#BedFest 2017: Penelope Langmead (Melbourne, Australia), Poems
Channel: The ME Action Network
Date: 2017-05-06

I am 59 years old, was diagnosed with ME and Fibromyalgia 10 years ago.

"FB"

I comment and share.
Suddenly I feel that relief - 
An idea shared,
A laugh, an anger,
A grief, a love
Shared.
It may be the push of a button.
It may be a virtual remote "wall".
But then come likes,
Or even dislikes,
Even trolls,
But it's shared.
Ignoring or being kind to the trolls,
Turning off the bullies,
Examining who likes,
Replies,
Other's comments,
I share.
It's a small part of the world,
But it's much bigger 
Than my own reality.
Here I can join, belong,
Follow consider,
Try my words.
I have long minutes,
Hours, even days
To think about my response.
The relief that my comment doesn't really count,
Allows freedom to make it count to the person who matters.
Me.
So in the vast, amorphous mass
Where we meet faceless,
Soundless,
Floating in the aeons of the internet,
I can in fact find
Me.
Find choices, places,
Likes, loves, angers, tears,
Wows, hearts and so much more.
It is a place to comment.
How real the connection?
You may ask.
How real is any connection?
I conclude.
Deception, manipulation,
Falsehood, indiscretion,
Withholding, judging,
All exist face to face,
Voice to voice,
Eye to eye,
Ear to ear,
Body to body.
Real trolls,
Real bullies,
Also exist in real life.
So in this book I 
Step, explore, consider,
Tiptoe, frolic, scroll,
Stop, read, like,
Follow, flip, block,
Belong, find, enjoy
Me.
It's my book,
My face.


"On trying to recall"

What was it I thought?
And if I write,
Open my mind with
2B in hand and paper before,
Will it rise,
Shake loose,
Come out when bidden?

Like the lost keys,
Lost glasses,
Lost gift or chocolate - 
Placed carefully to defy casual exposure
By another -
But not really hidden,
Just placed safely until needed,
And yet where placed 
Eludes.

I know they are there
My thoughts,
My glasses,
My keys,
That specially placed
Birthday surprise,
That delicious chocolate,
All there,
Not lost,
Safely in my head, 
My home,
But where?

Neurons scramble,
Eyes flash,
Hands search
Room to room,
Anxious asking,
Where, where, where?

Frustrated, feeling
Thwarted.
If only I could ring my glasses,
Ring my keys,
Ring that gift,
Ring that chocolate,
Ring those thoughts.
So I could pounce and show
On face, in bag,
In grateful mind,
In mouth,
On paper.

I would write what
I remembered - 
Good, thoughtful,
Mellowed,
Brewed in brain with time and space.
I would write what's 
Rich, considered,
Processed, deep.
Instead I write of
Misplaced thoughts and
Misplaced things.
Misplaced or displaced?

Failing to write immediately,
Failing to notate,
Scribble, contain a memory or thought,
It can be displaced
And float on the murky, treacherous
Brain soup in my head.
Like displaced people 
Everywhere,
Looking for a shore,
A kind connection,
A place to be safe and secure,
A place to belong.

So I will wait,
Breathing deeply,
Looking kindly across the murky muddle,
Offering peace to
That jangled brain soup.
I will write each day.
I will invite kindly
Thoughts, ideas,
Images, words,
Rhythm, lines
And whole displaced poems
To come.
Calmly, 
Routinely,
Regularly,
I will invite
The brain soup to make sense.
Invite safe landing on this scribbled page
And not censor what arrives at this time.
All has a place when I scribble.
All are welcome on this notebook island.
Later I will look closer,
At form, place,
Worth, story,
Where you might be strong enough to go
On somewhere.
But you can always safely remain here.

As for the scabby frustration of 
Lost glasses, keys,
Secret gifts,
Forbidden chocolates,
Out of reach and mind,
Really?
Find a place,
Put it there,
Find some method in the madness,
Don't waste time, effort, emotion.
These are the routines of life
Nothing more or less.
And yet in seeking
Perhaps a new neuron is connected,
Challenged,
And I learn.
Perhaps.