Thought Bubbles

Thoughts
of missing souls
dance the air around us,
rising like little bubbles,
then bursting
a sudden bulb of knowing
igniting memories
to sparkle
behind our eyes
for a second
or two.

As time stalls,
we rock ourselves gently
wrapped in our own arms
protecting hearts
encased and in case
back in time
our hearts become lost, too.

To and fro
perpetually
we keep time in motion;
swinging pendulums,
like cradles for the missing,
lest we forget their coming and going
or we, too, become forgotten...

One day, I will jump aboard the swing

then, thoughts
of my own missing soul
will dance tomorrow’s air,
rising like a little bubble
then bursting
a sudden bulb of knowing
igniting my memory
to sparkle
behind a loved one’s eye
for a second
or two.

The Signpost

When I was an adventurous seafarer, I chose
a bright red signpost to guide me ashore
to my island, and from that point I would launch
back out to sea. On the ocean I would sail, clockwise.

When you strolled along the shingle beach
and you found my red sign,
propped upright between two heavy rocks in sand,
you laid it flat to photograph a wading bird.

Please respect the consequence
when the dawn has no entrance or exit.
Days of sailing round in ever tightening coils
of grey on grey – you go mad at sea.

The story has retold a thousand times;
of a snarling seadog, trapped and desperately scraping
claw on wood, gingerly dipping the hurt paw in salt water.
As you know, not all dogs can swim.

With no compassionate compass, I need:
a roof overhead, doors and windows to open,
space to sail, water to quench my life and keep it afloat
and a very visible signpost to guide me home.

Native Ground

We have a river that led us to this place,
with our history of droughts and our swells of fertile spates.
One day I left exploring and I crossed the peaty burn.
Now, the river’s wider, faster, and I struggle to return.
I'm so weary
I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

Yesterday, I saw you stroll the other bank.
You laughed with a fair stranger and I felt like my heart sank.
Falling from my chest, I saw it tumble to the deep,
where the river bed is cold, way down where the twilight sleeps.
I'm so weary
I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

I have trekked the moorland and I've climbed on every ridge
trying to catch sight of a rickety, old bridge;
one I dared to traverse, when I risked that fall for you.
Now, if you found the crossing, could you find that courage, too?
because I'm so weary
and I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

The Timid Immigrant

To see your inner butterfly
and dream the risk of flight,
feel the light, exquisite air
and let your wings breath life.
When first I flew my homeland,
the heart I sought was mine.
When weary I turned back again,
my heart I came to find.
In foreign ground my mucky roots
still stuck with soil of home.
I was the smell of my home earth
on these two hands I own.

To imagine your internal seed
as it thrives in foreign fields,
release the expectations
of all familiar leafy yields.
Then, when your inner butterfly
brings to rest its giant wings,
you'll see strange and wondrous beauty
in unexpected things.
Once you clean the home soil
from the tread upon your soul
your butterfly turns golden
and the immigrant feels whole.

One day I might fly again
without ground upon my feet,
or, I might leave all migration
to the swallows and the geese.

Pacts

I’ve thought for miles
exhausted
from reacting to surroundings;
which of none I am resigned.

Every step I take,
accosted
by the foreign quiet of a path
versus noise within my mind.

I look around
transported
to the heavy weight of knowing;
I’m here to please others, not me.

I’m further away.
distorted
between where I once thought
I meant to go, and here.

Why is it painful;
indulging
in pacts with yourself
to stay happy from the start?

Here I am again
bulging
with unrest from following
my fear and not my heart.

Follow Your Dreams

Sometimes I feel like
my heart has grown wings
and it's flown away;
waiting to be found.
Somewhere there’s a place
where its passion will unfold
into safe hands,
where freedom abounds.

It’s time to leave
It’s time to follow
The evening whispers,
“Follow your dreams.”
“Follow your dreams.”

A bag of memories
is hard to pack;
knowing what to leave behind,
knowing what to take.
Things I carry
will determine who I am.
The path ahead
conceived from my freight.

But, there’s one recurring memory
where your eyes are closed in prayer.
I reach and touch that thought
just to let it know I care.

It’s time to leave
It’s time to follow
The evening whispers,
“Follow your dreams.”
“Follow your dreams.”

How Grey the Fog Rolls In

Across the Morrich More,
grey, the fog rolls in.
What an eerie sorrow you send.
Gone, the dunes and grasslands,
the sand and mud flats, too -
how quick the tricking mystery descends.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

First, my far off future
disappears from sight.
I’m fearful when I cannot see the present.
Listen how the Gizzen Briggs
begins to murmur whispers.
Sinking sands, calling out their torment.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

The Alexandra bridge,
lost, deep within thick cloud.
Lord, send a guiding light from up above us.
I'm a traveller, gone astray
the fog's concealed my trust.
Oh wrap me in the sanctuary of Duthus.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

Cnoc na Croiche (Gallow Hill)

My eyes were empty
until the west wind found me,
to cry its song of sorrow,
to run its rain down my cheek.
I was stood upon the knoll
on top of Cnoc na Croiche
when I lost my emptiness,
and found kinship in the meek.

Beneath my feet
squirmed the souls of the forgotten;
the mistaken, the mistreated,
some wrongly labeled 'witch'.
Some stole to feed their children.
Others fought for their convictions.
Some resisted. Some hung bravely.
Does it matter which is which?

When this wind dies,
I’m going to light a candle
to help send some light
back through the darkness of time.
May I learn the wisdom
without carrying the burdens.
Most of all, may Cnoc na Croiche
be forgiven for its crimes.

Even the guilty
who will walk this world among us,
somewhere in their history
something precious was destroyed.
Look at me…
I was once a prisoner!
Is that why I feel compassion
for the souls at Cnoc na Croiche?

The Pantomime

I could decorate the house to look pretty for Christmas,
The tree is artificial but it will be okay.
I’ll spray fake snow on the window panes,
And invent a host of recipes to eat on the day.

Those false lashes will make my eyes look bigger
And I’ll buy some L’Oreal so I can dye my hair.
My simulated leather and faux fur boots,
They’ll look as real as the ones in Vanity Fair.

Maybe after lunch, I’ll say I played charades,
Imitating actors and guessing films unknown.
Since Christmas is a pantomime for dressing and pretending,
I doubt anyone will guess that I’ll spend the day alone.

Wide-awake Night, Fall-asleep Day

It’s a wide-awake night,
in a dark that’s blacker than coffee.
Obscurity lures me
to search for a light from within;
like the pre-Christmas thrill
of buying you gifts,
all the pains and the joys
and the fun and what-ifs.
as I’d hesitate, worrying
something might bore you,
I’d buy more excitement
than I could afford to,
trying to avoid any flaws
like a puppy that offers both paws.
It’s a wide-awake night,
In a dark that’s blacker than coffee.

It’s a fall-asleep day,
in a spotlight that’s hotter than hell.
My delirium threatens
to show my boss that I’ve failed;
like my pre-meeting nervousness,
panics and tics,
all my training and ploys,
and agendas to fix,
as I stammer, not-knowingly,
something explodes,
so I buy some more time,
but no time is owed,
and all I want is you...
in a world that has turned black and blue.
It’s a fall-asleep day,
In a spotlight that’s hotter than hell.

Return to Stepford

(Based on : The Stepford Wives - 1975)

As long as all secrets remain kept;
as long as I can pretend I don’t recognise truths,
as long as I adhere to a certain public image,
as long as I am able to let people shout over me,
as long as my lack of confidence is not seen,
as long as I can act happy when I’m sad,
as long as I dress according to a man’s desire of me,
as long as I don’t cry when I grieve,
as long as I persist to always pay close attention,
as long as my laundry remains white,
as long as I never express my own opinions,
as long as I can discretely solve money problems,
as long as I don’t require honest eye contact,
as long as I live silently amidst worry and confusion,
as long as my work does not clash with others’ needs,
as long as I don’t flinch at those cutting looks,
as long as I consider the health of others before my own,
as long as I endure longing without affectionate touch,
as long as my cooking continues to please,
as long as I smile each time someone looks at me,
as long as I don’t expect fidelity or trusted friendship,
as long as I relinquish all control,
as long as my words are constantly praising,
as long as I can deny my panic and fear,
living in Stepford will be wonderful again.

Can Anybody Tell Me

Can anybody tell me
what happens to a smile
when a bright and constant beam
fades to once in a distant while?
A sigh one time blissful
like a cool breeze on your cheek,
then a sigh dragging heavy
with the wind cutting bleak.

Can anybody tell me
where faith will come to rest
when delivered by the blind
to the wrong address?
A gift made for giving
full of love and good intent,
then the bagman took the dream
out of everything I dreamt.

Can anybody tell me
is time on your side?
I have too much to spend alone
and time one day will fly
up to where the smiles go,
up where faith’s reclaimed.
Can anybody tell me
have you time to feel the same?

Another draft of a happy ditty from the HB pencil of Hazy Dizzylady, the Highland Island Bard.

Buttercup

You butter me up,
Then cast me down,
My butter-side
Stuck to the ground.

I rid the dirt,
And I mellow,
But then you spot,
My streaks of yellow.

You spread me thin
On week-old bread.
Expecting tastes
Newly wed.

Butter pleases,
Butter feeds,
Butter mixes,
Butter bleeds.

If bread were a fresh vessel,
Not curled up.
Then I’d warm into
Your buttercup.

Written for lots of dough, in-dismal ink, not to be confused with invisible ink, by Hazy Crying-in-her-Clapdarnach-Beer Dizzylady, the Highland Island Bard.

Carmelia Sinensis (a.k.a. The Boss's Tea Party)

She munched on carrots in my bathtub, filled with Green Leaf Tea,
My new P.A. (hair in shower cap) starts the third degree.
“Darling, do you drink Darjeeling?” (Offering her toe)
“If you’re going to be my boss today, I really need to know.”

With outstretched leg she’d ordered “Lick It!”, then dipped her toe in 'cha'.
Camelia Sinensis made such a sensual spa!
“Darling, is something brewing?” she asked (Widening her eyes)
“Or, do I see a tea pot spout, protruding from your flies?”

Oh, Carmelia Sinensis
I had this strange dream
Of English crumpets,
Clotted cream
And you
What does it mean?
Carmelia Sinensis

She steeped a while, then pulled the plug, straining my confusion.
My new P.A. (towel around her) had finished her infusion.
“Darling boss, can I have a rise?” she asked, (Pouncing on her prey).
But, when my pot was fully drained… she left me for Earl Grey.

Passing Sentences

You pass sentences with your words,
Judge me by my sense,
Even though you stole my grasp
In unfair recompense,
For my toiling to comprehend
For my failing to know why,
What to say when words evade me
Or, when placed within a lie.

Before I bite the bait again
And hook with bloodied mouth,
Before I gather flocks of words
And send them flying south,
Tell me did I really see,
The forking of your tongue?
Were you split in what you said
Before the swan song sung?

Words can shine reflections
Or blank like blackout shutters.
They can be the wings that free us
Or trash us to the gutters.
When I think and when I speak
I need light to lead my way.
There are things that mean so much to me
And much I need to say.

If I appear to seem unkind to you
Or if you feel rejected,
My thoughts will never shut you out
It’s my heart that needs protected.
Try to hear behind my words.
If you listen for the feeling,
I’ll send you loving kindness
Beyond my sentence meaning.

Seeking Mercy

I seek Mercy’s profile,
When I’m searching east
Gazing up at seagulls,
Nesting in cliffs.
But, salt sprays from oceans,
Spitting ghosts from drowned ships.
Coating seagull feathers,
Cracking Mercy’s lips.
Egg yolk and souls
Are so teasingly yellow.
Wood Smoke and coal
So displeasingly mellow.
Without flames
Without fire
No aims
No desire
Without you.

I hear Mercy’s siren,
My ears straining west.
There’s whistling in tunnels
From trains to Saint Worth.
Leaves cast from sycamores
Like cholesterol clogs veins,
They'll stop Mercy’s tracks
And all Worthy trains.
Passengers like seeds
So easily re-rooted.
What makes you think
You’re so really sure-footed?
Without faith
Without vows
No heres
No nows
Without me.

Huggable Hannibal

Here’s the sad thing about Huggable Hannibal,
He was raised by a tribe of botanical cannibals.

Hannibal’s arms were as long as two pythons.
To stop them from wiggling he tied them beside him.

He smiled through a beard, like a lush sheepskin rug.
But, Hannibal was sad, with no one to hug.

If only his arms were shorter and neater.
He once held a girl, but she feared he would eat her.

Hannibal loved chocolate, ice cream and pies.
It was only his friends that ate toenails and eyes.

So if you know of someone who needs a big squeeze.
Huggable Hannibal would be so keen to please.

The Tor-o-rundle

Be the trodder thromble-handed,
my recomgest to none be stranded
questulating should him trundle?
Go undertempt the Tor-o-rundle!

Atop the summest magic happurs;
spellcharmment mid the wizzirappers.
Imagiceive brim atmosphonics
Banging carrels, chantsing tonics!

Don the biretta-dredlovisor,
all upat the sunstice riser.
Then therucome the Tor-o-rundle.
Giddyho your upping stumble!

(Full translation available by request in comment section below. But can you guess the meaning? Have a go at the translation.) Hazy Dizzylady

Smells of Leaving

Leaving smells like mixed-up dust and dander stuck
on thin, waxy fly paper, but not like bloated Hoover bags

nor laden, feather dusters. It smells of old unopened books,
chapters unread of stories that will remain without morals told.

Smells, not of death or decaying compost, but of
neglected laundry, washed clean but left to dry sour,

creased and crushed into cheap, plastic, supermarket bags.
Like stagnant water, though more subtle, without visible green.

No floating algae could be skimmed away with small-holed nets;
the type of net that could belong to the young and naively innocent.

There will always be the naively innocent ones who will run behind
with short legs and high hopes, clutching such a net in hand;

Those young ones always dream of catching that elusive butterfly.
But, I am older now and it’s time to close the door and leave the key.

Maturing

No, there are no popping corks.
It’s only the white noise of a dinner for one
Ricocheting off my inner skull,
Smashed aside
By a foreign Smörgåsbord of thoughts
Gatecrashing through my brain:
Those uninvited guests, again.

I don’t eat off their buffet.

Though the place that I set for myself
No longer needs a knife to cut
Or a fork with which to delve,
I still strive to spoon a humble bowl of broth
Made from some last morsels of goodness
Cultivated from a kind memory seed.

Summer brought drought,
But I’ll hibernate without too much hunger
Maturing into something sweeter next year.

No, there are no popping corks.

(A rough draft, left here to mature - By Hazy Dizzylady)

John Henry Holmes - Unknown Savior of the Ozone Layer

In Ancient Greece
Thales of Miletus
Made a distinguished discovery;
Rubbing fur
Caused two objects
To attract
One another.

In 1660 Italy
Otto von Guericke
Of electrostatic generator fame,
Discerned -
Forms of Electricity
Can be positive
Or negative.

The prominent 20th century
War of currents
Ended in a draw:
Thomas Edison
Won direct currents,
George Westinghouse
Won alternating currents.
Energy distributed evenly.

But, in Newcastle England
Unknown savior of the ozone layer
John Henry Holmes
Invented the simple light switch.
Feel the attraction, one to other,
Veer toward the positive,
Win the real energy war,
Honor the light switch!

(Three cheers for the light switch. Hip! Hip! Hello, Hello, Excuse me.. someone put the lights out and I wasn't finished typing.)