffodils

and buttercups,

even dandelions,

so I could celebrate them

by wearing it concealed.

But no one would know if they couldn’t see

so I don’t do that.

Instead it graces my kitchen walls.

There it’s timeless,

part of the kitchen

in every place I’ve lived

from back then to eternity.

https://store.pothi.com/book/jay-chakravarti-ed-self-portrait/

 The Essence Of Me

You have to dig deep

to find me in there -

the shape of my face,

the source of my breath

among the squiggles and swirls

making a frame for my hiding place.

I am more than the breeze of those movements

the touch of those fripperies,

those feathers and fans

and what lies beneath is more fluid,

more difficult to grasp 

than my exhalations.

I am more than black and blue,

more than breath and bone,

so much more

and my essence lies in there somewhere

waiting to be discovered.

https://store.pothi.com/book/jay-chakravarti-ed-self-portrait/

 Talking Turkey

There is a rumour going around

as rumours do

in this community.

It is said

that a celebration is being planned

by humans.

Specifically

by those humans who feed and pet us.

It is being said

that we will be invited

to join them,

that we will be a part,

an important part

of the celebration.

So now we are waiting

wondering 

what role we shall play,

wondering 

if we will get drunk,

wondering 

if we will enjoy it all

as much as our humans will enjoy 

our presence.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/12/carols-from-christmas-crow.html

 Christmas Crow

We watched the crow with fascination

as it tap tapped on the window pane,

saw its black eyes gleaming,

its wet feathers shining

in the moonlight.

And we understood.

We understood that it wanted to join us,

to perch amongst the baubles

on our shining tree

to share our fireside warmth

on Christmas Eve

and escape 

the cold winter rain.

We heard it promise

to sing for us

We opened the window

and let it in.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/12/carols-from-christmas-crow.html

It crowed a Christmas carol.

 Christmas Tree

Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual

in my family.

Each year my cousin would come to help my mum.

They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box

that used to hold her big doll called Topsy.

Then they would put them all in their special place

in my family.

“No the elephant doesn’t go there,

that’s where the peacock should be

and the Christmas pudding goes above.”

Everything had it’s place on the Christmas tree

in my family.

There were shiny miniature crackers never to be pulled

and curly, coloured candles never to be lit, for economy.

No tinsel was allowed for that was cheating.

Only baubles to cover the tree, hiding the green.

The glass baubles had belonged to my cousin,

so had the tree. And earlier, to her mother and granny,

all in my family.

The only family to fall out over trimming a tree,

my cousin’s husband used to say with some truth,

as every year the arguments as to which

bauble should go where were replayed

in my family.

So much stress over trimming a Christmas tree,

that I think they drank Santa’s sherry!

They must have needed it!

And ate his mince pies, 

after trimming the tree

in my family.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/12/carols-from-christmas-crow.html

 Father Christmas

I was so excited.

It was nearly Christmas

and I was going to meet

Father Christmas himself.

I was so excited, 

wearing my best coat and bonnet,

hopping from one foot to the other

in the long queue of children

waiting with their mums

to be allowed into Santa’s Grotto.

I was so excited.

We were nearly there.

I could see the grotto

with it’s tinsel and fairy lights

twinkling.

I was going to sit on his knee 

and have my picture taken,

and that was in an age when

photographs were even rarer

than Christmases..

I was so excited.

There were the elves...

But wait..

they were cardboard.

Where were the real elves,

the magic ones,

why weren’t they there?

“They’re much too busy”,

my mum said.

“But Father Christmas will be real”.

We paid our money

and there he was.

He really was.

I couldn’t wait to climb on his knee

and examine his beard.

I’d never seen a beard before.

But he was very tetchy when I pulled at it

and told me to stop.

Then it went lop sided

and I realised 

it was a false beard

and I told him so, angrily.

He put it back.

“Stop thy wriggling”, he said.

“You’re not the real one,

I don’t want to sit on your knee” 

Flash went the camera.

And outside there was a queue of children

waiting 

to be addressed.

Hands on hips.

“He’s not the real one.

He’s got a false beard.

He’s not magic at all,

they’re cheating you!”

It’s a swiz!

Then the store manager came..

I was so excited.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/12/carols-from-christmas-crow.html