BRUNELLA
BeE
SHERRY
Coming soon
Meditation bathtub.
My eyes close,
Ears below the water,
I begin to meditate.
The only sound
my heart.
My brain slows down,
My soul knows when it's ready.
Then it begins,
Like little gifts,
Words, colours,
Compositions rise up from the warmth,
I keep a notebook
On a chair beside the tub
I must not let this beautiful creativity evaporate with the steam,
As it escapes when I open the door.
Try not to be a colourless Flamingo.
I read somewhere,
Flamingos get their vibrant pink from their nutrition and environment,
I saw some once, in the zoo, in London,
They looked so pale and forlorn.
They shouldn't have been there,
They ought to have been in the wild,
Soaking up every ounce of goodness.
I remember thinking people are like colourless flamingos at times,
When they are void of spiritual nourishment.
I thought it is life saving to walk away from people and places that drain your inner peace.
It was many years ago I witnessed those flamingos in captivity.
I will never forget them,
I like to imagine they flew up and away to freedom,
Back to the warmth and wild.
Slowly every shade of pink and orange,
Would fill their fabulous plumage,
I fall asleep sometimes
Imagining the restoration of their joy.
Oil paint.
I like all sorts of paint,
However I have a wee soft spot for oil paint.
Reminds me of two other fantastic creations
Olive oil and butter.
Initially softly I go,
Then as I progress
Squelch!
Out it all comes!
Transports my mind to another time.
Connects me to painters of the past. I love that.
Slow to dry
Slows whizzing thoughts right down.
One looks forward to the impromptu brushstrokes that happen along the way.
They are fortuitous.
From that tube,
which is easier to squeeze in the summer time
Especially in Ireland,
To my hand and brush,
Together with my head and heart,
I take a deep breath,
I ask God to stay with me,
As I continue to paint
My story.
Peace.
Whilst one sips their first cuppa,
The house should be quiet.
Before anyone else stirs,
So quiet,
You'd think no one in the entire world had stirred.
Peace.
When a brave woman brings life into this world,
A tranquil environment is imperative
Everyone around her
Having an energy of strength and calm.
Setting the tone for the child's life.
Peace.
Schools evoking encouragement and reassurance
The architecture and design,
Every detail thought of to promote wellness
Where creative ideas thrive,
Negativity is given no chance to survive.
Sunlight flooding in through large windows,
Both stimulating and soothing young minds,
Peace.
Why do most of us go through life forgetting that which is vital,
Until we reach middle age and reflect,
Peace is fundamental to all of us,
We must have it everyday,
It is utterly priceless,
Please,
Let there be PEACE.
A posh perch for a pigeon.
I past an intriguing street recently, where there were a few houses missing in the middle.
I was enchanted by
an antique fire place.
At the top of the building
At the side of a wall.
The fire place was rather ornate.
If was in the bedroom,
Whoever lived there,
A hundred years ago or so,
Had a few shillings.
I wonder who they were,
What they did,
And did they love,
Being snug,
On a rug.
In front of that fireplace,
As much as I would.
Did they write letters,
Read books,
Hang lots of pictures
On lots of hooks.
Did they have embellished wallpaper
That would have complimented
that adorable fireplace.
I'm guessing they had mostly great times in that room.
In the present day,
A posh looking pigeon
has made the vintage fire place
it's home.
I stand for quite a while
staring at the beauty of the pigeon
Protecting her home,
When the sun makes an appearance
Between clouds
It highlights the metallic purple and green on the pigeons neck,
Set against the mustard old gold colour on fragments of the fireplace,
I have to say,
I could have stood there
All day.
PESTO
As soon as I inhale the aroma of pesto,
A good pesto,
I am transported back,
To a country I left part of my heart.
Beautiful Italy.
A flurry of memories rush back to me.
In every city I felt at home amongst its ancient walls.
I can still smell the mixture of spices and moisture
heavy in the Venetian air.
I remember it was in the autumn
As the summer faded
(Although it still felt a lot like summer compared to Ireland at the same time of year!)
I made my way across saint Marks square.
I recall the artists supply shop in Venice.
The shop looked like an apothecary.
An atmospheric place filled with huge bell jars.
The place looked like it hadn't changed since the Italian masters frequented it.
I imagined them buying their precious powdered pigments,
Then clutching the wax pouches like gold dust,
and back to their studios they returned,
mixing the pigment with some oil
with breath holding precision they made the application to canvas.
Or possibly blended with stucco
when creating frescoes.
With hazy sunshine streaming in through dainty windows,
I imagined the edge of their cloak almost getting caught in the frame of the door on their way out.
Another time in Italy I vividly recall sitting opposite the Duomo in Florence.
Sat beside an ornate heavy door.
In a trance I watch people to my hearts content.
There's a constant flow of chatter
But it's not intrusive,
And the occasional almost musical sound of a coffee cup
On the marble top at the bar.
The cobbled stones outside are raised like perfect individual puff pastries
Then, the sudden drama of a thunderstorm,
Such theatre.
I order one more espresso,
By the time I am ready to leave, the sun has reappeared,
And dried everything.
I make my way through the maze of narrow streets, the steam still rising slightly from the cobbles,
It takes hours, as I study windows filled with fashion, food and art.
Glossy bags tied with ribbon at the top,
A whole spectrum of colours.
Pink candy stripes,
Splashes of mustard,
and egg yolk yellow,
Far too pretty to eat.
Rome, Sicily, Sardinia, Puglia, Florence, and lots of towns and villages in between,
All make me think of soul soothing memories.
It's amazing what the smell of good fresh pesto can conjure up! ha!
Laugh.
Go on laugh!
Laugh at yourself,
Laugh at me,
As my grandfather used to say,
Let them laugh, isn't it great to see people laughing.
Laugh at life's absurdity,
Laugh at the funny little things people say.
I heard a lady once in a cafe say,
I can get three cups out of one bag,
Then she pulled a proud lip.
Laugh at the light things that happen,
Like the other day I saw a young chap who was immersed in his music miss the kerb.
He got there in the end,
I only laughed because he hadn't fallen,
It was also amusing how he looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
For the rest of my life I intend to laugh more,
God knows I have shed enough tears.
Laughter,
The magical elixir of life,
Elixir, in ancient times meant,
A potion for healing wounds,
So my friends when you are going through the storm
Laughter
Even a little bit
Will get you the other side of it.
When the petals fall.
We all need someone to be there when the petals fall.
When challenges arise,
More often than not,
They come as a surprise.
The years disappear like petals falling to the ground,
Not a whisper,
Not a sound.
That someone who will be there,
Will come in all shapes and sizes,
All that matters is,
Their sincerity shows no guises.
When life is incredibly tough,
I often think,
Had I been given a choice
I would never have agreed to this.
But when it is beyond beautiful,
My gratitude floats up like a balloon,
Before it goes pop,
You can hear it hiss!
Snow.
I shared a flat once with a doctor from India.
She said she came from the hottest part of India,
I thought
That is hot.
The two of us were looking out through the flat window in London
When the snow began to fall.
She screamed with happiness
And then so did I.
This lovely soul had never seen snow before.
I explained to her that snow was more probable
in Scotland and Ireland.
Every time a flake gently fell on the window ledge,
Or fleetingly clung to the glass and then made its way to a surface,
Her eyes became wider and more sparkly.
I will never forget that shared experience and what a privilege it was
To watch her
Watching the snow.
The man in the raspberry velvet suit.
Go for a long walk any chance you get,
Especially in early spring.
You might see
not one
but two
plump bumblebees
Getting ready to do their thing.
You might see a man
Who never left the nineteen seventies,
I wish I had been an adult then,
This man has long flowing white hair and a floppy hat.
Raspberry velvet suit,
Carrying a bunch of white roses.
Singing to himself,
I wanted to hug him,
he was so free.
Sometimes I do tell strangers how brave and brilliant they are.
As you continue on your long walk you might see a cute potted Christmas tree outside a restaurant,
I bet the owner thought
That's too pretty to not be there, no matter the season.
You'll notice little ones out and about more,
Their mothers gently let their small faces get some sunlight,
After a long winter of keeping them tucked up and cosy.
Their tiny lungs are filled with fresh air,
As fresh as it can be these days.
Thinking again about the man in the suit,
I wonder if he was taking those roses to someone special,
Or was he taking them home to paint them,
Listen to cool music and stay calm,
In his stylish space.
Mr Bradley
Ice cream melting
on a summers day,
Mr Bradley said,
When someone in the classroom asked,
What was the right consistency for paint.
I was sixteen.
In his classroom,
I felt safe,
Surpremely happy,
Total contentment.
He let me breathe.
He gave me the time and space
To try to understand
myself.
Mr Eamon Bradley,
Gave guidance and knowledge,
Then he kindly gave us the freedom,
To explore,
To grow.
Has he observed,
Us figuring things out,
For ourselves.
He intelligently knew,
That there are many layers
To learning.
His gentle presence,
Was always felt.
If you had frustration,
He calmly helped you unravel it.
I can still see myself,
Sat at that corner table,
The window behind me,
Pencils and paint,
Scattered across,
Huge sheets of paper.
Then time stopped.
And I began,
To make lines,
Scribbles,
Shapes,
Ideas started to dance on the page.
Every so often,
I'd look up to see where
my remarkable teacher was in the room,
A couple of times
He looked over his glasses and said
You're doing great,
Keep going,
I feel his spirit,
Says that to me
Still.
How old is the moon?
The moon is billions of years old.
How many people during that time
have looked at the moon,
With a heavy heart.
Before they place their weary head on their pillow.
Blessed if they have a pillow.
How many people have got lost in the mesmerising beauty of the moon.
Hoping they would see the sun the following day.
Or even prayed they would see cloud.
Molten debris formed the moon,
After it collided with the earth.
The broken pieces pulled together,
To create the spectacle that is the moon.
Is it even more impressive knowing that,
I certainly think so.
I gaze at it tonight,
Drawing on the last ounce of strength,
I have left.
I would love to be a child again.
But I can't.
I can however,
Try to imagine the curiosity of a child,
The enthusiasm,
Not thinking of fear,
Only possibility.
I cling to that.
I think of all the billions of people who've clung to hope, when going through hard times.
I lay my head on my pillow,
I close my eyes,
The image of the moon with its peach glow like it had tonight,
Hugs me.