Poems

poetry sign

 

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

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!

 

 

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