4am and dreaming

4am and dreaming

I want to sail on a chocolate ship

Into an ocean of mystery

I want to drown in a thousand sunsets

And float on a cloud in the galaxy

I want to visit a land of dreams

that come true in the blink of an eye

Where black and white, yellow, pink and blue

Are living in harmony

I want, I want, I want, I want

A summer to last forever

I want the snow to be deep and white

Autumn leaves on the ground piled high

The seasons shared in a single day

And the children touching the sky

Give me a land of make believe

Let me float on a tropical sea

Take me away from the daily news

Far, far from reality

I want to be off in a syrupy spiral

That’s spinning in fantasy

Bouncing me off this complex planet

To an imagined simplicity

I want to shed all of my clothes

and dance to the haunting tune

Of a zillion cicada’s tymbals

Thundering under the moon

Come along, come along hold hands round the world

And let’s all embrace one another

Come share the dream of shalom for one day

Mothers, fathers, daughters, sisters, uncles and brother

I want to sail on a chocolate ship ……………….



IMAGINE

Imagine

Imagine sang John Lennon

Imagine, I thought.

Just imagine if my Edward Hopper was real

Do you know Edward Hopper?

I’m sure you do even if you think you don’t.

American artist – sombre, lonely works with strong colours

And more in them than at first meets the eye

Jack Vettriano would give his eye-teeth to have Hopper’s gift.

But anyway back to the point.

The point being Portland Head by Edward Hopper

And the fact that it’s now on my wall

And it’s signed – well sort of –

‘Edward Hopper’ in the right-hand corner.

It shows a lighthouse.

Right next to that is a New England homestead

With its chestnut-coloured roof

Golden sun-weathered grass all around

Sky, sea, earth’s curve.

Who lives there?  Who lived there?

We went to Portland once.  It’s in Maine.

We saw the lighthouse, the very spot

And now it’s here in our living room.

Perhaps we’re drawn into this painting because of family

They live in New England – Boston, Martha’s Vineyard,

I think of Gay Head and its pinkish lighthouse

And tufty grass.

I think of our much-loved Island of Anglesey as I look at the painting.

Penmon point, Puffin Island, Holyhead lighthouse.

The Hopper on the wall continually drawing me in -

Captivating with those watercolours.

I can’t concentrate on reading my book or watching TV

I paid £15.  Imagine fifteen pounds.  

It’s a print from the charity shop. 

It’s big, very big.  Maybe 3.1/2 feet by 2.1/2 feet

But it looks wonderful.   It looks real.

Imagine if it was.  But would I love it more?

I don't think so.

Journal 18th February 2011

Friday 18th February 2011 – from my Journal

Often as I sit at my computer I also knit which I do today.   The yarn is beautiful – a mixture of purples and greens and will eventually be a V-neck sweater for me.

I think about my girls – Kate and family are in Mexico on hols for the week.  Sian rang me yesterday and made me laugh as she often does.   Steve’s sister Judy rings and we talk about my father-in-law who is once again in hospital.  It’s his 90^th birthday on Sunday and we make plans to take in the cake I’ve made and have some champagne.  I am not much of a baker and so hope that the cake doesn’t “do” for him finally!

I continue with my knitting and start to read another Doris Lessing book – it’s inscribed inside with “Love to mom/Winter ’93/Meike & Philip”  and it was from my brother and his wife and I held on to it when clearing out mum’s flat following her death last year.

At the same time I am listening, with one ear as they say, to Last Word on Radio4 and the first person they discuss is George Shearing who died age 91 this week – blind since birth and a much revered musician and composer.

The next I know is a voice shouting “anyone home” – it’s Steve and he comes in from a days’ golf smelling all outsidey and freshairy.   He’s not played well but seems quite cheerful which is nice.

I hear something of the world news on the radio – protests in Bahrain so I shall go and prep the curry so we can watch Jon Snow on Channel 4 News – the only one we rate – at 7pm.  And maybe later have a glass of red wine, close the curtains, turn up the heat and watch a film.

 

Razor Fish

Worm casts, conch shells, seaweed and fishy smells

Salty taste upon my tongue, huge white gull’s discordant song
Oily black, Common Shag,  Mermaids purse, Poly-bag
Razor fish and jelly fish, translucent, wobbly squashy-squish.
Slap of wave, Pepsi-can, at water’s edge, lone fisherman.
October sun, Turner sky, migrating swallows flying high.
A million pebbles, grey, blue and white
Will mermaids dance on them tonight?

The Gate to Nowhere

The Gate to Nowhere

Just by the gate the white hydrangea’s petals blush pink
with September’s arrival.
Its leaves bronze-tipped.
...
I am an orphan.

The still fiery montbretia is now past its best
As a robin all beady eyes and matchstick legs
approaches my garden bench,
quite fearless

I am an orphan.

Crows are caw-cawing
Blackbirds hitting all the right notes
Each garden bird competes in this teatime extravaganza
I find it beautiful – if melancholic.

And then just as if a baton-wielding bird demands finale
There is silence.

My robin has stayed and bobs on the lawn before me.
Come, come he jerkily seems to say
You’re a mother, a wife, a grandmother –
nothing odd about not having parents at your age.

So you’re an orphan.

I feel autumn in the air
In the rose-hips, in the dank smells
I can see the mighty Snowdonia range
dark grey and velvety.

The little gate,
there at the corner of my garden
Behind the silver birch
Is a gate to nowhere.

I found it lying around nine years ago
On our arrival at the cottage
I liked it – I liked its weight
So I painted it, in that colour
The colour that’s so “in” these days.
Eau-de-nil, water of the Nile
And propped it up in the corner.

There’s something of the Narnia about it to me
I sit and look
I think if I go through it will the hurt cease?
Will the taut muscles relax?
Will it be all wonderful and white, white, white?

Come, come my gate beckons …

But no, not today, my journey’s
far from over.
I’ve many miles to go
And the robin, the thrush, the blackbirds will sing
They’ll sing through the autumn, the winter
And then they’ll herald spring again.

My God is ......



My God is vermillion, violet, magenta
Orange, yellow, green, blue, azure.
My God is all colours.
My God is white as the falling snow.

My God is every lovely, perfect fragrance -
Myrrh, frankincense, mint, cinnamon
Jasmine, honeysuckle, baby's breath,
Roses and fennel and saffron

My God is every brilliant and precious jewel -
Jasper, diamonds, emeralds, lapis lazuli
Garnets, sapphires, rubies, topaz, amethysts
And opals and pearls - sparkling and priceless

My God is each element, the earth, wind and fire
My God is the rain, the rivers, the sea, the stars
The sun, the moon and every grain of sand.
He is the bright morning star
He is the crystal river of life.

My God is the lushest grass
The bluest sky, the highest mountains
The reddest blood, the deepest ocean.
My God is refined gold and lustrous silver.
The strongest iron and the most durable marble.

My God is the vine, the oak tree
The cedar of Lebanon, the ash

The palm and acacia
The chestnut, willow and ebony

The birch and the beech tree

He is the tree of Life

My God is the sweetest fruit
The finest wine
The most spectacular vista
The purest song
The most sumptuous feast
The loveliest flower
My God is the never-ending journey

My God is flesh
My God is spirit
My God is all things
My God is the greatest gift of all gifts.

Meg Marsden copyright

Moon Musings

Moon Musings

The moon looked everso heavy last night

It looked really huge and so round

It looked as though it might possibly fall

And bounce along on the ground

It looked like it shone just for Poynton

No, it looked like it shone just for me

It didn’t seem like a moon far away

But a golden rare fruit on a tree

I thought about stretching my hand right out

To try and to pinch it’s round cheek

 But as I drove along in my auto

It cunningly played hide and seek

One moment was there and then disappeared

The next was a beautiful light

I think I should leave it just where it is

Or should I just take a big bite?

Sky Dressing

Sky dressing

Fold me in your turquoise sky

Wrap me in your gold

On my feet those creamy clouds

I’m never growing old

Charcoal on my fingertips

In my hair some purple streaks

Evening’s scarlet for my lips

Amber locks and widow’s peak

Around my neck fine wisps of white

Upon my lids some silver stars

Lighting up the darkest night

Venus, Jupiter and Mars

Fold me in your turquoise sky

Just look up and watch me fly

FRIDAY NIGHTS

FRIDAY NIGHTS

Dolly-mixture daddy
With our Friday-night treats
With your world-weary eyes
And your sweet, beery breath
...
“Hello Mary dear”, you call down the hall
“And how are you my love?”
As you lay your clumsy hand
On our tired mum’s back

Eggs are fried briskly, bacon flipped
But there’s tension in her moves
Our dad’s a little silly
Our mum is not
Mum’s just tired with her life’s lot!

Sit down soppy daddy
As we lie on our bellies
Sit down dad as we squabble over sweets
Sit down Bill here’s your tray - Your Friday fry-up
And here’s your Daddie's sauce
At the end of the week.

Meg Marsden copyright

Who is Sylvia, what is she?

For Sylvia   (Sylvia Plath died 11^th February 1963.)

The freezing, icy winter’s breath

The snow of ‘63

It pained your heart, your bones, your flesh

That isolating February.

With blood-red lips you’d bit his cheek

And he’d set free your hair

How could you then destroy his books?

How could he just have left you there?

Impassioned, magic Sylvia

So fierce, so strong, so hurt

You wrote the poems one on one

Your captivating verse.

  

If it had been a summer’s day

Perhaps, perhaps, maybe

Some gentle warmth would melt the pain

Release the grip of agony.

And when we hear recordings

Your voice all round and strong

The English cadences ring-ring

Yet fifty years have gone.

For fifty years your poetry

Black lakes, red roses, blood

You gifted us your legacy

Word drenching, blesséd flood.

Meg Marsden copyright

When Alice met Dorothy

She looks up and there are garnets

embedded in the sky

Ten rubies in her toenails

A purple egret flying by

Her thoughts are all encased

in rainbow bubbles overhead

And there’s a polar bear in jim-jams

Just lying there in bed

      

The swan is all benevolence

Upon its silvery pond

And waves its gilded wings at her

As she makes her way along

the winding path of diamonds

All studded in the ground

And she hears the sound of angels

Singing rock songs all around

There sitting eating guava fruit

A marmoset with topaz eyes

And then a turquoise ibex

alarms her when it flies

Five unicorns come prancing

with pearly glistening horns

A badger’s wearing emeralds

But looking quite forlorn

  

Then a spotted salamander

Blinks an opal lid

and reaches out to shake the hands

Of sequined Sid the squid

A jewel encrusted beehive

drips its golden honey

And Midas-Queen thinks to herself

Ooh, if that were only money!

Then they form a sapphire circle

And do a random, little jig

The clouds have turned to candy floss

And there’s a grunting sugar pig

But no! they’re waving claws and paws

Oink-Oink, tweet-tweet, goodbye

And gone, they all just vanished

In the twinkling of an eye.              

by Meg Marsden ©