Over at Writing Our Way Home they have kicked off the year with a small stones writing project for the month. Small stones are basically a moment of focus, encapsulated in a few words. You can see examples of the past 3 days of stones on their website (link above).
I joined them in November when they had just 1 mindful day of small stone writing on the 1st. This was when I discovered what ‘small stones’ were. I was gutted when I realised it was only a one day thing and delighted to discover they are running for a month in January. Sometimes wonderful ideas can come from small stones, I will be building up my own collection of small stones here.
It is a good focus exercise and gets you observing the day better, trying to find a small stone.
I hope some of you join in too.
The day full of promise
is cloudy and overcast,
a parallel match to
the state of your mind
after welcoming the new year in
through the slim neck of a bottle
Your own neck and legs ache
you don’t remember dancing,
no amount of water re-hydrates you.
Slipping quietly back beneath the covers
You hear the bleak weather
rain lashing angrily at your window
begging to be let in.
An unwelcome visitor.
Your plans swallowed by flood waters.
You give yourself permission to sleep,
glad to be inside
on the first wet day of the year.
Grey clouds like puffs of smoke linger in a pink, blue sky.
The rain has disappeared and the sun has shone.
The air is cold and full of promise.
Lying in bed,
my favourite place to be
searching the words to find opportunities.
Circling possible ventures
in freehand straight lines
with a thick purple pen.
I sit with these women I love
Looking at them, reading the stories
held in wrinkled skin,
I buy lunch – it is the least I can do.
Sitting at a sticky-edged table in a room full of writers
writing silent scribbles across blank pages
Atmosphere alive with open hearts spilling.
I write a poem about walking up the volcano without you
on our first Valentine’s Day.
Standing outside I can usually hear the buzz of the playground
I hear the birds
as term doesn’t start until tomorrow.
Land littered with puddles,
children relishing getting shoes wet and laughing
as they splash each other.
In the role play corner, now a house,
a little blonde girl wears a colander on her head
and waits for the boy to give her
her baby back.
The sun shines through the pale, unlined curtains,
greets me with promise after days of rain.
I pull my clothes on in an attempt to make myself
Technically I have got up.
I am wearing a combination of clothing
I would never brave the outside world in,
I am comfy.
I have not restricted myself into too tight for
me undergarments or bothered to cover
my naked feet in socks.
There is no need as I spend the day
beneath a blanket
The excitement of being found
by your lover.
His face lights up as he discovers
me in the room
I love these moments.
These moments confirm he loves me
More than words ever could.
The rain falls
the rubbish waits
by the back door,
waiting to be taken out.
I watch her growing older
and forget that I am also
Inner vision paused
No portrait in my attic.
Mixing glitter in play-dough
such a simple idea
people forget how magical childhood is already
you only need to sprinkle in a slight
to create a whole new universe.
I watch them play
I am working
Post-it notes in hand I scribble what I see
until the game on chairs.
That I watch
and am instantly transported back to a
childhood of smiles.
The boy and girl
sit opposite each other in the home corner
(now a home)
she sits with her feet up and baby doll on lap
he tickles the doll’s feet
and each time she mimics the baby’s giggle.
Making make believe.
the spoken word
don’t mix well
out in the open.
Looking through rails
in the vintage clothes shop
I am transported back in time
to my own teen-hood
when all of this was still retro
but could be found in my own wardrobe.
Shopping at the Rag Market
and in charity shops
for a fraction of the cost.
Hazy, heavy head
from the night before
little more than a few hours sleep
feel the tilt of the Earth
and in each step
the gravitional pull.
Sitting in a room of writers
a prayer like quality
a peaceful belonging
one that reminds me of home.
sitting behind the wheel
of my own private ice world.
No-one can see me
Dark lanes, unknown roads unwind before me
thoughts turn to turning back
something prevents me from being this sensible,
onwards I travel, tyres through rain.
A conversation makes me feel awkward,
Revealed too much
spoke too soon,
Wishing I could run back into the shadows and
not be judged.
Too tired to keep up the smile.
like a wild fire.
The journey seems further
roads are busier.
I know what to expect.
A day as grey as the tarmac
Overdosing on sleep
I can only write from dreams
and just like fading light
they dimly form a memory
in my head.
The garden Centre is filled with a treasure trove of colourful temptation.
We should have just gone in
grabbed the half price seeds and gone back home.
We lingered, we looked, we touched.
We hoped and wanted,
lusted and longed
coming home with empty pockets and a full boot.
A new week
fresh and wrapped beneath a shiny layer of possibilities.
Home in tears, too highly strung.
He didn’t understand,
I deemed him cruel, but it was probably for best.
Tightly wound like a coil.
I wish to be something simpler
The snow fell.
E minus effort,
it started as rain,
fell as tiny tokens of snow
and then, later – rain again.
I see a small bird,
a wren, a sparrow, a thrush.
It eats berries off the bush and makes it way
up the garden path.