You will never find time for anything. If you want the time, you must make it.
If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.
It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.
Ursula Le Guin
i have definitely got the holiday blues – missing that blue sky and warm sea.
what a beautiful poem and how often you catch your loved one walking down the street ……..
Who has not seen their lover
Walking at ease,
Walking like any other
A pavement under trees,
Not singular, apart,
But footed, featured, dressed,
Approaching like the rest
In the same dapple of the summer caught;
Who has not suddenly thought
With swift surprise:
There walks in cool disguise,
There comes, my heart.
a poem for remembering……..
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Christina G. Rossetti
taken from the Penguins poems for life, selected by Laura Barber
the decision to leave has disappointed me so much – i think about the future for our children and how it will affect them; but i tell myself that life goes on and we need to be positive……..
“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is bliss, taste it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it. Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.”
Mind is the master power that molds and makes,
And we are Mind, and evermore we take
The tool of thought, and shaping what we will,
Bring forth a thousand joys, a thousand ills,
We think in secret, and it comes to pass -
Our world is but our looking glass.
– James Allen
This short and inspiring poem contains a world of wisdom within its few short sentences. It serves as a powerful reminder or idea that we are what our thoughts made of. What we consistently and persist in thinking, be it good or bad, sooner or later our thoughts will manifest into reality.
I hope that this poem would encourage you in cultivating courageous, good and beautiful thoughts. I think about some of my friends who have to be so courageous at this moment of their life – and it makes me realise how lucky I am to have my family and health.
for Paul who introduced me to music, nightlife and my youth
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory -
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 -1822)
taken from Love Poems, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets
my favourite card at the moment – i go through phases and use different ones, but there is something melancholic, but beautiful about this peony.
if you are an incurable romantic, and looking for a poem to send to your loved one, have a read of some of the poems selected by the guardian – it makes you want to read even more poetry.
here is one of my favourite poems
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
Carol Ann Duffy
one of my readers suggested this lovely book ‘Washing Lines’ a collection of poems – all the poems have something to do with washing and laundry reflecting many human emotions to do with family, relationships and memory.
I stop Writing the Poem
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I’am still a woman.
I’ll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I’ll get back
to the poem. I’ll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there’s a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it’s done.
we can forever discuss what is right or wrong with war - wilfred owen wrote this poignant poem in 1917 and highlights the instability caused by war and death. the poem has a note of finality, of lingering sadness and an inability to avoid the reality of death and grief.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
i went to the funeral of a friend’s father – it was beautiful, moving – a celebration of life – of one elegant and gentle man.
clara, grand daughter read beautifully the following poem which was extremely touching as apparently he had marked the poem out in a book just before his death.
Lights Out (1917)
I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave, alone,
I know not how.
The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way