Tiredness washed out by grief

Which brings us back to insomnia…

New goals fresh and crisp,
ready to embark on the next leg of the journey

Grief is allowed
to exist
and the awful heaviness
of dammed up tears
after the flash flood.

The mind clears
like clouds parting
to let bright sun smile through glistening rain.

A rainbow steps on to the path ahead.


Tears can open the door
to wake the mind

Crying pulls out memories
like an excited two year old
pulling dress-ups from a box

perhaps it will move me
from a silent scream
into a sobbing anger
drowned in grief.


Crying really deep down inside
tearing the core out
and staring at the worms in horror
how did they get there?
Spit out what is left over
and wash away the bitter aftermath
with tears

dark and locked in a dungeon
dry, dusty, and voiceless

Like the long stretch of barren beach
before the tsunami overwhelms
I drown in waves of sorrow
that flood my rumpled face

silently stain
as they release the pain
pent-up behind dam walls.

I crumble
and fall

and remember it all.

Cascade Poem

He melted hearts
He wanted the love
I wanted to give

Wide eyes saddened
Chin wrinkled in earnest
He melted hearts

Tears welled and spilled
tiny hands clenched
He wanted the love

My heart broke in itty-bitty pieces
Each piece fed him the love
I wanted to give


The first stanza holds the last lines for each following stanza… Fight to Write!

I probably took an hour to write this. It took seven attempts to get something that was even vaguely serious. I had to get off the computer and scrawl on a large piece of paper. I drew a picture of the structure to get it into my mind. Then filled the structure with nonsense, to find out what I didn’t know. Then came up with a formula. Filled in the formula with nonsense. Then made a serious attempt and did some editing to paint the picture smoothly.

My daughter looked at Ace Baker’s poem and wrote a four-line set of stanzas, straight off, awesome, in a matter of minutes. (See it on her blog, Radioactive Eyeball) My son grumbled about having to do poetry, carefully looked at and analysed Ace’s poem, and wrote a three-line set, awesome, in a matter of minutes, and posted it at Shaquin’s Blog. Am I feeling less than awesome? YES!

I enjoy figuring out the structure of things, and sorting out a formula.

I enjoy creating pictures – I turn off the rest of my mind, and things flow easily.

Doing this stuff? Is like paddling against the flow of the whitewater. It almost rips my arm off.

Short-term memory is needed in a certain area of the brain where pictures are not made. I have some trouble with mine! I am proud of my effort… and yet somehow wish to spare myself the pain. Long term memory will kick in, and my structures and formulas will stand by me as trusted friends, once they have hung around long enough to be accepted as more than passing acquaintances. That means writing every day.


I commit to the pain.


I picked up my worn leather bundle and hoisted it over my aching shoulder. Sweat ran down my nose, tickling on the way. Head lowered, eyes locked forward, I took the first heavy step, and the next… while the merciless sun glowered and turned up the thermostat.

Inside my bundle I carried my whole life. Forms of identity were lost early on this journey of necessity. When the cartwheel broke and the horse ran away overnight, I started the next day by leaving behind all but what little I could carry.

Each step hid the pain and left the memory one more step behind me. One day I would retrace my path. On horseback, riding fast, my bundle replaced with a weapon of iron.

The furnace for this weapon to be forged burned within my heart. The fuel shovelled violently in was slow-burning and would last my lifetime.

The only thing that could prevent this wrath from finding its mark, was a change of heart. If the heart of the one who stoked this fire, became unrecognisable as the hardened lump of carved stone horror that created such misery; that sent me into an exile of pain. This hardened lump has a shape that is not hidden from weapons forged in such flame.

Hate is my unforged weapon’s name.

Many of us walk alone down this path of pain. Time stops, and we turn as one, the day to retrace our paths has begun. The stockpiled tears fall from our worn leather bundles, caught into a whirlwind of vengeance, for those who kept on with their vicious game. The ones who judge them, are the ones from among them that walked away, the ones that refused to play. The ones who hoisted their own worn leather bundles and are here with us this day.

Art Therapy

First – check out this wonderful new Art Therapy page at Wrestling Life by Kira. Since Feb 8, 2013 I’ve been posting an artwork pretty well every day, to build up a free online collection of colouring book pictures.

Oh my goodness, we just received some carpet for our old sleepout, and now the man is coming back with some underlay! I am about to cry, that is the fourth teary-eyed moment I have had this morning.  Never before has this happened all in one day in my whole life!

Oh thank goodness, he is coming tomorrow so I have time to compose myself!!!!!

Now where was I…. Art therapy – oh yes, colouring in was helpful in my healing from post-traumatic stress, so it touches my heart how Kira is combining the art with her poem therapy, and I just love seeing the colourful pics, and how her poems really bring the picture to life.

That was my first teary-eyed moment this morning – when I read “Hope’s Bouquet” which is about Friendship and Hope.  Writing any more is hopeless, I am going to to have to give way to this waterfall that’s building up behind my eyes…

Friendship is a really lovely thing.

I will try again with writing and drawing etc later.