A year ago in autumn
you came home
with a cyclamen
with hot pink flowers
and gave it to me
as a gift. It lived
on the windowsill in
our bedroom next to
the cream jug with the
blue handle.
All autumn and all winter
the hot pink flowers
kept untwirling
and all autumn and all winter
I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe
this could exist
in the darkness.
As spring came and turned warm
the flowers and leaves died down
until it was nothing but
brown earth in a small pot.
I took it outside
put it in the cold frame
and hoped it would
stay alive.
It did.
And now it’s autumn again
and I brought it in
and put it back
on the windowsill in
our bedroom next to
the cream jug
with the blue handle
and the hot pink flowers
are untwirling
and it reminds me
that even when the whole world
is turning dark
and the weight of human horror
is heavy in the heart
somewhere
a shocking spark of light
is rising –
bold, daring,
proclaiming truth and beauty
in the gloom.
Poetry
My parents gave me a plastic box
filled with mementos
from my childhood and youth.
I guess they thought
they were things I’d like to keep.
But you know, we live
in a small house
and I don’t like stuff
so to be honest
I threw most of it away,
like the plastic bouquet
of white flowers
from that day I was May queen
like the two plastic plates
featuring my early artwork
like the multiple copies
of my graduation photo
in which I’m smiling
and I can only imagine
I’m smiling with the joy
of leaving.
But I found a few treasures,
a few things I’ll keep,
like a typed up piece of paper
from when I was ten years old
where I have written
that my favourite subject is English
because I like writing
and that my ambition
is to be an archaeologist
but that I would probably
change my mind
and I did change my mind
about a thousand times
and I see now
that I could have saved myself
a lot of trouble
by keeping that piece of paper
in my pocket
because even though
I didn’t become an archaeologist
I do like digging around
in the ground of my own mind
and I still like writing
so really it was all right there.
But you know, the best thing I found
was an entry on page two
of my nursery school diary
when I was just three years old
and a teacher had written
“Leah will not be persuaded
to do anything she feels
she does not want to do”
and you know, whatever that was
it has stayed with me
and whatever that is
it has been the blessing
and the curse
by which I have lived.
I just finished this poem this morning. I hope it speaks to you!
The summer clouds were like
all the ‘Somedays’ I’d ever uttered –
so lovely and always drifting by.
Whole days passed easily
lying back in the grass
admiring their forms.
Tomorrow, I’d say.
Tomorrow will be the day
I pluck a Someday out of the sky
and really begin my life.
But when tomorrow came
it all began again
the way it had the day before.
Someday becomes a habit, you know?
Until one day, I don’t know why –
perhaps age, perhaps grace –
something changed
and I got up and began.
Uncertainly, awkwardly, imperfectly –
but I began.
Only truth stands the test of time.
Everything else decays
loses its flavour
becomes bitter.
The truth is always ripe and juicy
like a warm, fat fig
begging to be picked
to find a home between your lips
dripping with sweetness
you devour it
it devours you
no longer two
but one
eternal
kiss.
For all my fellow perfectionists!
There is a knot of perfectionism
tied tight inside,
it stops you from starting,
says it’s safer to hide.
The knot keeps you small
and away from what’s true,
keeps you from giving
the gift that is you.
Please take a second
and just close your eyes,
breathe into the knot
and discover its lies.
The closer you look
the more you will see
the knot isn’t made of reality.
It’s just a bundle of energy
stored from the past
and now is the time to release it at last.
The knot will unravel
leaving space in your heart
to breathe in more deeply
and create your true art.
After a long day at work
she went to the park
sat by the oak tree
and poured out her heart.
What should she do
with this life she’d been given
and why did her days
feel so out of rhythm?
The great oak tree listened
with stillness and grace
offering the woman
a silent embrace.
When the woman had finished
and all had been said
the wise oak responded
through an invisible thread.
My dear sweet love
lay down your fear
put your hand on your heart
and know I am near.
Answers will come
in their own precious time
trust in the journey
in God, the Divine.
The woman felt better
but still didn’t see
how the words of the oak
would help set her free.
The days turned to weeks
then to months then to years
and still she so often
shed more hopeless tears.
But one morning she woke
with a feeling so light
and she knew in her soul
that her future was bright.
All of her journey
had been leading her here
and now she could see
she need never have feared.
The oak had been right
she could let go and trust
she hadn’t often succeeded
but still…still…still
she was loved.
Love and courage,
Leah
P.S. Inspired by friends who sit with the trees.
P.P.S. So much gratitude for the trees who listen and guide.
If you find yourself weary, agitated or overwhelmed, join me for just a few moments for this poem by the fireside and allow a little space of rest to weave its way into your day.
Repeating a poem can be very soothing so if this poem speaks to you, try reading it aloud over and over again as a kind of meditation to bring you into balance.
Fireside
Come sit a while in time with me
Let all your woes and worries flee.
At the fireside, we’ll come to rest
A cocoon of comfort, a peaceful nest.
Close your eyes, listen within
Allow your breath to calm the din.
The world out there hurries on and on
But here instead we’ll sing a song
A song of slow simplicity
A dream of what the world could be.
Love and courage,
Leah
The autumn wind howled through the night
And in the morning to my delight
A tiny blue egg lay there on the floor
Thrown straight from its nest above door.
Oh wondrous egg, palest of blues
I could sit all day and admire your hues.
But soon my delight turned to sorrow indeed
As I saw the chick had never been freed
From this little shell in the palm of my hand
He’d never flown to faraway lands.
He didn’t make it, he never did fly,
He never did soar through the summer sky.
Though it is sad, it is the way of things
We don’t all get a chance to use our wings
Before we are whisked so quickly away
To watch over our kin who are destined to stay.
My Flycatcher friend, I’m sorry you’re gone
But somehow, oh thank you, you left us your song.
A song to remind we who are here
To open our wings and let go of our fear
To fly through the sky as high as can be
To know we are loved, watched over by thee.
It feels like spring has definitely arrived in my part of the world. The mornings are still cold but later in the day the sun has some warmth to it. The snowdrops are leaving, the crocus are here, and the daffodils too. I love this time of year! A joyous period before the hay fever sets in!
I wrote this poem in my head whilst on my regular loop walk a few weeks ago. I’m not sure why but I’ve been quite into rhyming things lately. I think this poem basically sums up how I feel about being in the world as a highly sensitive person. Let me know if it strikes a chord for you too.
Poem for the Sensitive Ones
You cry at the sound of a bird’s beating wings,
the smile of a stranger and a thousand more things.
You’re walking the path of awakening to love,
yet often you feel you are not quite enough.
Loud noises they scare you, people don’t understand,
you feel like an alien from a faraway land.
Anxiety so often gets its hooks in your mind
and depression can come very swiftly behind.
But it’s not your fault, this you must know,
when you question so deeply it can lead to a low.
Your joy can be higher than the highest known tree
and your sorrow as deep as the deepest blue sea.
You’re creative, intuitive and an empath too,
with so many gifts it’s hard to know what to do!
Your heart it cries out for the pain of the earth
and you desperately long to do something of worth.
Perfectionist tendencies can keep you held back,
but with just a little encouragement you’ll soon have the knack
of keeping on going and moving along
because now more than ever the world longs for your song.
A silly-serious poem today based on multiple experiences in the fruit and veg section of various supermarkets. I can’t be the only one who finds themselves staring with hollow eyes into the distance whilst holding bags of spinach?
I live in hope that green leaves will one day roam free in our supermarkets. In the meantime, I do do my best to source my fruit and veg from more ethical, sustainable suppliers, though depending on location and circumstances, this is not always possible. With a little luck, I will one day soon be able to grow a few leaves of my own.
The Baby Spinach
The baby spinach grows quickly grim,
a mushy goo around its rim.
Suffocated in its plastic bag,
my whole being begins to sag.
I cradle the baby in my arms
and wonder why we ignore the alarm.
Tears fall, shoppers pass me by,
how is it they do not cry?
One day the white coats will come for me,
tell me I’m lost to insanity.
“Look at her love for that bag of greens,
she’s doolally, mad, lost all her beans.”
Maybe I am, maybe they’re right,
but so long as I’m here I must take up the fight.
For that bag of spinach is to me a sign,
of what will happen to us if we don’t draw the line.
Love and courage,
Leah