Fifty Shades of Grey (a husbands point of view)

The missus bought a Paperback,
down Shepton Mallet way,
I had a look inside her bag;
… T’was “Fifty Shades of Grey”.
Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…
In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.
Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn’t weathered well;
She’s eighty four next week!!
Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!
She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
I am a dominator!
Now if you knew our Mabel,
You’d see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I’d uttered.
She stood there nude and naked
Bent forward just a bit
I went to hold her, sensual like
and stood on her left tit!
Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one!”
Well readers, I can’t tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of grey!

Be hurt, feel sheer pain, and then you can learn how to be a writer

This is for those who dream of being a writer.

To be a so-called-writer, you have to be hurt. You have to experience pain at its best. You have to experience being burned down by cold flames and be frozen until the air you exhale composes only of fragments of ice. You have to get your heart broken. As though a bridge had just collapsed into you and tore all your arteries apart. Your chest needs to explode, to burst with tears and black and white. It has to suffocate you, it has to steal the oxygen that you breathe. You have to be depressed. With the birds and crickets that sing of bittersweet pain. You have to be in ruins. Like a skyscraper being caught in fire. You have to be shattered into million little pieces. Who would have survived the explosion of scars and wounds, anyway? You have to be alone. With the air, with the wind. You have to be a monster, a beast that eats up his own. You have to find pleasure in pain itself. You have to jump off a cliff. You have to keep your troubles and problems close to you, for you are going to need them. You have to close your eyes. You have to die.

And then after being dragged down to the deepest, darkest abyss imaginable by those things like they’re gravity… You have to defy gravity. You have to fly and float away and be with the stars. You have to escape reality and start living with dreams, with fantasies, and with the impossible. You have to drown yourself with tears – with words. You have to paint words and write stars.

You have to love.

The Shadow

Sometimes, as you walk along the blue of life, a shadow follows.
A shadow that’s there to give you what you need, and take what you don’t.
And as you walk, you enjoy the comfort the shadow brings,
But you don’t seem to realise why it’s there.
And sometimes, the shadow that follows, pushes and carries,
Forgets why it’s there too.

Know that I will always be that shadow,
And know that when you need me the most,
You can turn around and I will be there.

When I was young, I often dreamed of chasing rainbows and catching stars.
Then when the world turned ugly and hurtful,
I ran off to climb hills and trees,
So I could be closer to the stars I made my wishes upon.
But as I grew, I became disillusioned, and gave up on my childish hopes,
I stopped splashing in puddles and catching raindrops on my tongue.

Now though, finding you has brought it all back to me.
I know that those stars did hear my wishes,
And now I can dance with my shadow again,
Because I know that when the world turns ugly and hurtful again,
I can run to you and we can go and climb those trees together.

© Ryan Price, 2001, 2008, 2013.
All rights reserved.

Contra Omnia Discrimnia

You Give Me Hope

You give me hope 
for a brighter tomorrow,
an angel guiding me 
out of my sorrow.

My fears I want to break free
and my insecurities to let go,
but can my troubled past 
or a life of hurt I forgo?
I ask you this 
as you grow in my heart,
Always be there 
so we may never part. 

I have very little to offer you,
and even less to give,
Yet my soul I give unto you 
and my every day, for us both to live.
Let us embrace this, our new life 
and for what it has to give,
Through the depths of sorrow 
you have taught me again to live. 

© 2013, Ryan Price (02/02/2013)   
contra omnia discrimina 

Close Your Eyes

I can’t be with you today
but if you close your eyes and think;
I’ll be beside you in the kitchen
wearing your shirt – standing by the sink.
I’ll be with you in the bedroom
waiting quietly on your bed;
Just close your eyes and think of me,
relive those memories in your head.
I’ll stand by you in the bathroom,
an unlikely place to meet;
I’ll smile at you so playfully
as I let you brush my teeth.
I’ll be your light in the darkness,
shining steady through and through;
You only have to watch it glow
to know I think of you.
I’ll be the music that you listen to,
I’ll be there in every song:
I’ll laugh with you and sing with you,
and comfort you when your day’s gone wrong.
I’ll be the wind that ruffles your hair,

I’ll be that warm embrace;
I’ll be the hand on your shoulder,

I’ll be the tender touch on your face.
I’ll be the clock gently ticking,
reminding you of the times;
We’ve shut the rest of the world outside
we’re in our own world – yours and mine.
I’ll be the moon as it dances
on the water cold and still;
For I have loved you always
and I know I always will.
Though you may not see me physically
as you live your life today;
Just close your eyes and think of me
I will not be far away.

Hope Has A Place

One look at love, and you may see
It weaves a web over mystery
All raveled threads can rend apart
For hope has a place in the lover’s heart
Hope has a place in a lover’s heartWhispering world, a sigh of sighs
The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides
One breath, one word, may end or may start
A hope in a place of the lover’s heart
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart

Look to love, and you may dream
And if it should leave, then give it wings
But if such a love is meant to be
Hope is home, and the heart is free Under the heavens, we journey far
On roads of life, we’re the wanderers
So let love rise, so let love depart
Let hope have a place in the lover’s heart
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart

Look to love, and you may dream,
And if it should leave, then give it wings
But if such a love is meant to be
Hope is home, and the heart is freeHope is home, and the heart is free

{with love and thanks to Pip}

Writers & Artists in Residence Project

If you are interested in joining rycariad’s Writers & Artists in Residence Project, I would LOVE to hear from you. I’m looking for writers of any material and of any ability to create and submit their work online. Whether you write poetry, songs, short stories, spiritual teachings or inspirational pieces, I would love you to share your work with us and become a ‘featured contributor’
I would also love to hear from artists and photographers who would be willing to use as a creative outlet. Whether you paint, draw, sculpt, or create in any media, I’d love to showcase your work. 

Being a ‘Featured Contributor’ is really easy. Almost as easy as sending a simple email! Just drop me a line on and I’ll do the rest!
Hope to hear from you soon!

Nurse Perspective: Infection Control in the 1930’s

Very recently, I nursed a lady who was a student nurse in 1931. She had kept all the notes she had written during her nurse training. She let me read these notes as I was very interested in the history of nursing, and gave me permission to copy extracts to show others. These notes are taken from her work.


Isolate the patient at once and all clothing is to be considered infectious. Wash out in 1 in 20 Carbolic before sending to the laundry where they are to be treated separately. A complete set of utensils such as spoons, thermometer, bedpan, medicine glass, sputum mug and so on to be kept in the room which after use must be boiled.

One nurse to be detailed to all the duties. All excretions to be covered with 1 in 20 Carbolic and allowed to stand for 2 hours before being thrown away. The Nurse is to wear long overall to cover dress underneath. Hair to be secure well under cap. Hands to be well disinfected after every attendance and sleeves rolled up.

After the patient has left the room block up the chimney. Paste brown paper over the windows, ventilators and any cracks. Open all the drawers and spray the room with Formalin. Place a Formalin lamp with tablets ready for burning in the centre of the room. The lamp should be placed in a bucket of water in case of fire. Light the lamp, shut the door and paste brown paper over the cracks, plug the keyhole and leave the room alone for 24 hours. After the 24 hours remove all the paper and plugs and allow the room to ventilate freely. Scrub floors, furniture windows and walls with soap and water in a 1 in 20 Carbolic solution.
Infectious diseases were life-threatening at this time. Alexander Fleming did not discover penicillin until 1928 and antibiotics were not prescribed to patients until the late 1930′s. When this procedure was written, infection control was the only means of preventing the spread of infections. Being a Nurse at the time came with a high risk of catching infections that could be life threatening. Nurses took their work very seriously, and religiously completed the tasks to a high standard. Some of these processes we still use today, while most are long gone. The smell of Carbolic was always linked to hospitals and one of the jobs of student or junior nurse was to scrub the sluice and bedpans twice a day. Students often saw this as a punitive exercise, and underestimated how important it was. But the students or juniors efforts were inspected by the ward sister to make sure nothing had been missed, as this was deemed so important an issue. The smell of Carbolic was a psychological link to cleanliness, and people would often say that the hospital smelt clean. We lost carbolic in the 1980′s as it was deemed too toxic and did not kill the new bacterias. 

Romantically, maybe this is a shame; if we could replicate the smell then maybe patients and visitors would feel more reassured. But with hospital aquired infection rates always hitting the headlines, we clearly need to do so much more. 

© 2012, Ryan Price

Ryan Price is a Registered Nurse, freelance writer, photographer, designer and philanthropist. He is a keen supporter of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust and a passionate mental health advocate. His first critically acclaimed novel, ‘Wrong Rooms’ is due for republication in the summer of 2012. He lives in Glamorgan with his partner. 

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