Home Made

It all feels new, making home

I cover my body in soft cotton and thick wool

Wrap up against the cold 

Watch the pinking clouds

Move gently past the window

Let the fairy lights illuminate my books and pencils

Empty pages - room for new adventures 

And old stories to curl up in

It would be nice to bake jam tarts

Or boil fruit for jams

Wear an apron and have flour on my cheeks

But that home is in story books

Mine is like a trail of crumbs

Leading to a deserted cottage

That I had to rebuild from scratch 

It is all an exercise in learning 

Building up through luck and opportunity

I like shutting my door and disappearing inside

Keeping safe against the elements

Confronting the real world in stages

When I am ready and able 

Perhaps one day I will be free enough to bake a cake

Or a roast dinner 

Fill the table with shiny plates and cutlery 

And sit down to something warm and healthy 

Maybe there will even be a friend to join me

I smile - there are so many things I have yet to do

Today, I am still making home

Breathing in the lavender and cedar wood 

Drinking tea and thinking

Perhaps home is not just a place

But a state of being

And that is always building upwards

Reaching for the skies where one day, if I am lucky, I will fly. 

The Sun

These are my meditations on the sun: 

The birds are asleep, silently, in the barn 

They have hunted and gathered

And now close their eyes, sated, until dawn 

My little companion creeps up the stairs 

Past the cobwebs and the boxes

Past the window and the memory 

Of the moon and sun changing places

A smile upon her face 

A day well worn and finished 

Soon to be underlined with dreams

Thick as clotted cream 

My favourite doll is lost forever 

I used to pretend we were taking tea

Make plans around the oblong table 

Push our cakes on the tea trolley 

Fill my face with the best sweetness 

I could imagine 

Tears of laughter leaking from my eyes

A happy note on which to go to bed

The navy blue sky peppered with stars

Hides the tick and flow of traffic 

A blanket of softness to lull me into magical sleep

That special state of being 

Where my wildest worlds and dreamings

Come to life, bold as birds, arcing in the sky

Everything is balanced when the moon and sun 

Complete their journeys 

When I follow their path from white into orange 

Darkness into light

Dreaming into waking 

The sun and the moon are one and another

A beautiful, natural, friend

As glowing as her cheeks

As she rests her head upon her pillow

As magnificent as a bird

Always watching, keeping guard

This is the cycle of life

And my place within it

As delicate as breath 

As certain as the tides

As warm and welcoming as a friendly hand in mine

A moment as beautiful as an eclipse 

That I try to capture in black ink on white paper

Something that might last forever

Like firefly thoughts collected in a jar

An everlasting light to shine upon my way. 

Alice And The Candle

Alice And The Candle (January 2025)

I take Alice to the church

To pray amongst the stars

To be with our friends 

I hear her voice

Clearly, in my head

Filtering through the wooden pews

She is light and bright

Like a candle flame

Illuminating my soul

We no longer have to pay for our prayers

They are granted willingly 

An exchange of trust

We give

And we receive 

We rest our heads together

Breathing in synch 

Smiling quietly 

After so many years of salty tears

We have found where we belong

Alice draws in bold lines

No longer small

She is as certain as a pencil shaving

After it has written 

All of our words

Left a mark upon a page

Left a penny in the altar pot

Lit up a candle wick 

Which will burn fiercely

For as long as we stay together. 

Alice And The Candle (February 2011)

I take Alice to the church

She is my only friend.

Although I only hear her in my head.

And I only speak to her in my dreams. 

The red lady pays ten pence for a candle and kneels.

A small price to pay for a big guarantee. 

I keep my pennies in my purse. 

The man in the hat chases up the aisle saying

I love you so much.

This is why I rarely leave the house.

When they have gone Alice rests her hand on my head.

She lets me cry a pool of tears and we float in it together. 

The salt eating into the holes in our skin.

Quelling the fire.

Like kisses.

We drift in the water until the red lady’s candle burns out. 

Then all I can feel is the wooden seat. 

The cold in my breath. 

The cold inside no blanket can warm. 

For a moment the clock ticks and I hear voices outside. 

I look around me.

Scared. 

Alice is so small she can be blown away like a pencil shaving.

I often wonder if she is there at all.

What The Heart Remembers

My heart is like a box of rememberings

If I open it both sunshine and thunderclouds will spill forth

It sits like a stone, warm in my hands

The wood worn down by holding

Like fingerprints in sand

But permanent 

On silent days I take a peek 

Marvel at what is inside

All that I have survived

And all the memories that I have treasured 

They are like glistening pennies

Shining at the bottom of a wishing well

Achievements and failures

Stories and friends

People banished to the darkness 

And those elevated to light 

Bouncing on the surface like beacons 

I like the peace of being alone 

Without the voices in my head

That used to plague me

Wish me harm

Instead now, if I try, I can almost hear the moon

And the chiming stars

They sing and fill up my soul

Accompanied by the percussion of leaves falling in the rain 

I no longer fear falling over

If I do, I will simply raise myself up and walk again 

Perhaps now my heart is in tune with my head

Perhaps I am becoming compete 

A person, growing, learning, striving 

I tumble out words in the pre-dawn light

This is what my heart remembers

This is what my future holds. 

The Project

When the diagnosis was correct 

And the overload was confirmed 

Everything made sense 

The world bloomed

Like flowers blossoming from a popped balloon

It was a reason why I made my arms an art

Why, when I was little, I danced in circles like a clown 

Laughing to myself (for I didn’t have friends)

Swinging on the swings for hours and hours 

Moving but getting nowhere

Like the walking in circles

In the pouring rain when I was grown 

Sitting in museums, staring at the same exhibit 

Freezing time for it and me 

Putting myself behind glass

Not to be touched

Not be noticed 

There were the years of mania and delusions 

When I numbed myself to not feel emotional 

To quell the fever inside 

This new word for what is ‘wrong’ 

Keeps reminding me that is ok 

Not to be normal 

That I do not have to be a human with finesse 

That I can eat my breakfast at two am 

And lunch at nine thirty 

Now I am left alone by medics and hospitals

And I am thriving because of it

This is my new project

Learning what it means to be autistic

More importantly learning what it means to be me

My individual, unique, shining self.