Tag Archives: children

Dust

Dust

In life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
from the creeping dawn till the sun’s last ray,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In the quiet streets of the neighbourhood,
in cribs and cradles where our infants lay,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

where the children thrived as we knew they would,
on the golden sand and the sparkling bay,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In moments we did the best that we could,
whilst bereft of the light and cloaked in grey,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

in well-meant promises misunderstood,
quiet goodbyes at the end of the day,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In abandoned churches on oaken wood,
where hymns of our childhood no longer play,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

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Lignin


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We sit
for hours,
neither rigid
nor relaxed,
chiselling
someplace new
between the two.
 

The Pinot and their
adolescent nonsense
planes knotty pine;
curled shavings of
splintered months
wisping the floor.
 

You summon me
above a warm grain
and vanilla flickers;
a mute voice held
in a familiar gaze –
 

We did this
 
 

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Shapes


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting ~ Robert Frost
 
 

Nursing vanilla-caffeine infusion,
soft frost melting against the aga,
I watch them
 

sibling seed heads,
happily bent in solicitude
for their task.
 

In paper intricacies
patient adolescent soothes
her fervent perfectionism –
 

it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes sweetheart,
++++++++++++++++++++that’s what makes each one unique
 

As dusk gnaws at the
frayed edges of the day
I dance a solitary waltz
 

beneath
lacy snowflakes
strung from cobwebbed beams,
 

glistering
in the fractals
of their beautiful mistakes.
 
 

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Creosote


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Abandoned; swaddled infant whimpers
in swaying cradle of civilisation,
parents propelled by poverty.
 

Dog-eared drachma dredged up once again,
left to tumble in the dust beneath the dusky
shadow of the impending troika.
 

Shabby-suits roam the poli, past
shuttered shops and clean-picked bins
while outside the city walls
 

the pungent swell of orange, olive
and lemon runs rancid beneath the
suffocating stench of creosoted hopes.
 

A country, peopled by thinkers
and philosophers, pitted, hollowed out
by each callous coal-tarred day.

 
 

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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry, Tercets

unexpected gifts


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

sitting with the future
gifting invisible trinkets
trickling reminisces
into fire-burnished bowls
 

flame-licked filigree
soft-silvering the air
shape-shifting mementos
hushed shadow dance
 

tarnished antique chains
in youthful hands
fingering fine-links
quietly plaiting strands
 
 

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Salve

We pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed,
blunt-tweeze with poorly practised pincer grip
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

As bullies leave our babies dumped and dazed
and scoop cold marrow from the playground skip
we pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed.
 

Sanguineous crust is used, replaced, erased,
with trembling hands we pull the plaster, rip,
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

As suitors come and go and hopes are razed
and kisses barb the mouth, fish-hook, cleft lip,
we pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed.
 

The total sum of care is not appraised,
all debts are crushed as we defer the scrip
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

When finally our harrowed core has blazed
and youth has sailed on creaking sallow ship
we’ll pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed
and swab our wounds with those that we have raised.
 
 

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Supplication

Pray to our gods that our children will shun
malignant malaise, militia’s cold might,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun.
 

Spider-climb lies that their leaders have spun;
pallid untruths that proclaim to unite.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

slick manifestos, oiled speech over-run,
warmonger prophets that aim to incite,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun
 

warning our youth there’s a war to be won,
crimson ink spilt and the wrongs splintered right.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

promised land, seeing the damage that’s done;
bleak arid wasteland devoid of all light,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun,
 

blood husks in trenches, bleached bones in the sun,
carcasses licked clean by bellicose blight.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun;
cold-shoulder weight of democracy’s gun.
 
 

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Rock Paper Scissors

If I’m on fire they dance around it
and cook marshmallows.
And if I’m ice they simply skate on me
in little ballet costumes.

 

~ Anne Sexton
 

A bemused observer
of their game until now,
I have become a portentous player
for I am Water.
 

Not the cleansing hill streams of Snowdonia,
the bottled minerals of Cerist,
or the bland, reservoir-rated,
‘lapped from the dog’s bowl’ drink.
 

No,
I am neither clear nor pure.
I do not quench their sand-filled throats
with the serum of their early years
or cool their ragged-flanelled fevers
as my beads burn from their foreheads.
 

I am torrents of snot-filled globules
bubbling in a salty cauldron,
liquid spittle unravelling before them.
I am deliquescent disorder,
drowning amid the septic sewer’s craw.
 

So what will become of them?
 

My rock,
my tiny pebble
who grew into a heather-faced
mountain of a man,
strong enough that I could lean on him
and feel small against his contours
his steady drumbeat a perfect paradiddle
to my erratic metronome.
Will he plunge into the slithering river,
his rhythm faint and failing
as he sinks into the brackish silt?
 

My first-born paper boy,
so many scribbled lines shared late into the night,
even when distanced by the delerium
of drunken student life.
Will his blue-scribed words bleed,
his pages turn to pulp
as his adolescent song
runs sopping through the gutters?
 

And what of her,
my sharp-tongued, slippery seamstress
with her silver-fish wit and her precious metal smile,
her glinting shears swathing effortlessly
through the diaphanous dream
that she weaves around her.
Will her blades rust
beneath the deluge of my sorrow,
as the naïve loom lies abandoned
in the corner of a cobwebbed room?
 

No,
for I am Water.
I can be poured
back into the pitcher,
treated and filtered
until I run clean and clear again,
dancing weightless and unfettered
in the myriad sparkling streams
of Mynydd Mawr
where they will lift me to their lips
in cool-cupped hands
and sup from me once more.
 
 

~ Mynydd Mawr ( Welsh for big mountain) is a mountain in Snowdonia, North Wales and is pronounced Mun-ith Mow-r (rhymes with hour)
 
 

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Ice Storm

She locks them in a cupboard safe from harm,
four little funghi hidden in the dark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.


A single blue flash serves to raise alarm,
the dog roused from her slumber starts to bark,
she locks them in a cupboard safe from harm.


Her beauty now no longer serves to charm,
as always, vengeance will be swift and stark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.


The thunder in his mood she can’t disarm,
before his fisted fury leaves its mark
she locks them in a cupboard safe from harm.


The blows that rain are interlaced with smarm,
they soak her skin but fail to douse her spark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.


Their tender looks will be her salve, her balm,
when shifting glacier scrapes its chattermark.
She locks them in a cupboard safe from harm
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.

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