Writing Me Up

Writings by me, for me. Forgive me.

Month: May 2020

  • A Vignette

    A Vignette

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    What have you been doing? Oh nothing much. What does that mean? Nothing much. This and that. Pottering. Pottering? Yes. Feeding the plants. Weeding. Bit of pruning. Bits and bats. Pottering. Is that all? It’s pathetic. No, it’s not all, actually. The main thing I’ve been doing is avoiding you.

  • Ripples Of Joy

    Ripples Of Joy

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    A field of young wheat, rippled by a gentle breeze. Peaceful, quiet joy.

  • The New Normal

    The New Normal

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    I’ve been thinking about what life will look like ‘afterwards’, the thing people are calling the New Normal. Wouldn’t it be good if this New way was better than the Old way? What made me wonder about this was a lockdown re-reading of one of my all time favourite books. John Steinbeck wrote many wonderful…

  • Snow In Summer

    Snow In Summer

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Like snow in summer a drift of pure white flowers almost melts the heart.

  • Lovelace Blue

    Lovelace Blue

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Violet blue iris, like a colour out of space, conceived by Lovelace.

  • Rain Drops On Rose Leaves

    Rain Drops On Rose Leaves

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Rain drops on rose leaves. Meniscal pearly droplets, the tears of the skies .

  • An Old Neighbour Dies

    An Old Neighbour Dies

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    An old neighbour dies. We are still for the cortège. Eloquent silence.

  • A Rotten Meal

    A Rotten Meal

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Buzzard soars up high scanning the ground all around seeks a rotten meal

  • The Bird Gorger

    The Bird Gorger

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Birds on a feeder feast in the days of plenty. I gorge on the scene.

  • A Swift Snack

    A Swift Snack

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Wings like a curved sword swifts slice through the summer skies cutting down insects.

  • Blue Bird Of Happiness

    Blue Bird Of Happiness

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Blue tit in bird bath. Washing, splashing, having fun. Happy in the sun.

  • Suburban Living

    Suburban Living

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Suburban living. That is just what it is not. It is not living.

  • The Thirteenth Of May

    The Thirteenth Of May

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    They come and go, days, each like every other, another one to come after this one is done. We mark them or forget them or ignore them as we choose, the significance of a date often lost in the daze of our lives. Joe Louis, Dennis Rodman, the Wonder of Stevie, and lesser mortals, entered…

  • Sweet Lips

    Sweet Lips

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Her lips are so sweet, though sometimes the sweetest lips spit sourest poison.

  • We Don’t Understand Us

    We Don’t Understand Us

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    You don’t get it. I can’t get it right. We don’t understand us. Nothing of us is understandable. We are complex, complicated, completely normal in our abnormal ways. This is how it goes, how life unfolds for us, for all of us, for always, forever, ’til death us do part, our carved hearts entwined in…

  • Jacking The Beanstalk

    Jacking The Beanstalk

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Tendrils twirl and curl, twisting and twining spirals, jacking the beanstalk.

  • Nothing Days

    Nothing Days

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Days of nothing done; nothing seen, nothing happened. These are nothing days.

  • Sunlight Through Petals

    Sunlight Through Petals

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    The garden at dawn, early morning outside space. Sunlight shines through petals. Mere purple turns to violet, white shines brighter; the light illuminates the tight spun-sugar wires of webs linking leaf to stem, bud to branch. It is too early for the human stain. Ants crawl by my feet, just as busy and aimless. Birds…

  • Losing My Mind

    Losing My Mind

    —

    by

    rak
    in

    Maybe it’s the times. Maybe it’s the lack of self-space. Maybe it’s just that I’m getting old and even more Leary, but I seem to be losing my mind. My captive thoughts are escaping their brain cells, running away from me like ungrateful rats deserting a shrinking wit. Concentrating is taking a frustrating effort, although…