MY MUSINGS

The words on this page are inspired by both bitter and sweet experiences. From hopes, fears and dreams. The same is true for most that write. They are not constrained to a specific form but have a life of their own. Most of them were born in the witching hour, the dead of night when the soul is restless and wanders through the otherworld.

My Mu​sings

The poems below are some of my musings.

THE SEVEN TEARS​

February 14, 2018

I have always loved selkie stories and the seals that swim in our shores, so this poem is dedicated to them.

 

At high tide, a lonely woman shed seven tears into the cold dark sea………

The first tear was formed of innocence, for a childhood love that was never requited.

The second tear for a tender heart had once been broken in two.

The third tear sung of sorrow for a shallow love that did not last.

The fourth tear was full of regrets for a marriage that should never have been.

The fifth tear was for a love built on lies and empty promises.

The sixth tear was the last that she would shed for mortal man.

The seventh tear that fell into the sea, was a wish for a selkie man, someone to have and to hold until she grew old.


It was the last tear the woman ever shed into the cold dark sea........

THE DEATH BED PROMISE

March 15, 2018

A once true love told me that I would be his final thought as his last breath left his body. I took comfort in this death bed promise, like a warm blanket on a cold dark night. But after time, this promise stole a bit of my soul and the warm blanket became an invisible shroud that bound me to love that would not die despite the death of my once true love.

SECRETS

March 15, 2018

Beware of who you tell your secrets too.........…


There are dark secrets that live deep in my shadow. I once told them to the moon, for in the dead of night no one else is there to listen but the very next day she told them to the sun, who told the earth and know everyone knows about the dark secrets that once lived deep in my shadow. 

THE WOODEN STEP​

March 15, 2018

A woman stood on a wooden step to kiss her lover goodbye, for she was small, and he was tall in-case you wondered why. That step became a land of love where their eyes and lips could meet. A wondrous wooden place, where hearts were free to beat. Then one day the woman saw the shadow of death in his deep blue eyes. Through salted tears she cried out "seven years" but this fell upon deaf ears. So, seven short years was all they had, on their ladder to the stars. The step is now old and worn but their love it lingers on, for each night she still stands upon it, long after her lover has gone.

A GHOST OF LOVE

March 15, 2018

A ghost of a dead love lay dormant within my heart. Strangled by circumstances before it had time to grow. But a seed of hope was planted in the barren soil and now the ghost of love has been reborn. Once more a man of flesh and bone. Filling the void inside, with dreams and moonbeams to light up my empty soul. But what will become of this once forgotten love, that has now taken root in the depths of my soul? I asked the stars for time has passed, the young now old, with hearts grown cold. Devoid of light, can this love grow? The silence of their reply echoed throughout the long restless night. Too much time has passed was their reply. Too much hurt, too much pain, you are fated to never ever find love again. So, the ghost of the dead love must die once more, finally laid to rest. But upon its grave I shall cry for the coward in me to afraid to try, for the fool in me who let it die.

THE MATCHBOX

March 15, 2018

The old woman sat in the threadbare chair, memories of her life woven into what was left of its harsh fabric. Little life left in her blue-green eyes, more of her soul in the next life than in this. In her gnarly fingers she held a tattered matchbox that belonged to another decade, a time when her eyes sparkled with hope for a love that might soothe her loneliness. Inside the little box, a hidden treasure, an invisible memory more precious than gold. A memory that had sustained the old woman since her hair had turned silver and lost its shine. She slowly opened the box to breathe in its content, inside a red rose given by her one true love, the invisible memory of its sweet smell filled her lungs, just one more breath and she was gone. All that was hidden inside died with her. Her body devoid of life, the matchbox empty........

THE TRADITION BREAKER

March 15, 2018

No, no, no she was told, what you want goes against tradition. Only men can carry the coffin and lower it into the ground. But it was her firstborn child, and this was the last thing she could do for the baby boy who would never get to grow-up, so no man would tell her that she couldn’t be the one to put his cold body into the warm earth. For she had birthed the boy with the bonnie blue eyes, her wee fair-haired laddie. She alone bore the pain of his passing, so she alone would bear the weight of the little white coffin. As she lowered it into the ground on a day in May, a wind blew through her being, no ordinary wind but the soul of her child being laid to rest. It was a wind from the north that along with her firstborn she would never forget. For it blew a hole in her heart that could never be mended, not by needle, thread, or time itself.

THE INVISIBLE TIES

March 15, 2018

The invisible ties that bind us to all those that touch our lives are stronger than we know. For those threads of lasting love are interwoven into the fabric of our very souls. I know this to be true, for the stars in the dark night sky whispered in my ear and told me it is so.........

 THE PILLOW OF FINE FEATHERS

March 15, 2018


Two heads lay on a pillow of fine feathers.

She on the left and he on the right.

Cloudy grey eyes gazing into each other.

Tender kisses on old thin lips.

Soft whispers of sweet-nothings filling the air.

Bony hands on slow beating hearts.

A union of flesh, before they fly off to the stars.

This nightly ritual like their love never forgotten, for once they lost each other in a time long ago.

But fate took a hand and wove them back together, two souls adrift without one another.

Then every bird in the sky gave them a feather, each feather a gift to fill a soft pillow.

The pillow became their hearth and their home.

Each night they lie on their single white pillow.

Aged and wrinkled but beholding to none.

Free to love and share what’s left of a lifetime.

Their journey to eternity, only just begun

 A SKINWALKERS SOUL

March 15, 2018

Winter is a time for going within. A time for digging deep in the human shadow like a wild animal digs for shelter in the earth. The deeper you claw, the denser the darkness becomes. For scarred shadows reside in the souls of all skinwalkers. A sticky place of black fears whose voice is willed silent, but its whispers echo inside until their wailing of pain deafens our existence with their demands to be heard.


Dare you let loose the twisted thoughts that hide deep inside? Once they escape their self-imposed prison of denial, there is no locking away of these bone rattling skeletons. No closet of flesh and blood big enough to contain them. No lock nor key strong enough to hold them.


Yet inside the shadow there is unseen light. 


A flickering flame of divinity that burns away falsehoods and sets alight the tormented lies that lay siege to your being. Take a leap of faith into the unknown cavern of your consciousness. Fall from the pretentious state of grace. From a shallow life that feeds the eternal blackness that consumes you when the moon rules the night sky. 


For inside the shadow there is a blinding light.

THE TRAIN WRECK

March 15, 2018

She didn’t hear the whistle blow. For she was lost in the insane world of love. Turned into a crazy woman by the belief in the dream it sells. Happiness! No mention of pain or heartache.


The whistle blew again, this time she heard a faint sound. There had never been such a fool for love and all its promises. Queen of fools with an invisible crown of hearts around her head. She chose to ignore it once more. Nothing was stronger than their love or, so she thought. The same thought that had somehow become confused with belief. Not content with being a fool, she was a dreamer. If that wasn’t bad enough her childlike heart was bursting with the most flammable substance. HOPE. Oh, how she hoped. Her dreams used to be full of death and dying. Now they were filled with moonlight and stardust. With talking trees and red roses of the past. A promise to be fulfilled in the time of first snowdrops. She dared to dream. At first hesitant. Peeking from behind a high wall of thorns that was built around her. No longer content with a life of darkness her heart wanted to play in the sunlight. It took the heady hand of romance and chased the happily ever after.


This was once a strong woman. A warrior descended from island people. Her love was born from a smouldering ember, now an uncontrollable wildfire. Burning down obstacles that lay before her. She walked the red road of fear and guilt with her head held high. A visionary, seeing the future of their making. Built on a foundation that encouraged her to serve her body, mind and heart on an exquisite platter of trust. Laid bare, naked and vulnerable as a new born baby with no cradle for shelter.


Again, and again the whistle blew. Growing louder until she could ignore it no longer. Too late! The train crashed in the tunnel of love and brought down her whole world with it. Lost in the wreckage, scarcely breathing, suffocated by the dust from the fallout. Bricks and rubble made of sweet nothings and rose petals lay all around her. A hole where her heart used to be. Can you love with a hole instead of a heart? Some can and seem to get by. The make doers of life. She had once been one of them but no more. No more.


She crawled bleeding and deeply wounded. Trying to find some air to breathe that was no contaminated by broken promises. Crawling on her belly, shards of glass cutting at her flesh. She passed out from the pain of loss. There she lies cocooned in her own red blood. There she must stay till she is strong enough to emerge back into an unknown world of unfamiliar quantities.


WITHIN THIS PLACE

March 15, 2018

Awake, she sleeps but is awake in the darkness of her dreams.

No light shines within this place.


A vast cavern of pain, replaying past hurts to keep her bound to the fears that lie buried deep inside.


No warmth shines within this place.


Only cold tears that form a strange salty sea that cannot be crossed for fear of drowning in its depths.


No love lies within this place.


It is barren soil, no seeds of hope nor happiness can grow in this accursed land that is her painful past.

THE MOUNTAIN INSIDE

March 15, 2018


Inside my skin there lives a mountain. Not a mountain of earth but a mountain of endless possibilities. It has always lived there. In fact, it was there before I was born. For I am it and it is me.


When I was a child it was hard to contain, for it wanted to escape the skin it lived within. It wanted to be seen and heard. It wanted to sing and shout. It was told to shut up, so it became invisible, afraid to show its face for the fear that inhabited the small world I circumnavigated. 


As I grew so did the mountain. It screamed inside the prison of my skin and became poisoned by the toxins of teenage years. Limitations of self-imposed beliefs caused by the judgement of others, caused by the starvation of an absent parental love. 


When my skin was stretched, and I was fully grown. The mountain lay dormant, for it knew it's place. It learned the harsh lessons of life only too well. It dared to dream only in the dead of night. When all others were asleep, it would often peep outside to find some light in the darkness. It liked the stars and the moon and would talk to them in a language of no words. 


It lived for a long time like that. Its only friends were the dreams it created, for they were as big as the mountain inside my adult skin. Sore with abuse and deprived of intimacy, the mountain began to slowly die. Even mountains need to be held and loved. Without any kindness its heart grew pale and frail. Old beyond its years. What use is wisdom without a direction. Death seemed a warm place and called out to the bare cold mountain.


But inside the heart of mountain there was a place that was untouched by human suffering. Not a big place but a tiny place that had survived the sorrows of a life less ordinary. A crack that had remained hidden from the cruelty of mankind. One day this place was discovered by the king of the forest. This oak placed its roots deep in my splintered soul and brought new life to the mountain within my skin. Its leaves nourished my starving heart and made me feel once more. It taught me many things but above all others, it saw the mountain inside and it loved the landscape of my soul.

WILD AND FREE

March 15, 2018

Nothing but possibilities happen in a state of stillness. In many ways like the earth during her winter slumber, all happening beneath the surface. Nothing visible to the naked eye. 


I stand naked under the indigo sky whose beauty holds me spellbound. Watched over by the ripe moon above, who is full with the secrets of mankind. Losing myself in the timeless vision of the black night. I close my eyes and remember running with the wild deer. Hoofs hitting the hard winter ground. My heart beating fast to the rhythm of freedom. Cold blue breath escaping from flaring nostrils. Uncaged from the limitations of human skin. Free to embrace a state of being without formless edges. 


I am wild, I am free, I am home. 

RETURN TO HEAVEN

March 15, 2018

Sadness weighs on me, like an invisible blanket, one that cannot be seen, only felt. One that I hope to shed like the selkie who sheds her skin when she comes to make love to the man who has a loch instead of a heart. The sadness isn't sorrowful, it's an unexplainable feeling, like phantom pains when you lose a limb. Something has been lost from my life, but I still feel it is there. Even though I can no longer see it or hear it. A haunting echo from the past, a ripple from another lifetime. I know the pain of my broken heart will enable me to swim and breathe in the deep like my beloved seal people. What is left will endure until we both return to heaven.

STORYTELLING FEEDBACK

“Rowan Morrison’s beautiful storytelling is magical. Evocative of the true Bardic dreaming of this land”. (Maxine Smillie)