For Peace

I can recall the first time I was moved by a poem as a child when I found something in a book of poems at the library.

It isn’t a poem of course, it’s part of a Meditation (XVII) written by John Donne who lived some four hundred years ago.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Whatever it is., it speaks to me. And if someone wrote these words long ago and they still mean something, then they must be relevant to today.

So many say that world peace is impossible that man wants to fight, wants power and territory, wants religious dominance.

Nobody wants to share resources?

Nobody wants their children to grow up in a world without weapons, without fear of war?

Peace begins with words, as war does too.

And in this world of global communication, we could do so much more to work towards peace.

Are there any leaders willing to step forward and say, aye, let’s be the first.

Or do we the people, have to do it ourselves.


Peace is an occurrence of harmony characterized by lack of violence, conflict behaviors and the freedom from fear of violence. Commonly understood as the absence of hostility and retribution, peace also suggests sincere attempts at reconciliation, the existence of healthy or newly healed interpersonal or international relationships, prosperity in matters of social or economic welfare, the establishment of equality, and a working political order that serves the true interests of all.



The Kind of Child

Who reads too much

Who observes adults

Who notes down everything she sees

Especially in the long summer holidays

Lives in stories, in imagination

Watches ants at work

Listens to music all day

Browses in the record store, the library

Wears home-made clothes

Paints her face like a Geisha

Too aware, always aware

Suspicious, inquisitive

Shy artist

Prefers galleries to hills

Loves water but fears it

Previous lives and spirits visit her

Likes your company

For a day

Unless you know how to play

Then you can stay

john wilhelm


by John Wilhelm – who does photo manipulations for his children.

Little Red Riding Pud?


Hormonally Yours

Has your body done battle with your mind, your soul, your sense of reason for decades.

Was the only time it was in tune with the rest of you was during pregnancy and that, apparently, was a miraculous happening.

Have you been told to not let your hormones control you. To not let stress rule you, but have been under pressure for years, living off that inner fire that won’t die down.

Did you hope that when it came to the end of the fertility cycle (with a huge bang of course) it would all be over.

Do you not want to hear the word hereditary because…

Did you also hope that you would stop tuning in to other people’s  emotions, raging feelings, great sadness. It doesn’t go away. You have to work with it.

Ever not been able to put yourself first because you are driven by some daft notion that your life purpose is to save the world from itself!!

Yet you know, don’t you, this – ‘Be the change you want to see’

Do you fight with food because it fights back with you and you have become weary. It’s not your enemy, it’s your best friend.

Did they forget to tell you what it all boiled down to, you’re not gonna resent this forever and ever are you. There’s still time.

You are grateful for the input from the National Health Service, the early intervention, the baby you had.

You are going to find the time to put mind over matter, to tune in with discipline and become the person you really want to be.

Hormonally yours,

Your inner voice.

The link takes you to Shakespeare’s Sister – Hormonally Yours

Life is a strange thing

Just when you think you know how to use it

It’s gone






Souls of the 1914 Honey Moon

It’s the night of the Honey Moon tonight, June 13th 2014.

For just one night all the souls from a hundred years ago come back to life. It was such a moon then in June 1914, just before the Great War started. Hundreds of thousands of young ones were about to die.

Their souls lay still, in time, waiting to return on the next honey moon.

Fragile white moths flitting about like ghosts of fairies across our gardens. Delicate, small, almost transparent butterflies moving from bush to bush. Sweet bees balancing on heads of chive flowers, resting. Wasps among cotoneaster buds, humming their war songs.

Each one on a task. Each one a sacred soul.




Martyrdom V Exile

Don’t ask why I wasn’t there

All the time

If ever

Don’t ask whether I chose to be

In another place

Don’t ask

Take your glory

For being there

For being a martyr

But don’t ask

Why I wasn’t there

Don’t expect me to

To praise your self-righteousness

Or to think my feelings

Were less than yours

My sorrow is of a different kind

And you will never know

You are too concerned with

Playing a saint







Fernweh (n.)

An ache for distant places.

A craving to travel.

There is no direct translation for this German word “fernweh”. It basically means the opposite of homesickness, a feeing that you have to leave your familiar surroundings and discover new places; the need for distance or the wish to experience something far away from home. The urge to escape from your everyday life by travelling.

Mexico. Japan. Mongolia. Whitby