19/4/13 12.01am

Like fragile bubbles, children fly
so swiftly as we set them free
between the earth and cloudswept sky
with colours swirling magically.

I watched my sweet boy go to war
so sad-eyed, in his uniform
his colours darker than before
like greying clouds before a storm.

Go carefully into the fray
beloved boy, return to me
all I can do is wait and pray
as once again, I set you free.


Inspired by a scene from BBC1's The Village, in which Joe (Nico Mirallegro) was about to return to
the front line in WW1 and his mother Grace (Maxine Peake) had been showing very poignant hints of
the fear she felt for his survival in the trenches.

29/3/13

Bring me celestial music of the spheres
Such notes as dance in colours in the mind
The shimmering of distant hemispheres
Where streams of rainbow nebulae unwind

Bright notes cascade in sparkling waterfalls
Light motes resound in echoes through the breeze
From secret gardens hid behind stone walls
Paradise plays enticing symphonies

Our earthly plane is rife with vexing noise
Cacophanies of thundering machines;
Barkings of dogs, vexed babies in full voice
keep us earthbound, locked into dull routines.

Reach for the headphones, cover up your ears,
Take in celestial music of the spheres.

Sara L Russell 6/3/13 16:18 

Just look at him, sitting in the corner 
Hogging the remote control
Seemingly so deaf but he can hear us when he likes
Leaves such a mess around the toilet bowl

Just look at him stagger to the ****** 
Just because we've hidden all the *****
He remembers where to drink but can't remember where he lives
Maybe a nursing home will help him choose

Look at that poor old man sat in the corner
He had no visitors again today
He sings all the old songs but doesn't quite recall his name
And never seems to have a lot to say.

March 2002
(inspired by William Shakespeare; and an eerie
floating drowned woman in the movie Titanic)*

Adrift amid the bindweed, through the reeds,
Watching the sky with deep unblinking eyes,
She passes where the turquoise mayfly feeds,
Oblivious of all that swims or flies.
Red flowered chiffon billows to her hands
Open like water lilies in the sun,
Her skin's the colour of tropical sands,
Her russet hair shines bright as copper spun.
Fabulous jewels languish on her breast,
Rich spoils of love rendered useless in death,
Her parted lips make unspoken behest;
The rosy portal of her final breath.
Now all is cold where roiling passion flamed,
As jealous earth mourns what the river claimed.

Though the sky may fade,
your eyes grow dim and rheumy
and the sun lose its golden halo
I’ll still see you
I’ll carry a torch to
light your  corner of darkness in the world

Though your voice may quake
and few may stop to listen
as you fight to convey opinion
I’ll still hear you
I’ll listen to find a
meaning through confusion in the words

Though most sound is quelled
and as if in sleep
your ears miss the sounds of morning
I’ll still speak to you
remind you of
who you are, both to yourself and those who care.

22/12/12 @ 21:21 pm

Out on a winter walk one day
you solemnly put an acorn into my hand.
Something in my head whispered
"Keep it safe
and he'll be safe".
I kept it to this day.

Year one.
One candle on my cake,
burned into my mind's eye forever.
You took a photograph
to keep me in the picture.

Year four.
My sister arrived in the world. 
You took me to feed the swans.
Back home
she greeted us with screams.
I fled, covering my ears.

Year thirteen.
Mother told me the facts of life.
You kept well out of it.

Year nineteen,
A disco at the end of a long, quiet road.
You always drove me safely there and back.
You were judge and jury
of all boyfriends.

Year twenty three.
You gave me away
to the best boyfriend of all.

A montage of eras
replay in the bright lens of memory
till the year of the walk
and the acorn.

And I kept it safe
so you'd be safe,
only now it looks cracked and old;
not quite like an acorn

and you are not quite like you.


............................................

http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/
http://www.alz.org/

7/12/12   16:25pm

At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
 man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God. 
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.

When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.

At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.