Friday, 1 November 2013

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 ……………….

Friday, 25 October 2013


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.

Thursday, 19 September 2013

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 90th 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.


Wednesday, 11 September 2013

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?

Tuesday, 20 August 2013

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.

Thursday, 28 March 2013

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

Friday, 1 March 2013

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

Tuesday, 26 February 2013



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

Monday, 11 February 2013

Who is Sylvia, what is she?

For Sylvia   (Sylvia Plath died 11th 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, bless├ęd flood.

Meg Marsden copyright

Thursday, 31 January 2013

When Alice met Dorothy

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 ©