
The 10th Muse.
By David Milligan-Croft.
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A dusting of morning snow,
Covers my car.
I trace a love heart
In the passenger window,
And imagine you smiling
On the other side of the glass.
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By David Milligan-Croft.
.
A dusting of morning snow,
Covers my car.
I trace a love heart
In the passenger window,
And imagine you smiling
On the other side of the glass.
.
Filed under Art, Books, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Haiku, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, love, mental health, Nature, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
That’s Greek for goodbye, if you didn’t know.
At least, that’s what Google translate tells me. It could say ‘f*ck you’ for all I know. Which would work just as well.
Saying farewell to the year in a foreign tongue has become a bit of a custom for reasons I shan’t go into right now.
Greek mythology and the divine muses have been pretty prominent for me in 2022, so it seems quite appropriate.
This year, I’ve managed to paint lots of pictures, visit lots of the Peak District and write lots of poetry. So much so, I’m hoping to publish my second collection of poetry, “Go tell the bees” some time in 2023. (I’ve even been dabbling with a book cover design for it.)
To see out the year, I thought I’d leave you with a few samples of abstract doodling which I’ve been doing quite a bit of lately. It’s a very cathartic and mindful exercise if you want to give it a go. I’ve even tried it with patients on the ward and it went down really well. (Remember, it’s about the process of doing art rather than the end result.)
It just remains for me to say, thank you for visiting my blog, your support is very much appreciated. I hope you have a very happy, healthy, peaceful and prosperous 2023.
Keep being creative and tell those closest to you that you love them.
In the words of the great poet, Philip Larkin:
“…we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.”
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By David Milligan-Croft.
.
I have built a special place for you
in the corner of my mind.
Where I can simultaneously feel
happy and forlorn.
.
I go there when I want to be alone
with you. We sit in the shade of a cherry blossom tree.
Scintillating sun flickering through the branches.
Monarch butterflies flit through the air,
as pink petals fall like snowdrops.
.
There is a shallow stream
burbling over rocks, carving through a vale
of lush, verdant grass, abundant
with iridescent wildflowers.
.
Your head is on my shoulder;
I can smell honeysuckle in your russet hair,
feel your heart beating
against my rib cage.
.
Warmth radiates through your skin
into my fingertips. Stroking the soft down
of your arm. Breathing you in.
This is the closest I can get
.
without crawling inside of you.
I close my eyes and feel the heat of our star
on my face. Everything is ecstasy.
And we stay in paradise forever. Or,
.
until it’s time for me to go.
And I leave you there,
beneath our tree, shielding your eyes
from the sun, waving me goodbye.
.
And I go back to reality,
where you are oblivious
to my existence.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
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Apparently, when the monarch dies, the royal beekeeper has to go and tell the bees of their passing. They have to ask the bees not to fly away and to keep making honey. Because, a new monarch will be along shortly who will look after them just as well as the last one. True story.
Anyway, I thought I’d write a poem about this bewildering event. And, in doing so, may have inadvertently stumbled across the title of my next collection of poetry!
By David Milligan-Croft.
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Go tell the bees
The queen is dead!
.
Go tell the bees
That their mistress has passed.
.
Go tell the bees
Not to journey to the spirit world.
.
Go tell the bees
The spirits have already welcomed her there.
.
Go tell the bees
The living need them here.
.
Go tell the bees
Not to stop making their precious honey.
.
Go tell the bees
That a new master is coming.
.
Go tell the bees
His name is King Charles III.
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Go tell the bees
That he will take care of them.
.
Go tell the bees
The queen is dead! Long live the king!
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* * *
.
Go, royal beekeeper,
To Buckingham and Clarence.
.
Tie your black ribbons
Around the white wooden hives.
.
Knock gently upon their roofs
And whisper into their cells,
.
That their queen is dead
And they shall not believe you.
.
For, she is here, they will proclaim.
Alive and well,
.
Tending her hive,
As she has always done.
.
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By David Milligan-Croft
.
A butterfly flew in from the Oasis garden
To the dimly lit cafe interior.
Realising its mistake, it immediately did a U-turn
And headed back the way it came;
Only to be met by a transparent wall.
.
Freedom was so close, yet so unfathomably far.
Its leopard-spotted wings beating hopelessly against glass.
.
I cupped my hand and trapped it between pane and flesh.
Gently, I closed my fingers around it, creating a cage.
As I walked back through the patio door,
I could feel its delicate wings frantically beating
Against the prison of my palm,
Desperately trying to escape my clutches.
.
Outside, I slowly unfurled my fingers
And watched it soar into the bright cerulean sky.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
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Friday is Library Day for patients on Arden Ward at Stepping Hill Hospital.
And, if you didn’t know already, reading is very good for your mental health. (Probably not if it’s by Piers Morgan or the Tory party manifesto, mind.)
Reading quality literature and poetry, however, is proven to alleviate stress and anxiety.
Quite serendipitously, I came across this collection of poetry by Mary Dickins entitled Happiness FM. I thought her poem, ‘How to administer a poem in an emergency’ was perfectly apt for the group. So, I thought I’d share it with you.
And here is the poem from whence the collection takes its name.
Of course, our visits to the library aren’t just about reading. They’re about social interaction and doing other mindful activities.
Night, night.
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This poem was inspired by an article I read on The Marginalian by Maria Popova about G.K. Chesterton, called ‘The Dandelion and the Meaning of Life.’
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Dandelion Clock
By David Milligan Croft
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I searched for the meaning of life
In philosophers’ books.
I looked for a reason for being
In great religious texts.
.
But I could not find anything
To assuage the frustration
As to the point
Of my own existence.
.
The sun dimmed
On the page I was writing,
As the Earth slowly rotated me away,
Into the shadows.
.
And there it was, shimmering
In the fading light of dusk.
A dandelion clock, swaying
Gently in a summer zephyr.
.
Its seed pods lifting off
Into the atmosphere,
Like the universe itself
Exploding into life.
.
The wind would carry it
To its destination –
It did not need to worry what it should be
Or where it might be going.
.
I searched for the meaning of life,
And found it in a dandelion clock –
Either, it is all important,
Or none of it is.
.
I was looking for heaven,
And realised I am already here,
For the briefest, most glorious
Moments in time.
.
And the point of existence,
Is to have existed at all.
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Filed under Animals, Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Education, Haiku, History, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, Literature, love, mental health, Nature, Photography, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing