"Monumental Movement."

Grunting, blindly desperately seeking, they force
Their staves underneath the stone.
Impatient impetus impelling, compelling movement,
Slaves to the moment.
The boulder bounds belligerently forward,
Forcing cover on the crime.

Limp body shelved within,
Life’s blood leaked from limbs’ extremities,
Pores poured profusely, holes profoundly holy;
Crown scraped indelibly on brow.
Flow-dried now, heart’s pump seized.
It is finished.

But no, he lies
Here and yet goes even deeper, hot
To confront the snake
And claim his dues;
Lives for a life,
The ultimate sacrifice.

Slinking lies created the hole
Man fell deeply in;
But worms go deeper in the earth,
Recreating themselves from within.

Mothers come to wipe his brow,
To anoint and mummify,
Sealing his fate; but too late,
The rock has rolled.

This most lowly wounded worm of humanity
Has recreated himself; in death defeated has
Revealed himself King of Kings.
Pure message of revelation doubly told,
It bears repetition
To mankind’s deafened ears.


Kittie Carr

"A Lamb’s Prayer."

Fleece me my Lord
Of what I produce
Through sweat of my brow,
The surface veneer of my produce
Weight carried on my back.
You gave me protection
In the cold place,
I grew thick in the winter season,
Deeply enfolded in the dark.
But now I seek the light;
Enlighten me.

Take it now, that earthly gain…
Shear me close with your Holy Sword
That I might be clean
Of the soft grubby fuzz of this world.
Bleach my gift in the Son,
Impurities tease out,
Weave with shaped beauty, till distinct,
Nakedly sacrificially consumable by you,
I lay down my comfort for selfish icy hearts
That they might move towards freedom of the thaw,
Melting in your warmth.


Kittie Carr

"Take me, Use me."

Loving Shepherd of your sheep,
I was born your lamb;
Bought with the eternal price of your life
For more than consuming or consumption.

Redeemed for a higher calling
Fitted for service…
I owe you all
So take it – all you have given
I return it gladly with willing heart.

Your heart was torn
So I am shorn.
Take what I produce, what I am
And tease it, weave it.
And as we are bound together
It is your woven gift to hold...
Give it to the cold.

Take my cover, my comfort
Grown in the winter season.
Now I am able, willingly fleeced
In the sunshine of your loving gaze,
Stronger, hotter, on fire for you,
I will choose to give my protection, shriven
For those who nightly shiver.

I will search for a quiverful of fearful and lost
And wrap your blanket of love around them,
Because as I give what is yours
You bountifully return
In greater measure
A greener pasture.


Kittie Carr

"Here I Am."

Heart beating like a Lambeg Drum
Frantically ranting the fleshly territorial claim,
Leading the battle against change,
Voiced by the goatskin.
But I do not follow the voice of the goat.

My battle is already won,
The Captain of my Host is the One, Jesus,
He is the Shepherd of this sheep.
I choose to follow His rhythm.
He goes before me, showing me the way.
Whatever befalls me, He has done it all before.
I will trust Him as He leads me,
Even though all I see is fecund swamp, hidden in mist;
The Everglades ever-glazing my eye.
I say Aye Lord and step out blindly.

The ground rises to meet me,
Little holy hills, hummocks of discovery
Of His sustaining power and His provision.
And I know as I journey on, following,
If I trust I will not be swamped;
The ground will grow higher as my trust grows
Until I ascend the hill of the Lord
And I see Him face to face.
At one with my Creator.


Kittie Carr

"My Heart is a Treasure Chest."

My heart is a Treasure Chest,
Wood swollen with salty tears and dried with love;
Softened by wormholes,
Pitted by sharp teeth.
Affected but undestroyed,
Armoury of iron bars corroded yet intact.
Treasured gold within, laid up by following
The timeless map of truth.

Escape to new landscapes
Found through the ancient pattern.
The Book battered and worn,
Marked on each page with enlightenment,
Every map pointing to the same eternal goal,
The true treasure
The Pearl of Great Price
Precious in life
And ever more in death.

Padlocked until opened by God;
He alone has the key.
A lifetime of experiences stored securely
Until He tips them out and they are poured over,
So we, poring, see life through His eyes.
Revealing His vision.

He commands me to share what I see,
He equips me, giving me His power,
Showing me powerful patterns replicating that which had gone before,
But with greater imagery, filled with His authority,
Revealing His image.


I have seen the Creator building on His creation;
Building it up with increasing complexity
Till He returns to His first solid creation, the earth
And uses it to make His final masterpiece, man,
Completing the circuit that circumvents time and eternity.


Kittie Carr

"This train has left the Station."

This train has left the Station.
Been in the siding soooo long.
Called back into service
On a new track.
Journeying excitedly
Clattering chattering passionately
Sharing the view observed
While at rest.

Watch the signals, little train.
Stop at the crossings,
Lest you mow anyone down with your enthusiasm.

Jesus laid the track, follow it.
God is the driver, let Him take control.
His Word is your fuel;
Consume it hungrily,
It will be fresh every morning.
The Holy Spirit moves the signals to lead you to Jesus Safely, with full power and authority - pay attention.
Complete the circuit.


Kittie Carr

"A Golden Day".

Sitting on the ledge, balancing,
Baking in the sun,
I watched
The bubble of water erupt endlessly
And spill over the triangular stone surface
Washing it seamlessly.
The yellow rubber coil of hose passed by
Taking water to the parched land across the sea of grass.
I saw remnants of travel in the starry pole of coconut shell
Captured by dried dung, the sign of uncaring waste
Silvered by nightly predators seeking sustenance,
Trails proving endurance through trial,
Redemption still possible.
Behind, a creeping, crawling, sprawling plant
Spread among the sea-washed stones, yellow flowers
Raised high, defiant, starry.
When suddenly,
The trio of yellow triumphancy was made complete
As a tiny bird fluttered down,
Swooping twice for a reconnoitre
To secure its safe reception.
Swipe of yellow on its head
Diffused across its heart, she
Watchfully washed, refreshing,
Creating a Trinity of celebration,
Golden crested glory to the creator;
A unifying revelation of soul to others,
Mind, will and emotion of hope.


Kittie Carr

"Cambridge Bumps"

Boatmen oared from time of yore,
Racing parallel to the path
While vagrant spectators shilly-shally on shore
Vacillating for viewing vantage.
Now the elite elect slice in unison,
Gay blades constricted in continuity
Chasing the prize in front
With stabbing contractions,
Cox crouched, crackling short commands
Echoed by cyclists sideline screech,
Sight distorting parallel tactics;
Raising the stakes, seeking to
Swipe, wipe out in watery wash,
Bump them off.

Fall in before Jesus; Distract! Distract!
You’ve fallen down before Him before,
Even made the splash of baptism.

Attack! Attack! I am weak, inept
So must lash out desperately
Seeking Your strength to claw back
Collective power
To salvage savagely.
I must feed off You
To equalise,
To paralyse.

In the final throes of inspired passion
Only love can combat the combatant.
Grace distends to heal the hole,
Mercy dismembers the whole soul.
Trinity now Holy,
Darwin redrawn;
Reconfigured in love.


Kittie Carr

"The Standing Stone."

Sunlight on the monolith
Reveals the hieroglyphics of weathered experience;
Rusted lichen clings to the crevices
While orange and enlightened green
Pitch for the highest place,
Pollinated gold crowns waving triumphantly.
They nod reluctantly in acquiescence to the wind
Who whistles his tune indiscriminately over all,
Moving even the ancient green stems rooted in the land
To an hysterical stirring, sensing change.

The surface is interspersed with silvery trails,
Lit tracery of the search for sustenance;
Substance of desperation,
Entwining, encircling
Without direction or hope, covering old ground
Yet alive from the spectator’s viewing vantage,
Strangely glowing.
Some have travelled with baggage, old stations
Carried with them in their search for survival;
Others abandon all stanchions
In their territorial claim for meaningful existence.
All eyes to the ground, unaware
Of their desirability, their potential,
Of the higher claim from above.

Kittie Carr

"Harried, We Beetle About."

Anonymous beetle beetling about
Alone and yet one of millions,
A day as a thousand years,
Life’s microcosm.
Mad—cap flasher, dasher in the sun
Hither and thither, looking for structure, direction,
Lines of demarcation;
Dipping in and out of the shadow of boundary,
Stone slabbed path edged with rubble and debris;
Broken pieces of history
Warning of retribution
While the rock eternally weathers,
Ancient wisdom waiting for discovery.
Tumbling, trembling he hides in the crevice
While the sun momentarily hides above, shaded,
Until warmth seeping in once more
He ventures out, relieved
That the end is not yet come.
As he scurries, he knows
That the dark season will return
In greater intensity and he searches
For his final resting place.


Kittie Carr

"A Soft Day, Reflecting."

As I sat fenced in the sweet soft shade, I saw
The window reflected the reflection
Unnoticed in the open glass door, of
Passing trade, seen through the open slatted
Gesture of demarcation.
Sunlit children with mothers and prams
Dancing home from school, chattering, gesticulating,
Reflecting the brightness;
Clattering cars, dazzling roofs and bonnets
Perky in the brightness,
Softly roaring as waves breaking on the shore;
But dark inside, the hidden
Drowning in deep heat
Joints melted to a mash
Of soft fat and lethargy.


Kittie Carr

"Conviction of Choice".

Godly platitudes
Mouthed emptily,
Hearts and arms akimbo
Straddling two worlds.
Tremble then at His name,
Light spoken so lightly,
Shaken by the dart to the core.
Reality shines in pointedly
At the point where one world crumbles dustily.
Snatch urgently for a higher score;
Reach for the eternal goal,
The One who is real forever.


Kittie Carr

Double-take

When is a Poem not a Poem?

In much of my creative writing in these early stages, many words, phrases or poems have double meanings... even stories have two levels of understanding... you may call them metaphors or parables… I call it double vision...seeing things in the natural world as part of the layers of creation, and seeing an emotional or spiritual connection.
I’m not sure how obvious these layers are to others – they seem to be so obvious to me that I fear I am stating an awareness belonging to universal mankind. I read once that a poem should not need to be explained to be appreciated. It should be understood on one level from one’s own experience, and then reread till new levels of comprehension are reached, new depths are plumbed – and then finally knowledge of the poet’s inspiration and background may reveal another dimension.
I have been reading Internet poetry, and not all connects with me – some seem to be crafted to be different for the sake of it and I can’t see what they say for the warbling words. Perhaps I am rushing and would need to soak in it for a while! Is it like some modern art – it doesn’t have to mean anything? I don’t mind that -some creation is beautiful in the sheer element of tripping words or colours or shapes, without understanding being required. It is just a different way of creating pattern, a redesigning of what has been done in so many aesthetic ways which connect with our souls. But now some choose to create their own ugly and depressing truth of life, the spawn of denying their soul.
Pull down rather than uplift? No thank-you, not for me. Poetry and Art should bring us to a higher plane, by a contemplative snapshot, a returning glance at a vision that enfolds us, making us feel more alive, connected to life, part of a whole, even holy in wonder. Prose on the other hand, draws us into a film of life, a creation of scenes unfolding, a progressive development, whole in itself. Having said that, I remember that a few of my epic poems tell a story, with a couple of scenes – does that mean they are prose?
What do you think?

What is A Poem?

Lists of phrases spring to mind, a regurgitation of thought processes triggered off by something I see or feel about a situation, a connection I envisage. They spout like semen, those seminal visions, ejaculating potential life into the pool of pondering, connecting, contemplation over time developing, lying laden until finally I give birth, groaning with new growth.

Natural vision started the passion, seeing trees, creatures, landscape, all of creation’s images becoming imagery of evolution, revealing the commonality of experience, the communion of life, drawing me deeper into archetypical souls, the pattern of humanity, the reason for life. So poetry is a flash of life revealed in word.

"Certainty of Contradiction."

Bleaching brown,
Adoring the pain,
Ball of hell’s fire
Blitzes with life-giving rays;
Blinding light kindles,
Too bright for sight
But right for life.
Roasting, toasting,
Prickles of dry heat producing
An outpouring from pores, dripping sap,
Till marinated, cooked, we are consumed.
Heat zaps any sign of movement
Yet inward energy renews
Fed by inertia and Vitamin D.
Just be,
In the glorious light.
Bask in the warmth
Of the eternal certainty.
While we are here, so will the sun shine.
Shaded by cloud, masked by rain,
But together, we will consume and be
Consumed.


Kittie Carr

"Still Life"

Life can be like a coffee -jar
Or a wondrous golden vase;
Both surfaces created from the earth
By the will, hand and breath of a craftsman
Through fire tempered with water.
Infinite forms of utility and beauty, but
Individual dimensions finite, predestined;
Days written in the Book of Life.

When thieving circumstance steals content,
Or time drains away the essence of soul,
Nature abhors a vacuum: containers must contain.
Hunger fills that voluminous gap;
Whether appetite satiates on old bitters
Or tenders new savour, our choice alone.

Containers in position, still-life compositions
Placed together in juxtaposition, we see pattern
In the gaps between diverse shapes,
The irregular spaces of negative energy
Revealing beauty unknown when apart;
Each arrangement births its own pleasure.

When pleasurable pattern is not prolonged,
Marred too soon for facile understanding
By fate's removal of the focal point,
Acceptance of the change of loss
Is our choice to reclaim balance;
New touches bring fresh design from the chaotic,
Rearrangement by invitation restores beauty.


Kittie Carr

"Recompence"

Dock seeds in the harbour of life
Like small unvalued coins, tokens
Strung like beads on pointed fingers to the sun;
Virginal green now, untouched,
Later to become ripely reddened,
Luscious as rich blood-flow
And then rust, dried, wizened,
Dropping to the ground to be buried, changed
And resurrected in fresh new form.
Leaves broadly dimple, soft balm for life’s stings;
Crush first that healing can flow,
While sharp jagged nettles adjacent,
Their spiking punk aggressive hooks manifold
Catch even the unaware in their burning pain.

Kittie Carr

Fear of Change?

Why are we so afraid of Change? We obviously feel threatened by it as work-places run regular seminars about coping with it...Instead of being forward-looking, seeing the potential for growth, we always look back to what we are losing, whether its status, identity, health, or a relationship.
Sometimes I think about how I've changed over the years. When I was younger, I found routine boring, restrictive as a straitjacket. Rebelling from parent's ideals, I wanted to be creatively free as thistledown, but then the world of work forced me to find a framework to operate within, with structures, timetables, setting targets, evaluating progress... organisation and accountability!
It's all a matter of balance, I suppose, letting our different sides operate in our lives. At different times I've realised that I'm lop-sided & have to re-evaluate my life, not just my work. Sometimes it takes a shock for us to realise that we need change - or perhaps a shock forces it upon us! With me, a health scare gave me time to sit back and realise that my identity had been all tied up in work both paid and voluntary, and when these ceased to be so consuming, I didn't know who "I" was any more, I had been too busy "doing". If asked, all my answers were past-tense; there were none in the present.
Meanwhile, work opportunities for creativity have been drying up, due to organisational clampdowns on individual autonomy and emphasis on process rather than progress, which seem to be happening right across the business field. So my change in priority from work to my relationships with others and developing "me" was a opportune shift, preparing me for the move towards finding a creative outlet elsewhere.
There was a while in the wilderness, waiting patiently for inspiration, but it did come, and now I'm rediscovering who I am. So don't be afraid of change - grasp it firmly, & the nettle can't sting -and if it does, the dock leaf is always at hand to ease the pain - it's a divine principle!

"The End of The Old"

Leaf trembling alone on the branch
Out on a limb, full of fears.
Why am I abandoned by my peers?
As they spread themselves in the wind and flew...
Peerless, clinging to last chance
Yet willing to let go, waiting for the word;
For new life to emerge.
As sap creeps up through the branch
New bud thrusts, zapping the last connection
Of old self and the leaf is born again,
Generating new generation’s energy
While its husk is taken by the ground
In communion once again.

Kittie Carr

Not an Oak, but a tree by any other name...

...in its life span, still stands strong if it has good roots, still reaches for the sky, searching for the light. Still survives the seasons, even the darkest day, growing fresh new leaves in the spring that could never have come, if not for the loss in autumn, and the "dead" of winter.

"Change In The Forest"

The earth yawned cavernously, whiskered roots twitching, fringing the raw red earth which when observed seemed to ooze a mixture of water and blood over its surface, a rising of anticipation moulding the fresh surface until it congealed into a glutinous mass.

The two mature oak trees had seemed to stand for an eternity, so close that they had brushed together constantly, grooming their shapes so they grew together as one head moving, nodding acceptance in the wind. The sound of growth could be heard, that twisting, aching, groaning of movement, of life, but the air grew heavier, denser, and it became hard to breathe. Suddenly without warning there was a silence…. a suppression……… a strange subsidence…..as one of the trees slowly sank, slipping from alertly receptively erectile to horizontally inert, uprooting with a deep moan from the earth … Had there been lightning? It was not seen by any eye, but above the ground all stopped, suspended in time, and only the earthworms writhed in anticipation in the gaping wound of the newly exposed earth.

The little tawny owl felt like she had been there as long as the forest, from time immemorial, watching with an increased sense of instability, of the inevitability of approaching doom, waiting for…..what? She had wished she was like the great white owl who swooped in silently, and to whom all the creatures went for advice. Would she ever be so wise? Would she ever have a role to play to help others in this world where she found herself? Was she destined to always be a watcher as others lived?

And yet it had been her who had been there, watching, when their world changed, when the ground on which they had their security shook, and time stopped as it gave up one of their own. But time had once again moved on, reclaiming, embalming. She remembered the oozing red earth seeping with pain, the anguish as half of the great tree gracefully toppled silently, and the groan of the remnant of that great pair as she was torn from his arms, wrenching, breaking the entwining twigs, ripping off delicate leaves, slicing to its very core, its reason for being; its partner in life, grown and now groaning together, partners in death.

She knew that nothing could ever be the same again… how could it? The landscape was changed brutally, irretrievably, yet time only stopped momentarily, not halting permanently as had seemed inevitable. With amazement, she saw that the raw red earth did not remain so naked, so vulnerable. Life rekindled and a mantel of green slowly crept over it, little by little, a soft moss of memories, tender melting moments unfurling fronds of ferns fringing the edges, fragrant thorn making sharply beautiful jags on the exposed face, forget-me-nots dotting the surface between the sunshine beam of celandines followed later by bluebells nodding in agreement as the wind blew.

The tree lay and gave shelter to a multitude of insects, softening gradually as they fed on its substance, gaining sustenance. A badger made its holt between the roots, coming out doggedly only at night to forage, its white streak seen occasionally in the moonlight, but the strangest thing was yet to be seen….
She had not noticed before, but almost in anticipation, the tree had sent out suckers just before it fell, firing tiny shoots from its base, glowing pearls of great price that dotted around, precious jewels sparkling in the dew. These were not the seedlings that had grown from the union of the great pair, which were already rooted and growing strongly independent, with their own roots searching for stability and meaning, but something fresh from the female tree alone. Now, with the roots pulled out of the ground, the suckers were desperate to survive. They needed the strength of a stable root system and had only survived till now because of the creativity of their host. The other trees watched too, willing them to survive, because in each of these was a nucleus of their host, a possibility of her creativity surviving. But they could do nothing, only watch as they struggled, unable to put down more than a tap root for water, with no fibrous network to give them stability. How long could they survive? How long would they remember them?

Then, wonder of wonder, the grounds-man came, and tenderly took them up and transplanted each of them next to other trees, drafting them to their strong trunks, crafting them so they could grow together as one. The creativity of the parent tree would not be lost, her mothering would not be in vain. Continuation of her ideas for growth would live on, linked to others, always remembered, two in one, each enriched, spread wider than she could ever have done on her own, stronger, each tree stamped with her essence as a memorial.

The remaining oak also changed over time. First small changes, as the damaged twigs and leaves were renewed with the new season. Later, where they had grown together in support of each other, the branches that had been constrained to allow the other to flourish, stretched and groaned a little as life came back into atrophied fibres as they reached for the stars he had not seen till now. Balance was regained as his roots steadied and groped out in the depths of the earth where he had not been able to reach before. He went deeper now, below the beauty of the valley created by the fall, to new fertile places he had not known existed.

Life went on, and he would go on as long as he was allowed, holding together the centre of the forest as a sign of stability in the eternal plan until it was time to lay down his arms and let another tree become the centre of the forest. Everything had its season and there would always be another one to look forward to as long as the earth continued to turn.

The little tawny owl sighed with satisfaction. All was well in the forest. There had been no need for despair. While the grounds-man kept an eye on all that was going on, the balance would be restored. Sometimes they forgot he was always around, watching, tending invisibly…., until times like this when his touch could be seen by all who chose to look and wonder at his restorative power. And now she too had a purpose. She who had watched for so long had seen the invisible watcher, the grounds-man, and could tell the story so he would not be forgotten.

Kittie Carr

Choice Title

I feel that everything I've been involved in over my life so far has been seed sowing, and now is the time for a harvest of the fruit of insight... that's why I called this Blog "The Watcher", because I have seen and experienced more than I ever gave myself credit for at the time, and I believe the old adage "Write about what you know". Forgive me, but I just have to rattle off a wee piece of doggerel...

Spit it Out!
Regurgitating fur-balls and fodder,
Panning the dross from the gold,
How many ways to tell it?
I've a lot to say I've been told!
So I'll parr down my words gradually
And mull them over a while;
Leave them alone to gravitate,
Graduate degrees of bile or smile.

For some time many things have been stripped away so either a lease of new energy or a new vision was required, and after much prayer I received insight in a flash when He gave me my first short story in chunks of clarity, following an unexpected death. It's called "Change In The Forest", coming up next...

Catty no more, now I'm something else!

Choice of Name.
I'm using the nom de plume Kittie Carr for reasons old and new. My Dad's pet name for me as a child was Kitty-Cat, as not only did I look a little like one, with my slanted green eyes, snub nose and sneaky smile, but I also purred occasionally when pleased. More often I spat and scratched when disturbed from my favourite childhood pastime of reading, which fed my fantasy world where I spent so much time that reality was quite daunting.
On endless car journeys I would amuse my sisters with tales from the gigantic to the minute, from the Loch Ness Monster to ants; anything to escape from the mundane. Listening intently, and knowing my interest in driving, my Dad once referred affectionately to me afterwards with a slip of the tongue as his Kittie Carr. As I became a teenager and left fantasy-land tales behind with some regret, while enjoying the study of literature, I never thought that I would discover the lure of expression of my own symbolic images in prose or poetry, and yet here I am, at the edge of a whole new adventure.
More recently, I gain another claim to the name, from my observation of the acquisition of a kit-car. As I see it take an age to assemble, I think it will be a lifetime before the owner can take off without yet more adjustments into the wide blue yonder… rather like me .… We will forever be works in progress, until we disappear round that final corner… swing low sweet chariot or what!

Only a shadow of my former self!

First Choice

Choice of Privacy.
I have chosen to write under a pseudonym because I value my privacy, and although I would love to hear comments/critiques of what I have written, I prefer it to be on the net rather than face to face…. That also applies to anyone I decide to share my secret with, unless I indicate that the time is suitable for discussion! That seems really pretentious…I could be sending this stuff out into a vacuum, unread by anyone, but hey! Start as you mean to go on! Live in hope that it triggers off thoughts somewhere … please let me know……


Profile:
A mystery, except what you pick up from my writings. I’ll add details as they come out in anything I write… oh and I am deeply interested in spiritual matters, committed even…nothing like some faith to lift us out of the mundane and onto a higher plane.