My 2nd story published on @Vocal_Creators is for a competition with @FiskarsAmericas competition. 

A Stitch In Time is a short story about family, belonging, escape and the legacies passed from one generation to the next. It revolves around one of my favourite crafts - sewing.

"..The fabric was snipped into shape with the orange handled, adult-only scissors whilst loose threads were cut away with the large blue zig-zag pair cleverly designed to inhibit fraying or straying. All bad habits are removed at the base, prevented from developing into worse ones because we all know that one bad thing leads to another.."

If you enjoy it, please 'like' it and feel free to share.

Thanks for reading x

Some recent poems..

Snow

It doesn’t snow here very often
but when it does it’s bitterly cold
the kind of cold that blows up your jumper
and won’t leave no matter how many layers you pile on,
the kind of cold that whistles deep into your ear drums
and lays a fearsome frost on all your extremities.
 
A cold that constantly whips around your exposed forehead
chattering noisily though you can never make out
a cognizant sound never mind a word. So much chatter
but nothing to go on, nothing to ease the chilling pains.
A distant cold that will never explain itself clearly
but will insist on mustering on dolefully
 
muttering between incoherent grumps and groans
making you feel as though you were to blame
for all this damn coldness freezing your fingertips
scorching your tongue on the too hot hot chocolate he gave you.
The kind of cold that watches your tears roll
and has nothing to say to them..

The kind of cold that leaves without due courtesy
leaving you wondering if you truly exist
or are just a fragment of the cold’s imagination,
or your own - and who are you anyway, with or without the cold?
It starts of as just a few falling flecks
that you could easily dismiss as rain -
 
unpleasant but to be expected, then, before you know it
the ground is covered in slippery gloom and white fear settles
on the roof of your heart, your mind’s pavements
turn invisible underneath the grey slush,
and in the sorry light of a streetlamp
a torrent of frosty flakes tumbles senselessly
 
around the corners of this wretched afternoon.
You turn indoors, turn away, tear your mind from ice
to less overwhelming matter, wipe away
remaining tears, find a tissue to mop up the snuffles,
blow out the whole day, inhale a breath of silence
and feel grateful that it doesn’t snow here very often.

Dark Moon Rising

Dark Moon Rising - Part I

The time has come
The end is nigh
Come sweet magic
Fly away, fly..

All the eggs are leaving their basket
Carry me away in a wicker casket
Float me gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, this is no dream

The death of fertility comes with a sigh
No more twinkles in their fathers' eyes
And I who once was so forgiving
Bid adieu to the Queendom of Living

My grandmother's eggs and her mothers' too
Carried my patterns in prints of deep blue
She was no sucker, would take no nonsense
And yet, and yet .. the stories she told us...

In the womb the children come and go
We searched for them high and sought them low
Knew all the while that the schedule was restricted
Only those in the know, knew how to read it.
We looked to the stars and prayed for a reason
Cried for the moon, her bindings to loosen.
We hoped for a miracle, paid cash for a glimmer
Should we turn up the heat or just let it simmer?

In the womb the children come and go
We seek them high, we feel so low
My children's voices, our children's songs
Reverberate and echo through constellations.
Fiery lights that once burned bright
Can no longer hope to draw the night
And yet, I still hear their distant voice
Our cosmic ties leave me with no choice.

Now Luna turns her face from me
And I'm falling, dragged down to my knees
Pleading for another chance, just one
Before this bloody moon is gone.
An ache ripples dread around my heart
Pulls at the strings, rips soul apart
Is there any way I can have just a little more time?
Can the dream of three ever truly be mine?

My body pushes away from the spine
Pulls at the tendons and bindings divine
Tears flesh as tears fall in silent refrain
How will I ever feel whole again?
Red heat abounds, makes a deafening roar
Knows that the future can be no more
What we imagined and hoped it to be
Three and four magpies have flown from the tree.

Coming Home From Paris...

The constrictions of Twitter have so far proved a wonderful challenge for my usually verbose impulses and I appreciate the regular opportunity to restrain the avalanche of words that tends to pour out when I sit down to write, or, at least, to hone that avalanche into a snowball without losing too much potency. 

Coming Home From Paris On The Eurostar is one of three micropoems I wrote for a submission in September. The constraints here were a limit of 11 lines (excluding title) - more substantial than Twitter's 280 character perimeter but still far shorter than most of my work. 

Thanks to Twitter I've learned that poetic boundaries can be fun though I'm not sure I'll be attempting a haiku anytime soon!

Coming home from Paris on the Eurostar
She sleeps, lips softly pouted,
cheeks ablaze with solar kisses
finest raven feathered lashes pour from lids
heavy with travel and late summer nights.
Golden mocha skin, loose untroubled arms crossed
fingers rest quietly, sated as freshly weaned bairns.
Her father’s hands wide, roomy, safe home-making arms
hold tight her dreams against his beating chest.
Drowsy warm aroma floats across charcoal slate -
her and him entwined, sprawling nonchalance disguising
complex root combinations, no beginning, no end.

Love you, bye

She waves.
Her teeny hand,
those soft exploring fingers, waggling in the air.
Her smile strong and forceful,
saying 'I see you', 'I love you'.

Her eyes bright
full of trust and excitement,
passionate and confident,
She sends her love via those fingers, that hand
From her heart to ours.
'Love you mama', 'Love you dadee'.

Our hearts swoon over her knowingness
and soar over her depth of feeling.
Our baby.
Our little girl.
So precious. So special.
Unique and utterly wonderful.

We Are Our Own Children

Right now, I am reading an astoundingly accurate and insightful analysis of the dysfunctinal but perhaps necessary parent/adult-child relationship in this extract from an article in the wonderful quarterly magazine, Fathers.

The extract is written as one paragraph but I've split it into three to highlight and reflect on three distinct and integrated concepts that resonate emphatically with me.

From: Zbyszek Milunski, interview by Jacek Santorski; Fathers Quarterly, pilot issue 2015; www.fathersquarterly.com
"I once read a quote from an African healer who claimed that we ourselves are the place where our ancestors can realize what they have done, and thus become a positive force for the future. I think that kind of consciousness is an extremely important part of the intergenerational process, since most of us sever our ties with our parents because we're critical of them. 
Perhaps that stage is a necessary part of our culture if we want it to develop. but I think that there comes a time when you have to mature enough to accept your parent, be it your mother or your father. They are our co-constituents, which means that if we're too critical of one of them, then we're also too critical of ourselves, which hampers our development.
There comes a time in your adult live [sic] when you just have to cut your parents some slack and let them be themselves. That's an important change, because the way it usually works is that we unconsciously treat ourselves the way we were treated as children. It's often the case that an adult who hates his parent treats both himself and his parent the way he was treated as a child..."

1) The idea of inter-generational shared suffering and thus how healing oneself can simultaneously heal all sorts of past suffering and pain.

2) I have spent most of my life criticising my parents and it's only been in recent years that I realised it was myself I was judging more than them. After all, judging others makes no difference whatsoever to the offending behaviour. Realising and observing the magnitude and harshness of one's self criticism is enlightening and full of sadness, particularly when one has their own child and couldn't imagine treating their own offspring with anything but love and kindness. After all, we are our own children and would do well if we treated ourselves with the respect, admiration and care that we lavish (or at least intend to lavish) on our own dear children.

3) Going through the stages of realising my harsh critique of my parents was unjust and often unfounded in truth; making the space to forgive them and myself whilst realising there is no real need for forgiveness as we all simply do the best we can with what we are given; acknowledging that there is no need or call for blame, shame and guilt in a world where life happens the way it will happen often quite regardless of our desires, hopes and actions, I came to see that the way I treat and value my self is paramount if I am to grow and develop in the wise and loving way I long to. 

Rache x