This is the second of three posts on Bert Håge Häverö (Swedish artist 1932-2014) paintings which I will feature during my holiday break this Easter. These delightful photographs were taken from our company calendar which we gave out to customers many years ago. Never having the heart to throw our copy away I came across this recently and wanted to share the beauty he saw of the Swedish landscape and people. Accompanying the paintings will be various quotations /sayings/poems that have inspired me or touched my spirit. Comments have been turned off for this post.


‘I am lying on a hammock, on the terrace of my room at the Hotel Mirador, the diary open on my knees, the sun shining on the diary, and I have no desire to write. The sun, the leaves, the shade, the warmth, are so alive that they lull the senses, calm the imagination. This is perfection. There is no need to portray, to preserve. It is eternal, it overwhelms you, it is complete.’ Anaïs Nin


‘It is a silver morning like any other. I am at my desk. Then the phone rings, or someone raps at the door. I am deep in the machinery of my wits. Reluctantly I rise, I answer the phone or I open the door. And the thought which I had in hand, or almost in hand, is gone. Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart — to pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again.

But just as often, if not more often, the interruption comes not from another but from the self itself, or some other self within the self, that whistles and pounds upon the door panels and tosses itself, splashing, into the pond of meditation. And what does it have to say? That you must phone the dentist, that you are out of mustard, that your uncle Stanley’s birthday is two weeks hence. You react, of course. Then you return to your work, only to find that the imps of idea have fled back into the mist.’  Mary Oliver




The plonk of a parcel landing on the hall floor startled me from my writing reverie and with the eagerness of a child I dashed downstairs and fetched the promised package – these wonderful Easter creations knitted by a dear friend. During the winter months she’s been beavering away in the evenings with family and two lively cats around her and finally her collection was complete! What a lovely and kind idea to share these chicks, bunnies and carrots with family and friends! What a beautiful way to spread Easter sunshine to us all! 

For two weeks I’ll be enjoying the peace and beauty of our ‘retreat’  in Sweden, away from the busy bustling world, barely connected to its digital being. 


I look forward to walking the land in the cold mornings, the freshness of the air biting my lungs – a sting I welcome as I inhale the crisp ozone air scented from the surrounding pine forests. The dew on the grass will be bathed in sheer white frost, crackling underfoot and dotted around I’ll spot tracks of nighttime visitors of rabbits, badgers, foxes and deer. This early communion with nature has been sorely missed! 


Whilst on holiday I will heed the words of Thalia Gust’s latest poem, rejuvenating in the beauty of the natural world, bringing my full awareness to the sights and sounds…leaving those ‘Musts’ behind.


What is a Must 

when Cherry blossoms shimmer,

What is a Must

when the skylark sings,


What is a Must

when garden turns

        yellow, white and blue;


What is a Must

when the wind plays in the Willow

What is a Must 

when I sit on favourite bench,


Wren and Robin nesting

in bushes that surround.


I left Musts behind today

threw them in the river.

© Thalia Gust

I hope to be on Twitter some, a little on WP but otherwise want to wish you all an enjoyable and peaceful Easter!



Thank you to Lanaa  wonderful, gifted and creative writer, for inspiring / challenging me to attempt this unusual form of poetry. 

According to Lana, a Blitz Poem ‘is a run-on of phrases and words, a rush with rapid repetition.’ Having been an avid fan of stream of consciousness writing since childhood I couldn’t wait to give this poetic version a try…here is my first work, entitled ‘Dirt’.


Dirt on her baby pink plimsolls

Dirt in her long blond hair

Hair that morning soft and shiny

Hair at dusk, all tangled

As tangled as chains

Tangled like her necklaces

Necklaces of beads and shells

A necklace of her grandpa’s blue fishing yarn

The old yarns he spun

Her yarns they never believed

Don’t be so trusting, Amber. So believing

Always believing. What an idiot

Idiot! Am not!

Idiot. Am

Am lying in the ditch

Am dying

Dying. Not breathing


©Annika Perry 2017

Precious Lives, Precious Poems


At the beginning of October I wrote a post entitled  THE GOOD-MORROW #NATIONALPOETRYDAY  to link in with the National Poetry Day here in the UK. At the same time I asked for your comments about your favourite poem or poems, which one(s) had inspired you over the years. The response was overwhelming!

A huge heartfelt thank you to everyone for commenting – through you I reconnected with some old favourite poems as well as welcoming new ones into my heart.

As the responses kept coming the idea of collating all the suggestions grew on me and I am happy to include the link to a PDF document herePrecious Lives, Precious Poems includes the poems mentioned as well as the people suggesting them. Where possible I have included links to the bloggers websites. Please do take the time to visit them – a rewarding read at each and every one and all lovely people to boot!

I apologise in advance for any mistakes – they will all be mine!

Enjoy and thank you once again. Connecting, sharing, learning is the true joy of this blogging journey.

By the way it is possible to import this document into iBooks, Kindles etc to save it and read at your leisure.

To start reading here is the link again:  Precious Lives, Precious Poems


I am happy to hand over today’s post to my very good friend Mirja aka delphini510 and her unusual take on property selling. Hope you will enjoy it.


Reading many estate agents’ formal and stilted descriptions of properties for sale, I was overtaken by a wicked impulse.

So here is my quirky approach to a sales “blurb”.

Dream House

Is your dream of a house, a place

where in the morning you can step out;

hear birdsong whilst see them feed.

Surrounded by honeysuckle, clematis,

mighty trees.


To sit on a bench tucked in between,

have colourful butterflies visit

along with dragonflies.

Filling your senses with peace

before the day begins.



If this sounds right for you, please do step in;

Coffee is brewing, you can share with me.

I will show you around,


let your feet connect with mighty oak,

sawn and smoothed.

Did you notice the windows

facing the rising sun?

Showing off flowers and shrubs.



You now face two wings,

one leading left, one right.

Four bedrooms to the left;

yes, they are big,

Did you notice the bathroom had jacuzzi too?


Back we traipse, turn to the right,

then right again. Quirky? I know, that’s what I like.

Through the sunny breakfast room to kitchen,

also lit by the sun

showing off the porcelain tiled floor.


By the way, did you notice the brownies?

I baked them myself.

Please help yourself

Back again and there is the lounge

with plenty of books and yes, T.V.

Please do roam around.


Next, two steps to the dining room

Looking out over a wooden deck,

steps leading to the lawn.


Now my favourite, the Garden Room

always so bright,

views of the garden wrapping itself around,

The house nestling in its heart.



Come with me to the secret garden

hidden on the side;

with berries of all kind.

The grape vine is enough for some wine

or just eating as they are.

A little patio with seating to just enjoy.



Price:  Oh, better start saving pennies and pounds.

          Meanwhile I have enjoyed having you around. 

          By Mirja



bench sky photomamma

The weather might not reflect it but summer is here! As usual I will be mostly awol from WP for a few weeks as I disappear to a part of the world untouched by the internet, wifi & TV (I know, unbelievably these places still exist!).  I look forward to popping in at times when possible. 

I wish you all a lovely peaceful summer. May it be a time for recuperation and soul-searching, may it be a time to reflect where you are today, where you want to be tomorrow. For everyone out there, writers, artists, poets, may your creative energy flow keenly. For some inspiration I am honoured to share Thalia’s Gust’s latest poem. May we all Brave that Canvas, notebook, document…to find the courage to CREATE.

Brave the Canvas                              

An empty canvas can paralyse

Vincent tells us, he should know.

Let us be brave

Let us

Boldly put something down,

Even if we fail.


Try again, get up

Use your gifts, your tools,

Be it your work,

your writing, painting

or baking bread.


Boredom kills

We diminish ourselves,

automatons walking along,

eat, work and sleep

Until our days are past.


Yes, you will fail at times,

Spectacularly perhaps.

Equally, you might succeed,

Reaching someone’s heart.


Go ahead with passion,

do your best.


Glorious feeling,

when beauty ensues.

Give Birth to a dream.

 © Thalia Gust






I am delighted to have the chance to feature another one of Thalia Gust’s poems. Enjoy the walk with her. 

     Gracious Lady                               

     I met a gracious lady, she smiled, light lit her eyes,

     I dropped a pretty curtsy, to the wise woman.

     A curtsy learnt from childhood, showing honour and respect.

     Do we really honour those older and wiser, fully enough?


     The Lady spoke to me, we shared

     experiences of life.

     We shared  joys, pains and love.

     Her road was a gilded one but her heart had bled.

     I know my mother would love this lady, enough said.


     Walking among the roses, we talked 

     about our children with humour and delight. 

     About countries and people, about peace and war,

     About the sky, the ocean and nature’s force.

     We found unity.


     I walked up the mountain in a far away land

     met a Shepherd, resting with his flock.

     You have come, he said, seeking long,

     please sit down and share my fare.

     Quietly I did as the old man asked.


     We talked in stillness about life,

     its passions and griefs, its beauty and joy.

     What can you hear, the old man asked,

     I was quiet for a while, then said

     The mountain stream, the wind through the grass.


     The old man smiled and his eyes shone bright.

     You have come a long way, he said

     thus you found the core of joy.

     Never forget the mountain stream, the wind

     Let stillness and wonder live in your soul.

     © Thalia Gust.

Blockbusters – A Poem


Today is the 21st National Poetry Day here in the UK with events taking place nationwide with flash-mobs of poetry readings, Blackpool lights ablaze with verse as well as schools around the country taking part in a Readathon. 

To celebrate the event I want to feature the work of a friend and new poet, Thalia Gust. I find her work astonishing on so many levels, at times ethereal and spiritual, then humorous, later down-to-earth. From the personable to the international.  Always a delight and I hope you enjoy and find the poem as rewarding as I do.


We have ‘Blockbusters’, ‘Hits’, ‘Bestsellers’

All aggressive words and little to do with Creation.

We grab some food, hit the sack, beat the record.

Where is the grace gone?


Pour souls, beaten to death

No succour to be had

Art and literature turned to weapons,

Stealthily harming us all.


Where is the balm, the uplifting thoughts,

The poems and books.

Did they all get sacrificed on the altar

The altar to Mammon.


Empty spirits and souls

Buried under the avalanche, feeding mindlessly

Slowly dying, crying and hungry

For the rescue team to come.


Stop sitting in the stinking mud.

Stand up, cleanse the silt from your soul.

Walk away from it all, lift your eyes to the sky

Let the sound of nature fill your heart.


Watch, there is a glimmer guiding you out

Guiding you, showing the way.

New books, new films are filling the void

Showing us the simple fullness of life.


They come quietly, without fanfare

They are written from the heart

From mouth to mouth they spread

Like gentle rain from heaven, their words transform.

© Thalia Gust

Finally on this National Poetry Day a special collection of poems , Light – A National Poetry Day Anthology, has been created and is free to download. I highly recommend this and one of my childhood favourites made it in – Edward Lear’s The Owl and The Pussycat.


Autumn colours

As we slowly slide into Autumn with the first frost of the new season stealing upon us last night I awakened to the sweet crisp chill air. 

This brought to mind a poet whose work I relished as young; snuggled into bed I would read his words aloud, enraptured by their beauty, their cadence; his verse so rich and full in sound and meaning.

Below is a poem by John Keats that captures this season so well. Take a minute or two to read aloud, revelling in his exquisite eloquent Romantic poetry.

Ode To Autumn


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

    Conspiring with him how to load and bless

        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

          To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

        With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

    And still more, later flowers for the bees,

  Until they think warm days will never cease,

          For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.


  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

      Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

      Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

  Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

      Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

          Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

      Steady thy laden head across a brook;

      Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

          Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.


  Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

  While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

      And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

      Among the river sallows, borne aloft

          Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

      Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

      The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Autumn red