the crone

opening the door to ideas

T’was the week before Christmas, when all through the land Not a creature was safe from austerity’s hand.   The P45s were placed in the OUT-tray with care, While Chairman and MD made sure they weren’t there.   At home, children nestled all snug in their beds, While downstairs mum and dad raged off their …

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I am writing poetic pieces on the fleeting joys of family life. Whilst missing out on my own family. And being a moaning haggard harridan when I do see them. I am prostituting my craft and soul for people to red line it, scar it. Chop it. Hurt it. Ah, poor me! I am but …

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I am not keen on the UK government’s decision to go ahead with a hugely expensive, contaminating nuclear power station when clean, low-cost, renewable energy seems so much more foward-thinking. By the time it’s built Hinkley Point’s technology will be almost redundant. So I wrote this — with apologies to Messrs Morrissey and Marr.

Been sharing some lovely unintentional Ivor Cutler poems. These make me smile. “Slippers For Feet” “Five Cakes. Eight Cakes. Served With A Jug of Cream.”   If you have never heard any Ivor Cutler poetry, and you love words and absurdity, you might like to discover more. Life in A Scottish Living Room Squeeze Bees Hello! How are …

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There was a zombie woman on my early morning train. Her face was a skeleton. Smooth tea-coloured skin stretched over dry bones. Milky blank eyes of faint cataract blue. Colourless dry wisps of hair stuck to the dome of her skull. Her maw was opened. Dark. Like a tunnel. The dry lips strained. Mouthing. She stared forward. Focusing …

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I follow the thought-provoking blog A Narcissist Writes Letters, To Himself so it was wonderfully exciting last week to find a yellow padded package (with an exotic San Francisco return address) stuffed into my humble post box here in the UK. The Narcissist (E.I. Wong Himself) had kindly sent me a copy of his book*. I sat down at my quintessentially English breakfast …

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My blog has been sadly neglected. Poor little bloggy. Moved house. Moving on. Saying goodbye to some things. It was quite cleansing to unburden myself. Going through piles of papers. Throwing out crumpled cartoons, wrinkled pages of writing, years and years worth of diaries. It’s like taking a weight off the mind or soul. I mean, if you haven’t looked at …

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I saw the birds perched in a tree at the end of the road. Black bird shapes on black branches, settled in silhouette against the cold white winter sky. I count 10. I think there are 10. What is in their minds? I know birds cannot be said to have consciousness of self in the …

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Today. Alone. Having time and space to myself at last. Ignoring the washing, the cleaning, the housework. Wasting time carefully, with a range of activities chosen for myself, me, only. Segmenting the day into fizzling an hour away on social networking, an hour on news reading, and hour on novel reading, an hour on showering, …

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I love his face.

His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.

I love his range of facial expressions.

I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).

His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.

His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.

I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.

I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.

He is so funny.
So, different.

I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.

I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.

To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.

To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.

Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.

Owey, Owey Oatflake.

Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.

You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.

Asperger's on sports day

It’s the not taking part that counts.

October 22, 2014