BRUNELLA
BeE
SHERRY
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 mustn’t 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 a zoo,
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 one must walk away from people and places that drain their inner peace.
It was many years ago I witnessed the sadness of 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,
Filled their fabulous plumage,
I fall asleep sometimes,
Imagining the restoration of their joy.
Oil paint.
Reminds me of two other fabulous 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 thinking right down.
One looks forward to the impromptu brushstrokes that happen along the way,
They are fortuitous.
From that little tube,
To my hand,
Almost rhythmically.
Together with my head and heart,
I take a deep breath,
I ask God to stay with me,
As I continue to paint,
Paint my story
Peace.
Whilst one sips their first cuppa,
The house should be quiet,
Before anyone else stirs,
So quiet you’d think that 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 supplying strength and calm,
Setting the tone for the child’s life,
Peace.
Schools evoking encouragement, and reassurance.
The design and the layout,
Where creative ideas thrive,
Negativity 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,
After so many wasted years surrounded by noise.
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.
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.
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 say in a cafe once,
“ I can get three cups out of one bag”
Then she pulled a proud lip.
Laugh at the light hearted things that happen,
Like yesterday I saw a young chap who was walking along, miss the kerb.
He was immersed in his music.
He got there in the end,
I only laughed because he hadn’t hurt himself.
It also amusing how he looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
For the rest of my life I intend to laugh more.
Laughter,
The magical elixir of life.
Elixir, in ancient times meant,
A potion for healing wounds.
So my friends when you’re 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.
A small sample of my writing. Loads more to come from the library of my soul 😌