A Pile of old diaries.

A Pile of old diaries.

I have travelled and carried these for too long. I must have carried them for a reason! I hope you enjoy the poems, ramblings and journey as much as I did.

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Someone different held my hand. 1997.

(2018 –  Based on memories and kind of unfinished and clumsy. Pen rambling)

At seventeen I left this country
Couldn’t wait to get away
I travelled down to London town
To check out other ways.

I innocently wandered through
The dark, crazed streets alone
I met the first black man I ever knew
Who offered me his heart and home

He was a beefy boxer
Twin brothers, he had earned some fame
They heralded from Jamacia
Pete Wilson was his name

He gave me pride in knowing
That his culture could also be mine
‘Respect the noble warrior’
The lesson of that time.

He shared with me another side
I side I would have never known
If he had not seen me wandering by
And stopped to say ‘hello’

I got a place in college
to study art and muck around
I had to leave that lovely man
’cause he tried to catch me and wrestle me to the ground

I’d fallen in with my own folk
He understood that lovely bloke
My college years had just begun
Years of innocence, abuse and fun

We lived all over South London then
Crashing out in the early morning
Playing with the city and living out our aimless dreams
Filling up with flying ambitions
And chasing our irreverent dreams.

Thank you Pete, for holding my hand as I met that wonderful city.

Forever grateful.Someone to hold my hand

 

Outside is all noise. Luibs caravan, Kilmartin, Scotland. 27th July 1997.

“Outside is all noise.
The dripping roar of rain on leaves and the top of the tin -top caravan. The flick and buzz of flies as they hit the windows panes luring, bright light.
It’s past midnight and my head hurts from premonition and the lack of ability to define.

“In this life so much magik weaving…….?
Oh muse, where have you been?”

REAL TIME……are we arriving there?

Losing the Ego……what happens if ALL people begin to evolve in this direction?

The return of Merlin to Avalon…..(recognition of our true heros/leaders that loose the ego)
Herne/Mercury/Pan
Shapeshifting. Animist. Fertility.
(the Felindyrch shape-shifter that murdered the seven sons of Merlin……?)
Merlin vs Pan?
These synchronicities why are they so important and how do they fit together!?”

Restless confusion. 1997.

(2017 – Surprised by how contemporary this piece of writing feels for me now.)

‘Welcome to the restless confusion of coming into a new era.
Listen to the jangled tones of realization.
Can we evolve fast enough in this ancient new tangent?
What we have been saying for years appears to be changing the world, but not as I’d envisioned exactly.
Madness invades the integral core of my pumping brain.
Power so huge I cannot get my arms around it. Cannot grasp it.
Breathe again.
Are there other worlds outside this idyll now that are worth exploring again?
I have reached this age when I am turning and facing myself.
And I do not see anything there at all.
And when I think of who I really am, I cannot really face it, accept it or become.
Become into being
Me.

(Desperately needing purpose still.)’

June 4th 1997.

‘In the garden:-

dig and sow 4 more rows of French beans
mow back lawn
straw/mulch for strawberries (pine needles? Dunans? bags?)
weeding, watering, weediing

watering,watering, watering

Check:
greenhouse/comfrey/gunnera/sunflowers
cut forest paths back
build bender benches/bed
dig fire pit

sow chamomile and borage….central patch?

buy carrots/beetroot/winter/spring cabbage/swedes

What I should. 1997.

Dense, sensitive, slow hum,
Hum humming of life.
Flutter of butterfly wings
and chirrup of buzzing things.
The trickle chuckle river and the
warm, ticklish air.
I should throw myself down in the long, itchy grass.
I should walk, feel free and strong….
But I just will lay here, feeling good
for not doing.
What I should.

(If I cannot focus my energy into something soon I shall……..?)

Butterfly connections. 1997.

Butterfly connections.
Seagulls call and whirl.
Like black spots in the back of my eye.
Hieroglyphic spirals,
Picked out against the blinding sky.
Swallow tail swift,
forked slender arrow.
Dove coo, ancient, wood-wise.
A car brakes through and then away.
Bleating lambs, skimble and moan for their mothers.
African music, low and happy,
Accompanies the scene.
Breezes, breezy, blowing lightly.
Yellow poppies bow and bend.
So slow and sweet.