Don't apologise for it being sad. Sometimes you need to feel sad before you can feel brighter again... That last one I did was darn bleak lol, but it was just how I felt at the time. I think if it's there and it wants writing, then it does you good to get it out. Kind of healing I suppose I mean.

The weather has been awful here, and we are sitting right under a big low pressure weather system....probably explains a lot!

Take care Bird and hope you sleep well. I'm off to see if I can get a few more hours kip than last night...zzz

Bram.

CRPSSongbird,
This is a beautiful poem. So painful. So well put. Thank you. It is me too.

Not sure whether to laugh or cry today ...

Hope you are all feeling ok and having a good day x

Bram.

This Blinkin Leg

Some days this leg of mine freezes
Like a polar wind has found its way into my bones
And set everything solid.
Dull blue, strange shades of purple bruise
And patchy weirdness.
Surely this is some other creature's leg?
Oh it hurts.

Deep breath. And another. Steady now.
Suck in any warmth from the air,
It might just thaw the glacier and let my blood
Move again, thickly first, but flowing at last.
Oxygen for me, for those poor damaged cells.

Later the same day, while eating tea or chatting
Or anything else 'normal' (ha)
It will suddenly burn
Like a thousand suns
Or one of those old fashioned bar fires;
You know - the ones your grandma had in the lounge.

Suddenly red, fierce and flaming;
I could fry an egg on that love, he says
With a kind attempt at humour, and that smile.
I'd like to laugh, really I would,
But somehow it is taking all my effort
Just to not scream, or cry, or sob wildly.
My children are in the room you see.
Mustn't break down now.

Deep breath. And another. Drink the air in,
Wish it were raw alcohol that might numb me
From the inside out, and quench the fire.
Where is my arctic blast now?

Oh how I hate this. If I had a pain therapist here now
I might throw my book at him, or use my stick
To spill his tea in his lap. Fools.

Pain management? I might as well wish the stars
We're not hanging defiant in the velvet night,
Or that the clouds could disperse with a flick
Of my aching fingers. Laughter at last,
Bitter irony, angry and sad and honestly
Just ever so slightly hysterical.

CRPS. Can't Really Paint Seasides. I wish.
Oh wouldn't that be better. I could deal with that.
Maybe just paint flowers instead.
Pretty, quiet, gentle flowers, pastel shades
And upturned little faces, watching for the sun.

Brambledog c.2013

Too much time on my hands right now!! This one is a bit of light relief for all of us who love our furry friends....

Bram.

.....

My Friend Cat

My cat here is a thing of calm;
Of purr, soft fur and scything claws.
She sits, or sprawls, or pounds at me,
Her pink mouth, daggers deadly, yawns.

A thing of beauty is my cat,
All calm serenity, all peace.
Such soft and warm and curling grace,
So sweet and lithe, with endless ease.

At night though, all the small things fright,
And start and run and hide away.
They know her black and ruthless heart,
Her killing stare, her deadly play.

By day my friend, by night this hell,
That visits on the slower mouse
A dreadful curse, not always quick,
But sure and deft, upon their house.

Yet here she sits and licks quite sure,
And lifts her paw with dancer's style
To gently wash each ear again,
And twitch my mouth into a smile.

Brambledog c.2013

I'm sorry, but this one is really a downer - I'm going thru some pretty awful times now I've never written poetry (at least since I was forced to in school) but I wanted to try and get this off my chest.



The Undertaker


"Mom, I like when you wear make-up!"
I hear my daughter say, and groan
(inwardly; why give her more pain than
she already has? The other girls in her class
have moms that smile and move around lightly;
fleet, happy birds whose movements are thoughtless and carefree,
instead of greedily hoarded then carefully spent,
movement by precious movement,
as a miser hoards rare and costly things).

This means 5 less minutes of precious rest; but ...
it also means a little gift for my daughter,
who has fewer daily presents under her tree than those other girls;
but these presents are bought with more costly currency.

So I get up, moving past the pain
(or through the pain or with the pain,
for I can't move past it)
to my dressing-table, where I lay out the tools
of my outward beauty.

Soft, creamy foundation, that smooths out the blotches
and softens the lines of pain and fatigue;
Warm brown eyeshadows, and soft, dark liner
to give sparkle to eyes that are dulled;
Mascara to conceal the hairs that are gone
(along with other, more precious things);
Soft lipstick to brighten a smile
(God, help me to remember to smile!)
and my mother's perfume (this last is for me;
the scent envelops me like her arms;
a soft, warm, gentle embrace that doesn't hurt
because it isn't real).

I lay out the tools -
and start painting the corpse.

CRPS is not all me,
I am not CRPS.
But since it got hold of me
I must agree
That my life is a bit of a mess.



Brambledog c.2013 har har

Me and My RSD
By RSD RENEE

One night when I went out to my car
I fell on ice and broke my wrist
My husband drove me not too far
To a hospital through fog and mist

The pain increased and swelling too
My wrist turned bright red and then bright blue
It stiffened up and atrophied
I wondered what had happened to me

Then my doctor told me one fateful day
That I had RSD and it was here to stay
I felt so numb and that it was unreal
It felt untrue and so surreal

When finally my shock wore off
I took my pills and nerve blocks too
And realized my life had changed
Into constant pain my whole life through

But I cling onto hope
That a cure will come
That it will be soon
From someone

And my life will be
Like it was before
And my RSD
Will be no more.

Yay people! Release your inner Byron!

Bram.

Barter by Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

My Arm

I used to have an arm,
It was really rather strong
And it used to pick the kettle up quite surely.
But now it has the CRiPS,
It's much weaker than it was,
Unpredictable and painful and poorly.

I used to have a foot
That would carry me so far,
Cross the fields, over hills and parks gaily.
But now it has the CRiPS,
It's so painful, thin and weak,
And it stumbles now and trips me up most daily.

I used to have a knee,
That bent and stretched and jumped,
It was always so reliable and strong.
But now it has the CRiPS,
It looks thin but fat, it's sore,
And now it sometimes gets the job quite wrong.

I used to have a hand,
I could turn to anything,
Often played piano, cello and the flute.
But now it has the CRiPS,
It's so cold and weak and aches,
It can't do much for long, it wants me to be mute.

I used to have some toes,
They were prettier than most,
And I painted them and liked to show them off.
But now they have the CRiPS
They're all burnt and red and grim,
And only now of interest to a prof.

I used to have a life,
It was fast and fun and mad,
And I shared it all with many folk around me.
But now I have the CRiPS,
And my life seems to have shrunk,
Not by choice, but just because this thing has changed me.

I am not the girl I was,
Not the woman or the mum,
Just this living husk of burn and ache and pain.
For I've lost sight of the sun,
In amongst all these dark clouds,
And I need a stout umbrella for this rain.

Brambledog, c.2013.