Tag Archives: poetry

Revealing Artists and Storytellers…

29th June 2011

White Chocolate and Strawberry Cheesecake

I had a discussion with friends recently about what is art and who is an artist.    It amazes me when some people say “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body” and yet they are so skilled at creating landscaped gardens full of visual delights or productive patches of vegetables, fruit and herbs.   Or, they produce mouthwatering meals and exquisite culinary delights for their family and friends because they enjoy doing so  …  or decorate a house in the most eye catching manner,  turning it into the most inviting “home”.   These people are indeed artists though they might not realize it.  They are expressing themselves in creative form, letting their soul colour their lives in a visual, tangible way that is uniquely their own. 

All humans have a creative side….we just express it in different ways…. some people are creative in less obvious ways, they use creativity to solve problems, or to fix or build things.   Some are creative in the manner they conduct their relationships……. or deal with life……or care for their loved ones…..I genuinely believe that living is in itself, an artform!   To deny that part of self that is an artist, is to deny our human-ness  AND our spirit.  Creativity goes hand in hand with soul.  

A person’s “art” is as multi dimensional as their soul….. and like an extension of self, should be ever changing, growing, evolving, transcending… so next time you think you don’t have a creative bone in your body, think again.   Every cell of your being is a creative student, every strand of your DNA is a creative master… and its up to you to let them explore and connect your inner and outer worlds.

The café is small and quirky, but also very warm, personal and inviting.   It is an extension of the woman who created it.    Brenda tells me she loves being here and it shows!   She is an artist in every sense of the word –  in her love and care for her staff, for those she welcomes into her “artspace”, and in what she offers the world.    I always feel so deeply appreciative of the energy and humanity that touches me when I am sitting in the café.

Art for Sale in the Tearooms

The stories come and go, along with their people.    It seems that so many countless stories unfurl into view at these café tables.    Small glimpses of ongoing journeys too grand to describe here, but enough to inspire are left behind like crumbs, on the tables.  Sometimes these exist in memory only; a few words overheard, or energy drifting in the air, and sometimes in written words in the little notepads on the tables.    These precious fragments hide greater stories, which are largely hidden, denied, or on the way to being lost forever.  

On the sunny verandah, an older woman shares her family history with a friend.    She has traced her ancestors back to the first settlers on board the ship with Governor Stirling, landing at Rockingham, Western Australia.   The stories she tells are stitched with hardship and yet rich with fascination for lives in a whole different world.   The same woman has been an integral part of the local repertory club since it’s very early years, and quietly admits to being the costume designer and creator for all of those early productions.   She speaks of all the outfits she has made and kept, now stored (hopefully) for others to appreciate and use.   A vision of rows of hats, and shirts, and dresses, a parade of colour and style and texture, springs to mind with a hint of the scent of naphthalene and dust.  In her collection of memories is a set of all the programs from every repertory production or play that has been staged since the theatre’s foundation.   Except one.   She admits that there is one from those early years, that eludes her.    But what an amazing set of memorabilia that must be.   Even I feel a desire to interrupt and ask “please may I see them?”   Perhaps the one that is missing is yet a story in itself, and deserves a blank page in it’s honour?    At one point this woman wonders if her children or grandchildren will be interested in the stories she has gathered from the past, but feels perhaps they will not.   A look of resigned sadness seems to pass over her face.   But I know that even if one generation might overlook the importance of her memories, there will always, always, be another who will be deeply grateful and excited to discover and relive them. 

The stories of the now might seem insignificant and hardly worth preserving, but to future generations, they will be sources of not only fascination and intrigue, but reminders, lessons and images that portray the reality of these times.

At a table in the corner sit a man and woman, chatting animatedly at times over their cups of tea, at other times lapsing into awkward silence.   What is their story?   Could it be, that this is a first meeting, dare I say it, a “blind date”?    That someone has initiated the exchange of phone numbers, and these two are now meeting for the first time in a comfortable environment such as the café, to get to know each other better?   They spend hours, and numerous cups, and eventually stand, shake hands in an amiable way, and walk away.   I wonder what stories and thoughts will unfold as they leave the café and go back to their own respective worlds.

On the green couch, and surrounds, there is much activity –  a gathering of customers who at first look like business people, holding a meeting over coffee, with laptops and folders open before them, but a closer inspection shows an aura of creativity and flair that indicates these people are in the art or entertainment industry, perhaps discussing an upcoming film festival or event.  Something very exciting maybe arising from this gathering at the café! 

Brenda, Caitlin and Rhys, are rushing back and forth with cups of tea and coffee, and trays of freshly prepared food.    They have a café full of customers, but also a volunteer in the courtroom gallery requiring a meal, the managers of the gallery across the road have ordered lunch, and there’s a regular group meeting in the adjoining artrooms that has to be catered for.   There is a flurry of activity, but the smiles never wane, and are as always genuine.

On the table tops, a pile of note pages flutter.   Here are the little treasures from the café visitors for this week and I eagerly read them to grasp the little stories scribed therein.

 

One cannot find happiness – it is not lost.

It is within all of us waiting to be let loose.

(Catherine F)

 

 

Delighted to see the tearooms up and running again –

we missed visiting.

Part of the country experience

(“The Perth Trio”)

 

 

 

Once I heard an angel

Talking just for me.

Telling me how happy

My life can really be.

If I let the past fade away

And live each day anew,

Focus on the pleasant things,

That is what to do.

When you wake up every morning

Be thankful for that day,

And let a smile, a look, a kiss,

Chase your tears away.

(Rosalie)

 

 

 

Cup cakes and roses

Are my memories of

Coffee in the

Old post office tea rooms.

(Molly and Brian)

 

 

Somewhere along life’s journey,

You may be lucky to find,

Someone who is just for you,

A soulmate, warm and kind.

 

When you least expect it,

He may suddenly be there,

A friendly smile, a certain look,

He will really care.

 

At first it might be friendship,

But then out of the blue,

You will realize

That love is there for you.

(Rosalie)

Artworks For Sale at Cafe

 

 

I think it is evident that love and friendly smiles are just some of the gifts on offer at the tearooms this week…. It seems there is always something for everyone, most of all the incentive to reveal the inner artist or storyteller ….. and where others are acknowledging their creativity, there is always constant inspiration for those around them……

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Hindsight

 

HINDSIGHT

 Little bits and pieces of humanity on show;

A museum to the memory of all we did not know;

A tribute to our blindness and simple lack of trust;

Behind a two way mirror, past visions turn to dust.

Did we not reach out far enough?  Did we all fail to try?

Or simply turn our heads when spirit tried to catch our eye.

Messages remain unanswered.   The lines have all gone down.

The past has broken free to haunt the cities and the towns.

On pedestals the arrogant are tarnished like their pride;

Showcases full of guilt and shame just cannot be denied.

Cobwebs of fear weave patterns, across decaying pasts,

And ‘dust to dust’ becomes the chant of those whose memory lasts.

The signposts that we did not see, now take pride of place,

A warning to the future of another human race.

The wrong direction taken, or eyes that could not see?

An attitude that went astray, or warped philosophy?

Too many faces turned away from truth beneath our feet,

As the gold gets swept out with the dirt into an empty street.

Why does the past catch up with us, and haunt us here and now?

And the wisdom of the hindsight gods forces us to bow.

Somewhere between the questions and the answers is the space

Where the view both ways is clear with understanding’s grace.

Be still and walk the quiet aisles and pay your humble dues,

And listen to the patient guide whose wisdom speaks to you.

The effigies and epitaphs have lessons in the gloom

As beams of light dance through the dust of the teaching room.

Ghosts might talk, the dead might rise, the stories will unfold,

Who can tell where we went wrong, if the secrets are not told.

Beware the plague of ignorance that lingers from the past

And haunts the ruins of today, from behind the looking glass.

Like in a nightmare, those of us, who care to, wander through,

And shiver with the knowledge, the sense of deja’ vu.

History repeats, and herein the lesson lies,

The mistakes aren’t there for nothing, they make us realize

Where we’ve come from, where we’re going, and what has always been –

Respect the past for leading us, to where the future must begin.

(wendy slee)


Life, Death and Tragic Music…

15th June 2011

Well so much for the best laid plans……the universe apparently hijacked my journal.

My blog was all there on a thumb drive from the Wednesday at the cafe, and then, disappeared!  

So I tell myself “Let that be a lesson to you.”  Save onto the computer as well as the little thumb drive!   Ironically, it’s the first time I ever worked completely off (or onto) a thumbdrive, but was trying to be more portable (and clever!) about working between the laptop at the café and my pc at home and having lots of half completed files spread between them.   Guess being too clever can be a problem as well.   (smiles)

Maybe it disappeared into the cracks of the green couch, or between floorboards, or…. Maybe Mary disapproved of my thoughts for that week….and removed the whole drive.  I had been immersed in deep thoughts about death and dying, so maybe the missing blog is but a gentle hint that I was on the wrong track with my thoughts. 

A death in our immediate family has left me pondering the subject, the elusive nature of life and the mystery of the spirit and life beyond.   I have my beliefs formed over many decades of listening and seeing beyond the physical, of realizing there is more to just about everything in life (and death), than meets the eye.    Mary certainly would agree with me on that, and then some.   After all, beyond the Hollywood definition of ghosts, it really is about energy, and the connections between the soul and the source, and the souls’ journey through space and time…. These energy bonds are not so much about haunting a building but communicating and connecting with people from the other side, just as a radio transmitter connects via radio waves to the various receivers.   I have felt this time after time, but most recently in the past few weeks.  Within hours of the shock passing of someone who had been in my life, and my family’s life, for a very long time, I stood on the verandah of his home, in the early hours of the morning, still reeling with the chaos of such a sudden ending.   I felt the night wind in my face, and the roar of the ocean in my ears.   “Where are you?” I asked quietly, from the depths of my confusion and turmoil to the serenity of the universe.

“I am everywhere” came the reply.   And so I believed.

At the funeral of my brother in law, I was moved by the turnout of people from so many different demographics.   As I sat there, feeling the deep shock and numbness of unexpected loss all around me, and supporting the loved ones beside me, I could not help but be moved by the sight of all these people – REAL people – who had come together to honour this humble, seemingly ordinary man who had touched their lives in countless ways.   In all the tears, the broken faces and shuffling footsteps, an image arose, strong and true, that I was witnessing something more, a lesson to consider. 

How do we measure the success of a life?  What marks or heralds us as having a successful life?   Is it the physical good looks or beauty we have displayed?  Is it in the power we have attained, or the wealth and riches we have acquired?  Is it even in the work we have done or the fame and glory we might have been granted?   No.   The answer was there before me – the sign of a truly great life – was in this gathering of REAL people whose lives had been touched by one man’s journey, a life that had inspired them in some way – great or small, or given them something that they could take away with them and cherish for the rest of their lives, be it stories, smiles, laughter, tears and memories.  It was who he was, the human essence of self, that in living, had created in others a seed of shared humanity that would see him continue to “be”, even though he was no longer physically there.  So in that moment I too felt inspired that perhaps all any of us had to aspire to in this life, was simply to be a good person, to love and BE OURSELVES, and to share kindness, laughter, tears and stories with those who touched upon our lives.    And leave behind us a trail of our humanity.    It was for me, a beautiful experience to see a life so truly acknowledged that more than tears, the day became about laughter and appreciation and a celebration of the humble man who was no longer with us in the physical sense.   As we went on to share a meal and drinks at a local hotel, the symbolism of a wake also seemed so powerful – like the waves behind a powerful boat – one life moved away from us at a speed we could not keep up with, and the love and laughter, tears, stories and memories rose and surged, racing along behind his passing like a guard of honour and love.

Of course, I had spent a good part of that Wednesday in the café  sharing bad jokes with staff and customers about the music playing in the tearooms.  That could also have offended someone “out there” – the spirit of fifties music perhaps?   And that too, may have caused my journal to disappear….

“Hoop de doo, hoop de doo, I hear a polka and my troubles are through!”   What can I say?   The music of Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Rosemary Clooney…… classics from my parent’s era drift around the tearooms constantly.  Most times it is background music but every now and then it seems to burst through to the conscious mind, demanding attention, and either has you cringing, laughing or singing along.  

“It’s tragic!” says Brenda with a straight face that hides a tongue in cheek smile behind the words.   “This music is tragic”….and we all burst out laughing.   It’s so old and yet quaint that somehow it brings forth smiles, or comments like “… I remember that music from……” or  “What movie was that in?”  … or the staff burst into song at odd moments along with the old tunes.  But somehow it seems to fit the old world feel of the Tearooms.  It is “vintage!”  I can almost hear the scratchy sound of an old wireless radio crackling in the corner and expect to hear the ABC/BBC news erupting in sober tones between songs……

And in keeping with the music, some classic pearls from the café patrons…..

Roses are red

Violets are purple.

Sugar is sweet,

And so is maple surple.

(John)

Mary had a little lamb

Its fleece was black as soot,

And into Mary’s home made jam

His sooty foot he put….

 

(My lovely Grandma Daisy taught me this – Daisy Riley 1899-1995)

Ps  I just can’t write the one my Dad taught me!!!

Celia

 

(why not Celia?  LOL)

 

 Ahh – that brought back wonderful memories for me of my own Grandmother from the same era, who also shared that particular poem, and many others that were such fun to myself and the other grandkids.   It does make me wonder now we have, or will one day have, our own grandchildren, just what poems and jokes will we leave with them?

Here I will add one that my Grandmother and also my Dad used to tell us when we were little…..

“The lightning flashed,

The thunder roared

And all the world was shaken.

The little pig

Curled up his tail,

And ran to save his bacon”

 

 

More inspirations and thoughts from our Café patrons over the week…

When you’re sitting by the sea

There’s nothing like a cup of tea

A cosy fire, a luscious cake,

With poetry does me happy make.

(Mary  9th June 2011)

Ps why don’t you advertise your poetry sessions at Tom Collins House in Swanbourne,Perth?

What a wonderful café!

First vintage clothing

And now a vintage tearoom!

 

 

 

“In the beginning God made man – after that there were a lot of mistakes.”

(Dan:  9th June in the year of our lord 2011)

 

Hah! Dan…and I thought that first one was the draft only before He perfected the plan.  LOL

There once were three girls going campin’

They had their boots ready for trampin’

They packed up the car,

They were goin’ so far,

Lots of eatin’ and walkin’ and snorklin’!!

 

(17th June 2011 lunch break during final shopping day for a BIG five week trip up North)

 

Hey Girls…..that sounds like a dream trip.  Hope you have fun and drop back into the Café to share some stories upon your return!

Resting..

After 18 years cancer has sprouted anew.

Now it has a companion on the other eyelid.

I am resting after the biopsies.

Resting until I need to arrange

for new eyelids, cancer free,

and have some more creative priorities.

Listening.

Friendly women’s chat,

All I hear is the burble,

Business instructions – close by –

This is when I paid the wages –

Paid on Monday.

The student makes notes.

Did you just circle that?

I did.

Before me is the circle

Of coffee foam with a

Curvy leaf drawn…

 

 

It never fails to move me at the very human stories that pass through the tearooms … the stories on their way somewhere that simply pause to take in a bit more of life amid a little self kindness over a cup of tea or coffee.   To the person who sat pondering these things, I wish I could have shared that circle with you, but I see that you are a poet and appreciator of the little things that make up the grandness of life.  I wish you wellbeing and more gentle moments of self reflection and indulgence at the tearooms…..

 

Ahh!  Here I sit as I gaze with witless renoun (sic)

Thereupon the traffic as it glides past the window,

Window to the soul,

Soul of life.

Holiday,

Gazing at the eagles,

The eagle eyed parrot,

Hovering, gliding,

Muffin with knife,

Sand beach,

Glazed turkey.

Here I sit,

Afore I continue on my journey…

(T Ronald  9th June 2011)

 

 

Aaah indeed.  Those precious moments of self reflection, just sitting in the moment and watching life unfold around you, with your self at the heart, a silent witness … all in the comfort of a loving energy filled space like this little café.    We should all make ourselves do such things on a regular basis so that we get to know our own life better and appreciate our place in it with greater acceptance.

I know I do.   (smiles)


Folding Truth

 

Folding Truth

I read between the lines
And glimpse the many colours that are shadowed within,
So hard to fold one’s truth
Into such tiny places.
But that is the way life’s laundry gets placed,
The sunshine folded into sheets
And stored within lines for a rainy tomorrow.
Minute corners of comfort
Protrude between the lines of our story
Year after year after year.

Today, I pull the blanket of truth
From its hidden place
And shake out its many folds,
Unfurling its colours to the wind,
Airing the frays and tears in the
Interwoven threads of a soul’s journey.
I spread it on the Earth,
A multi-coloured landscape
A resting place to come home to
A place to lay a weary body.
I take the well worn edges and draw its
Heavy warmth around my trembling shoulders.
Fingers feel the softness and touch with tenderness
That which is constant.
Like a child enswathed, hidden and safe,
I fold myself in the comfort of truth
And close my eyes.

There are wide spaces between the lines now
And I glimpsed the tattered edges
Of your truth hiding there.
It is time for you to take out your blanket
Caress with love its tears and frays,
Wrap it around your shoulders
To keep the cold at bay.

Is it possible
That we can appreciate the beauty of another’s blanket?
In the dark night of our journey
When the lines drift free with no space in between,
Can we feel the warmth and wonder
In the folds of each other’s truth.

 

(Wendy Slee)


Silence

SILENCE

Silence speaks, in volumes that ripple their thick base notes across the surface of my heart.

In silence swims the essence of memory, a slippery persistent fish, nibbling nerve endings of raw, familiar sorrows.

Silence rains with the gentle patter of teardrops against the windows of my dreams.

Oh, silence, too heavy to bear, so cruel a curse, the weapon of choice for a fearful soul. Silence, the sound of fear and woundedness, it cringes in the shadows, and torments itself.

Silence trembles waiting in the doorway, afraid to take that next small step, a limbic dance between then and now.

Silence, the humbling voice of truth, echoes across self deception, and is heard in the cold glassy voice of mirrors past and present, mirrors I have known and loved. self consciously reflecting what it hurts too much to hear.

Silence is the vacuum, a pulsing void of the unknown waiting to become known. Listen… as silence speaks, It is the language of the dead whispering secrets across the veil, icy words to remind and haunt, elusive answers dangling between unspoken lines.

Silence speaks in sameness, in difference,
Indifference,

Silence stands alone without keys to break its own code, an insurmountable wall, a deafening presence. Yet Silence at its worst cannot survive without the spirit of another to shine light into its darkness and kiss meaning onto its cold lips.

But silence has its sunset and sunrise.
It is the falling sun, and the awakening moon.
Listen…
Silence holds a music of its own,
It dances in the light
And rings with hope,
Like birdsong in the dark hours
Before dawn.

Silence is a gift,
A healing touch…
A solace to the mind;
The herald of the now.

Silence,
An affirmation of distance,
Invisible hands that push away,
Yet in a change of heart
A beckoning of souls,
The drawing near
Of intimacy,
A holy communion.

Silence bristles with passion,
The connecting force
That vibrates the chords
Between two hearts,
A living entity,
Rich with meaning.

Listen…
Silence with soul, breathes
The song of the living,
The turn of the seasons,
The waiting breath for a baby’s cry,
The resting place for a body
Whose being walks another plane.

Silence holds power.
The Master musician knows.
In that instant between two notes
The silence dwells,
Defines their diversity and
Enhances the beauty of their union.

Silence is the tide
Between all islands,
A portent of emotion,
The song of the heavens,
And the swell of the heart,
Silence, whose connecting force
Tunes the keys of all instruments,
Lives, and its unsung harmony endures
Beyond life’s symphony, through the final curtain fall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Come In Out of the Cold …

 Wednesday 25th May 2011  

The aroma of home made soup drifts across the road to the car park to greet me as I unpack my gear from the car.  It is like a sensory welcome “home” reaching out along the street to call anyone within range.  “Come in out of the cold.”   And while it is still quite balmy weather for this late in Autumn, the hint of chill in the wind reminds us that Winter is almost upon us and the comfort days of soup and hot fires are imminent.  And I have to say, there is no better place to indulge in such comfort than by the fire at the Old Post Office Tearooms.

How like soup, such humble fare, to still have the power to evoke all kinds of memories and feelings from so many corners of our lives, not the least of which  is “home”.    Who can forget the healing warmth of chicken soup, or the rich depth of pea and ham, the stuff that true sustenance is made of!   Can you remember the soup that your Mother used to make?   Or your grandmother?   There is something quite symbolic about placing so many tiny elements together to create something new, something even tastier or grander than the sum of its components…   Today’s offering – sweet potato, carrot and ginger soup with it’s cashew nut cream and coriander topping is a mouthwatering invitation to anyone walking past, to come into the warmth of the Cafe.

And so I do.   But lucky me, I get to be here in this warmth and home-ness for many hours today, to soak it up on all levels and just sit quietly with my thoughts.

A Place of My Own

I have smugly grabbed the “green couch”, because that is the perfect home away from home.   Lumpy, deep, soft – the kind of couch you really DO have trouble getting out of, not just because it’s set low, but because it is so homely and comforting, your body defies any commands to rise and leave.    This is where I will spend my time with laptop and notepad today, while inhaling the aromas from the kitchen.

Kind Hearts and Good Food

The girls are incredibly busy.   Brenda is away, and Caitlin and Heidi are running back and forth, weaving in and out of the tiny kitchen and the throng of customers, with a sense of purpose, yet calm.   I admire people who can remain so serene with the pressure of many waiting for their attention.   If it was me, I would be feeling a little stressed, right about now!   But waiting does not seem to be a problem here…it is a gift.  To me, waiting is part of the joy of just sitting in this lovely old building, taking in the energies of an establishment that produces all of its fare “with love” together with so many pieces of history and art, all brewed together, like soup, if you will, and served up in the warm bowl of the present moment.     I would not wish to be waiting anywhere else!  

There are quite a few little notes laying on the tables today.   People HAVE picked up the pens and notepads I left here last week and shared a few thoughts…. Humorous, whimsical, reflective or otherwise… just little pieces of their stories as they pass through here.    Little folds of someone’s truth, if you will….

“Roses are red, violets are blue,

So goes the age old rhyme;

But I know violets are red, and roses are blue –

I’ve seen them hanging on the line.”

 

A Red Teapot and a few Words

“With a bright cheery red pot to keep me company,

My back is warmed by the fire and company.

Baked spud!!!!  

Yummm”

 (SJW)

 

“I know you believe you heard what you thought I’d said,

But I’m not sure if you realise that what you heard is not what I meant”

Work this out!!!

(Edie and Dot)

Lovingly Prepared Hot Food

“Cosy, nice place

With delicious, warm food.

A great start to our holiday”

(Dominic and Yoke May,  KL, Malaysia)

 

“Sydney I tell of

the bays, the oceans,

Where ideas splash and children laugh;

And tell of the biggest coffee cup

That I drank in the Old Post Office

In Busselton”

(Liz Ryan)

 

Reflecting

She sits by the fire with her damp hair from the rain,

Gazing  out the French windows,

As her feet warm through her patent leather shoes

By the fire.

She daydreams of her son’s wedding as

Cars hurry by in the rain.

Soup is served,

Music plays the flower duet.

She sighs and thinks ‘this reminds me of England’

And says out loud ‘gee, I miss my Dad.”

 

(Heidi)

 

Smile.

Be happy.       

A Delicious Gift

Do I confess what I ate here today?   I am not sure if this will be a good habit to get into, because anyone reading might assume far too much about me.   But the chocolate cake…..sigh….. the chocolate cake………    need I say more?

As I pack up my things to leave, a customer rushes back into the counter to say goodbye to the girls….. “Thank you” she says, “That was the most beautiful soup I have ever had – I was so cold and it has warmed me thoroughly.”  

And so it is.

 (smiles)

 

 

 

 

FOLDING TRUTH

I read between the lines
And glimpse the many colours that are shadowed within
So hard to fold one’s truth
Into such tiny places.
But that is the way life’s laundry gets placed,
The sunshine folded into sheets
And stored within lines for a rainy tomorrow.
Minute corners of comfort
Protrude between the lines of our story
Year after year after year.
Today, I pull the blanket of truth
From its hidden place
And shake out its many folds,
Unfurling its colours to the wind,
Airing the frays and tears in the
Interwoven threads of a soul’s journey.
I spread it on the Earth,
A multi-coloured landscape
A resting place to come home to
A place to lay a weary body.
I take the well worn edges and draw its
Heavy warmth around my trembling shoulders.
Fingers feel the softness and touch with tenderness
That which is constant.
Like a child enswathed, hidden and safe,
I fold myself in the comfort of truth
And close my eyes.

There are wide spaces between the lines now
And I glimpsed the tattered edges
Of your truth hiding there.
It is time for you to take out your blanket
Caress with love its tears and frays,
Wrap it around your shoulders
To keep the cold at bay.

Is it possible
That we can appreciate the beauty of another’s blanket?
In the dark night of our journey
When the lines drift free with no space in between,
Can we feel the warmth and wonder
In the folds of each other’s truth?

(wendy slee)


Hope

HOPE

Hope still walks beside me on the road
Her gentle company eases the miles
And lightens the load a little.
On days of unwashed clothes and unkempt hair
She sometimes seems a little unprepared,
Yet mismatched shoes can still skip
And callused hands can still warm to the touch
Of love’s tender potential.
Some days her mind seems elsewhere
But when our eyes meet,
She is quick to smile,
And through her windows
The light burns brightly
For anyone who cares to share.
Hope is never pretty
But always beautiful,
She is a silhouette in an open doorway,
A soft touch as sleep dissolves
A memory that lingers in the folds of your heart.
She is the exhale of a sigh,
The softening of shoulders
To imagined caress,
The trickle of water at the source
Of a mighty river.
Hope never looks in the mirror,
Indeed, she looks beyond,
For she holds her own reflection
In a place I have yet to find.
Sometimes weary,
She falls behind,
Engulfed in the shadows of the past;
Sits down to rest in the settling dust.
A time-worn traveller, she fades from my view
As I continue on unaware.
Somewhere in the chill
I miss her hand in mine
And sit down by the roadside to wait.
In the stillness,
The road continues to pass me by
Regardless,
And if I close my eyes I can be
Wherever I wish to go and whomever
I choose to be,
Yet somehow the one I open my eyes to
Is me.
In these fragile precious moments
When quiet enters me and wraps my soul
In the solace of silence
And the road has lost its urgency,
I look up to find her standing there.
We hug
Old friends,
The holding hands, continue on our way.
Some days Hope takes her own path,
But most days, she still walks beside me.
She lives in me
And I live in Hope…