Sitting on my couch leafing
through my book of jotted
words, scribbled ideas, thinking
thoughts for my next poem
for my blog, pondering one
then another.Nothing strikes
a chord, starts me writing.
Ceiling corners’ cobwebs taunt
me, wisps of carpet fluff float
up, point at me. A layer of dust
covers sideboard, living room
surfaces, dulls them greyly.
The kitchen floor needs sweeping,
wet mopping. All sights that
annoy me as I sit. The tiles
around the bathroom vanity, the
large bathroom mirror all need
smudges, soapy smears wiped off.
So many distractions from writing.
When I sweep the floors, work
the vacuum cleaner, ply wet
mop and bucket, clean bathroom
tiles and mirror, move dusters
over living room and bedroom…
… ideas flow, ready to write,
sharp words, keen phrases come
to mind. So I jot them down,
continue cleaning write down
more …… Most confusing !
Working for a living my spine
twisted into kinks, my muscles
crunched bones out of place.
…… Pain ! …… Immobility !
On the massage table the
therapeutic masseuse fully trained
in human anatomy would unknot
the knots, unkink the kinks with
thumbs, knuckles, heel of hand
all precisely and agonisingly
placed ……. Aaaarrrghh !!
I would carefully focus on
relaxing to allow this additional
pain to release the knots
and kinks, release me to move.
Next day I would feel tender
through neck, arms, shoulders
back thighs, calves even after
hot showers and baths.
Soon I would move easily
… until I eventually seized
up in new knots, new kinks.
After retirement I expected
to move freely, continuously
without further painful massage.
Not so. Age has replaced
workday stresses, knots still
return to grip my back.
Those expert hands must
still work their painful magic.
Alongside our little row of flats
runs our smooth concrete driveway
widely absorbing sunny heat, opening
us up to the blue sky, leading along
the neighbours’ fence, round to our
carports, on to a narrow path
passing our back doors, our clotheslines.
Under each flat’s front windows sits
a little garden with multi sized
shaped and coloured shrubs softening
doors, windows, brick walls, concrete.
River stones and pebble mulch lie
under the plants in the other gardens
keeping them tidy for tenants
without tools or gardening skills.
My garden’s soil is open to the
sky, breathing freely amidst
brick, stone, and concrete.
I interact with this soil feeding
it compost as it drinks in air and rain.
In return the soil shares its bounty
with all comers, windblown seeds as
well as my chosen plants and flowers.
Removing these uninvited scrambling
sprawling invaders I stand my ground.
……………… More writing time goes by.
Every night Mum or Dad reads
to two little girls before lights out.
Grown up visitors used to be
pestered to read aloud also.
Older sister started school, brought
home little books, read to Mum
every night, Dad too. She wrote stories,
letters to fairies and grandparents.
Mum helped with the spelling.
Younger sister turned five, started
school. She could write her name
on cards to grandparents, aunts, uncles.
Yet there were many squiggles called
letters, in books, on the whiteboard.
She was told to write them herself.
She had to read to her teacher each
day, to Mum after school, all those
squiggles, she much preferred pictures.
She remembered a book’s words, but
when reading to Mum she stared out
the window reciting the words,
vaguely waving her finger over them.
Meanwhile big sister’s books were
longer and harder, she read them easily.
After some months of puzzlement
the five year old read a new book
fluently to her teacher one day. How
did she do it ? She didn’t know.
But she had finally cracked the mystery.
I am definitely on the mend and expect to be posting again on Sunday.
Coming right slowly….many thanks for all the good wishes….
I am down with some awful lengthy stomach bug. This has temporarily stopped me from writing and editing coherently, and I have only been able to view some posts. I hope to be back up and running soon.