Hardly morning pages,
undawned the day
as velvet night rests beyond the window
which floods my room with light

humankind
gentle
handsome
loving

comfort and joy

i will let this pass
i will weather the storm
i will wordfully execute
my personal life rescue
nothing else better
to do?

How touched am I by the single flower

The sweet perfume of the perfect bloom

The head held high catching my eye

And I reach and pluck you to my lips

Embrace the beauty with a gentle kiss

Yes you are in your prime

When I bring you in

But you sang to my soul

You required my time

And my lips replied

Before I knew my mind

Hello Mother, I murmured as I carried you in

And now I have placed you

Where my gaze can rest

Whilst I care for my family

Ease the pain in my chest

Take the crease from my brow

And the weariness eases

The lingering love

in that one single flower

Fills my heart and my soul

With its ardent power.

Sun shines your warm smile and loving heart
The Ocean calls your adventurous spirit
Green fields lay the parchment for your vibrant history
I am on the train to Edinburgh
My mother, I am glad you are with me.

Anne Christine Clarke – nee Stening, lately of Manchester. Passed away peacefully at the Alexian Brothers Care home on 30th April 2008 aged 85 years and One day. Loving and much loved Mother and Grandmother.

Anne was born in Upminster in 1923. She dedicated her life to the service of God and to her family. Her work as a Christian Missionary took her across the world to China and to the Pacific. Along the way, she studied to become a Congregational Minister before marrying and adopting her 3 children. A gifted linguist, she read or spoke Chinese & Hebrew, she was also a highly respected Educationalist, specialising in Early Years Education and Residential Care.

Many people were touched by the gift of her love for God, both as a Companion of Brother Lawrence and as a Lay Preacher. She preached for several years across the Methodist churches in the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire.

Anne will remain forever in our hearts.

who else am I
that I do not spend every waking hour of every day here
with my words and the melodies they play?

that I know is all it takes
and thus the future
the me inside
is freed.

and I went from the table to my son's bed. Laid myself next to him and gazed at his strength whilst he slept. and then just breifly I saw my own unravelling. If he were to die? his grandmother's eyes turned blank and grey upward beneath chalk white lids and her aged body shook and trembled on a precipice called death. She rturned to us , to help us fade that memory? Then why did it linger with me and let my imagination touch it to my my son's sweet grace. I do not know.

capacious love,
not quite extinct
but tired , so tired

endlessly waiting to give itself
and it couod be you,

just ask.

chill
creaks at my shoulders
hardening rocks either side of my throat
my poor, sore throat.

and I am laughing at my weakness.

chill creeeping
along, longing lines
towrds my elbows
rested here
beside warm breasts

and I am close to weeping

children sleep
in beds, on floors and sofas
sparked around my house
and I am covering, worrying, loving

so afterall, who is mocking me?
only me?
lonely me?

and afterall, who is mocking me?

freeze and peel my skin
suffer the silent din
prepare to take control
contradict me.

and I am waiting to die?

ah!

I am annoyingly museless.

have been this way for so many months. Bereft. I stay away. Lost.

Stories filter into my mind via ears clogged by decades of abuse and I am so tired and I have nothing to say.

I am a solution seeker, sneak peaker, needing some purpose my 24/7. A lttle taste of heaven.

Tommorrow morning I will start anew and in ernest.

Poor Ernest!

and his handbag too

ridicluous chorus long remebered dismembering my heritage with its post dad army funk.

dunk that donut , boy, dunk.

Flunk
punk
stunk.

my child, never fear, I am here!

oh god, a muselss poet is a sad and puerile waste of the green earth good free air.

bye  bye my love

despair
repair
compare

if I write of the sunlight will I hold it here forever
light of my light, my eyes behold
and delight
if I write of sunlight can I recall it at will
blowing winter dust from my eys
and letting my desire rise

if I write of warmth anfd love
pull from my imagination
every story filled with lust
will I always and forever revel
in the must
of loving whenver and wherevr one is taken?