The joy of camping?

Reaching for my enamel mug of cold coffee,

I spy the corpses of midges kamikaze.

Only a few succumb to death by drowning,

the other thousand in tent seams are hiding.

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My air bed deflated, I can feel the hard earth,

tent pitched on an incline, of sleep there is a dearth.

Feet higher than my head, I’ve slipped right down the bed

so I try reversing all the bedding instead.

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I am woken at four by a loud dawn chorus,

disgruntled, exhausted, my headache enormous.

I wake with my right arm and leg frozen with cold.

Five degrees last night!  For this camping lark too old.

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My knees stiff and achy from cooking on the floor,

grains of sand in all our food walked in from the shore.

Local stinging beasties have decided to meet

in our tent, spreading the word our blood is so sweet!

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Shouldn’t have had the wine, need to “spend a penny.”

Raining outside, I can find only one wellie.

And just when I’m settling into much needed peace,

the kids next door start fighting.  How I wish they would cease!

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And though you might wonder why do this and complain?

To escape this world’s clamour, I’d do it ALL… again!

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To ALL my WP Friends:

It is rather “sheepishly” that I post this poem today…having been off the WP radar now for a number of weeks.  At this time of year when everything is growing so quickly, life takes on a rather frenzied and overly full flavour and I become conscious that there are never enough hours in the day to achieve and fulfill all that I would hope for.  We are now at the height of the gardening season so busy, busy, busy.  I also have been engaged in much organ playing and away camping…twice!  This second poem on camping, as opposed to the more aesthetic, previous one, is my end of year humorous offering to the local Writers’ Group!  The theme was to write something funny!  Also, I just wanted to say, I AM still here, not disappeared, bear with me, I will catch up with your recent blogs as and when I am able.  In the meantime, I wish you all happy and sunny Summer days!!  🙂

 

 

Camping An Camas Darach

In the east a golden dawn sun rises,

warm and welcoming over Camusdarach,

earth’s once blackened face she now baptizes,

rays bathing creation as night turns his back.

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Each droplet of dew on grass and on leaf,

lights up and shimmers as upon it you smile,

to man and to beast bringing joyous relief,

wild flowers in meadow with grace you beguile.

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Nodding spring bluebells their heads bowed in prayer,

primroses so pale and so delicate stare

upon your fiery face.  Petals so fair

and so fine, with such flair none can compare.

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Willows weeping, their long branches sweeping

the burn in the ditch as in sunlight it runs,

as the wild bramble, tangled and creeping,

in freedom delighting, all constraint it shuns.

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Hawthorns, lichen coated, twisted and gnarled,

stand guard and protect us from ill and from harm,

as two cuckoos coo, their duet to the world,

singing Spring is sprung and seductive her charm.

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White Atlantic breakers they curl and they roll,

lacy froth edging the white sands of Morar,

iconic Eigg and Rhum, they speak to my soul,

Silhouetted and stark, they watch from afar.

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The midges at twilight they gather en masse,

frenzied and gamboling in the fading sun,

swirling and twirling over field and grass,

one last final play before this day is done.

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Moon and stars now our shining companions,

weary world retreating to pause and to rest,

for a short while now the sun us abandons,

night shows his face, with this day we were blessed.

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An camas darach: Gaelic for Camusdarach meaning Oak Bay.

Sands of Morar: name given for the stretch of white sands found above and below Mallaig on the west coast of Scotland.

Eigg and Rhum: Islands just off the coast between Arisaig and Mallaig.

Burn: Scottish word for stream.

One day…

We live our lives, a necklace of magical days,

as seamlessly one day threads on from another.

From dawn to dusk a cosmic abacus ablaze,

beads of love and hate, colliding with each other,

as our earth, sublime blue-green shimmering opal,

orbits the sun, whilst we each enact the drama

we are destined to perform, silent or vocal,

with dove or arrow, in the shadow of Rama.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

One day can gift heights so golden with giddiness

as we hear the celestial clarion call,

or sink us to our knees fainting with dizziness,

empty and numb as into an abyss we fall.

From sunrise to sunset, one day is the measure

for choices to be made, be they pleasure or pain.

If we waken we know we have one day to treasure,

cast aside judgement and let peace prevail again.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

We have one day. We have the cyclical seasons,

of those there is absolutely not any doubt

and when man analyses, thinks and he reasons,

the capture of Time he can never bring about.

For Time is her own mistress, she pulls her own strings,

not by Julian or Gregorian to live,

but with her own agenda a freedom she brings,

whilst man every four years an extra day must give.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

And before you leap to a fitting conclusion,

One day is all we have, the rest…is illusion!

 

 

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Just to put you all in the picture again, this was another challenge set by the Lanark Writers’ Group, last week…they give weekly assignments/ challenges for you to take away and work on and then bring back the following week.  Gulp!  They also give you little challenges on the spot… i. e. write something on a set title or a set style of poem, etc., within the next 10 minutes or so…Gulp!  This will certainly stir up all those hibernating grey cells…methinks a bit of an electric shock!!!!  It will be interesting however to have the physical interaction when speaking/ reading poetry.  A whole new dimension…different.  Not better, not worse, just DIFFERENT and interesting, as happens when group dynamics come into play too.  

Julian and Gregorian refer to the Calendars of those names.  Today all countries which formerly used the Julian Calendar, now use the Gregorian.  There was a major discrepancy in the Julian calendar, hence the introduction of the Gregorian in 1582. But even the latter does not measure Time accurately and an extra day has to be added every leap year to keep the calendar year synchronized with the seasonal or astronomical year.

 

No more lunch money…

Today and for the very last time forever,

Ruairi had his final lunch money ever.

For twenty two years I’ve been handing out cash,

a blink of an eyelash, years gone in a flash!

I sit and I ponder from baby to man,

life spread out before him, adventures to plan.

Young eyes observing exciting potentials

as he tries to collect the best of credentials

to carry him through on this next stage unknown,

I sit and I marvel how fine he has grown.

The youngest of six, school days almost over,

there’ll be trials to face, it won’t all be clover.

He is clever and smart, his few years disguise

a maturity wise!  He’ll reach for the skies

as he weighs up his choices and he faces

a lifetime of seeing people and places.

I silently sit, observing and watching,

knowing that my worries will not be going

anywhere soon…

THEY’LL BE THERE TILL THE END!

And as these thoughts draw on to their closure,

I wish him a joyful, happy exposure

to a life of fulfillment, freedom and peace.

The ties to my apron strings must finally cease!

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My 18 year old son has only another week of school to go before he sits his final school exams.  For me this is yet another milestone, having sent 6 out to school and having watched them all go through the “System.”  Nail-biting time ahead, awaiting results and hopefully going on to Uni.. On Monday 18th April I handed him a £20 note to cover 2 weeks worth of lunches.  For me it was a profound moment…!!!  Phew, these milestones are coming fast and furious my friends!

 

Silkie Style

Just a few words to explain how this poem came about…Last month I attended a local monthly Poetry writing group and was given some homework : to write a poem of about 12 lines or so, rhyming or non-rhyming using the following random words :

New, Hens, Building and Girl.

The following is my “take” on fitting these words into a poem.  It was challenging to say the least and it is dedicated to my REAL friend Rhona, for whom it is written.

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silkie-chickens--30013 (1)

My dear friend Rhona has a new passion,

Haute couture of poultry, feathered fashion.

Genetic design with wings and feathers,

she cleans and feeds her hens in all weathers.

Her stylish Silkies a sight to behold :

bearded or non-bearded, lavender, gold.

Lovingly building fine pens for her brood,

her expertise vast, her judgement so shrewd.

This girl really knows her Art inside out,

she’ll hatch her illusive chick I’ve no doubt…

Incubating eggs all over the place,

choir of “cheeps,” she’s running out of space!

‘Tis sad there’s no cockerel at home to see,

too many neighbours, no crowing at three.

Chicken runs, coops, up-country extending,

her local friends their gardens are lending

as Rhona’s empire continues to grow

I ask, “Where will it end?”…That I don’t know.

But one thing I say and that without doubt,

Rhona’s new pedigree…will come about!

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Silkie Picture courtesy of Google Images.

 

 

Soul searching…

For my Dear Husband John, whose Birthday it is today…

( MysteryMystycsMusings on WordPress )

 

Earthly comings and goings

physical toings and froings

entanglements that arise and form in this world

cause my soul’s unknowings

of the Bliss that is a-blowing

if we but let the Divine be unfurled

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My soul longs for those quiet spaces

graces awaiting in untrodden places

my endless thirst yearning to be quenched

like a child seeking those loving embraces

my heart races my spirit ever paces

my soul seeking in Your love to be drenched

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Whisper words to me wind where I might find rest

where my soul not stressed may in Your Presence be blessed

refreshed refashioned…reborn anew

as by dew each new blade of grass is caressed

so my soul longs for the comfort of Your breast

Your heavenly queendom to imbue.

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Fill now my cup so it might overflow

help my fears to lay low deep mindfulness grow

my thoughts ever focused on You

my soul to walk in Your sweet gentle shadow

my eyes rainbow windows with God-tinted glow

as this miracle of Life I view.

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Photo : Google Images : Montreal.

 

Tree of Golgotha

How did you feel when they chose you,

chose you to carry our Lord Jesus Christ?

Did your sap leap for joy as it flowed through

or fall still with grief at such sacrifice?

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How did you feel when you watched from afar

as bloodied in pain, our Lord carried the wood?

Your foot driven deep into the Hill Golgotha

shouts with cries rising, as with patience you stood.

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Was the air heavy laden with agony

of torture and torment, injustice and hate?

Your trials by Jew and Rome a mockery,

cruel crucifixion your preordained fate.

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Saw you the blood, sweat and tears dripping

from His face and those He held dear?

Venom and scorn unremitting

as Passover pilgrims stood watching in fear.

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Did you see the man Simon from Cyrene

step forward to help lighten His load?

Body and mind of our Beloved Nazarene

broken, as He walked to earth’s final abode.

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As He approached looked you into his eyes?

Saw you the depth of His love shining bright?

Eternal  flame against darkening skies,

guards pulling our Lord and His crossbeam upright.

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As brutal nails tore through flesh, bone and sinew,

screamed you silently as your own flesh did splinter?

As wounds reopened and blood flowed anew,

did your bruised bark feel the Saviour’s salve enter?

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Heard you the sobbing of the two Marys

as they stood to one side in your shadow?

Watching as drained our dear Lord’s energies,

His great gift to mankind about to bestow.

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Did you feel him draw his very last breath

as the veil in the Temple was ripped in two?

His voice calling out to the Father in death,

wood soaking His cries as they resonated through.

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As they flowed from His side, saw you water and blood

as the soldier of Rome sank home his sharp spear?

Felt you our Lord wash your feet in His flood,

at last this world’s agonies no longer to bear.

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Wept you quietly as His poor  broken body

was lifted with love from your gentle caress?

Did you watch the guards with their actions bawdy

callously cast lots to divide up His dress.

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Then as Joseph of Aramathea,

wrapped that dear body in purest of shrouds,

His Mother, Salome and Mary of Magdala,

anointed His form, well away from the crowds.

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Did you watch this Treasure placed into the tomb?

Smell the sweet-scented spices suffusing the air?

As Jesus, whom Mary nurtured in her womb,

was laid to rest…this our Lord’s final prayer.

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You must have felt like the cruel “Tree of Death”

watching this profound performance unfurl,

but know you carried the new Shibboleth,

divine living water and eternal heaven’s pearl.

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Shibboleth : from the Hebrew, meaning ” flood, stream, also ear of corn”. (www.etymonline.com ).

Also a custom, principle, or belief distinguishing a particular class or group of people, especially a long-standing one regarded as outmoded or no longer important.  An old idea, opinion, or saying that is commonly believed and repeated but that may be seen as old-fashioned or untrue.

Among historians there is disagreement as to the precise method of Jesus’s crucifixion.  They varied considerably with location and time period and there were many different forms of painful execution : from impaling on a stake to affixing to a tree, to an upright pole ( a crux simplex ) or to a combination of an upright (in Latin, stipes ) and a crossbeam (in Latin, patibulum).

I have written this personal post-Easter reflection as if a roughly hewn tree /stake is sitting atop Golgotha Hill and awaiting Jesus and the crossbeam he is tied to, to come to the place of execution, the top of the Hill, where the crossbeam will then be lifted into place and affixed to the waiting upright wood, with nails hammered home where necessary.

This has been for me a spiritually deep and profound contemplation on the Passion and Suffering of Yeshua ben Yosef or in English, Jesus,son of Joseph.