Ross Wallis + Digital Media + Art

teacher and enthusiast

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A Winter Walk

Ram shackle tin sheet shed shack
Distemper white on stone walls
Rain green lead grey slate roofs
Discarded farm machinery in rusty confusion
Landrover panels and tractor wheels
Chain and spring cast iron
Ram hoof barb wire wool tangle
Moss mass fern bank dry stone wall and oak
Fallen tree trunk wood walk
Rain gorged stream rapid rush
Boulder smooth grey cloud sky
Fleece on thorn barb and bramble
Leaf mulch rusty red dead branch bog
Bone white skull and horns
Age old drove and dew pond
Willow ash birch hazel oak and elder
Fresh dug mole hill




Murmurations

The humans are murmarating again around Shapwick Heath and Ham Wall NNR a post festive what shall we do now outing - I know, the Avalon marshes - too fast along the bumpy tarmac road across peat moor cars like ants to birds strung end to end on the single track lane a string of festive lights all eager to arrive in time dancing to find a space in the already full parkery and out they tumble the families mingled with the elderly and the serious twitchers in multi pocketed camouflage jackets with expensive optical kit strung from neck and hip and dogs on leads and push chair couples dodging newly scootered boys and girls whose mums bring out bags of left over Christmas cake and mince pies all dressed in their best outdoor gear bright puffer jackets and woolly beanies festive scarves and wellies

The starlings start to appear at first just a few, but then the numbers swell and the human murmuring is hushed as well as all senses focus on the peppered sunset sky a train of expensive lenses attempt in vain to track and capture these transitory moments thousands upon thousands of pixilated dusk dull images of blurry blips in flight not capturing at all the majesty of this awesome sight

The birds all dance an age old dance making patterns in the sky flowing wreaths and flumes mirrored in the mill pond rhyne and the exhaled smoke of a roll up man tugging on a fag maybe dragged along by an over zealous birdie kind hanging in the air mimicking the spectacle out there across the marshes

For me a little knot of knowing as we learn that each season there are more of us and less of them return, still they do their thing, us in anticipation of where the flock might choose to roost this dusk then the milling disappointment as they settle far away and the trickle then flow back to the car and pub or an evening meal and telly in an electrically lit centrally heated nest leaving the starlings to their reeds and rest





Love the skin you’re in

Some women have huge hips and small tits
and are shaped just like a pear
Others have large tits and tiny hips
That isn’t very rare

The secret is to be to happy
In your individuality
You are different, unique
Like a priceless antique
The way you are supposed to be

Some men have huge penis’s
and are really very well hung
others are like a rosebud and have hardly just begun
Some are short and thin and others long and fat
With bits that dangle more or less
And that is simply that

It is indeed the way it is
A reflection of our genes
Be they hers or be they his or somewhere inbetween

It matters more where your skin has been
Where you take it for a spin
Ignore what others might think of you
Just bare it all and grin
You’re wonderful just the way you are
So love the skin you’re in
There should be no more not less of you
You’re a perfect specimen




Stacks Image 11




Imbolc

The seasons turning
Imbolc, time of Bridie
Juniper incense burning
Snowdrops in a flowerpot
A candle’s weak glow
A bunch of daffodil
The scent lingers longer in the cold air
We gather by the stones in ritual
Invoke Bridgid’s embryonic new year
A circle dance within a circle
A megalithic stone circle
An outer ring of oak
An Inner ring of oak dragon folk
And tourists pass us by
Fluorescent pinks and un-natural greens
glowing bright as neon
Sledge and Snow ball
On henge ridge and ditch
A family of three alike as triplets
Brand new suits, boots and red Parkas
Fake faix fur lined hoods marked and logoed
A hire card parked beside the road
English heritage for Asian travelers
What might they make of this
Huddle of pagan worshipers
Quaint old Englishness
New age and
Age old both
Celebrating this time and place
A sacred space



Bees Knees

You’re the bees knees
The dogs Bollocks
The cat’s pyjamas
The pick of the litter
A big cheese - on toast
A rarebit
The hostess with the mostest
The upper crust
The best thing since sliced bread
Angel dust
Delicious spread
Just my cuppa tea
A speciality
La creme de La creme
A Chicken Supreme
The cat that swallowed the canary
You are a chip off the old block
Barrel, Lock and stock
I would do anything to please
I’m down on bended knees
You’re just the bees knees




River Lea

I wake from a sleep deep as the ocean
Rocked gently by the motion of a boat
and woken by light as shards of glass
dancing across the cabin roof like
frantic yacht race sails at Cowes
bent headlong to round a buoy or
a tinkling chandelier of daggers
in an infinite loop of brightness
as I lie in this isle of white light
snug as a newborn swaddled
in the depths of my duveted berth
as dreams full of cake and old car
ebb away and all is silent
but for a creak of fender on mooring
and a distant moorhen
the more distant chug of tender or tug
but no sound from the sluggish Lea
nor wash as it wends its way
through now trendy Shoreditch
and the dock lands of Greenwich
towards the Thames and the sea





We're Here Because We Care

We’re here because we care because we’re here because we care we’re here because we care because we’re here because we care






Piles

60 years summed up in a single word
Piles
Piles of clothes, a draw full of jeans
Piles of papers, but not the ones I need
Piles of tools, rusting in a shed
Piles of books, I never read
Piles of wood, waiting to be sawn
Piles of weeds and leaves on the lawn
Piles of pebbles and shells from the beach
Piles of wants that are just out of reach
Piles of things that I need to do
Like sorting the garage where the junk has accrued
So I can get to the bikes that are piled at the back
Under mountains of boxes of this and that
A box of shoes not worn in ages
A tin of screws all shapes and sizes
A fridge full of jars that are all half used
Who’s best by date is ancient news
A shelve of once exotic spices
Stockpiled for some culinary crisis
Piles of stuff just getting in the way
That might just come in useful some day
Piles upon piles of plastic crap
Piles of long forgotten tat
And I’d rather not mention the piles in my bum
Piles is what my life has become






Beltane

If I were to believe my eyes
The world would be flat not round
And the sun would rise
Not with the turning of the ground beneath my feet
But as a part of a greater mystery
And the sun would be a God
And today we would celebrate the promise of his return
This Beltane
This May Day
At winter’s end
And we turn our faces to the glow
And know that summer is on it’s way

What might we lose in the flick of a switch

The chirping of the birds in their sex driven urgency to mate
The grass in the meadow you can almost see grow
Buds explode
The nascent leaves like baby dragons wings open out
The brightest of green abundance

The dance of life
The dance of life

Young maidens fair
Represent this turning of the year
In a youthful exuberance
Of hope and prayer
Dancing around the maypole
Tethered with bright ribbons of rope
Chains of daisies in their hair
And love in their hearts
For the life in the very air
Without care that some May day
They will become old and maidenly

The world turns both fast and slow
For young and old
As we all weave a dance in time
Around the poles of life and death
And the earth and the heavens
Dance to a tune we can’t hear
But sense in other ways
The music of the spheres,
Not with our ears,
From where it comes we do not know
Of musicians we see none
Their music fills our lives our dreams
The celestial patterns endless streams
Will continue though we be long gone

The Maypoles,
Once a symbol of defiance,
Banned and burned, rise again,
And we should dance a merry dance
Around the greed of the self centred, corporates oligarchs and political Spin
Shout out our truth to power
In defence of this precious Jewel of green and blue,
Morris dancers shake your sticks, your garlands of yellow bloom,
Rattle your bells in the face of all
May the spirit of May transform this world,
The meek inherit the earth
May we continue to dance the dance
Generation upon generation
Celebrating the turning of the earth
And the seasons of the year