There he goes, my beautiful son.
Bone china skin, hair afire.
Fragility worn in cool style.
Brief nod at my frantic goodbye.
A pang of love explodes my chest.
Son
Category: Poems
Your face on the pillow
Your face on the pillow in early morning light,
touched by sleep’s youthful kiss.
Crow’s feet, which tell of love, laughter, loss,
wiped from the corners of your lids.
And I watch in silence,
afraid to stir and wake you from this contented bliss.
And I listen in silence,
afraid to disturb your relaxed breath, leaving your body at ease.
Soon the busy day will shake you awake,
deepen the creases on your brow with worldly concerns.
Your face on the pillow in early morning light,
And I am enveloped in your peace.
My husband’s pet
My husband has decided to keep a pet caterpillar. It is disconcerting to see it sleeping under his nose as we have a conversation. When we kiss, it wriggles and prickles in discomfort. A top lip is not the best home for a caterpillar. One day, it may move on, find an appropriate place to live, crawl under a damp cabbage leaf. Or perhaps it will spin itself a silky cocoon, grow beautiful wings and flutter away.
Awake
Anxious, early hours,
wind throws rain against panes,
breath wrestled from chest,
stomach somersaults while heart quick steps,
mind kicks brain awake,
paces vast halls of thought,
up, down, up, down,
potential failures grow loud,
footsteps pound and rebound,
resounding, echo, echo, echo.
Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside
Look at them laugh and relax on the beach,
paddling toes, digging holes, smooching on sand,
slapping on sun cream, sucking on a peach.
These days are our last, don’t they understand?
While filthy litter makes the planet choke,
fleeing children starve under smoking skies,
plastic fills the sea from our greed for coke,
homeless bundles huddle, fear in their eyes.
Don’t they know the great time of man has passed?
Or do they make hay while the sun still shines?
The wealth and the excess will never last;
protective lotion layer coating minds.
Do they bury worry deep in the sand?
Block ears with the sound of the soothing sea.
Like me, enjoy the small things while they can;
cover eyes with shades so they cannot see.
If I die
This poem was inspired by the childhood prayer, which I always found rather morbid.
If I die before I wake, remember happy me,
a song for each occasion, busy bee.
Forget the eyebrows in the air, tut-tut.
Don’t think of the thankless, if only, but…
Remember the time I fell off my chair,
lay on the grass giggling, feet in the air.
Forget harsh words, regrets and sorry tears.
Remember dreams followed, conquering fears.
When my soul is taken away to rest,
remember me as my wonderful best.
Don’t think about things I shouldn’t have said.
Remember the cuddles, snuggled in bed.
Forget the many failings I acquired.
Remember wild dancing round the fire.
Know that I wished to be open and true.
And never forget, I died loving you.
Singing in the train
If life was music, I could waltz and wail
down this grey aisle, sing out my soul and pain.
Tap dance on grubby tables, strewn with snacks,
swing high from dusty, laden luggage racks.
Vault prickly, itchy, threadbare railway seats,
terrify little children scoffing sweets.
Take hold the hands of a dark, handsome man,
share duets, fall in mad love, make some plans.
My fellow passengers in quick time clap,
The guard skips along, whistling, his feet rap.
‘Tickets!’, his hole punch plays like castanets,
as we rumble on through worldly regrets.
Keep it under wraps
Wake to a foreign land,
heavily silent.
The earth keeps
secrets smothered
under cold, crisp layers.
Blanketing, blizzard
buries all.
Not a babbling bird
tells its tale,
nor murmuring mammal
speaks its story.
Whispering world of
words unsaid.
Our past is
entombed deep.
Truth suffocates us
beneath a
pure, white face.
Paradise Lost
The radio told me as I buttered toast,
There is no paradise now.
Beautiful beaches are wrecked on Bali’s coast.
Under a fresh blue sky, no shores lie pristine.
There is no paradise now.
The salty sea’s cold tongue cannot lick them clean.
Waves spit dirty rubbish on damp silver sands.
There is no paradise now.
Only rainbow vomit thrown by human hands.
On shopping bag jellyfish, turtles choke and die.
There is no paradise now.
We cannot close our eyes; pretend, ignore, lie.
Marine creatures swim in our colourful spew.
There is no paradise now.
No putting the world right or making it new.
Those dreams of romantic escapes are all dead.
There is no paradise now.
We made a wasteland; must face ruin instead.
Sometimes the news creates a feeling of hopelessness in me. This story did just that. Since David Attenborough’s Blue Planet, awareness is growing and people are starting to act but is it a case of too little, too late? How do we change attitudes on such an enormous scale?
(Picture: AFPG/Getty Images Newsround BBC)
If
I have never taken part in a blog challenge before, and never thought that I would, but A Frank Angle sent me a very polite, personal invitation and I thought this poem was appropriate. Thanks for the invite Frank.
If
If we could open ourselves for exploration,
to read and decipher like a map,
a foreign country to discover.
Then you might place your feet on fresh soil
and I might walk new pathways.
For a while, travel a road together,
reach a place we recognize.
Read more answers to the If Challenge in the comments on Frank’s post. Perhaps you’d like to have a go at the challenge too? Details are here.
Diary of a would-be novelist 