He flounders through the white rooms
of ubiquity
whilst stars falter
and sink into the weeping dark
and night will become day
only when that child opens his eyes
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poem
My Daughters
My sweetlings.
Commas wrapped in crochet shawls.
Cradled, they knew not what lay ahead
in this desperate world,
only the soft strokes and gentle voices
Of love.
Rosy cheeked
they fell into the rhythms of childhood,
with it’s classroom wars
and playground battles.
They learned to navigate their own steep road
And won.
Their prize?
Independence and freedom
from the happy home.
That cosy ancestral cave
Whose walls housed secrets, and memories,
And me
How they grew,
my little sweetlings.
Confident, funny and smart,
they are brilliance in these dark days,
shining their light on every distant path
they take.
Escape? – haiku
Distant sunlit hills
beguile me with their beauty
when storm clouds gather
Dried Up
My sea of words
ebbs and flows.
Today my tide is out
the grey sand is dry,
and though ideas float on
the offshore breeze
they fade into dust
before they land.
Perhaps tomorrow
gentle waves
will send them home
to this blank white beach.
(yep, tip of the day… if you’re stuck about what to write, write about being stuck about what to write 🙂 )
Dead Head
Captive in a comfy chair
in the resident’s lounge,
she serves me bitter coffee
with watery milk.
Not the way I like it.
The others stare absently
at their sippy cups,
remembering
the days of dancing
down the aisles,
deciding what’s for tea.
choosing favourites,
The ‘meals for two’ special offers
that came with a bottle of wine.
To share.
No alcohol here.
Dining room misery instead.
Tasteless food, mushy in my mouth,
school dinner puds
washed down with childhood squash,
all consumed to the tune
of coughing and cursing,
and the shout of instructions,
and endless questions from
lost minds.
Wheeled back to the room
for my ‘nap after lunch’
we pass the locked route to the garden.
The clematis needs pruning,
and the dead roses still droop on the bush
out there, in that life giving air
that once I breathed
in my own beloved space
of borders and pond,
and sandpits and slides.
I stare from the window
people pass below.
They hurry to work
clutching their coffees,
driving their cars,
catching buses,
pushing prams.
Their hectic lives an inconvenience
but what I wouldn’t give to
be busy once more.
Stood up in the Sixties
I waited there at Kensington Tube
My skinny teenage legs
framed by lemon yellow hotpants
and cute matching socks
chin up and posing
the cheap and cheerful
Chelsea Girl look
No second glances for me though
Despite my twiggyness
Despite the nervous shaking of
my thin blond mane
or thick eyeliner applied in vogue
neither the regular tune of the trains
nor the checking of my chunky watch
stopped the time
and each minute past the hour
Became a taunt
Until the truth struck
and mascara running
I rued my platform soul
Yes, this is me in the sixties!
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/waiting-2017/
Anthropomorphism #1
Oh I’d like to be a spoon
canoodling with my chums
laying in the kitchen drawer
bums to shiny bums
I’d be used to scoop up ice cream
and savoury soups and stews
I’d sit on the saucer of a china cup
while my owner was reading the news
I’d serve the loose white sugar
to make the tea taste sweet
my humble tum would hold it all
and keep the table neat
Oh to be a silver spoon
amongst the great and good
and be used for grand occasions
to help them eat their pud
🙂
