Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Where have the soft feelings gone?



Where are the soft feelings gone to, child?
Are they in the corner in the hall,
shy and waiting to appear?

No, they are gone from there
and from the pantry where they hid
in chocolate cakes and tea;
gone from the blind coverlet
on the little bed of squares
and from the seat under the apple tree.

No shadows left of them
on this old path right to the door
or down by the old orange berry bush
with the hidey space on an earthen floor.

The soft feelings have vanished
as if their tiny feet never trod here,
were heard in another room,
living another life, imagined.

Where are they gone to, though?
I'm sure I did know them, that they were here,
that only a few moments ago
I had them in my sight.

The wind sighs in the apple tree,
the berries fall
and the path basks without shadows
in the autumn sun. Silence answers.

© Amanda J Harrington 2016

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Friday, 25 March 2016

Let's be blissful about this

Blissful, a feeling of great joy


I have a track record of saying the wrong word. Mostly confusing, at times hilarious, often frustrating, the substitute word usually has nothing to do with what I was trying to say. Think of taking the hoover for a walk or finding the keys for the kettle. Sometimes I get close and it's 'Please take the clothes out of the dishwasher'.

Today I was thinking about the writing jobs I have to do and it's a choice between useful books which actually make money or story books which make a small amount but keep my soul alive.

I walked through the house, lining up the jobs in my mind, and found myself saying, 'Let's be blissful about this'.

I stopped and looked at the cat. The cat looked back and we both considered.

'I didn't mean blissful,' I told the cat, 'I meant...organised? Positive?'

The cat said nothing and continued to stare at me in that way people have when they think you might be dangerous.

All the jobs we do, or tell ourselves we have to do, and all the alternatives which create some wonder, suspense, comfort and yes, joy, in our lives: these are what drive us forward and make us into human beings who move and create. Why shouldn't we feel blissful about them?

I know we often have messy jobs to do, dirty jobs which make our faces scowl or hard jobs that knot stomachs and clench hands. Jobs we put off for years and end up changing our lives. Jobs no one else can do and which many, many people do alongside us.

Why not be blissful?

Rather than think of bliss as a serene, saintly state of smiling unreality, why not think of it as a change in attitude? We can find something hard and still shine or we can cry as we work and still grow as people.

I know jobs can be hard! They can be so very hard that we feel we will never be the same again once we have done them. Be blissful, take yourself by the hand and move forward. Sometimes bliss is not the pursuit of perfection, rather it is the sense that today I was fully me, I did what had to be done and here I am, right at the end of it. Today I was more than myself, even when I sat on the ground and could not get up again without help.

Let the light in, let the feeling grow and understand the job doesn't matter so much as the way we do it. Today, in small ways, be blissful.


© Amanda J Harrington 2016



My books on Amazon
My own website for books and tuition
Find me on Facebook and Twitter!
Read my Aspergers blog
And my fairy blog
Bread Stick Adventures!

Saturday, 12 March 2016

The Lying Daughter


The lying daughter has no love for anyone but herself.

She stands above, her sly face showing between the parapets,
just tall enough to show the bright eyes, the poking nose.
She looks down, peering harshly against the sun
to see targets approaching.
Readies the spear in one hand,
uses the other to pull up further into the wall.

Her armour clinks then grinds sorely on the old grey walls,
the speckled metal of her breastplate, decorated by hand at age 12,
covered in spots and dull places.

There in the distance something comes
and winds down the lane to the castle,
too far yet to see.

One hand lets go, the other grips the spear,
both fly together so that fingers touch
and the lying daughter tries her hardest
to prepare for the blow,
the busy hand tracing the thin, light handle of the spear,
the other touching the breastplate next to her heart.


© Amanda J Harrington 2016

My books on Amazon
My own website for books and tuition
Find me on Facebook and Twitter!
Read my Aspergers blog
And my fairy blog!

A story somewhere