All that is left behind.

All that is left behind.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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There is a ghost

of a cherry tree leaf

in my notebook,

from where I pressed it.

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A memento

from a happier time 

that I wanted to cherish,

no doubt.

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The leaf must have 

fallen out at some point –

how careless of me

to have lost you.

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There is a faint trace

of red residue

left behind on the coarse paper. 

It is all 

that is left behind.

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Kintsugi Heart.

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Kintsugi Heart

by David Milligan-Croft.

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To have truly lived

Is to have your heart shattered

Over and over again.

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But, as with the art of kintsugi,

After each painstaking repair,

It blazes, resplendent with golden light.

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I shall scour the universe.

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I shall scour the universe.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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Where did you go? One minute 

you were here, the next, you were gone.

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There is a hole in the galaxy, the exact size 

and shape that you used to occupy.

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It is now empty.

Devoid of your presence.

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Surely, you are somewhere,

You can’t just disappear.

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There is a finite amount of energy

In the universe, of which you are an intrinsic part.

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Perhaps you are in the soil, as nutrients 

for worms and bugs and fungi.

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Or delicate forget-me-nots

luring honey bees to do their bidding.

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Maybe you are pollen

carried upon the summer breeze.

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You could be anywhere by now.

But I’ll keep searching,

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in the trees and in the streams,

in the flowers and on the wind.

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I’ll shall scour the universe for you,

even down to the cracks of my hands.

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Miracles do happen.

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You were looking for a miracle,

But they were all around you,

The whole time.

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We all wear masks from time to time.

I’ve been meaning to do a mask activity with patients on the ward for sometime now. I finally got round to buying a paper mache one and had a little experiment with some acrylic pens. A lot of the patterns I’ve used are from other doodling exercises I’ve posted about in the past.

I want to experiment with different mediums – coloured tissue, beads, blocks of acrylic colour, real flowers!

I can see where this activity would have lots of benefits for patients. There’s the obvious mindfulness aspect, concentration, dexterity, relaxation, self-expression, etc. (Which increases dopamine and reduces cortisol levels.)

But it would be interesting to see whether people express themselves literally or metaphorically. How much (or little) their emotions and state of mind are expressed in their work.

Anyhoo, when I’d finished doodling/tinkering/experimenting with my first attempt, I then felt inspired to pen a little micro poem.

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You may wear a mask,

But it cannot conceal the pain

Emanating from your eyes.

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Addendum.

I decided to have another go. Here’s a WIP using acrylics.

What’s the big idea?

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The idea.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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I am an idea.

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A series of electrical impulses

between the synapses

of one mediocre mind

among 8 billion others.

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I become words scrawled on a page

or uttered from a mouth.

I gather components 

to make me manifest.

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From the detritus 

of long-extinct species;

rotting food, plant life,

faeces.

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Animal, vegetable and mineral;

I am composed

of the decomposed taxonomy

from the graveyards of landfill.

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Fridges and flatscreens,

mobiles and tablets.

(The type you swallow,

and the type that swallows you.)

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Atoms and molecules

converging and coalescing

like mercury,

until I am born.

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Perhaps I am a rocket ship,

that can traverse distant galaxies.

Or the long-dreamed of child,

or a little fidget spinner.

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The form of the concept is irrelevant.

What matters is,

I exist.

When once, I did not.

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Someone order an 11″ portrait to go?

I got into painting portraits on pizza box lids during the first Covid lockdown.

I’d run out of canvas and, whilst I could have ordered some online, I didn’t fancy it. Like books, I want to browse and physically see and feel what I am buying.

I was pondering this conundrum whilst chewing on a slice of anchovy and black olive pizza when the answer was right there in front of me, staring me in the face – kitchen roll!

My daughter rolled her eyes and tapped the pizza box.

Or, cardboard. Cardboard might be good too.

Anyway, here we are three years down the line and I’m still expanding my pizza box portrait collection, along with my waistline.

The following are a few I’ve done recently. The Frida Kahlo one I’ve done before but in a different colour scheme. The ‘Ore Grave?’ one is from the Orgreave miners’ strike in 1984.

They are done in acrylic, chalk pastel, charcoal and ink with the odd bit of wallpaper stuck on for good measure.

Sold

Princess Ariadne of Crete.

Look at me!

LOOK AT ME!

By David Milligan-Croft.

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I was cradling you on my left hip;

Absentmindedly swaying from side to side,

As I talked to a fellow parent

In the school playground.

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Slowly, you reached across

And clamped your hand over my mouth.

Your tiny fingers felt warm and sticky. Then,

Gently, you pulled my head to face you.

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I looked down into your sparkling eyes,

Your perfectly beautiful face. And,

That was it.

That was all you needed.

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Contour Doodling.

Following on from my post about Extreme Doodling a few weeks ago, Contour Doodling is a similar mindfulness exercise you can do pretty much anywhere.

I call it ‘contour’ doodling because it reminds me of the contour maps I learnt about in geography class at school.

Simply start in the middle of your page with a small, irregular shape. Then draw around that shape following its contours. And keep building it up, getting further and further out. The irregularities will be emphasised the further out you get. Just go with it. Let it become the shape it wants to be.

There is no right or wrong.

You can do it for 10 minutes, or 10 hours. (Okay, maybe an hour.)

Remember, it’s all about the process, not the result.

Happy [contour] doodling!

#artismedicine

Heart of a Snowman

By David Milligan-Croft.

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Imagine yourself as a snowflake –

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One of billions

Of unique hexagonal prisms

Falling from the sky.

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Then we settle – 

Some on the highway

To be churned into slush.

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Maybe on a mountain top

As an accomplice

To an avalanche.

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Perhaps, I am the heart 

Of a snowman,

Or the dusting on a leaf of a tree.

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But when the sun awakens,

To warm the earth,

Don’t we all melt and disappear,

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As though we were never here?

But we haven’t gone,

We have merely transformed.

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Seeping into Mother Earth

To begin our journey

All over again.

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