healingwords: poetry for the soul

At this time of year the internet is awash with images of bluebell woods. It is heartening to see so many moved to visit the woods charmed by bluebell magic. Another year on I am still missing the bluebells, still missing my parents and our favourite woodland walk. Today I was cheered by a glorious walk on the hillsides of my village where each week a new Spring flower colours the woods. These lovely blue flowers are called 'lino azul',  blue linen, or Linen of Narbonne and they were some compensation for missing the bluebells.  LINO DE NARBONA - missing bluebells Miles away woods bloom alive as   April weaves its magic spell, uniting earth and sky as bells nod in a tapestry of green and blue. I last walked the woods in sad farewell, sorrow raw as skin scratched by thorns, I left them sleeping under Oak as  bluebells  stirred above their sun warmed bed. Miles away from Northern woods, bright light gilding spiring pines,...

Poppies bloom in Spain from March through to April and I think of them as my birthday flower. The 'campo' is bright with Spring flowers and will grow wild and green after the rains falling this Easter time. In a few short weeks the heat of the sun will start to dry the earth as Summer approaches.  SCARLET PETALS Here poppies grow on road sides or sway on slim green legs dotted over rocky terraces, the land worthless as abandoned almond trees rewild. Scarlet petals, as delicate as the tissue sheets we split with licked chubby fingers, breath parting paper like flitting wings, scrunched into twisted gaudy blooms. Flowers tough enough to withstand the valley gusts billowing to the sea, or the April rains stinging like shot pellets as dark clouds scurry over the hills, blotting the sun. Here poppies herald Spring, heads waving above golden dandelion, clashing with fuchsia pinks, vivid amongst the dried stalks of last year’s fen...

Today I read a beautiful tribute to the wisdom of trees which inspired me to post this poem about the spirits of trees, the Ninfa. NINFA Tree walking, between shade and light, skin shivers in coolness as dark pines eclipse the warmth of the sinking sun. Meditative steps, mind churning, turning over choices in hopeless pursuit like wanderers lost in a labyrinth of thought. I take rest by the high tree, hold petrified roots protruding through tumbled walled stone, Honcho Oak surveying its wooded domain. Back eased, eyes closed, trance mind open, I feel the ‘Ninfa’ gently probing, infiltrating; unresisting I unite with the spirit of the trees. Like catching sunbeams on the border of sight, limbs twist into wick branches, fingers knobble into twigs, feet root downwards in damp earth. Human eyes view the wood unchanged  whilst  spirit sees energies, leaves shimmering with life exchange of light and chlorophyll. ‘Ninfa’ ...

During a difficult time of recovery and uncertainty, a walk in the trees on 'El Carrascal' helped me to see my path ahead.  THE PATH REVEALED Confusion clouds my thinking like the mist rolling in over the ridged ‘Carrascal’, damp seeping through towering pines, lacing spiked holly oak like cobwebs traced in drops of early morning dew. Crunch layered carpet of dried needles, dotted with gnawed innards of fallen cones, winter feast of leaping squirrels, I weave through trees, elder trunks cragged with reptile scales, circled by whippy stands of pale saplings. I break free of brambled wood as a fresh wind funnels down the valley, whipping white haze, wisps curling, clouds scurrying towards the sea, revealing hidden sun whose shining glow drips golden through the parasol of waxed green. Ahead lies my path, bordered by sweet thyme, a symphony of birdsong and whispering leaves, carob arm points the way as I walk bathed in light,...

RIPPLES Sea becalmed, molten glass mirroring cornflower sky, evening storm hushed yielding tideline debris, waxed ribbon weed garlanding bleached wood bones, backwash piling curled pebble ridge. Crouching low in yogic ease, sea blue eyes scanning shingle, sifting stones, searching the shore for the perfect flat skimmer, fingers curled round smoothed rims, gauging weight in upturned palm. Standing crabwise, strong arm arced, chosen stone flies from practiced hand, skimming, bouncing on the silken sea, rings circling at each glancing touch, rippling outwards, effecting change, each thoughtful act reverberates. © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

Today is the first day of Spring and my Dad's birthday. Another year has passed. The deep grief of loss changes but the loss remains This morning I am both sad I can no longer pick up the phone to ring him, hear his voice, his stories, his advice but cheered by thinking of him.  My parents stay with me in the memories of the life we shared.  SPRING MEMORIES I thought I was over the flush of tears, as if there is an agreed number of years when sudden hot, salt pricks are admissible, now melancholy feels like indulgence. Dates creep towards us, aware he would say a birthday is just another day, the dawn of Spring breaks with blue sky, streaked with golden memories to remind me of my loss. He is everywhere, framed his piercing gaze meets mine as if he is really there, trapped behind glass on the mantlepiece, winking in the flickering candle light. He is in the iridescent labradorite gleaming on freckled skin, nestled with...

This is a list poem prompted by the online course  ' The Wild Within' tutored by Wendy Pratt. Her courses are inspiring, if anyone is interested in writing or improving their poetry have a look at her website. https://wendyprattpoetry.wordpress.com/ Robins have always attracted me, they are such convivial, cheeky garden birds but this poem has a touch of melancholy as it is hard to picture a robin without remembering my dad in his garden. It has been two years now since I walked away.  Thanks to my brother Chris Knight for the photograph.  THE KEEPER Robin flies to his side, bone pain burns as creaking legs wobble up the cobbled path. A hop ahead rosy breast, grandad friending, tail wagging, earth skipping, scarlet waistcoat spade sitting, garden guarding, patch defending, cherry chest, fluff feathered, worm pulling, eye cocking, blackbird mocking, berry cheeked, pointy beaked, song trilling, cat teasing, ...

This poem is inspired by the photograph of a blue tit taken by my brother Chris Knight. His bird and squirrel photos take me straight back to the garden of our old family home where our parents spent over 50 years nurturing and enjoying the garden before we watched it grow wild as illness reduced their mobility. In his final years we would sit for hours with Dad in the glass walled garden room, open to the outside on a warm day, watching the birds together. THE NEST BOX Sawdust sprinkled the scratchy grass like  stale breadcrumbs scattered on the bird table. I skipped around him as he nailed and hinged, the bird box fixed to red brick where blue tits reared teeming broods of chicks, fledglings safe  from prowling cats hunting nests in beech hedges.  Hidden behind slanted greenhouse glass,  the nest box outlived him, hanging forgotten  as honey pine mossed to green, twig ringlet tendrils sprouting from rain blackened cracks. Hungry...

This country walk and the 'Algarrobo' trees inspired years of bedtimes stories for my children and is still one of our favoured paths, through olive groves, past pine and fragrant rosemary, down to the river.  THE MAGIC TREE Our favourite walk, tireless chubby legs skippity jumping around the ‘camino rural’, tiptoed peering at frogspawn as black jelly dots sprout wriggling tails, whip powered before morphing into hoppy, speckled froglets in the stagnant trough. Peeling fallen ‘mandarinas’, oil squirt of sharp citrus bursts in  orange mist, wipe our sticky fingers on dew spangled leaves, chewing leggy fennel, green sap zinging liquorice, collecting  spiral snail shells, mossed stones stippled with emptied homes. Tread familiar path to the old 'algarrobos', hollowed trunks bearing looping branches, grounding, rerooting as ancient trees spread their green canopies over boar snuffled earth, sweet dried carobs jumbled  like pic...

From my roof terrace I look over the valley pinked with almond blossom. It has been a warm dry January with crisp mornings but no frost, perfect weather for the nuts to set so we should see a good harvest this August, when the nuts are knocked with canes onto waiting nets, exhausting work in Summer heat. The village once hummed with shelling machines, as nuts were bagged for storage, ground for cakes and pastries. Sadly with an aging population and a younger generation who can not make money from agriculture, almond production is in decline, the supermarkets selling cheaper Californian almonds, exploiting their water table in a sad example of the environmental damage of global food production.  This poem describes the 'almendros' particular cycle, leafless in Summer, blooming in Winter when their blossom delights the senses.  WINTER BLOSSOM The ‘almendro’ keeps its own cadence, waxed feather leaves burst emerald green whilst Winter trees sleep through valle...

Weeks have passed since I have been able to be outside in nature, this poem reflects our need to ground our energy in the earth. Thanks to Chris Knight for the photograph. GROUNDED IN THE FOREST In the eye of my mind I travel swiftly to the green forest, liberated to dwell in peace with the tree family, deep rooted in the living earth, their canopies spreading filtered shade, strong boughs embracing the sky light. I stand soaked in wood aura, the scent of damp leaf and herbal moss tranquilise as warm sun strokes my pale cheeks, starved of radiance. A breath of wind ripples summer leaves, murmuring like a cloud of moths’ wings. Bending low I fiddle with tight laces, pull off my boots, stripping thick socks, to stand barefoot on the forest path, cool seeping into soft skin, pampered, protected, I wriggle freed toes, rock stiffened heels, bide time until belief quells my wariness. Step after cautious step I walk the woodland, commu...

I have been writing Haiku whilst in hospital, taking my mind back to nature. Here are a selection of both Spanish and English nature haiku.  rest by sacred Oak soul eased by tree energy at home in green woods velvet night, silence cloaks village, jabali roam, root buried almonds eagle loops earthward casts wingspan on roof terrace soars to dot in sky stalking hunter pads blood oozes on virgin snow cat licks crimson paw in stillness spot red robins hop, blue tits hover, coal blackbirds squabble golondrinas swoop in mudspit caves under eaves, hungry heads peak out garden birds flutter to hedgerows, wiry squirrel, brush curled, raids the nuts creep along marsh dyke snow feathered egrets arise cloud fans aqua sky marsh egret escapes black reed sticks hop the shore line saffron feet dance the waves salt flats shimmer pink flamingos strut, loop bowed necks jet dipped bills sift shrimp ...

As I am still stuck inside a hospital room I am reposting a poem that takes my mind away,  written for those of us who search for peace of mind in the midst of the storm. With love and gratitude to my dear friends. BECALMED In the eye of the storm, wearied by frenzied winds, tossed into quiet calm, momentary peace descends. Heavy lids close as head dips, hands unclench, fingers release, weight sinks into soft welcome, breath slows as soul is freed. Flying high over mountains, skimming spiked pine tops, swoop low over olive groves, gnarled gnomes trimmed with silver. Carried on citric valley breeze, funneled floating between sleeping giants, guarding passage to bay curved in sand smile. Catch a rising warmth, sky flyer soaring, dazzled by healing light, sun mirrored on gilded sea. In flight find freedom, sea charge, strength renewed, mind calmed in balance, as voice carries and spirit flows. ...