Poet's Shed: Week 3
Poetry readings to give inspiration and encouragement.
Written and read by Frank Scammell
A Single Bluebell, Prayer is and Dementia's Parting
Week 3 – 16th April 2020
written and read by Frank Scammell
A Single Bluebell
Take time to stroll and see
Emerging fronds of curled up bracken
Spreading out beauty in filigree.
Observe the colour, shade and light.
Life’s in the detail not passed by.
Make my, prayers more leisurely Lord.
Bring gaze into my hurried walk.
May your noise be my noise,
Your eyes, my eyes, Lord.
Listen! The single bluebell speaks.
I have colour. I have form.
Don’t lose me in this cloud of scent.
Life’s short lived and time a gift.
Task, task and take-away miss
The person with a life to tell.
God’s pace is stroll, his voice is soft,
His face so close to touch in intimacy.
I too am curled up bracken longing
To burst with beauty and with filigree.
Prayer is my unashamed walking stick.
The lava that flows relentlessly.
The drop of rain moving slowly down window pane.
The hand firmly grasped by stronger grip.
The mountain, the plain, the valley.
The waiting game that tests me sorely.
The voice, the ear, the eye, the touch.
The relationship from which I cannot hide.
The thing I most forget and remember.
The opportunity to be angry without restraint.
The new born lamb skipping and jumping.
The embrace that needs no words.
The special meal enjoyed with friends.
The course bread bereft of butter.
The beginning, the middle and the end.
My doorway to a three-fold friend.
I have touched the face of one just died
Fenced in so long by cruel dementia,
Set free at last from hidden bars
To be the one she was and is and will be.
Has time any meaning in dementia?
The past is real, the present is past.
There’s anger, tears and laughter.
Am I really who I am or was or will be ?
Where is God within a demented mind?
Has he turned away his ear to hear?
Why hold back your healing for so long?
I am, I was, I will be.
Am I my memories or much more?
Am I my smells, my touch , my feel?
When all words fail what have I left
But love and anger, love and anger.
‘Are you afraid? ‘ I asked in dying.
‘No.’ The answer came without a pause
As if the clouds of memory somehow lifted
To show the Gate, the Door, the Way.
I did not choose to lose my mind.
I did not want to seem unkind.
Still you were you and I was me.
You loved me and I loved you.