Painting Asta
I held your image in my hand and didn’t know that it wasn’t you.
Two paintings sit abandoned. Like a tiger ghost estate.
An ambition that was too much.
Now I can’t go back.
To where you were.
To see your hair.
To see your chair.
To feel the woollen hug.
To hear the sigh of love pour out.
To be reminded that we are a small part of the all and we are the all that there is.
To come back to the peace.
To come back to the woods.
To go to the circle.
To laugh.
“The myth is a surviving fragment of the psychic life of the infancy of the race whilst the dream is the myth of the individual.”— Karl Abraham Abraham said that we create myths as a collective dream, a way to understand our desires, needs, darkest capabilities and...
They say Padre Pio could be in two places at once.Then again, I may be mistaken,It may have been St Francis of Assisi -I never was good at remembering the saints. We had a picture of Padre PioAbove the door going into the back porch,The Sacred Heart in the living...
From a Diary in March 2007 (edited 2020) I Spy. by Helen McNulty Stoney-eyed head peeped out of bed at 3 in the morning. I am a soldier entrenched,Scrambling upwards to fight for an unknown and powerful master. A battle between brain and brawn arisesIn the damp....
Wicklow Mountains, Ireland