Category Archives: Poets
This saddest chore we will fulfil,
We women weak and weary still
From all these awful days have wrought,
We will embalm him as we ought.
But who will roll the stone away, and what about the guard?
So many things combined to make this day so very hard.
There’s the rich man’s garden, but what happened to the tomb?
My friends nervously approach and peer into the gloom.
An unknown voice calls, “He’s not here!” We scatter, terrified.
A minute later I return and take a look inside.
They’ve taken him! But where and why? What do they hope to gain?
Can’t they just allow us to endure our private pain?
“Please, sir, Mr Gardener, I do not mean to lurk,
Just tell me where you’ve taken Him, I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Mary,” says a voice I know, I look up in surprise,
And wipe the blurring tears from my disbelieving eyes.
It’s Him! He is alive and His body glorified!
“Teacher!” I said, so overjoyed to be there by his side.
“Do not cling to me,” He said, “I must still yet ascend
To my Father up in heaven, I am faithful to the end.”
“Go to all my brothers and tell them this from me:
I’m going to the glory that is mine eternally.”
That dawn began a whole new age, His rule began that day;
We’ll follow our beloved king, the Truth, the Life, the Way!
When Mary went to the tomb of Jesus on that first Easter morn
She knew that she had a problem that she must solve that day
She knew that the tomb with a large stone had been sealed
The problem was “who would help her roll the stone away?”
This is a problem that was not unique to them
And it is one that each one of us must face
For there are many stones in our life that need to be rolled away
Stones that hinder every member of the human race
The first stone to be rolled away is the stone of sin
A tendency which all of us have inherited
The desire that we should always please ourselves
Which shows that our salvation has not been merited
The second stone is the stone of unbelief
Which we have no faith in a future life in eternity
The belief that we must get as much as we can from our life on earth
Without excepting there is a future life in eternity
The third stone to be rolled away is the sin of pride
The feeling that we are superior to those we know
We may well be proud of our achievements
But humility is the other face we should show
The fourth stone to be rolled away is the sin of idolatry
When we worship Gods that have been made by man
Things which might not be bad in themselves
But not the God who was present when the world began
The fifth stone to be rolled away is the stone of prejudice
When we erect barriers between ourselves and others that we meet
Our conclusions are often drawn before all the facts are known
In other words we make our judgement before our knowledge is complete
And there are many other stones that need to be rolled away
If from the tomb of misery we are to be freed
For if we could live a truly happy life
We must live the kind of life God decreed
Mothers Day will be upon us soon
How are we going to celebrate this event?
Shall we buy her chocolates and flowers?
Or buy her an expensive bottle of scent
We all take mothers for granted
Expecting she will always be there
She is always a good listener
And all your problems she will share
She sometimes becomes a nurse and a doctor
When you have hurt yourself at play
She will sit you upon her lap
Until the pain goes away
She will do these things all of your life
In sickness and in health
She will never give up on you
For a mother never thinks of her self
A champion to all of the family
At times she will have her say
For a mother is the kingpin of the family
So show your appreciation on this her special day
Mothers Day will be upon us soon
How are we going to celebrate this event?
Why not dedicate a poem to your Mother
SEND YOUR DEDICATIONS OR POEMS
My mother was the epitome of perfection
She was eighty nine when she passed away
Who left us with many happy memories
Of everything she did and everything she had to say
For over sixty years she cared for her family
Which was composed of four girls and one boy
In spite of the many problems she had to face
She managed to fill our lives with joy
Memories of those times often come into my mind
These memories drive the sadness of her loss away
The efforts that she made and the joy she gave
Are remembered so on mothers day
Gentle she was, a young woman of means,
Beautiful in her Marcel Wave she was.
A hair dresser with her own shop
A teaser of hair and tresses.
Then the quiet Irish man took her eye and her heart.
Not impressed were her parents
With the young Irish trade unionist from the motor trade.
Time eventually brought them round to accept the vows
The young couple had made.
Grief she bore when her fist born
Died at six months. Brave she was to have more.
Three girls then two boys, and two more angels lost in-between.
Then after all was finished, me, making six.
Hard she worked to bring us up and support her quiet man
Who was there for her too.
Kind she was, good and open hearted she was.
The door always open to family and waifs and strays
Big hearted she was to all who past through our door.
Always there she was, with words of wisdom and comfort.
Her beautiful heart shone through her eyes.
Patient she was but there was temper there if needed,
She was not strong or mean but if needed
Her children and her man she would defend to the death!
Beautiful she was in features and in heart
There was no task she would not finish if she had made a start.
Cried for her daughters she did as her man gave them away
And when her sons married too she had a proud day.
Together alone again by themselves again.
Happy she was full of the business of her quiet man.
Yet she was always ready to talk and help and ease our pain.
Clever she was but not school or college wise
She was wise in life and love and truth and need.
Lonely she was when her man was taken,
Wept she did as she wanted to join him.
Lost she was without the quiet man .
Heart broken she became though
She threw herself in to caring for grandchildren.
Gone she was before her body, her mind and soul went to him.
Lost to us she was a smile here and there
Maybe a flash of recognition.
Unknowing of all around her she was,
Sad eyed frighted lamb lonely lonely.
Tiny she was when she went, sadly lost to us long before.
Gone into her mind to find her quiet man.
Tears we shed for her,we wept in grief and I in anger
Because so long had she been gone and I had wanted to talk to her,
But gone she really was.
Anemones her favourite flowers were
They always remind me of her.
I forgave her for leaving me
And now accept she had to go
As by the side of her quiet man was where she had to be.
Never to be forgotten.
Here’s the Hippie one!
I thank you
for that dreamy childhood
teaching me what I could
I thank you
for that happy meal
teaching me never to steal
I thank you
for that soft lap
where I took a long nap
I thank you
for that healing slap
remindin’ me that was a mishap
I thank you
for the pain that you felt
to lift me to this Earth
I thank you.
The fourth Sunday of Lent happens also to be Mothering Sunday. Continuing in my series of sonnets for the Church Year I have written this one for Mothering Sunday. It’s a thanksgiving for all parents, especialy for those who bore the fruitful pain of labour, and more particularly in this poem I have singled out for praise those heroic single parents who, for whatever reason, have found themselves bearing alone the burdens, and sharing with no-one the joys of their parenthood.
At last, in spite of all, a recognition,
For those who loved and laboured for so long,
Who brought us, through that labour, to fruition
To flourish in the place where we belong.
A thanks to those who stayed and did the raising,
Who buckled down and did the work of two,
Whom governments have mocked instead of praising,
Who hid their heart-break and still struggled through,
The single mothers forced onto the edge
Whose work the world has overlooked, neglected,
Invisible to wealth and privilege,
But in whose lives the kingdom is reflected.
Now into Christ our mother church we bring them,
Who shares with them the birth-pangs of His Kingdom.
My Two Mothers
A Burmese beauty
A northern rock
A life of travel
A life of the street
A sensitive mind
A bevy of friends
A love of nature
A love of food
A wartime refugee
A staircase to protect
A love of classics
A love of bingo
One loved her daughters
One loved her sons
Such different women
Such cherished mothers
Chalk and cheese
My mother in law
I‘ve been with you
since before your birth.
I’ll stand by your side,
as long as I’m on this earth.
A mother’s love is special,
a never-ending gift.
A love that’s always there
if you ever need a lift.
I think of you often,
never missing a day.
My love is forever,
and always sent your way.
You’re never far from the caring
thoughts in my heart.
No matter how many miles
ever try to keep us apart.
A mother’s love, your gift,
the gift I’ll always give to you.
As we watch our lives go by,
no matter what you say or do.
© Alan Royer
I’m looking for my son if he’s there
‘ he’s hiding away I can’t see ‘ I’m running around vigorously.
I’m looking for where he goes ‘ I’m coming to get him that he knows .
I’m running around getting him in ‘ the door stays locked ‘ and he stays in.
The kids are home that is true’ they argue about everything you do.
They fight and shout ‘ and scream and kick ‘ you wonder how they don’t get sick.
The kids are home that is true’ they drive me nuts what about you.
They fight and argue all day long ‘ you wonder how things went wrong.
The kids are home that is fact’ I don’t know how they going to react.
Silence is golden ‘ peace at last’ the kids are playing ‘ having a blast.
Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014.
Pools of deep dark
I’m lost in
The swimming ofYour mouth
Strong and defined
(from Bell’s Palsy
and all the more dear)
Under your shirt
I so want mine
To be there
Cooking and fixing
After thirty years
We’d never argue, we’d never fight.
I’d take it all, the weird and strange.
I’d give my life to ease her pain.
I cannot read her different mind.
Another like her, you’d never find.
I think she’s amazing, she’ll never find out.
She’s one in a trillion, without a doubt.
She thinks she is normal, just boring and plain.
There’s no one else like her, no one near the same.
If her mind was a book, I’d read it 10 times.
If her voice was a song, I’d replay till I die.
If her life was a movie, I’d laugh, love and cry.
If she’d ever have me, I’d make her be mine.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil. You heard the water dreaming in its large kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway. The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia-- Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk, separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks? That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old-- to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears, who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed. Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels were walled apart: black romped with leather belts but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion to be blocked in paper. And between waves of delivery the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift. It was damp April even at Christmas round every margin of the factory. Also it opened the mouth to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing. Written by: Les Murray
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than anyone knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs’ wings.
How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here