The lengthening spread of night
sinks my vessels filled
the lights, unhappy properties
draw me colour blinded to their sleep.
With wonder – when he stops to ask;
‘ that I am exhausted’.
Then let it not come, by stranger’s mouth
For I should listen only, to sounds lighter
than the wind,
dancing in the dry cotton grass.
April 28th 2015
My house is all whitewashed
whiter than chicken bones left drying
in the noon day sun.
I was five –
when they set you to rest
but here, you still live
my overdue resident, of sometime past.
How many things do I need to remember
outside the love of a father and child?
I suffered from no preconceptions
A child never does –
you offered, and I melted like sugar
so all the children can sing, as we let
the sea wash over us.
On the day they buried you
I played – though never in fun.
I felt it was better than crying
less to make those grown ups mad.
Someone stopped to touch my head
they seemed old
so very, very old
I remember thinking
how long you were dead – you would always be you!
never to be that way:
So I smiled –
as I painted my house white…
26th April 2014
chicken bones, child, Daughter, death, father, female writer, hurt, Love and Romance, pain, poem, Poetry, sadness, whitewashed, woman, writing
Apr · 26
When it is my time to leave
how much of myself shall I take?
Lighter the head of memories
or heavy the suitcase filled of relics stacked.
Do I go in autumn just before
the winter storms
lay barren my North, bearing
down amid the gloomy leaf less trees.
Or should I choose
spring just before the summer
when orange blossom still prevails
the early morning air.
Such is this weak annihilation of mine
observed through eyes now blocked to light.
When all, but a slender residue of calm,
and you might cry:
for knowing that I’ll not return
alone, Autumn, death, female poet, orange blossom, pain, Poetry, sadness, spring, summer, trees, winter, woman, writing
Apr · 22
Papa is benignly sad
an opaque fog, rising then hazing his mind.
He sits feigning, eating ice cream
long elapsed unawareness in his words.
Drooping moustache drowning
into his morning cup of tea.
He is childlike – so they would have me told.
If for nothing else, he has ignorance on his side.
Reality should never be missed
when false sight leads to lonely persecution.
Lined face – like a peach, left
overly long in the sun only to be prematurely
dessicated into unwilling submission
long days, but a mere canker on the mind.
Younger men; oh they will
always walk me smaller paths.
Destined by no means ever to tread
your loving lengths –
of the now shadows empty span.
April 20th 2015
altzimer's, benign, female poet, female writer, forgotten, mind, moustache, pain, path, Poetry, shadow, tea, woman, writing
Apr · 20
The scent of magnolias
with their clean fresh beauty.
Now almost fallen
trodden to earth – face down left dying.
A child’s unwavering conviction
suspended from the wishing tree.
See how it swings expectantly; longing
to be cut free.
How to remain human on such a day.
Cry down deep, such innocence
into the mistrust of human life.
If I were not me, I would push
back those years –
my face, flat against the glass
no turn of head no show of pardon.
Let the moon go wash its lonely face:
an indistinct eclipse; left shadow less
in all its misunderstanding.
April 18th 2015
eclipse, face, female poet, female writer, glass, hurt, magnolia, moon, Poetry, sadness, tree, wishing tree, woman, writing
Apr · 18
side by side, on the lawn
next to the pond
that ran down to your house.
Sitting there together, subversive
in our views – yet never lovers not
to each other.
We wanted to live, see the world
stepping far away from our backgrounds
Suicide, births marriages, and deaths
unremitting seasons –
Side stepping the foot paths
that led good men to their destiny.
how the unearthly bonds of our singular
would one day bring us back as one…
April 11th 2014
alone, female poet, female writer, house, lake, lawn, Love and Romance, man, Poetry, sadness, single, singular, together, writing
Apr · 11
They will never get me mended
put back together again – not completely!
I’ve tried, been to hell and back
and all roads in between that thing
they call reality.
Not sure how,
why or when the wheels
first mounted the pavement.
If honest, I cannot even be troubled
to think about it anymore.
What is there to be gained from being sane?
I’m still me – in
name at least.
I pay the bills; feed those who need to be fed
still cry in all the immoral places.
Left is left – right is right
Day is light, and night is – completely dark!
April 6th 2015
alone, cry, Depression, female poet, female writer, pain, poem, Poetry, sad, sadness, sane, sanity, woman, writing
Apr · 06
I stopped to pick the flowers today
mouthing the words
How appealing you all are
in your own way.
They held still – tightly grouped
citrus bright against the palm of my hand
yet still –
all I could smell was their black and white
dissension: shedding around my feet.
5th April 2015
black and white, Depression, female writer, Flower, flowers, Love and Romance, pain, petals, Poetry, sadness, woman, writing
Apr · 05
There is gentle in her body’s poise
in all speaks and all she moves.
Her turn of head gives pleasure guilty.
Smile my way – if just this once
be tender in your guarded shape of love.
I’m not asking of your fire
for burning your image, deep into my brain.
Not for the seasons blessed, fleshed into your words
allow me if only – your inquisitive admirer be.
Bend me outwards at the footsteps of pace
close, all doors,
once your loves makes hasty tracks
scold me ten fold – time for time
Yet tell me as
if you please
That once I raised the sun to vision your view:
Even on your blackest day of pain
April 4th 2015
alone, child, Daughter, Depression, female poet, female writer, Love and Romance, mother, pain, Poetry, sadness, words
Apr · 04
Threaten lady as the dandelions
abandon their seeds.
Cry sterile each your sadness – never forgetting
your reasons, that they did finally leave you.
What does this world
say to you
veiled within in, you black and white point of view?
If it bled, would you identify the hurt as red
with it’s blotched marked stains –
still hopeful of their great expectations.
You took council once
lock tight, that which you, would not wish known.
Keep not your eyes open, whilst dreaming
for feeble beware, the ignorance of others.
Cold scorn to those, who would gladly have you trodden.
Threaten lady once more – as the dandelions
Reality always; she does mingle
in the silence of the truth…
April 2nd 2015
black and white, dandelion, Depression, dream, female writer, lies, love, Love and Romance, Poetry, sadness, seeds, sleep, truth, woman, writing
Apr · 02