Poems

poetry sign

THE HARDEST MOVE

A final sweep of empty rooms,

hollow steps echoing as I pass through.

Rooms empty but still full:

Of memories. Of the past. Of family.

Silence hangs in the air,

heavy, bittersweet.

Fingers instinctively brush

a spot on the wall where, on close inspection,

a washed out arc of crayon.

Green, I think.

Patio doors cleaned to a shine yet

I still see little finger prints,

steam where small faces pressed up against pane

on cold winter days to look for Jack Frost and friends,

drawings formed in residue of their breath.

 

Outside stays the same

apart from one small fruit tree.

Missing.

A present on their birth four years ago.

This has already been moved,

the space left small but vast.

 

The first bedroom where they slept.

The ghosts of memories still linger

but they won’t stick around to haunt new owners.

I grieve for the loss of what made this house our home.

 

They are waiting in the car.

Too young to understand, eager for adventure.

Do they know they will not return?

To run up and down the hall chasing monsters and being super heroes?

To sit at the kitchen table painting pictures?

To jump on our bed and stare up at the ceiling rose moon?

To roll down the garden and clamber over rockery,

playing hide and seek amongst the shrubs?

 

Will they remember their first home as I do?

They are almost too ready to move;

excited and paying little heed to what will be left.

Keen simply to bring their books and toys to the new,

ready to leave some ‘old’ in the ‘old’ house.

Their innocence at once charming and poignant.

 

It is time to go.

I understand but something holds me back

for just a fraction longer.

An invisible thread

gradually unravelling to release me

from the bind I feel.

I almost wish it to slow down,

to suspend time for just a moment;

to allow me to breath in the essence of our first home

and store it locked away

in a place where it will not fade over time.

 

But this is just the beginning.

More memories will be made.

 

Fresh air wraps itself around me as I exit.

A smile for waiting passengers.

The door closes quietly behind me

and whispers a soft goodbye.

 

CLOCKS

They float soundlessly through air,
invisible threads, strands of dreams
which, they say, make wishes come true.

Drifting on summer breeze
these ‘fairies’ glide by,
occasionally coming to rest,
tangled in undergrowth.

As children they hold mystical charm;
are things to wonder at,
representing hope.
But they also hold the key
to the passage of time,
so we are taught.

Is it merely the strength
of our lungs,
or is there more at work
when the magic
of children’s breath
disperse these filaments;
the number of which determine the hour?

And so time passes,
these clocks are forgotten
we gradually start to bow to
more organised schedules:
Childhood philosophy drowned
in a sea of adulthood,
of life, of responsibility.

Until the next generation
revives the magic for us once again.

Ann says:
August 14, 2013 at 10:49 pm (Edit)

Lovely poem -and I loved the feeling of mystery and wonder xxx thank you Ann x

 

A Haiku

The waves crash to shore
I sit alone and bereft
Surprised to taste salt

 

EMBERS

Dry logs hiss
spit in fire.
Angry
Knowing their fate
is to be consumed
by heat
But succumbing
only under protest
Their searing embers
will blaze
long after they
have turned to ashes

He stands
bent at the middle
stooped over hearth
Elbow leaning
on supporting mantel

He coughs
A cacophony of
rattles and wheezes
that accompanies the music
of the fire
Both brittle
Both assaulted by nature
And each indignant
at this affront

I do not recognise
one once so familiar
and I also gasp
for breath as the air
is sucked out of the room
leaving an oppressive grey tinge
to the present

I want to yell out,
to scream
Attack
a faceless enemy
To fight hard for
something fading
in slow painful stages
before me

Bright flames lick wood
Caressing them
in mutual hunger
and apology
Their brightness
intensifies as they leech
colour from their victim
and watch
the timbers blanch
Dying embers

He stands so close
the fire seems to claim him too
And he turns his face to mine
Ashen and afraid

 

WORM FISHING

The rain thundered down in merciless torrents
instantly drowning the City of Perth
A strain the infrastructure could not warrant
resulting in flooding of local earth
The North Inch, a haven for recreational pleasure
at once overflowed, forming lakes in its centre
Yet still people flocked to their local park treasures
no mere spot of rain could deter them to enter

And here, ‘midst the splashing of children at play
the wading of wellies at the end of the day
the makeshift pools where, on a whim,
youngsters jumped in and went for a swim
we took our small children who picked up some sticks
and danced in the puddles showing us tricks
then squealed in delight as they spotted some worms
and picked them up gently, watching them squirm
transferring them on to the dryer ground wishing
for plenty more chances to do some worm fishing

 

FEAR (This poem is  now 30 years’ old, having been an exercise set in 3rd year of school to compose something using made up words)

I quibbed and fleetered ‘cross the moor,
the moon had long since taken cover;
the dark intensified the gloom
and passed a shiver down my spine

‘Twas then I stumbled on a sight
enough for skin to crawl and cringle,
a shape much darker than the night
was cindling right in front myne eyes

My fear grew even greater now
for ‘twas a demon formed like man
An’ round his gruki figure low
were skeletons of ghastly dead

The shape looked up and stared at me
My blood turned cold, my skin went pale
The scene was such I gave a crie
And then I rin – rin like the wind

Skitling and scootling,
ritling and rootling,
critling and crootling,
I rin like the wind

The wind went whistling through my hair
My feet weren’t getting anywhere
The demon and his boney army
came clattering after,
trying to harm me

I could hear them getting closer
I could feel them getting near
I could sense their growing anger
Help me please, I’m full of fear!

Skitling and scootling,
ritling and rootling,
critling and crootling,
I rin like the wind

At last the town had come in sight
A little hope replaced the fear
I saw the safety in the light
and so my feet went skitling on

Skitling and scootling,
ritling and rootling,
critling and crootling,
I rin like the wind

If only I could make the town
the demon would not follow me
And so I rin on homeward bound
and still the haunts came clottering on

I made it; they could chase no more
I heard the demon shout and roar
In case you think this was not true,
just remember, I did warn you!