Contemplative Poems

And photos of nature

I never know what to call my poetry posts. They’re nearly always depressing but calling them ‘depressing poems’ time and time again sounds a bit daft. Not that I’m always on a downer, please know, I’m not. This is just a way of releasing that side of me.

Often, my house feels like chaos and I find comfort in the outdoors, relating various states of nature to my state of mind - hence so many of them involve plants and elements. I suppose it helps me process the ‘bigger picture’. We are simultaneously everything and nothing, a strange paradox. Sometimes we focus on the ‘everything’ and are stuck in the swamps of our personal problems. Other times, we see ourselves as ‘nothing’, that we don’t matter at all in the grand scheme of things. I think the truth is that both are true, and it’s a odd tightrope to walk. How can we matter yet not matter at the same time?

About a month ago, I saw a lamb - the one in the photograph below. It was an unusual lamb (to me) with a brown and white fleece. I considered how beautiful he was, how unique the markings, how gentle his demeanour as he lay looking out to sea.

Then suddenly it dawned on me that soon the poor mite would probably be dead and then what would come of that individuality? He would be valued for one thing only. His meat. I was overcome by an all consuming grief as I thought of all the humans who would also die (and have died) not having been recognised for something unique and special they offer, those perhaps with hidden talents or misunderstood. People who were also dismissed, be it as ‘useless eaters’, ‘difficult’, ‘cannon fodder’ or ‘cogs in the machine’. Those whose originality would go under appreciated.

Not sure where I am going with this little ramble, just a little window in my head and maybe those of you who routinely talk to animals can relate.

Anyway, as they used to say on Crimewatch ‘Please - don’t have nightmares’.

I will put the meanings at the end. The second one doesn’t rhyme, the others do. Photos are my own.

Rot

I combed the woods one April day

But all I found was woe

The bluebells bathed me in their blue

As though to let me know

That sorrow was a seed I sowed

Not easily uprooted

For grief awaits us all, as rot

Long after love has fruited

Habituation

Today, I read about ‘habituation’.

How repeated exposure

Lessens impact, over time

Something that once seemed daunting, frightening, overwhelming….

Gradually loses its power.

And it’s not what we wanted

To have to adapt

We’d prefer the obstacle be removed

But that’s not always possible

So………do your worst

For I have become accustomed

To things that once scared me, shocked me, confused me

Now?

I’m habituated.

Innocence lost, resilience gained.

Water Under The Bridge

They call it ‘water under the bridge’

Yet river water turns to rain

It does not simply go elsewhere

But changes state, comes round again

It’s siphoned up to thirsty clouds

To jeopardise a summer’s day

You’ll notice that they follow you

If you should try to walk away

And changing state’s the only truth

For elements refuse to die

So all that flows beneath a bridge

A brief farewell and not goodbye

The Long Dream

The dream, it began

As most all slumbers do

Was itching to switch off

From all that I knew

Sedated by mist

Of impossible perfume

The cruellest December

Repackaged as mid June

.

Words, they caressed

Silken scarves as I fell

But somehow my wishes

Were cats in the well

The dream it consumed me

A ravenous giant

Dined on my sanity

Spat out my quiet

.

Sometimes I felt golden

As kingdoms, they glittered

I was Cinderella

And how the shoe fitted

A world, iridescent

Where linnets trilled sonnets

Most sumptuous of sundaes

With cherries upon it

.

Moons hung like globes

Over blue bellied bodies

Pregnant on pauses

A shimmering goddess

Each primrose held promise

Lunaria was honest

But winter took all of them out

One by one

.

Adjusting my eyes

As the first cockerel cries

The humdrum a bass drum

Monotony sighs

You choose not to listen

Your tunnel, your vision

And why would you care for

This ballad from prison?

.

The ashes of crutches

Now kicked into ditches

A bonfire constructed

To burn my white witches

And others, are drowned

In the still of his water

Filling my airways

With darkening thoughts

.

Saturdays matter less

Swallowing shadows

Salving my soul

With unlimited hollow

Still hoping to catch you

A last train to comfort

It left before dawn

With the lump in my throat

.

Dreams they are streaming

On screens ten a penny

Reeling the years

Til you’re not left with any

We pick at the popcorn

We follow the plot

Or try to reclaim

This one real life we’ve got

Husk

I am an empty seed pod

All contents now dispersed

I’m free to catch the breath of wind

Or heed its wailing curse

There’s nothing more that I can give

Unburdened of my load

I cast this husk unto fresh air

To grace an open road

Last Day Of Spring

Daises amaze

Pirouetting on dew

Serene ballerinas

In ivory tutus

Dandelions wrangle

In jungles of green

With every tall poppy

Who longs to be queen

Buttercups offer up

Rest for tired wing

These are the sights

On the last day of spring

Meanings

Rot

This is about causing your own problems. You sow the seed and sometimes it turns into Giant Hogweed and you burn and blister, badly.

Habituation

This one doesn’t rhyme. I was reading about the concept, as it relates to fears people have - heights, spiders etc and then related it back to a personal situation, how I’d become immune, reluctantly accustomed to something because of a repeated exposure I initially found distressing.

Water Under The Bridge

I was thinking about the phrase ‘water under the bridge’, the way people use it to say something has passed, gone away. I then had a flashback to studying the water cycle at school, learning the circular nature of it. I then drew the conclusion that the phrase isn’t really accurate.

The Long Dream

Where to start with this one? Sometimes you are enchanted by a person or a situation, held under a spell. It feels like a dream you can’t wake up from, you’re observing yourself reacting to something you feel you have no control over, a part in someone else’s movie. Sometimes we wake up in our own good time and other times we are rudely awoken.

Husk

This is a ‘fresh start’ kind of poem. A ‘let the cards fall as they may’ vibe. We only have so much control over our fate and to some extent, have to let go and freewheel.

Last Day Of Spring

I mean ‘last day of spring’ in terms of ‘March, April, May’ for all you purists. I adore wild flowers and have seen so many pretty ones of late. This is just my little tribute to them.

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