There Is A Story in Every Day

English: A photo of a cup of coffee. Esperanto...

English: A photo of a cup of coffee. Esperanto: Taso de kafo. Français : Photo d’une tasse de caffé Español: Taza de café (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So there I was, in the coffee shop with my coffee, and my writing book open to a new page. I sit quietly for a few moments, collecting my thought. A lady at the next table stood up, preparing to leave. She offered a comment to me – a pleasantry, an exchange about the weather. I replied… and before I knew it, she was telling me her life story.

She asked no questions of me, required no response from me – though I prompted her with the odd question and remark, showing – not feigning – interest in her life story. Sometimes, this type of random one-sided conversation can be rather annoying – but I was enjoying it. I found it fascinating, that a complete stranger was opening up her life to me.

Ironic then, I thought, when she said:

“I’m a people person… people just open up to me, they tell me everything – and they let me print it…” (she used to be a journalist, back in the “golden days of Fleet Street”).

At some point late in the conversation, she remarked on my book and asked me what I did/what I was doing. I replied, ‘having some me time; indulging in my creative writing.’ She responded to this, briefly yet enthusiastically, urging me to read the papers (which I remarked I don’t do) for “the little stories… which often hide big things, if you search hard enough..”

Such a refined looking, genteel older lady, with perfectly done hair, and oh-so subtle make-up; a gold necklace and a gold brooch. What made you choose to talk to me, I wonder? Me, with my wild hair; make-up-less face; casual clothes and bare of jewellery? Such a contrast, you and I!
Was it mere chance – that I happened to be there as you were leaving: were you lonely, and just wanted to chat to someone? Or was it something more – some kind of attraction, of sorts? I shall never know. I’ll just be grateful for that short, wonderful random event, and would like to say:-

Dear Lady in the coffee shop – thank you for sharing with me, a stranger, a part of your life- just for a short moment, in time. A snapshot of you; a memory for me. And, I thank you for your parting line:

“There is a story in every day.”

Yes – I just found one! 🙂


Mirrors of Encounters…

Check him out – he’s thought provoking – and my muse 🙂

Hear It Again

Karma beyond love-
Is how I thought it:
Love beyond Karma-
Is how you taught it.
Startling Truth!
Silence of the muse-
The music lingering,
Spirit tingling
As I learn of
Karma-less Love.

To Julien, again 🙂

Hear it: Reply

The silence of the music is heard-
Shh – I’m listening:
Floating in the Karma-less void-

To Julien.

The Burial Ground

Cemetery Pond

Cemetery Pond (Photo credit: Mr. Ducke)

You are gone now;
Where I cannot follow,
Though I would if I could,
With my heart lying fallow.

Your spirit is free,
To soar where it will,
Mine is gagged and bound
To this earth still.

Do you envy me the earthly pleasures?
I envy you Spirit’s undiscovered treasures.
But I must stay, chained and bound:
You and I are the same
At the burial ground.

Liberty’s Kiss

At last, finally, here we are… Liberty’s Kiss is finished! I appreciate this poem is long – epic, by my standards, but I sincerely hope the time is worth the reading. I’ve done everything I can with it, so… here you are! Any and all comments on this gratefully received!


freedom (Photo credit: andre.vanrooyen)

Liberty stands, bowed but not broken, torn but not tattered:
Defiant her pose, her gaze – her hand
Held up with no tremble, no shake, not weakened.
Yes, Liberty stands, her back against the wall-
Yet she will not weep, she will not fall.
Liberty stands, as she will to the very end-
For she knows the price of Freedom.

Those baying hounds, those vicious dogs,
They crowd around, barring escape.
Watching her, they shiver and shake;
Snarling and slavering, they bark and growl,
Gnash their teeth and joyously howl.
For they would have her, break her; to force
Liberty’s pliant Kiss.

Those tauntors, those would-be captors,
They’d have her on her knees;
Given up and given in, gifting Liberty’s Kiss.
They want her in their palm,
The wild bird caged and calm-
Theirs to use and control ,
These cruel and ignorant men.

But Liberty – Proud Liberty! –
Will not, can not give in,
No matter the fangs, teeth and claws,
Those snapping snarling searching jaws,
She bears them all;
Standing staunchly, brave and tall –
For she knows the price of Freedom.

Still she stands, refusing their baying;
Pale unshaking hand defending,
Her face turned away, scratched and bleeding,
Her lips firm closed, eyes unweeping,
No quarter would be given, never, no when,
To these ugly, brutal, hopeless men-
Not for the price of Freedom.

Her gown is ripped, shredded, torn,
Blowing in the wind, forlorn
Pieces of Liberty!
Blooded rags of dignity!
And plucked from the air by a watching crowd
Who hold them in wonder, heads bowed-
At last understanding the price of Freedom.

And they came!
Born to action they came!
Liberty’s defenders, protectors, shielders,
Through the barricade they came!
Stout hearted and grim faced,
Determined and steady paced
They came for the price of Freedom.

Silently, solemnly, they circle
Dear Liberty – her human barrier,
Her to-the death fighters:
They will not be broken, these heroes and martyrs
Not by those men who jibe and jeer,
Laugh, mock and sneer,
Never caring for the price of Freedom.

And gently, so deftly did she
Place the Gift of Liberty-
Yes her Kiss was freely gave
To those whose hearts would save
Liberty, to the bitter end,
Upon their brow those sworn to defend
The price of Freedom.

Those callous men, those heartless dogs,
They howled and shook and roared
Seeing the Kiss so freely given
Made them crazed and driven
To biting, ripping and snapping;
The defenders fighting, pushing and grappling
Heartened by Liberty’s Kiss.

And some were maimed, some were fallen
Some disappeared – taken.
But always came more, grimly
To receive Liberty’s Kiss freely
To defend her totally, completely
Faithfully, whole-heartedly
For the price of Freedom.

Those empty men, those soulless dogs
Not one inch closer they came:
Slowly and Steadily
Surely and mightily
Those would-be captors and benders and breakers
Were driven back; beaten back and beaten down –
For the sake of the price of Freedom.

Those ignorant men who shout and wail
Growl in despair and after Liberty trail
Who walks now with head unbowed
Through a clear path, graceful and proud
Her defenders stand still by her side-
Her allies, who shall ever abide
For the price of Freedom.

The price of Freedom, from Liberty’s kiss,
Those proud defenders had won
And Liberty whispered to each man and woman
‘Well done, well done. Never shall we ever forget
Your deeds, or those sadly fallen
Forever we shall remember you-
And the price of Freedom.’

Her figure glides past, distant now,
Her grace and dignity still there.
Her steps are light, her path is sure
And her voice sings sweet and clear.
Yet ever they dog her, unforgiving men,
Those who would cage her, bend and break her
For Liberty’s pliant Kiss.

Hiding in shadows they watch and wait
And Liberty knows they linger
But pays no heed to the reprobates
For she knows now that forever
Will her defenders come, at any time and any cost
For Liberty’s Kiss
-And the price of Freedom.


Normal service to be resumed soon

As it’s unlike me to not post for a few days, I thought I would fill you in with what’s happening in Heidi-world!

I’m currently working on a long poem… the longest I’ve ever written, and it may take me some time to get to the standard that I feel does it justice. This is taking longer than it would, as I’m currently suffering with some kind of virus, so I’m in ‘poor me’ mode, and mostly mooching on the sofa! But I hope to have the poem ready soon, and I sincerely hope the wait will be worth it 🙂

As a teaser for you, the title is: ‘Liberty’s Kiss’. l shall leave you to ponder that, and I hope all is well in your worlds.

Blessings be.


This is a piece I wrote some time ago: it is a release, of emotions, of confusion of feeling. Don’t worry – I don’t feel this way anymore! But I enjoyed re-reading this (if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word) from an objective view point… So I thought I would ‘put it put it out there’ and see what you guy think 🙂

What to do when the mood is upon you?
When you know not what to feel, how to feel, why you are feeling this way?
Feeling…. empty. Flat. Disassociated -? – Possibly. Angry, in some vague, unknown, uncertain way. Confused in yourself, in your feelings, in your arrested emotional development. Bitter? – Maybe. – Why?
Retreat. Retreat into the cold familiarity of those walls, of that blankness, that dullness that has been our only company before, like an old friend re-visiting.
Where has it come from? Why has it come? A myriad of reasons, none that stand up to reason.
Yet it is here, a comfortable shroud, and the old habit comes back, memory re-awakes, with the close-by glass of red wine and the cigarettes and the warm, silent alone-ness.
Vaguely confused, yet comfortably familiar. Perversely happy in fogged misery.
I can feel those walls rising up, closing me in, the darkness surrounding, the numbness enveloping.
And there is no-one here to take me out of my mind.
No-one to keep me sane. No-one to push back the darkness, to break the walls.
Is this the beginnings of madness? The start of withdrawal? A sign of depression? Or just a temporary blip, to be dealt with, to weather, until normal service is resumed?
Is happiness the temporary state until The Bleakness returns, or do I give too much credence to emotional wounds?
Does it matter? Does anyone care? Will tomorrow dawn bright, bringing good cheer?
A shadow, a shell, a husk-
A whisper, a fade, an echo thus.
Comfortably numb. Emotionally dumb.
Angry? Only at myself – never knowing how to deal with it, how to leak it, how to release it.
Always turned inward, a quiet bubbling within, unsure if it’s justified.
Disappointed – with myself. Never knowing….
What to do.
How to feel.
Why I feel the way I do.
A gaping hole.
A missing link.
Over and over. Again and again. Never do I learn.
So tired of myself.
There is so much brightness, so much love – I know it’s there – I have seen it, released it, shared it. But it is suffocated, constricted, drowned.
Marooned in an ocean of bleakness, numbness, emptiness.
I expect too much. I ask too little. I open too far. Emotions too brittle.
Perception is warped; projections abound. Like a mirage – am I really so unsound?
I try so hard to see the other side, never trusting my own judgement, by others I abide. So clearly I try to please, giving and giving, bottling and bottling, hissing and spitting when others don’t read my mind. Sweet and sour by turns, that’s me, so frustrated with myself, with this inconsistency.
Let me weep; let me rage;
Let me fear; let me hurt;
Let me anything but this all-consuming nothingness, this living death, this silent anger, this self-contempt quietly boiling within.

Lady Time

Her face is pale; thin, strong, implacable. Her eyes, ice blue. Her gaze fixes, but does not see you. Her hair is long and silken – now raven black, now pure white, and every shade between. Her stride is steady – neither fast nor slow, but continuous: adamantly, unstoppably, She continues, Her soft footfalls echo in your mind as She forever moves on. Her gown is long, graceful, trailing delicately behind Her, the ends whispering upon your feet as she forever… moves on.

Stop! You say: Wait! Please wait! But She does not – She cannot – wait. Why should She, for a mere mortal? What are you, to Her who is eternity?
Time! I need more time! If only I had more time… and, for an instant, it looks like Time may pause: She slows, barely, Her head cocked as if listening, as if She heard – but no, her foot falls again to the next step, forever moving on. You must keep up with Her, not Her with you. Occasionally her pace does change – occasionally She does slow, hesitate, pause… and occasionally she hastens, rushing forward, speeding up – for what reason only She knows. Not for your whim, certainly. Not for your pleading – She is not a Goddess to heed prayers, but a force of Her own reckoning and the impact of Her change of pace leaves an indelible mark on us, who must always be in Her presence.

Time: friend, and enemy. Love Her, hate Her – She does not care. An indolent, an insolent, smile upon Her lips as She passes by you, seemingly mocking your meagre thoughts, your paltry prayers.
Time is the friend of children: She grants them eternity in their play, their time to grow, the long summers and endless Christmases, the ability to forget – and maybe forgive – hurts. She gives favour, too, to those in the teenage years: wisdom, out of childhood, without the responsibility of adulthood. The eagerness and ambition of Youth’s Dream – She gives them all this, if only they can recognise it; grasp it; use the gift of Time.
And then… She moves on. You were that child; you were that youth… why should She grant yet more favour to you, the adult? Go with Her wisely – for She will not wait, not ever.

Will you grasp Her hand, and walk side by side with Her, or battle Her, fighting to the bitter end? How can you win? How can you ever win? She is Time, eternal. She does not notice your desperate attempts, your vain ministrations, to turn back the clock.
The mistakes you make are your own – not Hers to rewind. Will you move forward as She does? Or spend your life clinging to the hem of Her gown, attempting to reverse the irreversible?

I will not grow old! I will do everything – everything! – to stay youthful! Time will not beat me! Time smiles – that knowing, cold, impersonal smile – for She knows that there is no beating, no winning – there is only Time. And She marches onward, unstoppably, implacably onward. All the battles, are of course, eventually lost, and you scream, your life a misery, dwelling in lost youth and lost beauty, cursing Time – time and again.
But those who grow old with dignity, who grow old gracefully; looking forward, not back, looking at the time She gave you, and realising the gift She has given you – those who relish the crinkles around their eyes, and what greying hair means; those who understand that time departed is memory, hurt and sore, departed; those are the ones who can look Time in the eye when their Time comes, and as long lost friends greeting each other – those are the ones who can say with pride, as Time grips their hand warmly, the lips now friendly, Her eyes sparkling, seeing you for the first time, as you slip out of Her grip, and it is you who moves forward without Her, with the understanding of Time:
I have won.

The Call of the Wind

The Rath in Glendalough

The Rath in Glendalough (Photo credit: Fergal of Claddagh)

I have listed this as ‘Poem’, and I think it does work as a poem, but when I originally wrote it, I wrote it as a song. And strangely, I had in my head an Irish voice singing it, slow and haunting. So, read it as you will, song or poem – I’d be interested to know how it works for you 🙂

The wind is calling,
Calling for me to join her:
To join her song of the Land
For do I not belong here anymore, 
Here, on Mortal Sands?
And I follow my heart blindly
Wherever she may go
For even with eyes open
I did not see friends turn traitor
And I did not see them go.
So follow I blindly
To the call o’ the land
With open heart but closed eyes
Will I leave this Mortal Land.
And the wind is callin’,
Pulling my heart along
And what resistance have I
To that sad and lonely song?

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