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I gave up writing letters when the frost set in
Having tied each bunch with coloured ribbon
So those clearing out could identify the writer
Before packing into bags for their final home.

Mother’s letters were always playful with a lot of
Funny drawings and a multitude of little sayings
There was often a five pound note for the children
And lots of kisses and hugs to each and everyone .

They came regular at holiday times when distant
Kept us apart and she and I felt unexpectedly sad
For we lived like each other, inside tins and things
Buttons and bows, flower pots, coffee-sponge cake.

I have her letters in drawers, inside books and cards
I have her glasses and blue case, last pair of shoes
A scarf where there remains the scents of The Island
The beach and sea, salty air and a jar of cold cream.

Love Mary to her mum xxxx
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
 Jun 2018 Jackie Mead
Jeff Gaines
The Angels must all be taking a break
or this now-rotten world has them all busy somewhere.
And I am in fear for heaven …
as God seems so intent on calling you back there.

Such a better place it is …
this world here with you in it.
My life has found this blissful peace …
and an admiration because you never quit.

I've read he will never bestow upon you,
something that you can't handle.
I guess it's true, as your light seems to come
from an eternally burning candle.

It's flame has shown me images
of your life, loves and times.
Eloquent, beautiful, filled with memories
that flow like water through the rhymes.

Go there then, when your time comes …
Mary Gay Kearns.
Your candle will be shining ever so bright here …
as it forever burns.

You've given us all something …
to see and learn and feel.
You've lived a life that many would envy
and shared these scenes so real.

And when you are gone, you'll never actually be.
In my heart, you're alive, for ever more.
And some day I will touch your paintings,
when I, finally, again cross your shore.

Go, with that smile and be content.
God needs you ... even I can see.
For I am in fear for Heaven …
They must need you desperately.
For those of you that do not know Mary Gay Kearns, please, go to her page here:

https://hellopoetry.com/u706104/

Or read the last poem that I wrote about her here:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2400034/finding-mary/


She is as wonderful and talented a poet as has ever been. Having been given a terminal diagnosis, she has stood strong fighting back and through it all brought us more and more amazing poetry.

But now, she has been given even more bad news and more severe diagnosis.  It saddens me so and when I learned of this, I thought that "Heaven must really need you", to be seemingly trying so hard to take you from us.

That was the inspiration for this poem as much as Mary herself. She is an amazing woman.
 Jun 2018 Jackie Mead
Midnight
your words exactly:
"i believe our paths were meant
"to intersect,
"but not to sustain.
"to touch,
"but not to cling.
"to meet,
"but not to unite. "
and i still love you,
despite.
You kind of broke my heart when you told me this, so abrasively, over a warm beer and a shared cigarette at 4 in the morning.
 Jun 2018 Jackie Mead
Lyn-Purcell
Dreaming in my mind
Walking under blue moonlight
on clouds of yonder
I once had this dream of walking on clouds under a blue moon in a long white dress.
Loved it because I woke up the next day with a really calm mind.
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Watching the news
    so hard for me
My tears, my anger
       as  genuine
        as they are
      Seem so cheap
      How could we
   ever make it right?
       The stripping
          Of dignity
     The humiliation
There are no words to  
even describes the atrocities
                Done
      Do I feel guilty ? No
                   For
I did not  put them through this
      Do I feel responsible? Yes
      Do I feel ashamed? Yes
         My heart is crying
   We all need to remember
         Respect and honor
      we owe  to each other
      remember sometimes
    We make the right choice
       for all the wrong reason
          sometimes we make
            the wrong choice
       for all the right reason
       We can make this right!
Please let your voices be heard at this disastrous border war going on ... we can do better , We’re Americans... This is not about Politics  rather Human Relations... GIVE LOVE!
“I’ll be fine” she said
“The golden apples are within my reach.
I hear the distant thunder
And the flash of lightning
Lights the sky beyond the hills
But if my steps are ever forward
This muddy ground can’t trap my feet
And keep me from the prize I’m seeking.
I need only to climb up that tree.”

“I’ll be OK” she said
I have a sturdy ladder
And the shining apple tree
Is in a meadow not too far away.
It’s heavy - who will help me carry it
And hold it steady while I climb?”
There are many who raise hands
To offer buckets for the fruit
And shaded sheds to store it in.

“Tomorrow starts today” she said.
And dressed in apple picking clothes
With sturdy ladder climbing shoes
She set out across the fields
Where stood the golden apple tree.
Two fell behind along the way
And one decided to sleep in
So as the morning sun grew warm
She was left with just a step stool.

“I can do this” she proclaimed
I can figure out a way
To reach the apples lower down
And put a few into the basket
That replaced the heavy bucket”.
But the storm is closing in -
The metal stool, a lightning rod.
No longer safe out in the open
And not a single apple picked.                  
“I was over confident” she said
I thought the cheers and smiles all meant
That I could climb that golden tree
And gather apples to sustain me
Through the coming winter’s snows.”
But it appears that smiles and handshakes
Do not morph into a ladder
Tall enough to reach the fruit
That hides amongst the tallest branches.

“I feel despair” she moaned out loud
And flung herself into the brambles
Praying she would find black-berries -
Something to replace the apples
She knew would never be her meal.
But the blooming time was over,
Only withered nubs remained and
All she managed was torn clothing
And bleeding scratches on her fingers.

“I have no hope” she cried
“I’ve wasted all my energy and strength
Chasing visions that can not be mine,
Seeking golden apples I can’t reach.
Trusting hands that tried, but could not help me,
Facing knowledge that the winter will be hungry
And the only safe place is away
Where hands and smiles must be discovered
In a different kind of garden.”
                   ljm
The sure-thing new career proved to be illusive, and didn't materialize,  and finding a different place to do what I did before didn't work either.  Nothing left to do but find a safe place  far away to curl up and lick my wounds.
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