Tag Archives: poem

Private Bubble

misty beach

Something a bit different for this week. It’s been a while since I shared any poetry, largely because most of them are too personal, too emotional, to share with a wider audience.

This photo was taken on the day at the beach that inspired the following poem a few years back. We arrived at Cape Henlopen, near Rehoboth DE, to a misty seashore. Having driven almost a hundred miles to get there, we were not about to be deprived of a day at the beach! Part way through the day I wandered off along the shoreline on my own and realised that the mist had closed round me like a cocoon. I couldn’t see another soul. I couldn’t hear another soul. All around me was the seabirds and the ocean….and for those few minutes while I sat on the sand and watched the waves roll in, it was bliss.

 

Private Bubble

As the mist rolls in from the ocean

Casting spirals around in the air

I watch the seabirds at play.

 

They rush out after each wave.

They run hell for leather as the waves rush  in to snatch their feet.

 

They chatter and flutter.

The waves crash and glide.

The mist soundlessly swirls and drifts

 

Sand between my toes.

Damp misty warmth on my sun kissed skin.

Not another human in sight.

Contentment.

 

(originally written 10 Sep 2008)

 

A little deviation from the norm…

 A little deviation from the norm….

It’s been a while since I’ve written any poetry or added to the poems section of this blog but for one reason or another I’ve been reflecting a lot recently. It reminded me of this poetic effort from a while back. Even now, roughly five years later, it still rings true.

Hidden From Prying Eyes

Deep inside me

Hidden from prying eyes

Hides “me”.

 

The public “me”

Paints on the smile

And glides through the working day.

 

The mummy “me”

Offers cuddles and hugs

Showering my children in unconditional love.

 

The friend “me”

Is calm and loyal

Always there to support and assist

 

The real “me”

Stays hidden

Quiet emotional

Nervous and scared

Frightened she’s found by prying eyes.

cloaked-woman

(image sourced via Google- credits to the owner)

Searching in vain for inspiration

While I was out for a stroll in my lunch hour today, enjoying the beautiful spring sunshine, my mind was rapidly straying away from all thoughts of work towards this week’s blog post. A few potential topics drifted by but nothing was inspiring me. I stopped to watch the seabirds sitting out on the rocks at the mouth of the James Watt Dock but no inspirational thoughts came. (I did mutter under my breath yet again about how disobliging the cormorants were being – I am desperate to get a decent photograph of one of them drying its wings but, after more than a year of waiting and watching, I’m still waiting and watching for that shot!) A border of colourful spring flowers gave me a lovely photo for my Facebook wall but no blog thoughts. My ears were filled with music from my iPod but no flashes of inspiration from the tunes I was enjoying…. at least not thoughts I’m sharing on here!

Several hours later I drove home into the setting sun- a stunning sight as the sun set beyond the Argyll hills lighting up the sky with hues of red and orange. My mind was still thinking blog….. and then I remembered a poem I had written a while back.

The inspiration for it was a rock. A big long low red sandstone rock on the beach at Kilchattan Bay on the Isle of Bute. A rock I had played on for hours as a little girl during summer holidays and long autumn weekend visits. A rock that my imagination  transformed into the setting for many make believe games. Something simple yet inspiring.

Perhaps today I was over thinking this post. Perhaps I was looking at the world with my eyes and ears shut, despite enjoying the sights and sounds around me. It’s made me think…..

 

Day In The Life Of A Rock

Soft rays of morning sun

Not quite reaching the shore

The rock sits in silence

Waiting for someone to come and explore.

 

Stomping and mumbling

A boy stamps along

Shells crushing under his angry feet.

The rock looms large

And his bleak mood shifts.

A submarine! All his!

The rock is transformed by his play til midday.

 

Hot afternoon sun beats down on the rock

Along comes a girl

In her pretty summer frock.

“My fairy castle!” she cries.

With a skip and a dance

She enters the fairy world

Totally entranced.

The rock is transformed by her play

Til her mother’s call breaks the spell.

 

The sun sets with a warm rosy glow.

I sit on the rock

Feeling it’s warmth rising inside me.

My space. My sanctuary.

My time to play

As the sun sinks down on another magical day

 

Time to come clean- I’m an addict

My name is Coral and I’m a photo-holic. There I’ve confessed!

I never leave the house without a camera of some sort, invariably my phone. If I go for a walk I usually take at least two cameras. I can’t go for a walk – or anywhere for that matter- without constantly looking for that special photographic opportunity. It drives my family insane!

I love photographs both taking them and browsing leisurely through them. My personal 2013 creative challenge was to produce a Facebook photo album – 365 Days of 2013- featuring a different photo taken each day of the year using the camera on my phone for convenience. I was proud to complete it- first New Year’s resolution I’ve ever stuck to. As the  year wore on I feel that the standard improved and I learned to look at the world around me  in a different light. Now less than two weeks into January 2014 I’m missing taking my “photo of the day”.

It was only recently I discovered the true extent of my photo habit. I was fortunate enough to be given a new laptop for Christmas ( thank you Big Green Gummi Bear) and spent quite some considerable time transferring across nine years worth of digital images from my dying netbook.

Before the digital photography age I still shot more than my fair share of photographs. I must have spent a small fortune over the years on developing costs and photo albums. Do you remember the Doubleprint envelopes that fell out of Sunday supplements and were found on stands in airports? Truprint? Bonusprint? Yes- I’ve made good use of them all in my time. I loved the Doubleprint ones – a 6×4 image plus a wallet sized copy.

I have a tendency to be OCD about my photo albums too and have religiously chronicled my trips to the USA over the last ten years. When the munchkins were little I shot at least one roll of film a month- frequently more- and have memories their formative years stored in album after album. I’ve even wallet sized albums for the wallet sized copies from Doubleprint.

It was discovering one of these tiny albums of precious memories that inspired the poem below. (It was was also my first poem to make it into print)

Passing Childhood

Photos found at the back of the drawer.

What was I actually looking for?

A smiling toddler with white blonde hair

Fond memories swirl round in the air.

All the long years have now flown by

My white blonde boy no longer shy.

A smart young man who excels at school

Now facing a world that is his to rule.

And just how many digital images found their way onto my new pc?-   32356 to be exact and I treasure every last one.

Now where did I put my camera……

Do you remember when…… fond memories

Choosing where to start this journey has been pre-occupying my thoughts over the last few days. I’ve kept returning to the same starting point and repeatedly dismissed it as too personal but then again…..

People pass through our lives on a daily basis. Some slip by unnoticed while others leave a huge footprint in our hearts. One tiny little lady who left a huge indelible mark on me and on many others was my Wee Gran. I could ramble on for hours reminiscing about her but won’t ( I may share more tales at a later date – we’ll see)

One thing that always struck me was the amount of change and progress she had seen in the world she lived in. Born in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland in 1902 she saw two World Wars,  lived through the reigns of four kings and a queen, saw man land on the moon and saw technology that we take for granted evolve beyond belief. Simple things that we wouldn’t give a second thought to created memories that lived with her forever. I remember we asked her once  when did she see her first car. She thought for  a moment  or two before replying ” I don’t know what year it was but it was a Tuesday.”

“A Tuesday?” we echoed.

“Yes I was on my way to the prayer meeting.”

Do you remember the first car you saw?  I don’t.

There’s a myriad of similar tales. A lifetime of memories left behind by this little lady. And to those who had the good fortune to know her – who will ever forget the taste of her pancakes?

One of  the most heart breaking moments of my life was the day I walked into her house to visit as usual and she didn’t know who I was. Even now over nine years later  there are tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat  as I remember the scene. Old age had finally caught up and stolen away the Wee Gran I knew and love, leaving behind a frail,  scared, old lady. I only saw her another twice after that day (it was too hard- and selfishly I wanted to keep my wonderful memories of her intact). She passed away a few months later a month shy of her 103rd birthday.

The poem below was written a very long time ago. I don’t often write about those dear to me for fear of offending or embarrassing them. I feel though that this captures my memories of  this very special lady –

My Wee Gran

She sits in her big red armchair, hand touching her left ear

Eyes alert. Swift look at the clock-

It’s not lunchtime- yet.

Up since dawn she stifles a yawn

Ankles crossed- feet twitching slightly

Two clocks tick- only one is wound nightly.

The wireless is on- it’s McGregor again

A daily ritual in number nineteen

Memories flicker into conversation as a man tells of the death of a generation.

She dresses plain- no jewellry to be seen- only her slim wedding band.

She starts to talk using her hand.

Jumper and pinafore- uniform- regulation blue cardigan- well worn

A smile leaps to her lips- more memories into conversation

Two clocks still tick.

Now it’s lunchtime- the ritual is at an end.

Up she gets- wireless switched off- McGregor is finished for today.

It will be on again next day.

The big red armchair stands empty

Into the kitchen my wee gran’s away