The Storm Inside

I can feel it brewing,
The pressure is rising,
my skin is crawling,
the storm is coming.

I am trying to control it,
my inner feelings exploding,
the flood of tears arising,
the storm is inside me!

I want to be strong,
I don’t want to lose it,
but the tension is growing,
the storm is here!

I don’t ask for help,
nothing can stop it,
but in a few days,
the storm will be gone!

Storm

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We are a guest on this planet

Our visit on this planet is short,
we are a blink in time.
We are but a guest here,
our life just a pantomime.

Guest etiquette should apply,
to one and all of us at most.
Why do we behave so badly,
we should be considerate to our host.

We say we are a civilised culture,
yet look at the trash we make.
We destroy, and plunder without a care,
we are earth’s headache!

Guest

Stop and Smell the Roses

Slow down, take a breath,
Life is too short to rush it.
Take your time, don’t hurry death,
Your life is here to covet.

Stop and smell the roses,
take a long walk through the park.
See what your mind composes,
on a journey through life you embark.

“Stop and Smell the Roses was A Piece of Advice given to me by my Uncle back in 1996. The drawing of the rose was done by myself a couple of years earlier in my first year at University.

Daddy’s girl

I am a daddy’s girl, always will be and glad of it.

IMG_2696 copy

I just found out that my dad had a small heart attack last night. He is in hospital and will be under going tests in the next day or so. He may just need medication, or surgery.

I also just found out that he has just finalised selling the farm that I grew up on. Though sad, it has also been a relief that Dad has downsized and not working so hard.

I am finding this hard to write, tears are rolling down my face. It has been an emotional evening discovering that the strong man who I look up to is immortal after all. It’s just like my dad that he had been out that morning pruning trees with a chainsaw, up a ladder. And in the afternoon crawling under his new home putting in insulation (he is in his 70’s!)

I just received an email from him from his hospital bed…”Never, never give up!”. This for some reason is making me cry even more. Even though I know this incident is not the end, it has made me realise that one day I will have to deal with my dad no longer being there for me.

He is such an inspiration for me. I love him, and I wish I could be there by his side. Right now living in a different country is making this so much harder.

“Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream”
– Diamon Sutra
Todays reading from 365 Buddhist Meditations

Voyage of self discovery

This blog is my voyage of self discovery. It is a 40 year plus voyage, and I am not sure of the destination at this stage.

As part of this journery I am working through Julia Cameron’s second self help book Walking in this World – “The long-awaited sequel to the international bestseller The Artist’s Way”.

I am finding some of the tasks a useful way of discovering where I want to be, and what I want to become. What is my passion, my muse, my tiger!

Today I want to share from the book a poem that Julia Cameron’s mother had over the kitchen sink.

“If your nose is held to the grindstone rough
and you hold it down there long enough
soon you’ll say there’s no such thing
as brooks that babble and birds that sing.
Three things will all your world compose-
just you, the grindstone, and your darned old nose.”
Julia Cameron – Walking in this World.

I think we can all discover something from this simple little poem.

Voyage

Empty

I stare at the screen,
fine fingers frozen,
what shall I write?
Nothing blows in.

I feel so vacant,
the harder I try,
the futher IT gets!
Exhale a sigh.

I want to create,
I want to write,
It’s a craving I have,
It brings me light.

How do you do it?
Your words just flow.
You are so astute.
You are a pro.

Empty

Summer rain

Gentle motion,
leather on wood,
silent ropes sway,
canvas flutters.

Sun hiding,
meer glimpses,
melody of water,
hull and shore.

Shadows on water,
reflection of beauty,
tears from heaven increase,
soft summer shower.

Note:
I wrote this poem in 2002 while on an friends old restored wooden sail boat. 

My pastel drawing from highschool

Analogue

Tick tock tick tock,
annoying but faintly comforting.
Knowing time is there,
always present…or past!

Tick tock tick tock,
I still use a clock.
My watch has hands,
I still know how.

Can you remember turning the knob,
to tune the TV or Radio.
Static, static, distant talking,
Ah there it is, a picture, a sound.

What you have to get up?
You have to use your brain?
Your legs, your hands?
No remote, no bluetooth.

We have become lazy,
in a digital world.
No thinking or movement required,
just a push  of the button.

I still use a clock,
I like to keep in touch with the past.
I still use a watch with hands,
it keeps me in the present.

An Ode to the Analog world

Do you understand?

Understanding

Why can’t you understand,
I am just trying to help.
I don’t want any problems,
I am trying to show you how.

I guess you feel insure,
when someone knows more than you.
But I am not trying to insult you,
when I try to explain how.

Please try and understand,
I am not a know it all.
But in this particular case,
I do know more than you.

We need to reach an understanding,
when it comes to sharing knowledge.
Please accept my expertise,
and I will accept yours.

Understanding

Origin

Where did I start?
What do I first remember?
Vague images of snow, which place is this?
Are they my memories or what I have been told?
That image in my brain, was that from a photo?

Memories or dreams? Made up or real?
My origin is misty, can I believe it?
Who am I? What does “I” mean?
What makes me me? or you you?
Am I a collection of lives?

I have seen so many photos of where I am from,
Heard stories to go with them too!
But my first vivid memory I would have been 4,
being made fun of by Kiwi kids on the street,
for the way I spoke, so British you see!

My Origin Story