Pomegranate Tree ( Poem One)

I have a pomegranate Tree’

It is special for me.

Now cold, and dry,

it lies dormant

But here the myth of this fruit’

Persephone in the winter trap

Of the underworld lord, Hades’

One seed she ate, and her immortal

Mother cursed the world, brought

A winter so deep , nothing grew.’

Old but new to this ancient land,

Where the water runs anti-clockwise

Down the drain to our sewers.

As Persephone is dancing

With the chorus of each tree,

Singing in the summer breeze

No one really knowing

For there this old knowledge

Is lost to our contemporary world.

Where the myth means nothing

Lost to generational destruction

Of ancient thought of older than old. ( 2nd Poem but linked).

 The Gift of Memory Poem Two

’A gift from a friend, free.

My pomegranate tree

But this isn’t about the tree, this poem…No

(Like the seeds- of my pomegranate

like my pearls gracing my necklace,

memory links, as gems , when eaten

the juice runs red, her memory fades.)

It’s about my friend

She grows apart in her mind

Our memories of our friendship

Fade, slip away as each day.

She struggles to remember.

(Like each seed pulled away,

Gone from the compacted cells ,

Of her mind. Just like the pomegranate fruit

Memory after memory pulled away.)

Each time I’m with her

She looks at my beads.

I wear them on purpose

She helped me make them.

She helped me pick out the best,

String of pearls, or turquoise,

Real gems, on plastic strings.

Her artistic know how and talent

Of such things surpass mine,

she concentrate on one creative talent

not thousands at a time..

(Like the pomegranate fruit,

mother nature grew on that small tree,

all for free, given to us humans.

To taste, know and see.)

She asked me as if something there

Reminds her of a connection

“where did you get those?”

She doesn’t remember that

My name is Rose, she doesn’t know.

( Like my tree ,

now sleeping ,

waiting for spring.

There will only be winter

As her brain loses each gem.)

I tell her again , and she smiles.

When ever she asks, I don’t say

“I just told you,” I tell her again

The story of us going together

Of to the convention centre.

(Like close seeds touching

Like the pearls touching,

We walked looking for the bargains,

Laughing, close friends.

The Greeks call this, στενή φιλία, )

The yearly arts and crafts show.

How the first time I went I found

A bargain , a whole kilo of shells,

Mother of pearl polished pieces.

All gracing my treasures of beads.

Now I treasure each moment

As I share the memory, for me

As well as her, too treasure.

(for me, more, those memories,

Sharing our friendship. στενή φιλία,

Tree, the gift to me ,

and the pearls, she

picked out for me.)

She smiles when I tell her,

She was the one who taught me.

She fingers the pearls,

and the brown polished

shell, holding for those

special moments, a memory

given back by a friend

both connected in those few minutes

Repeated , again, and again, for recall.

(Beading, is not just putting pearls

On a string , it is making memories

Of a friend, to help you recall,

The respect and love you both share.) 

Diorama Part One The Future World Part Two

continuation from previous post of the Story Diorama

Part Two: The Journey Begins 

The young couple rose early and emerged from the bunker to a different world. Harold’s parent’s house was completely gone. A few older items of a bygone age lay around the rubble of stones and lichen. They saw some wooden chairs and a sideboard which had belonged to the dining room. The furniture was lost in the landscape. Snow had not fallen over night, usually snow did fall because of the enforced long winter conditions. The work of his parents of the newly restored atmospheric shield, all new after Earth’s atmosphere was destroyed. A world in hibernation.

“So quick.” Harold said as he looked around.

“Yes, their house is gone, let us look to see if anything good has remained.”

Without saying anything else Harold moved over the area. He pictured the lay out of the house as he stepped over the stones. From the corner of his eye, he saw something flutter. A book?

“Alana, I think I found something?” Without waiting for her to come to him, Harold stepped over the rocks towards the fluttering sound of pages being blown by the wind. As he came closer, the fluttering was less. When he reached the place which he thought was something there was nothing.

“It’s gone with everything else.”

The feelings of loss swept over him again. A tear rolled down his cheek. He brushed it away. Harold reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the old, yellowed photograph of his long distant relative. The image stared back out to him. “I’ll find you in your time.”

He returned the photo into the pocket. “I must think of the future, my wife, my work, not my parents.” Gaining strength against further sad emotions, he clenched his fists and made his way back to the cellar door.

Alana emerged from the entrance with his backpack. He took it from her and asked, “Is this everything?”

“I’ve still to collect my own electronic equipment from work. My bag is over there.” She pointed to the electric car supplied by the government to help with the expedition. The vehicle was built for all terrains and worked on solar energy.

“Good. So, we are ready to go.”

Alana smiled, “we now take the first steps on this long journey north. May the mother be with us.”

Harold kissed his wife and replied with the established religious answer, “As Her Son is always here.” With his free hand he placed it over his heart, and added, “some things always are the same for us Alana. Our faith cannot be lost. Our hope for a future is our strength as it was for our parents. It is our time to try our best to keep human life on this Earth, as they did and our grandparents. ”

Alana nodded her head, then quickly made her way to the awaiting vehicle. Harold put his backpack into the back of the open rover. He then sat with his wife in the driver’s seat. He touched the icon on the dashboard and the vehicle began to move without a sound. The types gripped the rough surface as Harold steered the vehicle towards what once was the road but now was just a marked pathway heading towards the nearest government centre.

Together they drove to the underground transport station nine miles,(15 kilometres) to the north of the farmland. Harold’s ancient family had lived for generations growing trees and grape vines. Christmas Firs were now all gone because of climate change and the grapes had disappeared before the trees. The long cold now left the land in hibernation, waiting for the right time to readjust the damage of the lack of ozone and the magnetic shield of the planet. Work teams were gathering soil from underground in readiness for regrowing the fauna and plant life of this once Edan.

The vehicle was slow and the drive in took them nearly an hour. Their first stop was at an old metal dome which was now the town’s central office.

“Wait here, I wouldn’t be long.” Alana got out of the rover and made her way into the dome through the thick steel door.

Harold sat looking around the small township. Some newer dwellings were still standing. The occupants living their lives in fear of fading. “But life is life”.

Most dwellings were made from what was salvaged from the domes which had been built to withstand climate catastrophes before the Hundred -Year- War. They hope the old material would keep them safe from fading. Harold looked at the structures made from metal plates from the domes themselves and stone from deep inside the earth. His parent’s home was made from stone, and tiles, no metal could be found in the farmlands. Here in the town’s centre the metal plates curved over to make the rooves and the stone cut to shapes that were fitted together made the walls. Old materials recycled and used over again. Once one household was vacant with the signs of fading others would come silently with whispered prayers for those gone. The people, their neighbours would come and pick up what was left. A group of people were gathering at what looked like the last house left standing towards the east of what was the original town centre.

I should go to them, let them know about Alice and Peter Harrick-Hiroko.

He climbed out of the driver’s seat of the small rover and walked towards the crowd.

“Hi there, my name is Harold. Who faded last night?

A woman turned around to face Harold and spoke. “Beverly Sheryl, she lasted more than two years after her husband faded. She was our local schoolteacher.”

“Yes, she was and now we have to find a new one.” The gentleman picked up a book. Then turned back to talk to Harold, “sorry rude of me. I am head of the Parents committee, Russell Brown-Hampton , we found some of her books and papers. She was our librarian too. Sorely missed, our Bev. Are you here because you are family?”

“No, I had no connection to her, but my mother faded last night. We lived on the farm some 15 kilometres south of here. I didn’t have time to clean up. I was hoping someone could go by and collect what was left. I must go north, the expedition to search for the Data Storage units.”

 Russell looked over at the rover and saw all their luggage piled up. “I see you’ll be gone for a while.”

“Yes, so could you please let people know. Our farm is called Meadowdale and well- marked on most maps.”

“Yes, I will, for Alice’s sake. I remember her from our dome days.

Harold’s attention was pulled away from the group as he heard Alana come back out of the dome. She held a camera drone and an old laptop. He left the group to finish their ritual of collection and whispered prayers. When he climbed back in Alana said, “That is all I can take for now, I’ll have to have the rest sent up to me once we arrive at the boarder.” She placed the equipment with the other luggage.

When she finished securing the load and was back in her seat next to him, Harold turned the vehicle around and headed to a dome towards the west of the main area.

“Someone else faded last night, did you see the gathering?”

“No, I was too busy with my stuff.”

“I talked to one of them, he told me it was “Beverly Sheryl, the local schoolteacher. Her husband faded over two years ago. So maybe there is some hope for me, and I can last for a while longer.”

“Harold, I am here that is why, silly.” She gave him a gentle punch in his upper arm.

“Ah, I hope your love will hold me for ever, anyway, I told them about Alice.”

“Good, maybe they will find those old chairs and that sideboard. A family may need those things.”

“ I suppose the news will spread soon enough” said Harold as he turned back to a northerly direction. He was heading to what once was a scenic railway route that took people through the beautiful landscape of forests, mountains, and lakes. Now there was no vegetation just rocks, and a few snow drifts.

“ I am sure your neighbours will be there today, to whisper their goodbyes and take what is still there.”

Before he answered Harold pulled up at another large dome. A crowd of people had gathered outside the entrance. Some were busy unpacking luggage. A woman in her late thirties came over to where Harold had parked.

Raelene Harrington opened the door of the rover, and said, “good, we were wandering if you were coming Harold because of your mother. I am glad and you have brought your wife, Alana. That makes us all here.”

“I promised my mother I would do what I can to find out why people are fading, so here I am. Is the underground train system working?” Harold asked as he started to unload the luggage with his wife.

Raelene picked up Alana’s backpack and said, “ we have a clear running section to the boarder, but the Army said the tunnels under the lakes are not accessible. From the boarder we must travel by foot to Toronto Canada.”

Harold felt thin lines of frown, followed by his eyes twitching, “that is bad news how many miles?”

Raelene stopped and looked at Harold. “ Stop thinking about length and just remember north is colder than here. And its kilometers now not miles. Please remember our standard measurement worldwide, rule.” She shucked in her checks and continued, “ if any Lakes are still there, they will be frozen. We have come with the best equipment to help us travel over land to Toronto area. Our navigation equipment is the best the world can now offer . So regardless of length we will get there, in time.” She turned her back on Harold and he watched her march into the dome. They followed.

Diorama Part One The Future

Synopsis DIORAMA © Rose Raikos

Speculative Science Fiction Adult Word Count 120,000 told in six parts.

Diorama is about future beings, who use a book saved in data storage units of Wattpad, and Microsoft cloud. The data becomes the foundations of a virtual bridge,  a tool to contact those genetically linked to them in our time. Emma Rose, the Author of Human Survival: The Future Needs Us and Yana, born 2177 ADC are genetically linked.

Yana visits the writer in her own time via dreams which the writer saves to the cloud. The future team involved with Archival Data retrieval contact Emma-Rose to lay the foundations of a virtual time travel bridge. For the Diorama to work and be used by the future beings the story in its multiple drafts posted to the cloud, becomes the tool to further infiltrate and change our society and us. The future beings use this virtual world, the Diorama as a portal. They push us into the future for our survival and theirs, so our life form is free to become true Cosmic Beings of the Universe and advance further into space.

Blur: The story that follows is inspired by what  Kaku, the physicist involved with the Large Hadron Collider and the experiences of dark matter said, about time travel: “Don’t turn someone away who knocks at your door one day and claims to be your future great-great-great- grandchild. They may be right.”

 I add here, and they may need your help to survive.

Chapter One of the First Part of the Speculative Science Fiction DIORAMA

Chapter 1 Future is the Beginning

Part One                          Chapter 1 Part One :  HAROLD



Our world,  planet Earth, is buried in a thick blanket of snow and ice. A healing hibernation for the whole planet after our ancestors’ failure to address climate change and because of a war that raged for one hundred years. In the summer months some areas show the destruction to the surface. The depletion of topsoil, the lack of vegetation and the silence of the complete disappearance of all life. But humans did survive, for years deep underground after the end of the hundred- year -war. They emerged in isolated groups over the last decade.  Coming back to the surface and  now are struggling to reconnect to each other.

The year is 2196, after the end of the ancient world a time- line called: after common dating, or ACD. People are fighting for their survival. I’m now 28  and called Harold Hadrick -Jones.   I’m married and belong to the established religious community of “The Earth Mother”, shown by my hyphenated name. My wife Alana and me are left to continue our parents’ work and  hopefully build a virtual bridge which allows us to travel back to the cross over timeline of 2012  through their surviving data storage units. The bridge will allow us to transverse time and change what we need to help us survive.

Harold held the pen with his thin long fingers, rotating it between his thumb and fingers as he paused in his note writing. His face shows signs of stress and the thinness of long hunger.  As he paused, he looked at the pen remembering his teenage studies on old writing implements. The pen , this one was magical, as it would reconstitute the stored ink continually as it was being used. “Science, and innovation are our friends both together will help us survive.”   

He returned to his writing : Humans are fading away as an AI takes over our demise of failed biological beings. Aliens have judged us as not being able to progress to the next level of civilized life form. Or is this just one side of the story? A lie so someone or something can take our place in this world. With every person taken by this strange process I am more of the understanding that there is more to humanities demise of our spirits uploaded to a computer program , much more. Surely we can’t be so dangerous to the cosmos and judged defective to only exist in a prison?

Harold stopped again and was about to remove the last paragraph by turning the pen upside down and running a tip over the words written when he heard the footsteps of his wife approaching the study.

Part One

A young man is sitting in the fading light of day reading in an old chair ancient from much wear, he sighs and rubs his eyes as the light dimes. Harold Harrick-Jones placed the aged notebook into its case. He pushed the icon to activate the vacuum seal to lock the ancient treasure away from all destructive elements.

The sunlight , a faint glow on the horizon showed the coming of the long winter caught the young man’s gaze for a moment. Harold looked out the window to see the sun slip away and his world was again in darkness of a long night. And tomorrow would only have a few hours of sunlight. As the internal lights automatically triggered the young man viewed his internal space, as he was to leave his family home in the morning.  The light was pushing all shadows aside revealing  the sparsely furnished study. A desk and old-fashioned bookcase next to the internal doorway always brought memories of family stories, the generations of Hadrick Clan and of his mother’s family both the Japanese Hiroko and the North American Chewey.   As Harold placed the closed case into the bookshelf  a woeful sound filled his being.

“Too soon. No!”

 Fear jarred his mind, “No, no, not Ma.” Harold made his way to his mother who was lying on top of the bed. He held her hand. It was transparent as glass. Emotions overflowed as his voice cracked,  “Ma, please don’t fade. We need you.”

“Sorry, I can’t stop… so many…find out why.” Alice rasped between gasping breath.

“I promise.”  Harold moved closer to his ma’s face to hear what else Alice was trying to say.

Alice, lay struggling as she took a final visible breath in, “the transfer worked for Peter. But mine?”

“I can’t check, the new connections aren’t working. Hold on until the Quantum is back.”  Harold’s voice trailed off to a whisper as his mother’s body disappeared. Alice’s legs rippled with light, flashing upwards to envelope Alice’s whole trunk. Then her weightless hand slipped from Harold’s palm and onto the bed with her fingers dissolving on contact with the sheet.

“Oh no!” Harold watched as her eyes faded with a final look of resignation and defeat. The stare sheered into his heart and memory. “Ma!”

All thoughts turned into an internal scream. Harold’s hands began to shake uncontrollable, and a lump appeared in his throat. The young man’s muscles tightened preventing him from speaking, from breathing.

A shadow fell over the lamplight of the bedroom. A slim small figure of a young woman emerged from the gloom; Alana reached out to gently touch Harold’s hand which was resting on the now empty bed. “Sorry love, both of your parents within a few days.”

“What if I’m next? What if my mother is lost, doesn’t transfer?” Harold voice broke as he struggled to speak, he took a deep breath and continued to deliver his concerns. “When my father faded, he was in control of the new Quantum System that allowed  him to pass over without delay. Ma said Peter was saved, one of the last things she said.” Harold turned to look at his wife , and continued , “dad’s transfer wasn’t the uncontrolled fade as hers. Oh no! Alana I’m next.”

Alana pulled Harold’s chin around to look him into his hazel green flecked, eyes. “Don’t think of these things. Remember, we are connected by marriage, shown by our hyphened joined names. The same as your parents, they are together. Your dad can save Alice from inside the system.”

“Yes — I must believe– that our psychic link strengthens us, and my parents. I know my dad managed to get into the new Quantum and not in a holding space of the Antiquated Epsilon. He will find her.”

“That’s right,” Alana kissed the few tears escaping down Harold’s face. Both saw the bed was now completely empty.

“I promised Ma. You realize, I must discover the answers to this fading.” As he spoke the sheets began to disappear. There was no trace of his ma’s body not even the indentations or creases of her ever lying on the bed. He turned his attention to Alana felling her hand on his shoulder. The warm touch strengthen him.  Alana’s brown eyes which reflected her pure love for him.

“Both of us will, Harold. We know the answers are in the past. Our trek north is the beginning of finding the answers as to why this is happening , and hopefully the way to stop it so we as humans can survive.”

“Yes, we must connect to our ancestors to get help. Virtual time travel, the bridge is the only answer.” The bed now had almost disappeared only the frame and wooden legs stood there empty. “Look, how quick everything is disappearing.”

Alana nodded, and said, “tomorrow we leave here in search of the ancient Cloud Storage units . Together, so it doesn’t matter if the house dissolves.”

Harold hugged his wife of two weeks and allowed his emotions to break completely. He sobbed with the raw anguish of losing both parents in such a short time. Childhood memories flashed by quickly in a haze.

Finally, Alana’s lavender scent began to ground him in the present moment. The familiar lavender oil defused into his fogged mind. Harold moved his head up from Alana’s shoulder. And pushed her hair from her eyes. He saw the silent traces of shared grief ; she had also lost both parents in much the same situation. “I believe we will meet them again , all of them that have now gone so suddenly with out any warning.”

“Shh, shh, let’s have a drink.” Alana pulled away and took Harold’s hands in hers. She added, “ I ‘ve packed everything, for our trip.”

“Thanks. I sure hope the subway system is working as the government reported, it means less walking through the snow and wilderness.”

Alana  gently guided Harold to the doorway of the room. As they walked out together, he noticed the yellow paint fading on the wall by the door. He stopped and took an old photograph from its position which left its frame marked around the hook. One of his mother’s grandfather showing a youthful Japanese man dressed in ancient traditional Montsuki. “This picture will survive, has too as it is oldest thing in this building, except our dining room chairs and the basement.”

Harold looked over the area, sighing, “This house is disappearing quickly. We must bunk down in the cellar like I did when young.” He pushed the photo into his inner jacket pocket as Alana gently pulled him from the fading room.

“I realized her fading would affect the house, but Harold it’s not the end.”

He smiled, “You’re right, I count my blessings every day, especially having you close to me.”

The cellar door was made of thick metal and needed at least two people to pull open. Luckily, the electrical system was still functioning so opening it was easy. The basement was deep underground and self- contained with its own ventilation and heating operation. It was what saved Harold’s father’s family and his mother’s during the worse times of war and following environmental destruction. The families had been isolated from other groups for many years which helped them to concentrate on the scientific developments to heal the dying world.

The couple made their way down into the basement via the stairs that circled downwards into the earth. As the young couple reach another door they stopped. Harold punched in the code to release the lock and the entrance swung open to reveal a vast underground room. A warm welcoming light was sent out from bulbs ringed around the walls of the spacious chamber a greeting which for him was a treasured childhood memory. I love this place. He smelt the old earthy aroma that surrounded them as they progressed into the bunker. On one wall was another exit which Harold went towards, “I’ll get the wine. And maybe something to go with it, maybe  some cheese.” He made his way to the large cellar which was three times the size of the lounge kitchen area.

While Alana found some drinking vessels, the young man cut the cheese into bit potions. Harold then opened the dusty bottle when Alana returned with two silver goblets. She put them down on a wooden table set before the couch which faced and artificial fireplace that sent out a control warmth and soft glow of light. Once she was done, Alana turned to her husband saying, “I’m puzzled; I mean not why things fade but what?” She watched Harold sip to make sure it was drinkable.

The sip of wine touched his tongue and he swallowed it with a satisfied smile. “Ah, good as gold.” He placed the open bottle down to wait for Alana to also take a sip. She nodded her consent.

“The fading is a big problem, and why only structures and things built before the ‘War of Hundred Years’ survives the departure of the owners, it just doesn’t make sense. The answer does lie in the past, it must.”

Alana took a small piece of cheese, a luxury in an age of lean food supplies. The cheese was not true but created from chemicals and in fact a poor substitute, but the cheese went well with a good bottle of old wine. Wine was original and produced from the last grapes grown on the family vineyard some one hundred and fifty years ago. The grapes had been preserved for many ages and only just created into wine twenty years ago.  A true wine which even though was prepared by Harold’s father had not faded with him. She held the cheese in her fingers and waited for Harold to pour the ancient wine. “I think, the human life form is connected to the physical world built, at least the personal things. Things that they touched every day is part of who they are. That is why those things fade with them.”

He poured the wine, “for some reason my parents combined work of the new quantum computer and the repaired shield are still working.  You would think they would also disappear? And this wine is still here. ”

“Maybe it’s because others who maintained and finished those projects are still in the bodily form, like us. You told me you had helped him make this drop.” Alana took another sip of wine.

Harold smiled over the memory of squashing the reconstituted grapes with his feet at the age of ten.

“ I count on this, and hope.” He raised the goblet, adding , “to them both, Alice and Peter.”

Alana repeated, “to them both”.

The newly- weds settled down on an old leather and wood lounge, they dank the bottle between them and nibbled on the artificial cheese. Then melded into each other in love making.

In the afterglow of their physical bonding Harold cuddled his spouse and ran his fingers through her hair. He could see her looking deep into his with nothing but tenderness and total acceptance of his being.

“Alana, I cherish you so much that if anything happened to you, I would follow. Like my ma did.” He then sat up, “I hope it works. Is the Quantum down?”

His bride pulled herself up onto her left elbow so she could  look at his face. “I re-checked before I came into to see you, Harold and unfortunately the maintenance will take several hours. You realize your mother maybe safe in the epsilon system?”

“Faith is all I have that her data is linked into the new and not be trapped in the closed epsilon programs. Alana, I don’t trust that old system at all. My father’s consciousness transferred without a problem but, the quantum was fully operational when he faded.” 

“I am sure your father will find a way to save her. He may have saved her awareness before she disappeared when he went into the Quantum system.”

“Of course, you must be right about that, I hope anyway.” He allowed himself to relax and lie down with his wife. Before too long the couple curled up on the air bed and slept.

During the night, he felt his awareness peak into a half-awake sense as an apparition of a shadow hung over his sleeping body. Through his flickering eyelids he saw the shadow hold up a book and then put what was an ancient data saver flex-sheet in the pages. Then the ghost-like image placed the book into his personal bag. The shadow reappeared over the top of him. He felt his lips move with a soundless word, “Ma?

Harold tried to wake up to touch the obscure image, but it dissolved before he could. Now bolt upright, he glanced around the cellar to see if the apparition lurked in the darkened space.


Alana stirred, “too early, relax.”

“ Ma was here.”

“You’re imagining it, go back to sleep.”

Here ends the first part of this first chapter of DIORAMA PART ONE THE FUTURE WORLD.

Poem for today.

The Creative Dream

I dreamed of flying a course

On the back of Pegasus.

A white winged flying horse .

An ancient  mythical creature.

A friend of all muses, 

By Johann Christoph Storer – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the National Gallery of Art. Please see the Gallery’s Open Access Policy., CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81465703

The keeper of the springs 

That well up from the earth.

The creative waters’  birth  

To all our gifts we’re given 

By the ancient deity of Creativity.

I was carried over land and sea

Pegasus,  wings beating 

to the refrains of Apollo’s  musical lute.

Landed safely it stilled my questioning 

All my fears laid silent, all mute

As I allowed my eyes to see 

The lay of the land around me.

All peaceful as green a meadow

Fringed by a forest was a glade 

And Pegasus rested drinking

In those spring waters

 I was not afraid; I did the same

But always curious

as to what I would find

by that small spring ,

it was now mine.

A gift of my imagination

which brings inspiration.

All arts entwined, for here

a picture of musical persuasion

became a classical chorus

in which  voices shared  

A choral choir hour after hour

I sang like a child believing

in my talent of reaching

 the high notes there. 

And my eye and hand

in constant flow created 

A masterpiece of brushstrokes

I so truly loved.

All was gifted to me at the well

Of creativity, so I took  each discipline

experimented with those gifts

Digital attempt of drawing Pegasus

all semi-crystalline, half learnt

I still haven’t mastered

one strain of the Arts.

In my own mind a failure of sorts.

Therefore, all I produce are tarts.

Flat and filled with half the fruit

 of the total work of inspiration

imagined beauty of self-gratification

regardless of the creative persuasion

all are just patchwork in need of attention. 

And so now in my retired years

My days are filled with editing

Stories, poems, and prose

Repainting the so-called masterpieces

and learning how to really sing.

Blessings of age and living

In a first world society

A blessing I now recognized

As those in other situations

Don’t have the freedom

And no time for actualization.

Maybe just maybe the magic

Of the spring still gives.

The well of creativity

Be part of my redoing

Rehashing, rehearsing

revaluing , relining

And revisiting the spring

Of Pegasus dreaming.

Spiritual Questioning

To question spirituality is to question reality.

It is our way of seeing things which form our world around us, and each individual sees that world through their own eyes and values. We all judge everyday. We all see our world through our morals and judge others by those morals that are formed in our learning, growing years.

There is an old saying which is true in many ways.

“Give me a child until seven and I can form you the adult they well become.”

At seven my parents where questioning their own faith and visited many different religious institutions. This I believe cemented my own thirst to know  about all faiths and now in my middle age years I have settled into acceptance of my own personal relationship with the universe and the power of life on this Earth of ours.  For me, God does exist. But I don’t push my understandings down on anyone else. Religious understanding has become personal and individualized, not as a whole and one institution.

From seven on wards, it is fear which stops us from doing something morally wrong, or against our family values. Fear rules our world more so these days than anything else.  For by going against the childish learnt behaviours we must change ourselves deeply on a spiritual level. Either improve ourselves or slide into the depressive state of low self esteem without reaching out to others to help.

Depression can rise when one’s values and morals are challenged and questioned. You no longer can believe in what was once drummed into you as those values and understandings have mortified into something seen as alien. 

Who then is right?

Which person has the right to say what is right and wrong? 

At one time it was the spiritual leaders now it is select groups pushing their own understandings so they can be accepted. I don’t blame them, they suffered all types of discrimination and do have a right to live and love. But do they have the right to push their own individual understandings onto the vulnerable? Do they have the right to infiltrate all our institutions and favour only one way of thinking? Are they just repeating the same prejudicial behaviour on those who think differently from them, as was done to them?

I question? There is no answer for me.

So the acceptance must be to allow , let live all creeds and believe in the universal goodness of human love. That love which connects to our universal  collective,  and to love yourself as to who you are and not judge the other by your own values and beliefs. All then are treated with respect and all must be given the same opportunity to express themselves.

This I believe must go for everyone regardless of their judged alien understandings. They   have reached their own understandings by searching themselves deeply, courageously and hopefully achieved happiness by doing so.  

“The un-examined life is not worth living.” Plato  Apology (38a5–6)

Even so, there must be a general consensuses of allowing the other to have rights as well. Remember we are all different and we all need to learn to live side by side, that is why we are alive in the first place, on this planet. We must all have a place, even those who don’t see our own values as being correct. Those people are human too and need to be able to express their right to their lives and live within their own understandings. Only they need to give way at times to allow the other to have just as much right to their own codes of spirituality or difference in how they wish to live their lives.

This is all part of acceptance of the other. And I will not preach nor express , or impress my own personal understanding on anyone else. Can I hope that one day , the other can do the same?

My Art

Those pieces of art sitting around my home are an expression of a time when I was working out my inner being. Who I was and my value to the world. In some ways it was a healing process. I was recovering from a slight stroke event after having an Asthma Attack. The clay modeling helped me with coordination as I used hand eye manipulation modelling the clay into sculptures. The process of creation was like a medicine and improved my mood and sense of worth.

Prior to this course of learning ,I was doing water colour painting with the Water Colour Society of my home state. Again therapeutic, and rediscovered my love for art. At high school I excelled in this subject but after finishing school all my efforts went into becoming a nurse. Life, marriage and children followed , I kept writing poems but producing art only reemerged in convalescence and the healing produced a large body of work.

THIS FIRST IMAGE : Oil on canvas large painting this view is focusing on left hand side 2008

Sacred Gathering of Female Deity 2008
Focus view of right side of painting showing Pandora , this is how she finished but the following image has more power.
I over painted and changed her face to look like an actors mask “Pandora” , then lost this image to too much over painting.
Under painting of large oil painting to establish light and shadow.
ICHOR- In the Views of the gods, like blood it flows.

This word means more than this,

immortal beings with immortal deeds

the true liquid instead of just blood.

Could it also mean the fluid of our own soul?

Or the link we have with the sound of the universe?

What frequency are we vibrating when we cry and when 

we sing, or hum on one note with love in our hearts?

I wish it to be of the creative kind to help this world

and every human being to be free and see the light,

the truth with only love in our hearts.

 We know that the beginning of all,  was from water

Coupled with sound is the source of life

And how our thoughts and emotions can

change us for a sick state into well

for our bodies are high in fluids

and we push through to connect 

to others with only love in our hearts.

But am I a god? With ICHOR in my veins 

as the Greek gods of old can I also claim 

Immortality in this world of flux and change?

Maybe someone will end it all and bring down our fall 

Am I questioning just my own self once again ?

I became the random atom and exploded 

as frustration boiled over and oozed out as bad hummus 

Smelling of fermented creativity onto a room full of friends.

Blinded by ugly demented art that charred my soul. 

I question my worth as a human being in closed hidden away 

Of stagnation of creativity I struggle, I stagger  then flay 

My soul and regard the other as the enemy when it is me. 

Destroying and hiding behind the walls I've created.

I am just as guilty of arts demise as we all flounder 

On the ocean in a rowing boat meant only for streams 

With out a rudder I dream of love for all in an Utopian world 

Not attainable in human existence, and have a gal to believe 

It can be so. But we can't give up on a world with better 

Conditions and a place were all or most can live in peace. 

where is the rescue ship in this ocean where is it if not 

within ourselves to transpose the little rowboat into a yacht

With anchor and sails to guide us through the rough times of life. 

We turn to the immortals and pray for our saving,

But the immortal is inside of us we do have the ICHOR 

And it is our higher selves which must take the world 

And see the way clear through those waters of destruction.     
My discovery of the ancient culture of Greece or as they called themselves the Hellenes began in my Diploma Studies at TAFE . I produced heads of the gods which in my mind are just human archetypes, personalities with all our imperfections and our perfections. Here is the god of wine drunk and rubber lipped from too much wine. As he is fictional , and immortal his liver is healed in sleep so he can drink as much as he likes.

This is my second attempt at figurative sculpture , Old Athena. Here I’ve turned the wisdom goddess into an older woman and not the younger beautiful strong female rising from the head of Zeus her father. Predefined male orientated look of wisdom. A myth in all ways as history shows us it is the older females who hold wisdom , as age can only give us that elder status.

The most inspiring god as he is physically lame and is thrown from Mt Olympus because he made a throne for his mother Hera in which she was unable to get out off. She cursed him to walk on earth among the human mortals. He taught them metal crafts and is not just the god of the forge but the god of volcanoes. All my pieces I had to drag from the physical plan of earth of soil and clay from this land Australia and memory of how ancient this land is with all the knowledge of the ancient and longest surviving culture and people on this planet , the indigenous of this country. It is in his capacity of volcanoes his presents here in this land. But that is my own interpretation, as I can not presume the right to claim the history of that ancient long surviving culture as I am not native to this land only born here with white woman’s eyes and ears, and brain/ mind.

War Machines , Killing and Craziness.

I turn off the news

It is all too much .

Banning Culture

It smells of propaganda.

It is all too much

So I turn off the news.

I play music , classical

to calm my nerves.

War is not the answer

My friends, war is never the answer

especially now , especially

when our planet, our mother ,

Is trying so hard to right our destruction

war is not what we need.

The life giver, or mother to all things great and small .

Desperately needs peace so she can heal.

Think of the CHILDREN ,

why this fighting, for what ?

A dead world , is all you will rule.

War is not what we need.

So I pray for Sanity and Peace.

Peace for this world , this crazy world.


By focusing on an Ancient Icon

Orthodox image of the Blessed Kiss.

My Comfort Zone Poetry Collection

My Comfort Zone Collection from Wattpad Revisited  6th /12/2021

The Watt Pad Poet

What defines me? IS – I AM A POET OF WATT PAD

I’m not sure how can I explain to another who I am?

Of course, only poetry can do me justices:

A poem rambling and full of mistakes, may just do it—No?

Not allowed, not allowed you say. -Poems must be structured—

The length of line must be so long

And not beyond the human breath, —really?

I always say more than my breath can hold, you see

Poems must have rules of rhythm and rhyme

— NOT ALL POEMS my goodness no!

Only a few can understand that poems must be free

To flow with a life of their own.

As natural as a river un-dammed,

Untamed by edges of man-made concrete

But banks of soil as mud that can break and change if the weather changes

And maybe mangroves for the fish to be born and grow

All earthy and natural like. A whole new word of poetry style

The wattpad poem and while alive those poems change and morph with time. 


I ramble on so over these sheets of light in the Wattpad World. 

Here, standing in cyberspace on the virtual soapbox

Screaming out the injustice of human beings do on their own kind

and on all life forms here on this jewel of blue,

I’m just a sad voice of hollow words.

No actions, only words to fill my spirit with comfortable thoughts.

The poet for justices and giving birth to a better world ( so I believe)

Is just in my imagination. Or do we poets live to leave something behind? 

And my kind  as we gather trying to hold each up

as each one of us speaks out to those who stop to read 

our world of words here in wattpad reality, this place of poetry. 

And the friendships are born for that gathering on this site of watt pad.

A heavenly place for the wannabees to gather and find an audience to please.

Just as in Paris’s many salons at the turn of the last century. 

I AM is what I am, and I know that I have done the best I can,

Because I am an optimist and believe in an amazing future for this world.

Where finally our poems will one day give us some financial security —come on Rose be real

Who will pay for ramblings? And the voice within says—THE FUTURE WILL SEE THEM STILL.

And if not, I know that I can escape the daily grind of life for a time in my WATT PAD World. 

A comfort zone for a poet of freewill to sprout about all the injustices or just speak of life 

Seen through the eyes of a human and written as a free verse poems or is it prose, I don’t care.

These words may just be for me and my comfort zone appeal and there they are real.

( Taken from published standalone poem to add to this collection (6/12/2021) 

Time to Write

All this social distancing is doing some right by my creative side. Today I wrote poems and posted them to the scribophille site .

It will help me get back into writing and editing all my stories and everything that is largely lost in cyberspace of my cloud storage. Countless poems, half finished stories, plays , film scripts, bites and pieces of observational dialogue, about life. My soul imprinted in words scattered to the light pages of the virtual world.  The stories of my life in memoir form.  I believe all writers have such files, or is it a sign of the unorganized person just trying to write words which mean nothing to anyone else?

Words for the self stored in files forgotten as nobody else will read them.

For many months , when the weather is too hot and sticky I find I can’t think to write anything. Yes, I blame the weather for my lack of will. My old laptop overheats and can not be left on for long hours of mindful writing with only a fan to keep cool. The hum of the fan working overtime in the heat wave cooked my battery so now I must work connected to power.

So what have I done since 2019 Winter? That is from May to September in my corner of the world.  I live in the southern hemisphere were seasonal change is more spatial, and less defined. The first peoples’ of Australia tell their own stories of those changes in our natural world.  I believe we are heading towards the cool dry, although the hot wet muggy nights have lingered on still to remind us of the long hot summer we have had.

Australia burnt  for months.

If climate change is real I am sure we see more fires in the future, unless this covid-19 has put a hold on our polluting ways.

II am no climate expert but I can tell you since the grounding of all those jets and the reduction of vehicles on the roads my airways feel better, and I can breath.