Poetry and Creative Writing
Time Team
Go. Take The Baton. Run.
Look around you.
In this split second, a bud opens, a baby is born, a pensioner dies.
Do not grieve. This second allowed life to progress.
This solitary second may be running alone.|
But seconds together make time.
Building, creations, lives, progress.
Each second passes on its baton to the next.
Appreciate each second.
Each member of the team.
Then you will win the race.
poetry
My Safe Space
What is autism? Who am I? Not who I was last year before my diagnosis or perhaps I am?
Perhaps, exactly the same person as the pre-pubescent who escaped to her bedroom as soon as the evening rituals were complete. Teeth brushed, hair combed, toilet needs fulfilled. Inside was a make-believe world of sinister smiling character dolls in brightly coloured hand-knitted clothes which clashed gregariously with the 70s carpet. Personally, I preferred Action Man. My imagination tucked up in bed, he would rise forth to battle against Sindy, the healthier looking adversary to Barbie, his cohort. I wished that he would pull each hair follicle from her plump head, even though I knew that her triumphant smile would welcome me from my dreams in the morning.
Nowadays, I find a similar solace away from the everlasting buzz of my computer, camouflaged as a brain. There are always hundreds of apps open at the same time. Each web browser, hundreds of tabs. It screams for help to no avail. The rotating circle of death tries to warn of impending doom before the ultimate crash. Shutdown. Time to retreat, reboot, reset. This time my evening rituals won’t be completed.
It's still me, same brain. Just a different battle in the same war.
creative writing - prose
Time Does Not Heal All Wounds
They say that time heals all wounds
but it doesn't.
As it passes by, they scab over
but they are still there,
Merely masked beneath the scars,
vulnerable to being torn open again
with the next cut.
poetry
Just A Thimble
Just part of a sewing set or a tool for creating a masterpiece? Rosie would pull out the thimble whenever there was a more intricate part of her needlework to be accomplished, delicate and small. The tinier the piece then the more likely that the thimble would be drawn from the toolbox to protect her bony arthrytic finger from a sharp darning needle along with her reading glasses to avoid squinting too much more than necessary. Oh, if this thimble could talk of the works of art that it had witnessed being nurtured to maturity; stories and images being embroidered into stiff, starched white fabric. Its coat of armour guarded the construction of memories against a spill of ruinous scarlet blood; memories of art that were today being handed down to Rosie’s children. In the lawyer’s office, it was her youngest child’s turn. He was handed a box which he opened tentatively to discover the thimble. Why, he wondered? He unfolded the enclosed handwritten note.
“For you, my child, the most precious piece of all for without this thimble, I would have created nothing. May it provide you with the same protection even though I am no longer with you, love mum”
creative writing - prose