Written on a whim to send my wishes…
We have all grown accustomed to change now, and developed our ability to plan not to plan.
I think we are all
expecting things
to lock down more
again,
we know the score;
I’m making sure
we have a store
of cleaning stuff,
there is
no fuss.
Apparently the sales
of flowers
are down;
I’d like to find a barrow
and buy a bunch,
and have
a vase upon
the table.
Indoors,
the lights
along the Thames
are switching on,
it won’t be long,
until the winter
settles in,
this time.
Cranes and trains
and leaky drains,
And dusty paws
and cracked gas mains,
This is the London
Dog and I,
Partake in
under foggy sky.
When in the morning
Ellen too,
The dawning gets up
to pursue,
We chatter,
clatter up the stairs,
And catch
the Thames geese
unawares.
From night to day,
the gift of time,
The Tate lit up,
no Big Ben chimes,
I breathe the breath
that feeds the day,
And box the
laughing night
away.
I’m not alone,
I’m shut up tight,
with a man, and a dog,
and a lawyer bright.
We plan our meals,
and walks, despite
My lack of
ordered apetite.
As April calls,
I’m still at sea,
Unprecedented
Actually.
We’ve all become
Suburbanite,
And virtually,
Virally erudite.
Our evenings,
Counting in the dead,
My days of
digital overheads;
The aim to keep us safe and well;
This glorious,
Global citadel.
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An homage to Penny Lane, enjoy every sunbeam!
By Lambeth Bridge there is a man selling the big issues,
And in his rucksack is a block to black his shoes,
And the residents of Pimlico mews,
Buy his weekly news.
On the corner is a tower built on a drainage main,
It’s full of fundraisers who want make a pitch,
There’s a lot of things we’re trying to fix,
Next to MI6.
SE1 is in my fears and my devise,
Met’ beneath the true suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back…
By Lambeth Bridge there is a councillor on his daily run,
And over forty years it’s what he’s always done,
And the Spaniel walkers go and come,
In the morning sun.
SE1 is in the years and my surprise,
A tide of fish and finger pies
In summer, meanwhile back…
Beside the fire station’s a boat that you can dine upon,
And in the fun weather Embankment’s standing sites,
And the ambulances passing lights,
Bright up party nights.,
By Lambeth Bridge there’re fancy geese that tourist photos make
A pretty lady heads to work within the Tate,
Some days we know she’s late,
She’s our paintings mate.
SE1 is in my fears and my devise,
Met’ beneath the true suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back…
Lambeth Bridge!
I’ve been doing a creative writing course and thinking about senses. I remember when I convinced the doctors to remove the breast implant (mastectomy) that was killing me softly -that day, I washed my hair. I normally bath, but on days when I shower I always remember, 14 years ago now!
She stands in the shower,
Remembers, skin tingling,
A post operative hour,
Through the stitched scars
still lingering.
The implant removed,
from the one it abused.
Now perfumed and bare,
With soap in her hair,
She is singing her heart out,
And dousing the scared.
We have accepted an offer on the French house, on the back of moving out of the Twickenham. So family homes in two countries become a three bedroom flat on the South Bank. It is exciting, we are excited, a little scared about what we need to clear out, I am resolved, there will be a lot of loss, but hopefully we can bring the fairy Lego and the fruit chandeliers home?
I’m moving the chandelier,
(Ornamental non function),
Eight boxes of books,
And clothes with some gumption,
But losing two sofas,
Has been quite a junction,
I’m keeping myself in a box.
We’re starting again,
All shiny and bright,
Throwing out all the things,
We used for the fight,
But not the prosthesis,
It wouldn’t seem right?
I’m keeping myself in a box.
Two parts of a life,
Over half of my own,
I’d have journeyed with less,
If only I’d known,
Ten bedrooms with daughters,
Will soon become three,
Three kitchens to one,
Two gardens to none,
Fairy Lego outgrown
And careers well begun,
I’m keeping myself in a box.
The table we sat at,
When everyone came,
The large sun umbrella,
Kept in from the rain,
The bedknobs bed bedstead,
To leave such a shame,
I’m keeping myself in a box.
It has been an experience I wouldn’t have missed, but I don’t feel I’m going to be missing out? Onwards here, there is work to be done and I want to enjoy every moment!
It will be the stages of life I cannot pack or sell –but we are well now!
A photo of the square on the early morning walk, this is an image I have lived and loved, it has been a good time. I came here five years after chemo and it has been literally my reconstruction.
Funny how things get compartmentalised, into context?
Moving on..
One week
And all of this
Will be the past.
We start again,
And all the things
That didn’t last,
Are staying;
In before we moved
From Twickenham.
They now remain
Eternal unimproved,
The memory
Used.
No longer
Just off Richmond Lock,
To Lambeth now.
The giddy heights
That will become,
New sleepless nights,
With people we have
Not yet met,
Lost, found,
Unacquainted,
Left behind,
And gone ahead?
I wrote this moving poem, as we have taken receipt of boxes, that we will need to start filling if we are to be ready as hoped.
Exit right….
We’ve always been workers,
Simon and I,
Have never been
Coffee and cake;
We’ve done it ourselves,
In the by and large,
And rarely taken a break.
Embarking now on our
Ninth move in,
The packing skills,
Carton fills out;
I have to say,
At the end of the day,
As we should,
Making good throughout!
We’re planners
With manners,
And wonderfully clean,
I confess, I have stressed
The washing machine,
But we’re fixing the sofa we’re giving away,
And filling the holes
From our pictures’ display.
And all of this given
To people who,
Knocked down the asking price
We were due?
And are leaving us homeless
And put into store
For probably 16 days or more!
As we steam we dream,
Of our new, new build,
With all new appliances,
Wardrobes filled,
And say for the ninth time,
Which fixtures remain?
We’ll bleach down the bathrooms,
And never complain!
We’ve always been busy,
Simon and I,
We’ve not stopped for tea
And toast,
And although we consider,
We’ll finish some time,
It’s the doing we live for
The most!
I have been thinking about what message my poems can give now, and I realise that time does bring acceptance. In 2005 I was living in Switzerland and I had breast cancer.
Normal…
I’m on my second pet since chemo,
And the kids have now left home,
But I didn’t change my husband,
So the memory’s not alone.
I’m busy being marvellous,
In a world of cancer care,
And although not so successful,
I believe I’m valued there?
Things moved ahead, in spite,
Of all the little setbacks when,
We didn’t get it right,
And the surgery failed again!
We’re embarking on a downsize,
My third move with just one boob,
More important than the medics now,
A good stop on the tube?
The life I thought would never,
Ever, ever be the same,
Has turned to be everything,
A normal one can claim?
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Macmillan’s ambition is to reach and improve the lives of everyone living with cancer and to inspire millions of others to do the same.
I am being told that all these ladies bearing their mastectomy chests are brave? But I don’t get it? For sure, inform people about the effects of surgery, but is that brave? Accepting life saving surgery is surely just sensible? Living with it is inspirational, but being isn’t about courage, well not to me. Courage is laying down your life for another?
Where is the bravity,
In bearing it all?
I just see a cavity,
Into which we fall,
The brash of the victim,
Or physical kicked in?
Is honest exposure,
The lure of the maul?
I know that it is all interpretation, and people don’t mean to cause offence. I am all for showing the reality of survivorship, just not brave! Brave is for the glorious dead and we are very much alive!
