Deb Curreen Author

  In the scrappiness of winter there is beauty in the garden, glowstick bursts of colour, as if Heaven herself has painted the earth this morning, reflections of hope, inklings of spring. I look to the skies and I see a rainbow of happiness beaming beneath the heavy clouds with a promise of more sun shinings  for the morrows yet to come. I praise winter for the rains while birds sing in barren trees joyous and alive grateful that worms still wriggle and bugs still crawl so there is breakfast again this morning. Yes, the mud still puddles and the clouds try to frown while the clouds begin to part and I wear gumboots outside searching for hope and glory, again, amongst the scrappiness of winter in the garden.

 The skies outside are burning, the grass on my lawn has been swallowed by Mud. Down the road, there are highways of mayhem, bolts of public opinion jam the flyovers, thoughts are rear-ended by vehicles of outrage every day, bottlenecks of conflict and arguments. There is an acceleration of madness in the world right now, coming to a town near you. 🌘🔥💣💔😓🌵🐞🐸💥🌒🌈 Screens flicker all day long with ultra-violent beams of mottled truths and sticky facts, brainwashing dialogues roll up and down  blurring our vision. Accelerated madness sashaying daily in the pockets of our youth,  swinging in the handbags of middle age, sliding across the dashboard of the uber I now sit in. Pop goes the weasel of reason.                                                           🌘🔥💣💔😓🌵🐞🐸💥🌒🌈 However.... on the flipside of chaos where...

  As sure as the Iris smiles in my garden, is my promise to send you her face. As she beckons the sun to come down upon the Earth,  to pull out the colours,  that's when I will call, "Whaea, the winter has gone, come see the spring." The moment I see the gold unfurl amongst the green  with emboldened stems painting serenity for me, and for you I will  fast-post pics of her happiness to your home. Faith hope and love, the greatest of these, love, while iris faces glow in the storms of life. Here is hope, whaea, for a day without clouds and a Heaven come to earth in the faces  of our garden flowers.

It's your birthday today, you would have been 70 and it feels ridiculous now to think about all the mad things that we did when we were young, but hey, I've penned a few words for you, sprinklings of love, like toppings on a donut, Lashings of jam on pikelets, a cool ginger ale at the end of a spring night. Because my heart leaked on the pages for you, when you went away, snatched from us, one terrible Friday in March 2019, just before my birthday (which was two Saturdays later). That month feels ruined now but still, I have the chaos of colour that was you, the joyful noise that filled a room from your lips, memories locked down, inside my heart. 💘💚🍩🍉🐞🐸🐝 I run out of words, trying to capture you, I wrote a book (of poems) and dedicated it to you and gave you a whole chapter, at the back. 'cause while you were a front row diva, you rarked it up in the back - a Back Row Rebel. Lines for Lynn, Poems for Pikelet, a Shout for the Shaheed that you were. Now a void in the ...

Ban war and all who sail on that stinking, sinking ship of fools with muskets, swords, swearwords, filthy rum and murder. Those killers on every continent, waking at dawn, having a yawn, grabbing guns, making puns  about how many lives they're going to slay today. Bloody fools. They tried to ban the bomb, you know, decades ago, woman especially, didn't want to lose another son, another brother  or see their sister place the cap of widowhood  on her stooped and weeping head. "BAN THE BOMB" the masses shouted, flags, posters, banners touted, and the protesters marched and marched, for miles and days, wearing out footwear, their cries and the music, slowly gathering into a worldwide malaise. "Give peace a chance," John sang, we all sang too, clapping, chanting, hoping  praying. Come on and lay down your weapons, your nightmares of destruction, wrought by dirty rotten governments trying to rule the world and not save it. And we're all out of words as we pass...

 I miss Summer, with all her rays of warm sunshine, falling down on me, calling to me from the beach where the waters say, "swim, swim, catch this wave... and this one and this one",  while sand teases my toes beneath a cloudless sky of  happiness. "Come back Summer," I murmur and shiver beneath the heavy blankets of a winter morning, while the temperature reads 4 but feels like 2 degrees of "stay inside". It's still cold and dark out there, and the clouds have let the heat escape during the night. I think the sunshine has gone to Bermuda, kidnapped by the triangle. However will we ransom her back. Four degrees, feels like three, must be two. I'm not ready to go out into that day without the summer, my friend, my hot companion,  the season that makes life fun. "Please come back," I say, wiping the condensation from my eyes. "Drive the mud away, bring back the flowers." I miss you Summer, I say to myself, one last time, shaking m...

Look at the Liars, with their pants on fire. Serves you right, you human blight.   Taint on the horizon, sty in the eye; wrecking the day, with your pork pie lie.   Go reap bad karma! Get hit by a stone! Live your life with honesty, leave good people alone.   Look at the Liars with their pants on fire, shame about the hole in my bucket, or else I might have saved you – liar, liar.