Door Days

Creative Writing Ink - Writing Prompt: September 27th
The old door, half ajar, a darkened space you love
to photograph, have to! Number twenty seven, a few short steps
from the corner, the spidery cracked cement of the old town
you'd seen in a dream when you were younger
here right now so that you must stop shake your head
knock gentle on the door peer in
hesitate on the step the place in-between
excited uncertain push the door more
breathe in the smell of books, damp,  paper yellowing with age
tobacco smoke, look at the old man paintings
on walls that seem to seem to stoop
just as you raised your camera
That sudden flash, tears quicker than thought.

Bubbled

I tell myself I've moved on
gone beyond that old refrain
walked the long lone bridge
away from the clouds

of our unbecoming
you said

your body's silky touch
silver Celtic brooch

moon sung white skin

linger in my mind
no matter how hard I try
the bridge that stretches
and now divides
still unites the you that I knew

with the me who walks

so that I must get off the road
walk the beach let the sea
cool my feet put my hands in the clouds
let the water rush over and around me

sky lit, washed, tidal.

Blue Tongued Day: Creative Writing Ink photo of August 3

Sky Fields

She took him to the edge of the field
where the blue flowers had begun their bloom

He was blind. She moved his hand
to one of the flowers. He sighed as his fingers

first one then another, touched the outburst
of blue; a shiver ran up his spine; a lone tear

bubbled. How many are here he asked. Enough
she said and moved his hand to where there

there were more. I can feel them going into the earth
and talk with the air; they are rich with sun

He stayed still, quiet now so she steadied him
her hands on his back and shoulder. The land

tilts, he said. I can hear the clouds. There are people
buried here, close, long ago. This is a dreamers

sky road that goes past the trees and the mound.
The earth remembers. Yes she said, you are right

here you are buried, here you return.

Writing Exercixe: Creative Writing Ink (Ireland)

How many shadows to a life?

Word Shavings: Reverie

I've started reading Thomas Ogden's 'Reverie & Interpretation : Sensing Something Human (Karnac Books, 2005 edition). It's a great book about psychoanalysis.
He has some very astute, useful comments about the psychoanalytic process and the importance of language in that.
'Words and sentences', he writes, must be allowed a 'certain slippage'.
He cautions against stifling imagination by insisting on trying to define what we mean by 'ever increasing precision'.
"Imagination depends on the play of possibilities' (Reverie & Imagination, p3)..
Slippage, I like that.