Hour 12: Door to Memory 🚪

Closets are a wonder and a terror, both – for childhood
A place for them to hide, or monsters – or even both?
A place to explore clothes, identities, and social roles in innocent dress-ups
To imagine who you might be, who your family are, and were
To begin to learn how to create stories
To begin a journey as a storyteller
To create a slice of your own, very personal “Narnia”

My closet was old already when I was young
Old already when my father was young
Warm brown wood with darkened brass hardware and a small inlay pattern
It was everything the BBC children’s tv said a magical closet should be

When I moved away from home I was unable to take it with me
In later years it was damaged beyond repair
There was a particular grief in that
But I remembered my childhood stories
Of salvaged wood, and magic, and how it was held in the wood.. not the closet itself
Knowing this
Believing this
I saved the doors
These days they live in a frame in my home
These days they aren’t technically a closet
But if you know your lore, and respect it
And remember the land between worlds and recall the true speaking of the deep magics
Then they will always be a door to magics, because they remember that they once were part of the forest
And for me?
The doors are to memory
Doors to that place of childlike wonder within
With the doors I still have a way back, should I ever find myself lost
{Onward and upward!}

Hour 11: My study buddy, my rock

My longest running study buddy is a support, and an absolute rock
As a child, a teen, a youth, a young person, and onwards in years
Has stood sentinel
Silent watchman
Witness to my widening mind and heart
Diligent in his duties
He has attended study halls and exams
He has traveled the length and breadth of the land
He has gone beside me through hardships unnumbered
Guard. Witness. Sentinel.
And I do mean rock… soapstone apparently.
Elementary school-me could apparently not be convinced to leave him behind.
Elementary school-me was correct
He’s not heavy… he’s my study-buddy. My rock.

Hour 10: “What is love when you have only one word?”

Once ancient cultures had many words for love, many songs for it
Many modern languages still do
Once the old Greeks had seven main words to describe the types of love.
*Main* words.
But English?
English fails me, fails you, fails us – fails our society
English fails to allow us clarity of meaning, and intent
The lack, paradoxically, limits
It narrows, limits, filters the language through a filter of scarcity and avoidance.
What is love?
English is my first language
So while I can attempt to explain how I feel by
– grasping for metaphor
– utilising smilies
– Employing descriptive comparison
I cannot simply use, or say a word to encompass, to describe what I feel
Because, in truth, I have no words adequate to the burden of my heart

Hour 9: Points of Transition


Parts of life, all life offer points of transition
Butterflies show us this most clearly
Seemingly soft, but strong and resilient
So much comes from the struggle
-to change
-to move through
-what was; to
-what can be
They are unmade and remade
Adding strength to their wings in the effort to escape the chrysalis
Support, resources from outside sources – these can be used
But to intervene, to cut them free? Dooms them.
They dissolve their sense of flesh, of self
-To move on
-To transition
-To transform
The future inside them made gloriously manifest
Just so – our future is within
Waiting for moments of transition
Those transitions are not, are never, cannot be:
-Without consequences
-Without pain
-Without struggle
We cannot know the shape of our future
But we can know that
-some strengths
-some understandings
-some manifestations of potential
For all their beauty
Are born in pain
As, in truth, we all are.

Hour 8: Tracking Shadows

( from music prompt at YT: Max Richter “On the Nature of Daylight” https://youtu.be/rVN1B-tUpgs?si=xsBUL8uLRS2Yi8gR )



I watch the way light flows

-over flagstones

-over walls

-over water

Catches my attention at odd times

And when it does

I sit, remembering.

And think, and recall.

And sit, and wait, and wait, and wait.

And I breathe and remind myself that I am.


I am this, this – this here, now.

Here and now. And I am still.

I remain, and recall, and waiting for the moment the memories wash out again

-and I can breathe-

Breathe deep and true.

I am here. As this. As me.

Others are here, yet still – but not in shapes I knew and held and loved

There is a sorrow in that, regret, grief but also joy and love in memory

Breathing – I am. I know I am.

Finding ways, I muddle onward, muddle upward.

Light tracks

-over flagstones

-over walls

-over water

Catching my attention

And I repeat this refrain of loss and love

It is as the seasons

It is as the tides








Again –

I watch the shadows track through the day and think

This action,

This time

This process

-is me

-and us

-and is all of us

Breathe in

Breathe out

Find a way forward

-each way

-each day

I watch the way light flows


Hour 7: Lament at the End of Days

I woke to her weeping
He declined quickly
Particular – although they’d likely say ‘undiagnosed’ now
Proud, traditional too

Farmers are like that, I recall seeing the droughts
I woke to her weeping
The land had once been parched, now so was he
Unable to swallow, to eat

Finally unable to speak, to say goodbye
Reduced to hand signals, waving and smiles
I woke to her weeping
Arose to help move dress, clean, turn him – “rinse&repeat”, each day

He only wanted us – he knew, loved – sent nurses away
It was hard to see him in such a terrible way
Then one day he left with the dawning; and
I woke to her weeping

Hour 6: Scent of a Smile

People say smiles don’t have scents
Nor styles
Nor choice of textile
And Yet
The smell
The perfume
Is what I recall first
of the moment
of that day
of that man
Breathing in beauty
A riot of joy, of colour, of beauty
And there he was, a part of it
The morass of colour, of scent, of *life*
Of everything, everywhere
*And there he was*
People say love doesn’t have a colour, or a scent
People say the same thing about things like smiles
Reader, he turned around – and smiled, and I knew
Reader, I married him – and we planted wildflowers around our house

Hour 5: opinions? nevermore

Summer sun on the side of the slope
Frames the scene
Pleasant, soft, bucolic
The soft susurration of the grasses
Lulling a sense of security,albeit false, in the police who waited
As the divers dragged the depths of the dam
Depositing the decomposing dead on the dirt for detection

The coppers circled cawing like crows
If they’d been dressed in black, not blue
I may’ve likened them to ravens of myth and memory
Harbingers of wisdom and death

Picking over the ‘past person’ the police
Cease to circle
And call a car to carry the corpse away to the coroner

Moving to action the murder of crows cops scatters
A murder of their own to investigate
Is a murder what they investigate?
Or what they are?
They chase new leads
The different
The interesting
The *shiny*
Yup – they are crows
…or maybe ravens
Either way the difference is only the matter of a pinion
And they both want crime to be nevermore

Hour 4: Goodbye, Two Weeks Shy

To have and to hold from this day forward
In sickness and in health
Two weeks shy
…there’s an odd feeling of displacement in that
In the midst of the grief
Tears upon tears
Rage at the universal unfairness of the universe
Rage and tears – both
Both of enough to drown the whole world
Everybody knows that everybody dies
Yet no one truly *knows*,
No one truly *believes*
Not really
We live here, in the now
We have, and hold, and love, and *live*
For ten
For twenty
For thirty
For forty
For fifty
For …two weeks shy…
and *lose*
Just two weeks shy to say goodbye
The old refrain goes so –
“I hate to see you go
But I love to watch you leave”
And so it is
In all other times
All times
But the last
Vale Farewell Adieu

Hour 3: Feathers 🪶

(Prompt response to Twenty Little Poetry Projects

Prompt explanation of Twenty Little Poetry Projects rules at: https://thepoetrymarathon.com/blog/the-poetry-marathon-prompts/prompt-for-hour-three-5)

Hope is the thing with feathers
She will not be able to speak, to see
The time will come
Merry will she not be
What cannot be said will tie her tongue
Unsaid, unspoken
Her soul sinking with the disappointment of it
The lights will dim
All may be lost
The only touch remaining will come from the fingertips you cling to the cliffs with
Yet the mines, the anvil will call again
She and you and I
Will sing
Well, perhaps sing is too kind a word for the sound that will be made
Yet the tune, the beat, will persist
The miners hope
The bird, kept breathing in its custom iron lung
Will bless, curse our hopes in yellowed morning light
So encouraged, I shall follow it
Shaping myself back into being
As the transcendental canary folds me
Into a new origami day
With an “ohayo” on its breath
She, I, we – may yet learn the petrichor of hope
Even as sight and light fail
The refrain is the awful truth of pain
Birds fly free – but me?
I am made of flocks of yellow origami
Bound together by only a breath of hope

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