The Poem Writer

A poem

Photo by Nicolas Messifet on Unsplash

Snapshots of the street in word pictures
memories of longing and heartache
words that can make a person’s heart break

Pictures of a family life on the page
generations recalled with nostalgia
journeys made in iambic pentameter

Writing in rhyme does not a poet make:
it is the observing, the feeling, empathy
caring enough to pen the difficulty

Maybe moody, or not, but thoughtful, yes
mulling thoughts over, writing drafts,
wood piling the words that make mess

Telling it slant, as Dickinson once said
from this angle or that, or both at once
writing tight, not wasting a word that’s laid

Don’t sacrifice a poem for the rhyme
words paint the image, not the slime
of sugar sweet saccharine sounding lines

Alliteration is one big part, the rhythm too
but rhyme can make the picture a shame
doggerel written in all but name

Who writes the poem, is an observer
of nature, trees, birds, the human condition,
writes truth and then it is no longer theirs

Published in Lifeline

Each Day Is New

A poem

Photo by Ivana Cajina on Unsplash

Each waking, I greet a new day
I may have plans but surprises come my way

The kindness of strangers makes me glad
For who are lonely I feel sad

In my garden, spring flowers are in shoot
I celebrate that soon I won’t wear my boots

Each day there are seconds of more light
In two day there will be two minutes less of night

From this season of slumber and decay
New beginnings will come every day

Each day is new and brings it’s joys
Sometimes tears but that is how we appreciate joy

I have new friends as well as long ones
I treasure each like the warmth of the sun

Published in LifelineI

Night

A poem

Photo by Timothée Duran on Unsplash

The sky has long since darkened
rest calls out to me in deceit
I lay myself to go to sleep
yet slumber refuses to take me

I turn and turn to find comfort
it is there, but body and mind
cannot find ease, too bruised
the body keeps the score

It’s true I love to sleep, the escape
from my physical confinement
my body ails and fails me
yet dreaming does not come for me

Published in The Lark

October

A poem

Photo by Boxed Water Is Better on Unsplash

October ends my grief for summer
It heralds cold weather and darkness
Some days are sunny and mild
No playing conkers as I did as a child

This year the trees are still green
September was wetter than most
but the clocks will fall back
short days start and end with black

An in-between time for me, then
neither warm but not yet truly cold
will I feel the seasonal sadness
I would give it up with much gladness

Transition is this month for me
hoping still some flowers to see

Published in The Lark

Haiku String

summer brings rainstorms
cobwebs hang on stems of plants
a change in mood

thunder rolled across the sky
night was noisy day is blue
breathing was hard to do

scent of blooms linger still
fading with the lower sun
sadness is now a friend

No sign of autumn yet
a change to rain after heat
where do I find myself

honeysuckle sweet is fresh
perfuming my pathway
stillness is a way to wisdom

Tapping Feet

A poem

Photo by Leon Liu on Unsplash

Skilled and taught and talented
Her feet in in one motion can produce
Several taps, and her feet flash
With great speed

Lithe and slender but every muscle toned
She remembers dances by heart
And the smile on her face is of sheer delight
As she performs to a mesmerized crowd

As one do the feet of the dance troupe tap
One sound made in the tap soled shoes
Their arms softly move up and down, side to side
There’s no better dancers in town

Published again!…

Shooting Children

Tiny Feet

A poem

Photo by Juan Manuel Sanchez on Unsplash

When you were born
I held your tiny feet
Such narrow heels
And long toes
Your long fingers
Your bee sting lips
Your birth blue eyes
Now softly green

Tiny Birds

A poem

Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

Rounding the corner, I scared a tiny bird
who had been chasing a white feather
nest building, lining it softly

Other birds chatter in my silver birch tree
calling out news and flights to my roof
the underground fungi has started saplings

Flowers are blooming, ending and budding
color continues in the garden, not mine-
it’s owned by the creatures who make it their home

Published in The Lark

White Orb

A poem

Photo from authors collection

O Moon, you hung in daylight
white, bright an awesome sight

Sun shining behind me caused view
of you, high the sky so blue

You were large, brink of full
and the harbor is ruled by your pull

Faint clouds crossed your ghostly face
wind is up and the air does race

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Hot Day

The air is fresh now, and clean,
gone is the sultry, moody sky
that carried a veil of humidity

Stroking our skin with wetness,
leaving a languid erotic sense
aware of our bodies, but lazy

Touch was work, the air heavy
love was easier to speak than do
but now we make love easily

Languid, we lay on our bed, sweat
glossing our skin, tracing salt on tongue
but after the rain, love is energized

Published in The Lark

If Love Should Come Again

If love came to stay again there would be no fairy tales
No speak of sea and oceans, rivers to cross, sun or rain
No huge great mountains or journeys from afar
But everyday life to share, watching stars

I would love you whilst cooking or digging the plot
Our love will be shared while we search for a sofa or so
And if we met in a meadow or council flat stairs
We’d still know we’re in love and doubt it not

If we drove a Roll Royce or an old banger with rust
No difference it would make to our mutual trust
If we lived near a swamp or a place with a view
I’d be happy, my sweet, to share it with you

There would be no stardust or magic at all
Except that which we make in our love on our own
And the spell that we discover in each other’s soul
Will be like the garden we’ll share at our home

Our love will nourish us if we are far apart for work
And homecoming will be a celebration each time
So journeying on in the passing of days and nights
I’ll be so happy to know I’m the jewel of your heart

Published in The Lark