Hi Jamie, ‘the watcher and the watched’, we can only ‘lean into our souls’ as you suggest, feel into listening as l call it. Oh, those banjos really don’t need to duel … how sweet a melody they can play…. Tuned to the universe, the ‘cosmos ‘you capture …. She shines the light so you can indeed welcome and wear the ‘storm’, the ‘ghosts’ will pass. Their season will fade into the shining light of the storm. 😊🙏💜
Thanks Simone! There’s a little indigestion way up here in the north in Canada. I do admit watching my patience being tested. The words help me work through it. Poetry is spiritual medicine. It’s a practice just to watch and know that I Am. Love always wins. Bring on the banjos. Thank you so much for reading. 🙏❤️
Yes, l spoke with a Canadian by chance a couple of weeks ago when l rang a tour company. I happened to ask her about your neighbours and so she gave me ‘your’ Canadian perspective, which was a sweet relief to my ears. Yes, how writing is a soothe and we do need to pause occasionally to remember who we are … l am conscious not to be complacent. Love does always win … isn’t that sweet. And as a funny aside, l am looking for a banjo 🪕🎶🙏😊💜
Well, l am planning some sort of ceremony when she is felled … 🤣🎶. Love and laughter Jamie, to quell the storm. Seriously, l do hope this is the tipping point for humanity, the universal wake up call to harness our inner power and connect as a global community 🙏😊
Woah, what a feast of words and emotions, Jamie! Thank you. Your 'gravy' and 'grave' are ab-soul-utely mesmerising! I will have to come back and reflect on them again and again. As I listened and read this first time, I couldn’t help but imagine Alastair Sim as Scrooge meeting the three ghosts. I love the way you’ve skilfully woven humour, reflection and deep mystery into this post. It feels like you have one foot in each 'word' and 'world'. Just glorious! Thanks again.
Thanks again Deborah for another smile! Thanks for seeing me in the spaces between the words. There’s definitely been a little bit of indigestion and a dance with a few ghosts up here. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight in some red slippers. I’m certainly trying not to let the addictive chains of reaction rattle my creativity. Reacting and creating are two different words, but have all the same letters. Two different ways to meet the world. Poetry is spiritual medicine. It is revealing. It is healing. Thanks for holding my hand on my way through the words. Through the world. Through the storm. Love always wins. Here’s to creating! Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
Thank you so much soul granny! Are you getting up in the dark down there or are you just not sleeping? It’s damn early in those mountains! Thank you so much for being here. You make it better 🙏❤️
Oh, I love wordplay! Thanks for sharing, Jamie, and for your truly kind-hearted words. Indeed, when poetry arrives ... it's always big medicine on the table. Hahaha, little did Veronika realise she'll be letting my alter ego out with yesterday's post. Sweet dreams!
What the Dickens indeed.😊 Christmas cold and a joke cracked in London before the advent of psychology; the temper of an injudicious late roast... a cooking of his goose, his ghost with a shimmer still of the oven. Tales of Dark London where many narrow streets lurked in the time of the year; 'the river sweats oil and tar...', a later poet observed of the sullen tides. Old London dreams even now.
Why this morning reading your tidal gut poem did a memory, it could have been from you (?), float in; ice and time on the shores of the Gulf of St Lawrence where life and humans persist in unnamed abundance with the tides along the flats? What 's in the name; patron of the poor and children, I learn. And scholars think it likely by a typographical error, a grim joke in the spirit of the time, the patron of good cooks?
May your blessed cardinal directions preserve us under the balance of a joyous moon!
Philip, you are a poet of the soul! Thanks so much for reading and reaching out. Yes to all things St. Lawrence! A sweet river, a gracious patron of care, and good cooking! Dickens indeed. At this point in a half finished life, I understand that ‘I wear the chain I forged in life,’ ! I will weave it well! Thanks for being here! You are a wonderful compass! 🙏❤️
Oh, Jamie, to imagine myself as an undigested morsel of beef, an underdone cheesy potato on the side, with a blob of mustard (thanks Charles!) is quite a mouthful of globby gravy to swallow.
No wonder your “guts are rolling with a wave of punches” in an “endless night squeezing into the strangle of a shrill”
(mine would too!)
The duelling banjos from the south along with the games of throne as a reality show almost come as a relief from the “collywobbles going bat shit crazy”
But then…
… that “lost head
wearing a pumpkin
hollowed out with a dull spoon
after midnight.”
(Hovering in an egg-shaped workplace inside a ghostly ashen palace, by any chance?)
triggers moaning in the stomach which “slurps you through a plastic straw”…
Thank you so much! You wrote a poem! I had fun with the language of indigestion crossing paths with Ebeneezer Scrooge, and Jacob Marley wrapped in the chains of my own moral agenda, trying to crash through language and me trying to watch it and not react along with it. Thanks for meeting me in the spaces between the words. The gravy needs to get out, and the grave wants in. Thanks for being here Veronika🙏❤️
gut-gutter-guttest ... those on the gravy-train think they've missed the grave -- a grave mistake. Better to grapple with the graveyard shift and meet the dead-walking head-on. A great guttural spill. The grobble-monster is pleased.
Thanks Josh! The grobble-monster is pleased! Indigestion meeting the ghosts of the past while I practice the poetry of presence. Never an easy practice. This one was fun to chew on. Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
Thanks Jo! Thank you for reading and feeling into that indigestion with a sprinkle of Scrooge and a pinch of Marley stirred through the straw of some duelling banjos 🙏❤️
What I love about poetry is that it makes even the most frightening things into beauty. You have a gift to use words in this way. It sounds like you are going through a lot of feelings there, thank you for sharing and I'm sending you lots of loving thoughts. 💕
Thanks Sadhbh! Indigestion certainly writes its own words. It’s definitely a practice watching the tummy of emotions. Creating vs Reacting. Thanks for reading and for reaching out! 🙏❤️
The grave takes us all in, both soft skin and wrinkled skin, young and old, rich and poor. The grave is no respector of persons.The grave cares not a whit about titles. The grave even takes presidents and vice-presidents and the hoarders of money. Filthy lucre. Oh my!
What do the ghosts of the past say? Do you want to be a Trump, a Musk, a Vance? Or do you want to be a decent human being? Your choice, my friend. Better make it quick.
Beautiful Jamie, so sublime, so visual and visceral. Every time I read your words, they give me chills, and this one filled me with a sense of grief—of what could be and what is in this world of ours. Maybe this is just me, reading through my own lens, with the English I think I understand. Sometimes, reading in English makes me doubt if I fully grasp the meaning of the words, but the feeling is that I do—I hope so. The emotions, the rawness, it’s like I’m transported into the heart of what you’re expressing, and I wish, I truly wish, that your words could reach others as deeply as they reach me as every word is a world itself. Absolutely powerful and youuu are so creative! 🙏❤️
Thanks Katerina! There’s definitely a little bit of grief sneaking into the spaces between my words. I try to avoid a moral agenda in my writing, but sometimes the feelings whisper through. The chains of reaction rattle loud and invite the responsive addiction of anger. I’m trying to be a watcher. The poetry of presence allows that slow breath of creativity to be the louder voice. I still have to be the change. A ripple of love in a widening circle. Some days are harder than others in this practice. This spiritual practice. I’ve never lived through a war or a communist regime and my heart has no idea of the pain and loss of freedom that comes with that. Hate is blowing strongly in the wind over here on this side of the Atlantic. I am watching. I am creating. I Am…. Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
Morning greetings Jamie, GRAVEY AND THE GRAVE, holy humor with a bite, Batman. A potent piece of silver tongued storytelling, oral and written. You are an eloquent linguistic virtuoso, that’s a gift to be proud of, darling! Be happy, Geraldine
Watching what indigestion does from emotions to feelings as it tries to touch language somewhere between sound and syllable, word and scream. Thanks for reading and reaching out Janaka 🙏❤️
Hi Jamie, ‘the watcher and the watched’, we can only ‘lean into our souls’ as you suggest, feel into listening as l call it. Oh, those banjos really don’t need to duel … how sweet a melody they can play…. Tuned to the universe, the ‘cosmos ‘you capture …. She shines the light so you can indeed welcome and wear the ‘storm’, the ‘ghosts’ will pass. Their season will fade into the shining light of the storm. 😊🙏💜
Thanks Simone! There’s a little indigestion way up here in the north in Canada. I do admit watching my patience being tested. The words help me work through it. Poetry is spiritual medicine. It’s a practice just to watch and know that I Am. Love always wins. Bring on the banjos. Thank you so much for reading. 🙏❤️
Yes, l spoke with a Canadian by chance a couple of weeks ago when l rang a tour company. I happened to ask her about your neighbours and so she gave me ‘your’ Canadian perspective, which was a sweet relief to my ears. Yes, how writing is a soothe and we do need to pause occasionally to remember who we are … l am conscious not to be complacent. Love does always win … isn’t that sweet. And as a funny aside, l am looking for a banjo 🪕🎶🙏😊💜
Thanks so much! Banjo well! When you’re ready I’ll be here to listen to you setting your music free. Play it loud under that tree. 🙏❤️
Well, l am planning some sort of ceremony when she is felled … 🤣🎶. Love and laughter Jamie, to quell the storm. Seriously, l do hope this is the tipping point for humanity, the universal wake up call to harness our inner power and connect as a global community 🙏😊
Woah, what a feast of words and emotions, Jamie! Thank you. Your 'gravy' and 'grave' are ab-soul-utely mesmerising! I will have to come back and reflect on them again and again. As I listened and read this first time, I couldn’t help but imagine Alastair Sim as Scrooge meeting the three ghosts. I love the way you’ve skilfully woven humour, reflection and deep mystery into this post. It feels like you have one foot in each 'word' and 'world'. Just glorious! Thanks again.
Thanks again Deborah for another smile! Thanks for seeing me in the spaces between the words. There’s definitely been a little bit of indigestion and a dance with a few ghosts up here. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight in some red slippers. I’m certainly trying not to let the addictive chains of reaction rattle my creativity. Reacting and creating are two different words, but have all the same letters. Two different ways to meet the world. Poetry is spiritual medicine. It is revealing. It is healing. Thanks for holding my hand on my way through the words. Through the world. Through the storm. Love always wins. Here’s to creating! Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
Thank you so much soul granny! Are you getting up in the dark down there or are you just not sleeping? It’s damn early in those mountains! Thank you so much for being here. You make it better 🙏❤️
Oh, I love wordplay! Thanks for sharing, Jamie, and for your truly kind-hearted words. Indeed, when poetry arrives ... it's always big medicine on the table. Hahaha, little did Veronika realise she'll be letting my alter ego out with yesterday's post. Sweet dreams!
Jamie
What the Dickens indeed.😊 Christmas cold and a joke cracked in London before the advent of psychology; the temper of an injudicious late roast... a cooking of his goose, his ghost with a shimmer still of the oven. Tales of Dark London where many narrow streets lurked in the time of the year; 'the river sweats oil and tar...', a later poet observed of the sullen tides. Old London dreams even now.
Why this morning reading your tidal gut poem did a memory, it could have been from you (?), float in; ice and time on the shores of the Gulf of St Lawrence where life and humans persist in unnamed abundance with the tides along the flats? What 's in the name; patron of the poor and children, I learn. And scholars think it likely by a typographical error, a grim joke in the spirit of the time, the patron of good cooks?
May your blessed cardinal directions preserve us under the balance of a joyous moon!
v best
Phil
Philip, you are a poet of the soul! Thanks so much for reading and reaching out. Yes to all things St. Lawrence! A sweet river, a gracious patron of care, and good cooking! Dickens indeed. At this point in a half finished life, I understand that ‘I wear the chain I forged in life,’ ! I will weave it well! Thanks for being here! You are a wonderful compass! 🙏❤️
Ooh, haunting, scary—I like!
Thanks Carole! The ghosts are loud up here right now! Thanks for reading and reaching out. 🙏❤️
Sorry about our leader, more like tyrant, and all the angst he’s causing. I’m from the other half that didn’t want this to happen.
Thanks! Am not ever trying to be political on here. Yet the indigestion seeps through the words sometimes! Bless you 🙏❤️
Oh, Jamie, to imagine myself as an undigested morsel of beef, an underdone cheesy potato on the side, with a blob of mustard (thanks Charles!) is quite a mouthful of globby gravy to swallow.
No wonder your “guts are rolling with a wave of punches” in an “endless night squeezing into the strangle of a shrill”
(mine would too!)
The duelling banjos from the south along with the games of throne as a reality show almost come as a relief from the “collywobbles going bat shit crazy”
But then…
… that “lost head
wearing a pumpkin
hollowed out with a dull spoon
after midnight.”
(Hovering in an egg-shaped workplace inside a ghostly ashen palace, by any chance?)
triggers moaning in the stomach which “slurps you through a plastic straw”…
I mean… who wouldn’t be
“Screaming
into the strangle - of the night.
Echoing through the bones
where the dead walk the world.”
???
Scary! But!! Brilliant writing!!! 💙 🙏 ✨
Thank you so much! You wrote a poem! I had fun with the language of indigestion crossing paths with Ebeneezer Scrooge, and Jacob Marley wrapped in the chains of my own moral agenda, trying to crash through language and me trying to watch it and not react along with it. Thanks for meeting me in the spaces between the words. The gravy needs to get out, and the grave wants in. Thanks for being here Veronika🙏❤️
gut-gutter-guttest ... those on the gravy-train think they've missed the grave -- a grave mistake. Better to grapple with the graveyard shift and meet the dead-walking head-on. A great guttural spill. The grobble-monster is pleased.
Thanks Josh! The grobble-monster is pleased! Indigestion meeting the ghosts of the past while I practice the poetry of presence. Never an easy practice. This one was fun to chew on. Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
What a churning and turning Jamie! What a mouthful and headful of words and emotions!
So evocative of how you are feeling right now.
May the ghosts be kind. ❤️
Thanks Jo! Thank you for reading and feeling into that indigestion with a sprinkle of Scrooge and a pinch of Marley stirred through the straw of some duelling banjos 🙏❤️
What I love about poetry is that it makes even the most frightening things into beauty. You have a gift to use words in this way. It sounds like you are going through a lot of feelings there, thank you for sharing and I'm sending you lots of loving thoughts. 💕
Thanks Sadhbh! Indigestion certainly writes its own words. It’s definitely a practice watching the tummy of emotions. Creating vs Reacting. Thanks for reading and for reaching out! 🙏❤️
"The gravy wants out. The grave wants in. "
The grave takes us all in, both soft skin and wrinkled skin, young and old, rich and poor. The grave is no respector of persons.The grave cares not a whit about titles. The grave even takes presidents and vice-presidents and the hoarders of money. Filthy lucre. Oh my!
What do the ghosts of the past say? Do you want to be a Trump, a Musk, a Vance? Or do you want to be a decent human being? Your choice, my friend. Better make it quick.
Well said Perry in the true north, strong and…..free. Spreading wings to goose the eagle in love. Thanks for Being here. 🙏❤️
Beautiful Jamie, so sublime, so visual and visceral. Every time I read your words, they give me chills, and this one filled me with a sense of grief—of what could be and what is in this world of ours. Maybe this is just me, reading through my own lens, with the English I think I understand. Sometimes, reading in English makes me doubt if I fully grasp the meaning of the words, but the feeling is that I do—I hope so. The emotions, the rawness, it’s like I’m transported into the heart of what you’re expressing, and I wish, I truly wish, that your words could reach others as deeply as they reach me as every word is a world itself. Absolutely powerful and youuu are so creative! 🙏❤️
Thanks Katerina! There’s definitely a little bit of grief sneaking into the spaces between my words. I try to avoid a moral agenda in my writing, but sometimes the feelings whisper through. The chains of reaction rattle loud and invite the responsive addiction of anger. I’m trying to be a watcher. The poetry of presence allows that slow breath of creativity to be the louder voice. I still have to be the change. A ripple of love in a widening circle. Some days are harder than others in this practice. This spiritual practice. I’ve never lived through a war or a communist regime and my heart has no idea of the pain and loss of freedom that comes with that. Hate is blowing strongly in the wind over here on this side of the Atlantic. I am watching. I am creating. I Am…. Thanks for being here. 🙏❤️
Morning greetings Jamie, GRAVEY AND THE GRAVE, holy humor with a bite, Batman. A potent piece of silver tongued storytelling, oral and written. You are an eloquent linguistic virtuoso, that’s a gift to be proud of, darling! Be happy, Geraldine
Thank you soul granny! Enjoy that mountain dawn! I appreciate you being- here. You make it better. 🙏❤️
I’ve read this a few times now Jamie. There are indeed spooks abroad
Thanks Charlie! Indigestion wrote this one from the inside out! The Walking Dead 🙏❤️
So good, Jim! An all round masterpiece :) ☺️❤️
Thanks mate! The chains are rattling loud over here right now! Sending love and light. 🙏❤️
Wow, quite the vivid imagery, Jamie. Straight out of your guts. Love the play of gravy and grave👍❤️
Watching what indigestion does from emotions to feelings as it tries to touch language somewhere between sound and syllable, word and scream. Thanks for reading and reaching out Janaka 🙏❤️
Dancing in the dichotomies, my friend, polka with the paradoxes, leaning into the mysteries. You are gravy! Thanks for sharing. XO
Thanks Danielle 🙏❤️