A Poem…

I’m not sure what happens when I write (try to write) poetry, but I seem to lose my sense of humour! Previous postings of poetry included ‘Blackbird’, about growing old, time running out, and of how short our lives really are; and since published in Tick Tock.

This one is no cheerier!

 

Sometimes the Sun Rises

 

Sometimes the sun rises and,

You’re filled with a warming glow and

Smile at passing strangers.

A babbling brook runs through your veins

Frolicking like children at play.

A glassful of tickling like hares skittering the meadow.

Vision bright as stars, crystal unveiled.

I see your hot gold, heart gold,

Mother’s arms around a child gold.

And against the laws of physics an umbilical cord unseen,

Ties me to you

 

 

Sometimes it is darkness

Your innards rent like a scud missile

A sour, wet blanket of bleak mid-winter

Freezing your tears before they emerge

(Ashes cling to those that do).

Insides collapse and tumble.

The terrorist lurks in cloudy folds,

Scratching, picking, stabbing, pecking the sore.

Lost time, flat-line, black bells chime,

No safety line to pull you to the shore.

And the unseen cord,

Ties me to you

 

 

But Sometimes, the Sun rises and,

Your cheeks shine with roses,

At the chuckle of an infant.

Joy like a swelling tide floods your limbs.

Wagging the dog’s tail.

Rolling of giggling piglets in the slippering mud.

Comfortable as a sausage in its skin,

I feel your tender warm, sweet warm

Lover’s arms around a dearest warm.

And against the laws of physics,

No matter how far away,

An umbilical cord unseen,

Ties me to you.

 

END

rising-sun-pictures

 

So there you go, Have a Nice Day!

 

 

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Blackbird – poem

Very soon there will be a new anthology heading your way (if you fancy this kind of thing). Tick Tock is an assemblage of stories and poetry by Wirral Writers, with  a variety of genres from sci-fi to fantasy, fiction to poetry. Not usually given to writing poetry (as those of you who follow regularly know), I was working on my allotment plot one day and was visited by my resident blackbird, I crouched down on the path and watched him for a while; before the stirrings of some lines and I had to go home and write. It took me as long to write this as it does to write a 1,000-3,000 word story.

Poetry is, I believe, the Tai Chi of the writing world – it looks short and simple, but it really isn’t; it has subtlety and nuances that stories do not need because there is more time to get your point across. Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, (what is iambic pentameter even?! )

So, anyhoo, I decided to post my small offering here, as a taster, an hors d’oeuvre if you will, of the forthcoming book. I hope you like it:

Blackbird

 

In the tree when I arrive,

A lively, musical trill from winding greenery and bee busy trees,

Watching as I clear and rake, weed and prune.

Tipsy flower tops brush dust along my arms as I pass back and forth.

And in he quick hops, head tilts, raven-ous. With his golden spear he stabs and gathers

Wormlings from the wetted leaves.

 

On the wood-chip path I squat like a child.

I cannot see that dark omen they say you are, robed in black

Secrets carrying messages on wings fleeting, flashing, slicing air.

And between the foraging and bolting greens I catch his ebon eye and see myself there reflected,

I see my raked youth.

I am earthed-up.

 

Green I was and grey I am,

I have hopped and tilted at life

Gathering less than he.

 

This ant-thronged earth has irritated my senses, and while I itched,

Time has leapt beyond my grasp.

We are; he, and me

Short-lived.