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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Towzer

Towzer

 

Just a glance, a smile,

stirs his tail to thump.

 

My old grey muzzled friend

heaves himself up, steadies himself,

 

plods across the flagstone floor

rests his heavy head on my lap.

 

We sit in the twilight.

He warms me.

 

What days they were, when we flew

laughing – leaping the long

 

sun tumbled bands of hay

Joy snapping at our heels

 

I smile again, we sit and stay,

While I fondle his deaf ear.

 

 

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Frost Faeries

 

They came on the chill of a windless night

with faces of glass, diamond eyes, startled hair –

the air crackling and splintering

before their icy breaths.

On brittle wings they hovered

 

and with spindled fingers etched in ice

upon my sleeping window

intricate fronds and filigrees, unicorns, dragons,

demons, whirling divas, souls of songs –

Sunlight-captured, burning bright and clear.

 

Waking now, I still hear strands of laughter

as they skate away –  stealing

those far flung crystal  mornings.

 

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I was delighted and amazed that this poem was highly commended in the ‘Fire River Poets’ poetry competition. I’ve been invited to read it, plus some others, at a ‘Winners Evening’ in May. It’s very exciting but also quite daunting.
Here’s the poem…(it’s a villanelle by the way)

Wordless Dream

I dreamt that you were with us all today,
so vivid and so real you seemed to be,
you smiled, you never spoke, just turned away.

You buttered toast, and laid the breakfast tray.
You boiled the old range kettle, made the tea.
I dreamt that you were with us all today.

You never stopped, nor saw the children play.
Instead you polished all the cutlery.
You smiled, I never spoke. I turned away.

Your face was drawn, your features gaunt and grey,
but still you cleaned and worked on endlessly.
I dreamt that you were with us all today.

I begged you please to stop, to rest, to stay.
You placed your age-worn hand upon my knee,
We smiled, we never spoke, we turned away.

A tear slid down your face, I saw you sway.
I wanted you to stop. Stay here with me.
I dreamt that you were with us all today,
you smiled, you never spoke and turned away.

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Clever Words

They are all too clever by half –
these words.
Distilled to small hard jewels
attempting to dazzle.
They chink on the page
hard, heavy, cold.
Empty.
Too clever by half.

No resonance
to warm the belly,
fire the blood,
move the spirit
or billow a rainbow in the mind.
An intellectual rattle
Clang, clunk, clink.
Too clever by half.

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A poem for these wet summer days…

 

Summer Lies

 

Splishy splashy sloshy days

wrung out, strung up, hung out to dry

on dismal damp summer lies.

 

Rotting strawberries, mounds of mould

beneath wet leaves. Bowed and broken

flower heads, hanging limp, all but dead.

 

Rolling, boiling, muddied stream

tumbling headlong in between

bulging banks, brim full. Bursting.

 

Squelching, belching, sodden fields

turned now to new wet worlds,

where sentinel trees stand stranded.

 

On the green, where party picnickers

should have been. The grass is flattened

churned to mud.

 

The carousel, draped in plastic,

hides fantastic flying horses, unicorns,

dinosaurs, now bedraggled, damp. Distorted.

 

Bright bunting slaps and smacks, hangs slack.

A river playing down our street,

a gurgling, dripping, drumming beat.

 

Again the rain, the waters rise.

Sandbag dams – front door reprise

of dismal drizzling summer lies.

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A sonnet for my niece Chloe; written after shopping for her wedding dress.

 

Chloe’s Wedding Gown

 

A cascade fall of satin fairy-tales,

still drape from golden rails. A silken stream

of  ivory, of pearl. Lace flower trails

between soft organza and love’s young dream.

 

The robe, a puff of candy floss delight,

adorned with sequins, pearly beads and bows.

The veil, a froth of voile, bejewelled and white.

The sparkling shoes revealing painted toes.

 

But this is not for you. You will decide –

no glitz, no glam. On fancy frills, you’d frown.

Just fresh wild roses, flowers, for this bride

to hold before a simple long white gown.

 

For that’s all sugar spun, a pretty trim.

Your beauty Chloe, comes from deep within.

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My Blue Mug

My Blue Mug.

You sit there,

Upside down beside the sink

Draining.

A dribble of stale water,

imbued with left-over lunch, grease,

soap, slides secretly

over blue porcelain

leaving an unseen trail of lies.

 

Yet to my friends

you appear clean, bright, fun

who wouldn’t choose you

to hold their favourite drink,

Lapsang, Ceylon, Earl-Grey.

Columbian, Kenyan,

Brazilian blends,

who wouldn’t choose you?

 

You were a welcome gift.

A firm favourite.

But you soured the milk,

scorched the tongue,

tainted the tea,

embittered the coffee.

 

Still your blue porcelain shines,

But should one turn you over

Look inside –

They will see the stains.

The fine hair line cracks.

The rings of grime.

Once I loved you.

Now you are no longer mine.

 

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Who am I?

I am before and after,
and somewhere in-between.
A dream on a sleepless night.
A long bitter struggling fight.

 

I am a changing name
spoken or sung
by those who love me, and I love,
who sing my name in varied song.

 

I am Mother, Daughter, Sister, Lover,

Listener, Healer, Joker, Speaker,
Watcher, Gardener,

Writer, Friend.

 

I am here to tend,
to mend,
to reach out.
To hug the world with words.

 

I spring from tragedy to hope.
I spring from death to cope.
I spring from the sky, the sea, the fire,
the stubborn grit of stone.

 

My father is the land, the seed, the grass.
The deep rooted tree.
My mother is a singing bird, a bard,
A lilting melody.

 

Many are greater than I.
They mould the world with
money, power, guns.
But I
with a sigh,
a word,
a trembling caress,
may cause a ripple across
its breathe.

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The Road to Dabaad

Here is a poem I wrote about the victims of the terrible famine in Somalia trying to make their way to the Dabaad refugee camp in Kenya. My niece Ingrid has been in the camp trying to organise the delivery of 2000 shelter boxes www.shelterbox.org I am so proud of her.

Anyway here’s the poem.

 

The Road to Dabaad.

 

The path there is long,

stumble on…

on…on…

this dry acrid track.

Don’t look back!

Withered grass

crumbles and mingles

with the dust of those passed.

Darkness surrounds –

A thick searing shroud

of African sun

 

Bleaching life.

Bleaching bones.

Bleaching hope.

 

On such a scope

that we at home

Greedily

Gorging

Guzzling

cannot atone

 

switch off

 

from frail

stick brittle bundles.

Tears of flies

In forgotten eyes,

 

Blistered life.

Blistered bones.

Blistered hope.

 

The road there is long

With the dead

looking on…

on… on…

The stench of pain;

The grief of flight.

The right to regain

 

New life.

New bones.

New hope.

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I was reading Stevie Smiths Poem Not Waving but Drowning when I heard the sad and shocking news of the death of Amy Winehouse. This poem was the result of the two things getting tangled together.

Link to Stevie Smiths poem http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-waving-but-drowning/

Amy – Waving or Drowning?

 

They told me you were waving not drowning.

They say she’s a mess?

Oh! but that’s just the press

Yeah! She’s waving not drowning.

 

They said she’s waving not drowning.

Look at her money.

Look at her talent.

Look at her voice.

She must be waving not drowning.

 

Is she waving or drowning?

She’s waving.

See how the kids are all waving back,

raving like crazy,

like they’ve all taken smack.

Maybe they’re drowning?

And she’s waving back.

 

She’s waving goodbye

and drowning her sorrow.

Drowning out the damn pain

she won’t feel tomorrow.

Don’t say she was waving

This was her last refrain.

 

Waving or Drowning?

In the end it’s the same,

If no-one can see,

there’s no-one to blame.

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