healingwords: poetry for the soul

Two years now since we left Dad's quiet funeral and walked in the frosty woods, catching falling leaves which blew around us like shining stars. Today whilst driving towards the village,  loss and death on my mind, this angel cloud appeared. Just a cloud but it made me smile and lifted the melancholy. This short poem reflects looking forward with hope.  IN THE CLOUDS Wisps of angel white drift in  sky  the colour of her Irish eyes, rising between peaks dripping gold with the last flare of setting sun slipping over the Sierra, hilltop homes embraced by feathered wings floating slowly into strong hands, holding me, lifted skywards, forever safe.  © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

Today I walked in the Marjal de Pego, a natural park of wetlands adjoining rice paddies. After days of rain the area was flooded with overflowing ditches and puddled 'caminos'. The marsh is a safe home for water birds but I was surprised to see higher banks turned over by wild boar, the muddied grass churned up and pocked with hoof prints.  LA MARJAL DE PEGO Marsh waters ripple as cool breath sways gangly reeds, freeing puffs of downy fluff from sepia pokers. Egrets wade on straw stilts, snow plumed flock rise in fluttering fan when footsteps near. Dragonflies flash turquoise in jewelled courtship whilst heron scans, poised in marble elegance. Glass marsh mirrors moody sky, pierced by low sun as clouds drift through blue to dove grey. Breeze sighs over fish bubbles, whisper adorned with bird trill, fierce wings flap as heron flies.   © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.   ...

Another year has gone by without my father. A year of continued loss and sadness but lightened with joy as my grandson grows and my family and friends fill my life with love. I have much to be thankful for.  It is also a year since I started this poetry blog, inspired by my father. I have posted more than 50 poems and reached thousands of readers.  I have written about my experience of loss and grief, the healing power of nature and friendship, my home in Spain and my memories of England. I have also posted poems on injustice, the right to vote, corruption and inequality, sadly including gender violence. I have enjoyed the process of writing and publishing this blog and hope that it has been a worthwhile venture for readers.  Today's poem is still about grief but looking forward to a time when the memories will be joyful and the loss easier to bear.  Thank you all, I am grateful for the support so kindly given.  HEALING   I wear my grie...

The 'algarrobo' tree is a common site in our Levante landscape. They were cultivated for their harvest of carob beans, once a source of nutrition for a hungry population, later picked, sacked and sold each autumn for animal food. With fewer people working the 'campo' many old trees stand abandoned, unpruned they grow bushy and tall,  still producing carob which fall to the ground unpicked. These are a favourite feast for the wild boar which roam over the hills, down into the village in winter rooting for fallen olives, almonds and carob and destroying farmer's crops. The terraced ground around this old carob tree shows the hoof marks and digging of the boar.  SWEET CAROB   ‘Les garrofes’ litter terracotta earth baked hard before October rains, gnarled, twisted carobs,  black as bitter chocolate, sacked in rough hessian,  sweet, intoxicating smell  wafts through tangled streets,  destined to bear the taste of harvest...

Having fun cooking on Halloween.  SOUL CAKES Kitchen witch stirs the Samhain bowl, soaked hedge berries mixed with nuts of hazel, steeped in warm spice and hot, strong tea, sifted puffs of flour sweetened with dark sugar, whisked with egg lift, candle lit to the spirits of nature and ancestors, each spoon blessed to best serve her beloveds.

A tree poem to end the week, in homage to a much loved Oak, long may it stay hidden and protected.  Long days pass without sight of people; I hear them near, Summer sounds, laughing children splashing in pools, humming chatter of families, cars raising dust on dry dirt lanes. I remain hidden, concealed, buffered by barbed brambles  guarded by my progeny,  holly spiked  holm oaks  circling my secluded grove. Today she returned once more, this quiet human friend, mother walking with daughter, their hushed words vibrating on the still autumn air, they brush open the brier gate, treading softly on crinkle leaf carpet, stopping to face me, arm in arm, I absorb their awe at my presence. Deep roots transmit crunched footsteps, the sun caked earth trembling, she pauses to seek whispered blessing, here are the tree seekers, tree keepers, I sense the trust of their gentle touch, browned arms girdle my jagged...

I am re posting this European peace poem in solidarity with all those marching in London today for a vote on the final deal for leaving the EU. I had no vote in the first referendum, I will continue to fight for the right of all UK and EU citizens living in UK to have a vote in any future referendum.  I AM EUROPEAN The bomb site was our playground, greened over empty spaces scattered around Coventry where families once lived. Traces of bricks and wallpaper still littered the scrubby grass and leggy pink bomb weed, rubble that shattered down on top of shelters, like the one my dad and nana were buried in for three long days, until Grandad dug them out. When not being cowboys and Indians we played war games, buzzing with arms out wide like the planes that filled Coventry’s blacked out skies. The peace was recent, still being built in the Europe of treaties and good neighbours, like Coventry’s new Cathedral, City of reconciliation, ris...

When I return to my hometown of Coventry I always visit the Cathedral. I find it uplifting, a beautiful building celebrating peace, rising from the ashes of the bombed out St Michael's Cathedral, its ruins reflected in the magnificent glass wall of Angels and Saints. I always pause to gaze in awe at Epstein's St Michael and the Devil, illustrated here in a photograph by Chris Knight.  ST MICHAEL AND THE DEVIL Blessed Archangel, holy Saint, I have come to know you  as Michael,  a little  casual for a mighty warrior,  protector of all  who call  your name,  wrapping your winged cloak around unguarded human frames.  I find you in hidden churches, stood in silent Spanish squares, shining down through rubied glass, in roadside crypts garlanded with faded plastic roses, on a bedside postcard of  Epstein’s vision. Michael in victory, speared  warrior,  proud browed, a mo...

A poem inspired by Autumn, here at home in Spain and my nostalgia for northern woods.  AT HOME IN THE WOODS Threading through dark pines, resin fresh on air chilled in mountain’s shade, misting incense of crushed thyme; gaze past tree line to stoned terraces, hillside striped with Levante greens, sage silvered, olive bearing, verdant beryl of ripening ‘mandarinas’ Christmas teasing, yellow flushed fennel sway on blowsy stretched stems, gnomed vines bruised like fallen grapes fermenting on red clay. Living sense of Spanish presence while loosened mind wanders back to cool Northern woods; jewelled moss slipping, squelch of mushrooms hidden in leaf fall freeing spores of fungal decay, air ripe with cyclical change as damp earth exudes richness of summer humus, decomposing, nurturing woodland as it sleeps; think of lost ones who loved these woods, permeating subsoil, resting deep under oak trees. © 2018 Jacqu...

On National Poetry Day I celebrate all the wonderful poets who share their words with us. We respond to poems with individual taste, some move us deeply, illuminate, make us laugh or resonate with memory and experience. Some are accessible, lighter in tone, others written with a degree of technical skill and craft honed over years of practice. All can find a home where they are welcomed and appreciated. This is a brushstroke of my words which I hope find their way to where they belong.  ON THE BREEZE I free my words to blow far on the breeze taking flight with flocking birds tracing perfect mandalas in migratory haste. May they find you on walks among trees, by sun kissed seas, mirrored in lakes so still and deep they reflect our soul. May you feel the love in their making, reverie filtered through cloud lace, to rest where needed, like feathers floating earthwards, in spirals of grace.  © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cott...

I came across this old tree trunk on a walk near my home. It reminded me of the 'night drives' of my childhood. After waiting for my baby brother to see a train pass at the level crossing, we would drive round the lanes spotting night creatures in the headlights before stopping to see the faery tables, a field of old tree stumps where the woodland folk would eat and dance. This poem is a homage to my parents who gave me a lifelong love of all things dancing at the edge of our imagination.  FAERY SEAT Abandoned grove reclaimed as hand of man retreats, Garroba limbs twined with over grown olives, silver blades flashing as wood chimes with birdsong. Old Garroba, hollowed by years of fruitful giving, sweet smell of carob mingles with pine scent, tree perfume wafting on freshening night air. Sculptured wood cave, cragged bark lined with woven cushion, sharp needles softened as green fades to shades of autumnal decay. The...

Today I stood in welcome rain, the storm brewing and breaking over the hills.  After months of blue skies we need more rain, the countryside is tinder crisp, the river bed dry stones, the trees and flora thirsting for water. Today was a short burst of refreshing cool and as the season cools and the warm sea holds its heat, we can expect an autumn of heavy rains. I hope they will be good rains, not the destructive force that can affect this area after a hot summer.  SUNDAY STORM   Weeks of summer heat, life adjusts to sun’s rhythm, if not done before the fireball starts its westward arc    the toil can wait another day.   Heat blasting rock face, geckos hide in creviced shade, green fades to dusty grey as water leaches from cracked, parched earth.   I join the creatures, spend days holed in cool of thick walled cave, come alive at night when owl swoop and bats flitter.   Today the season turned, terr...

This poem was inspired by a recent trip to Petracos, a few miles from my home. A short climb from the valley brings you to a walk way from which you can see the cave paintings, explained on panels as part of the restoration of the area by the MARQ, archeological museum of Alicante. The paintings are an outstanding example of macro schematic art dating back 8,000 years and it is inspiring to find them in such a quiet and natural setting. Apart from the safety rails and explanatory panels the landscape feels like it has changed little since an unknown hand painted the rock walls and took shelter in the Sanctuary Cave.  Thanks to Lesley for sharing the walk and her photographs. PETRACOS Treading the stone path head bent against blinding sun, shaded rest under leafy boughs, chasing the sun creeping from valley to Sanctuary, stopping to gaze upwards at rock canvas, eyes slowly perceiving shapes, patterns, figures sprouting in burnt red from mustard grey. ...

August 12th is celebrated in my village with Mass and a candlelit procession in honour of the Divine Aurora. It is a special day which starts early, when we are woken  at dawn by the sound of the village band serenading the women named Aurora, Spanish for dawn. My four children are all musicians who have played in the band and I have always got up early to listen to the Aurora. The band and the village youngsters will have not slept, going straight from the Fiesta partying to get their instruments and play, followed by breakfast in the street from the bakers before managing a few hours sleep. The waltz is played again at the end of the evening procession when the  village gather to hear the music and honour the Divine Aurora. It is always emotional, people remembering those not present but became more so for our family in 2010 when my mother died on the evening of the Aurora. I was by her side and my children were playing far away. Every year when the Aurora plays we remem...

This plant with the wonderful name 'Echeveria Deresina grows on our patio in Spain and hangs from many balconies in the village.  It survives drought and heat, regenerating yearly as old leaves drop and new ones take their place. The colours shade from blue to rose grey with more green tinging the leaf when water is plenty. The leaves form a natural holder for dew drops which sparkle like jewels, the inspiration for this poem.  DEW JEWEL Walk the corridor from street to patio, room wide space built for donkey’s tread, flanks fat with stick baskets, through cool cave interior, to blink eyed sunlight, terracotta floored funnel, blue roofed with sky. Flaked stone walls, mortared with trust, dust backdrop to riot of geraniums, tumbling down in velvet flames, scarlets, fuchsias, blood red corollas, summer exhibitionists flashing petals like swirling flamenco shawls. Raised on Valencian baked tile sits Echeveria Deresina, earthed in clay, ...

My village is in an area once part of Al Andalus, the Moorish kingdom which covered a large part of the Iberian peninsula from the 8th to the 15th century. The remaining Muslim communities were expelled from the Valencia region in the 'Expulsion of the Moriscos' after 1609 leaving emptied villages and devastated communities. The evidence of their presence is still visible in the terraced hillsides and water installations and in the place names and faces of their descendants. This poem was inspired by their history and nature's slow reclamation of the land after people have gone.  REWILDED Stone, prised from red earth by  weathered worn ghost hands, laboured into walls and homes, lies forgotten, tumbled like piles  of tannin soaked sugar cubes. Mossed into the hill as pines spike  through floors where children played, ivy twines over slab lintels as creeping green invades mans’ space, nature reclaiming, rewilding. The echo of a Mo...