Roberta Hill Whiteman
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT BY YOU WHAT’S YOUR’S
Roberta Hill Whiteman
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT BY YOU WHAT’S YOUR’S
Her small hands lift the cool, white sheets
their pastried skin,
glazed
opalescent
Beneath folding, looping veins
bones of steel.
. . . .
Fingers
thoughtful fingers
tapping lightly in little rhythms
begin gathering the cool sheets for rehearsal.
. . . .
Moving through time
they trace
the patterns of the life they now describe
. . . .
Outside the window,
the cat
that was never there
vanishes;
Mammy dreams
.
in her hospital bed,
.
making pleats.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo, professional cellist/pianist from Pennsylvania; amateur poet/essayist.
Turn the covers
Down
And scream – (in delight!)
Run to living room
parents’ – (romantic meal)
interrupted.
Settled down
Barefoot one
Pyjamad
Little peep
I’m thirsty
Water given
Settled down
Barefoot two
Pyjamad
Little peep
I can’t sleep
You haven’t tried
Back down
Bated breath
Count to ten
Dare we
Try again
Barefeet
Pyjamad
Little peeps
Wrath raised
100 metre sprint
high jump
horse bolted
door not
bottom line
kin skin
tingling…
silence…
two bodies
shaking
snorting silent laughter
knowing loved…
if not liked…
Cheryl Bhagwandin
http://www.cheryl62blog.wordpress.com
The wind blows on cliffs so high
All you can hear is the seagulls cry
The crashing waves
Echoes in the smugglers caves
Children walking on the cobbled beach
You can hear the crunching
Beneath their feet
Fisherman trawling
Crabs are crawling
To escape
The fisherman’s bait
The sea is rolling waves so high
All you can hear is the seagulls cry
They sit and wait for the fisherman’s trawl
On Hastings cobbled beach at early dawn
Gillian Sims