Autumn has come early.

The skeletal beauty

Of the trees’ bare branches

Is reflected exactly

In the river below them.

Smooth, still, perfect.

© Caro Ness 2015 

I’ve decided the world looks better

When it’s upside down

 So I follow this to the letter

And it turns the world around 

 Nothing seems so gloomy

It has a humorous edge

It makes my kennel look roomy

And it gives it a quaint appeal

© Caro Ness 2015 

It was a cold morning,

The sun rose,

But there wasn’t any heat in it

The frost crunchy underfoot

Twigs cracking from the icy fingers of winter

And out on the pond

The swans lent their warmth to one another 

© Caro Ness 2015 

The house sits 

Four-square above the lake

As if it organically grew

Out of its surroundings

Autumn has brushed its fingers

Across the tops of the trees

That frame its magnificence 

 © Caro Ness 2015 

A span of water

Clear as clear

And jewel-like creatures

Swimming through it

Fish

And coral reef

© Caro Ness 2015 

Originally shared by Cairn Rodrigues

This is the oak under which I sit,

When I contemplate the world a bit.

I watch the people passing by, 

Look for emotions I can identify.

Guess their jobs, their hopes, their dreams,

Speculate about their plans and schemes.

On days when I find myself alone,

I cogitate on plans of my very own.

The lampost somehow illuminates,

For me, both past and future dates.

It literally sheds light on the park and me,

But metaphorically, also, my history.

The past has made me who I am,

Like some complicated diagram.

Yet as I sit here I can choose

How I cut my jib and wear my shoes.

The world’s my oyster on this bench,

I want to grasp it, I’ve got a thirst to quench!

© Caro Ness 2015 

The Boston Tea Party was a reaction to a tax upon tea,

That sparked the USA refusing to be a British colony,

They hated being governed and taxed from afar,

So staged a peaceful protest, though that seems bizarre.

Besides, the East India Company had a monopoly,

On US distribution of all kinds of tea.

This was an outrage and national affront,

So this was an issue they had to confront.

Dartmouth sailed into Boston in 1773,

With a shipload of Brits and a cargo of tea,

Followed by Eleanor, William and Beaver,

And local anger reached the pitch of a fever.

This British arrogance the Yanks couldn’t ignore,

So they would not let the cargo reach the shore.

Dressed up as Indians, faces blackened with soot,

Their plan to scupper these upstarts was soon underfoot.

They rowed out to each boat and scampered aboard,

And tossed into the sea the tea they abhorred.

The Brits had no response to this phenomenon,

The US was independent only 3 years on!

Lie back on your bed, and close your eyes,
Time to shut out the world, re-energise.
Watch your breath, yes, contemplate,
What it is to be still, then meditate.
Now the therapy begins and the sound starts to grow,
And you’re washed in pure music from your head to your toe.
A brush on a gong that reverberates,
And every bone in your body melts and disintegrates…
The melodious tone of a singing bowl,
That speaks to the mind, the heart, the soul.
A chord on marimba, some notes on the flute,
Arpeggios played on the sitar or lute.
Unaccompanied chants, a roll on a snare drum,
A tip from a rain stick so your sinews hum.
Your body is washed with a beautiful noise,
That gives you a feeling of well-being and poise,
A thrum of unique notes that creates a beautiful sound,
That is loving and giving and very profound.

My mother loved gardening. This poem is about her garden, which was a thing of real beauty. Simple yet breathtaking.

Step barefoot into the garden,

early in the morning,

Dew shimmers on the grass

from the night rain.

Look behind you,

your footprints follow steadfastly,

Ghostly traces of your journey

through the garden.

The smell of earth rises,

drifts, hovers,

Lingers invitingly,

colours the air.

A benign breeze

bathes you with the scent of herbs,

Paints your soul and skin

with sunshine.

Breathe in!

The brushstrokes that created

this living canvas,

Were inspired and drawn

by the hand of love.

Each blade of grass, each bush, each tree

planted with real intent.

All have flowered into a world

where we all dare step.

Following the footprint

path  left behind us.

Into a world in which love

caresses the body.

Where joy lifts the spirits,

and anything seems possible

I was born in Jamaica. My father was sent out to shore up a failing construction firm by the Danish company that owned it. I was not that old when we returned to England, but have vivid memories of one or two very special places on the island. This is one of them.

My sister, Julia on the left, me sitting on my mother’s knee and an elderly aunt, Connie…

My parents had some wonderful friends who lived on Strawberry Hill.These days it is home to Chris Blackwell and a stunning spa hotel… Back in the 60s (Lord that ages me..!) it was home to Daphne and Maurice Lister. Daphne grew carnations. The climate was perfect for their cultivation up there in the mountains. Daphne was famed for her flowers…they sold as far afield as hotels in Florida…

Going to see the Listers in those days was a major undertaking but huge fun. It was always eagerly anticipated. They lived in a small piece of heaven from which you got a 360 degree view of the island. The mountains in one direction and the urban sprawl of Kingston beneath you. But their home, an old plantation house, did not have a road to it, only a fairly rough track. This meant for my and my sister Julia’s  small legs, it was simply too tough a hill to climb.

The Lister’s response to this was to send the donkey man to meet us. He came leading a tall donkey with a dark face and a tan patch round his left eye. He had stripy legs, as if he was wearing jazzy socks, and a rather shaggy coat. Instead of a saddle, he had two large baskets strapped to his back and my sister and I were lifted into them. We travelled like that, small papooses, sometimes facing away from each other, so we could look at the view, sometimes facing one other, so that we could chat. The donkey, known as Moses, took us all the way to the house – about half a mile. The rest of the party had to fend for themselves!

The house sat on a plateau with views up and down the island. It was small and humble, it looked organic…as if it had kind of grown itself in that particular spot.. A verandah wrapped round it on three sides. It was wood. Faded. Familiar. Fabulous. It was our idea of paradise, particularly if we were allowed to stay the night.

Staying over always involved having a bath before bed and we did so in the one that was originally made for the house. And that was the big adventure. It was a tree trunk, hollowed out, with old brass taps emptying water into it in the middle of one long side. If you have never bathed in a wooden bath, I urge you to do so! Ensure that, like this one it is suitably aged, or you will pick up splinters in unmentionable places. It is an astonishing feeling. It is warm to the touch, so the water does not cool so fast,  and you feel very close to nature.

So many generations had used this particular bath, that the wood was smooth as marble, and dark, dark, from being constantly drenched. And it was big enough to accommodate two adults, so for two shrimp-like children, it was a veritable swimming pool! Normally a bath was a quick affair… in, out, read a book. But in this bath we could spend enthusiastic hours, if allowed, wallowing. Here it was a luxury. …it really was! It isn’t often you look forward to seeing your parents’ friends,but the Listers were an exception!