Daily Archives: March 9, 2014
I want to taste your tempting lips again
Up to now that taste remains, on my lips in my breath
Everyday I think about, when that day will come again
writing poetrys is my passion, I am searching for the platform to
prove my skill in writing poetrys……..
- 1 part love of language
- 2 parts observational skills
- Equal parts clown, philosopher and quester
- heaping scoops of curiosity
- pinch of pain
- dash of stuff that leaves scars
- an ounce or ten of the stuff that ‘builds character’
- level serving of courage
mix in tears and sweat until a soft dough forms
put dough under pressure until it is compact
roll out until thin enough to see the words through
Allow dough to rest and reform to an organic shape
Bake in real life, with variations of hot to warm, and
periodically freeze, thaw and toss around.
Leave it to rest and pull apart to reveal poetry.
And what is left is the poet. Put this in a warm place.
Let it rise again and create more poetry.
Poets are like grandma’s mystery dough.
Lots of cool stuff with no real measure
except to do it until it looks or feels
just about right. Then add a pinch for
luck. Good luck, bad luck or no luck.
Each scar says, “I survived”. Each tear
says, “the wound is washed clean” and
each word born into a poem is alive
and stays alive as long as the poetry
is read, even after the poet has gone
and returned to dust, their pages
brittle and their hard drives dated.
I remember typing on my mother’s old typewriter.
I remember typing in the dark, each word so formed.
Click, click, click, space, space – hard return. Space.
I remember hand written pages, bound with a red
ribbon. I remember a first professionally printed book.
Each book mark a hand placed ribbon. Each poem
a pedigree. A footnote. A place in my heart that never
seemed to get crowded with them, but grew and grew.
Now the poems come faster than I can catch them.
And some days they don’t come at all. Those days
are the most frightening – have I lost my senses?
Have I lost my words? Then I rub an aching scar.
Then I see an old photo. Or touch a page. Read a
blog of someone’s poetry. And the muse is back.
A photographer takes the photos, catches the moments.
A poet is the one who writes the story on the back of
those moments in time. For one to see, for many or
sometimes none. Each blink a snapshot, a 1000 words.
Each 1000 words boils down, breaks down into what?
Poetry! The words that fill the spaces between each
photo in the stack. The words that fill the spaces.
The weight of the door, the solid swishhh as it shuts.
The faint residual smell of incense and historically extinguished candles.
Flickering candles, the Paschal ~ beautifully adorned and lofty, sporting it’s flame of Hope.
Neat rows of hymn books, piles of slightly dog-eared mass sheets and crispy-fresh weekly newsletters, free to a good home.
Soft greetings, muted voices, genuflecting and bowing indicating the direction of the tabernacle.
Seats chosen and filled.
Silent anticipation, preparation, adoration.
“Ting” heralds the start.
The unified rising of the faithful.
Procession of robes filled with men that, for just a moment, are not just James and Klaus but Priest or Father and Deacon.
Familiar words delivered by a familiar voice.
The faithful rise and fall like a vertical Mexican wave.
Voices join as one ~ in song ~ in response.
Bells ring to indicate that special transubstantiated moment, rich smoke mists the room and replenishes the smell for the next people through the door.
The whole room moves with fluid, well practised ease towards the altar.
Momentary hesitation, meet the Priest’s gaze, receive, gives thanks, move on.
Kneeling, reflecting, worshipping.
Thanks be to God.
(In reference to my book, SHADOWWATER)
From a little girl fighting a raging undertow,
To a tween by a shaded stream where she’d “go with the flow,”
Or as she looked for tadpoles; Back Swimmers in the fens,
Water was not her enemy, but a wondrous friend.
Skating on forbidden ponds,
As a teenager who felt all sounds
She swam away from angry frowns,
And sought adventure in shadowy places,
Careless minds and unlit spaces.
Dimmed lights that spread across a city’s black sky;
Cavernous sewers; wet concrete walls.
Still no fear, no reason to ask why,
Until shadow figures’ final cries; towering falls.
Refuge found on sands of magic,
But never forgotten: victims, pasts tragic;
Nor all those who lost their lives,
Under an island’s blue and sunny skies.
Years along she swims in capricious seas,
Though dusted with strands of gray,
Saddled with weakened knees;
A lonely girl has found a lost friend,
The older woman can begin again.
And the poet who sees surface plums atop crystal alters,
Can now embrace the depths of shadow waters.
He was always at the forefront of the battle
That was where he chose to be
Directing his men hither and thither
Fighting hard to ensure a victory
His courage was something that could not be doubted
It was plain for all to see
To his men it was a source of inspiration
In return they repaid him with their loyalty
Who is the manof whom I speak today?
Just one of many who led their men in war
Who were prepared to give their lives to in conflict
So that we could live in peace for ever more
He was one of the unsung heroes of the war
Whose deeds are among those that never will be known
But who contributed to the final victory
By ensuring the seeds of victory were sown
Every year in November we celebrate the anniversary
When the great war came to an end
Let us never forget those who made the sacrifice
And what it was they were fighting to defend
Some kids were in the Holy Land ,
And one old prophet walking by
‘Baldy!’ they shouted, Baldy!’
He didn’t care for their rude cry.
Such insults to a man of God!
At once he laid a curse
Upon the jeering wretches there-
Which, as it happened, was the worst
Thing they could have dreamed of.
For, as the curse came from his lips,
Two mother bears came from the woods.
Those kids had had their chips.
The cheeky lads were torn apart
To bits and bones and blood.
So much for mocking righteous men:
A fate much worse than Noah’s flood