A Soppy Poem About Love

A Soppy Poem About Love

All you need is love.
Listen to what the man said.
Tell me why,
What's love got to do with it?

Too much love will kill you,
Crazy little thing called love.
I need your love tonight,
Love me two times.

Love is a battlefield,
You've got to hide your love away.
I'd love to teach the world to sing,
Love me tender,  I want to know what love is.

I think I love you,
Will you still love me tomorrow?
Now that we found love,
I believe in a thing called love.

Remembering - a poem for Holocaust Memorial Day

Remembering

small and round, weathered by wind and water

i hold a pebble in my hand, smooth and cool.

its weight is slight, it takes no space,

it sits in my palm, cradled and safe.

imagine the beach, pebble strewn, water lapped,

salty tang on lips, wind blown tears on lashes.

see the pebbles tumble in the waves, million upon million.

feel the pebble in my hand, taste salt on my lips,

see the millions marching, stumbling, tumbling, 

onwards to the unknown.

place a pebble on stone, hot wind upon my cheek,

salty tears on lashes, weeping for the millions lost.

six million pebbles, a towering cairn, each placed with love.

whisper a name, one for every pebble.

always remember.

keep them in your heart.

every one of the six million loved,

as you do,

hoped,

as you do, 

dreamed,

as you do.

every one of the six million left a mark, 

a hole in the heart of the world.

always remember. 

The Prompt 156 - Should

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda

She should concentrate on her maths lesson,
But those handsome boys would run up and down
Outside the window playing football.
If only she could tear her eyes away.

She should get home in time for tea as she was told,
But it would be such fun to play just one more game
Of hid and seek in the sunshine with friends.
If only she could remember to be good.

She should take a coat in case it got cold,
But her outfit was so stunning she wanted
The world to admire it as she walked into town.
If only she could stop shivering she'd look oh so cool.

She should stay in and finish writing her essay
But it would be such fun to head into town,
Watch a band and dance with friends.
If only she had more discipline.

She should go to bed early before an early start,
But it would be a shame to miss the end of the film
And never know who the killer was.
If only she wasn't so tired already.

She should listen to her friends advice and say 'no',
But it would be a shame not to go on a date
With the hottest bad lad in the whole town.
If only she had been more street wise and sensible.

She has a few regrets, as she should,
She would never advise you follow her advice,
She could be an angel, if she wished.
So, tell me, should she?

National Poetry Day

As it's National Poetry Day I thought I'd share a couple of old poems from the 90s that I came across recently. One is a bit silly, one is more serious. Let me know what you think.


Untitled

The first time there are church bells
Ringing in your head.
There's champagne and there's chocolate
And flower on the bed.

He is your only one true love
Your burning heart's desire.
Your passion it will keep you warm
Until you both retire.

The first time there is vodka
It swills around your cup.
You know you'll need another one
To keep your courage up.

He is a guy you know a bit
You met him at a party.
Now after several pints of beer
He doesn't look so hearty.



Walking Where The Goats Walk.

Clinging to the cliff edge
A rock strewn path,
So steep, so hard,
I walk with ginger steps
Like a tightrope walker
With vertigo.

Rocks.
Grey, brown,
Marble white.
First polished smooth
By generations of passing feet.
Then honed razor-sharp
By wind and water
Into spines cutting across the path.

Butterflies.
Palest china blue, softest saffron,
Burnished browns and reds,
Sooty black with red streaked wings;
Always tantalisingly out of reach.

Sea.
A low bass slap
As it pounds against a rocky hollow.
Marine indigestion.
A small tree lined glade,
Cool in the fierce heat.

As I walk the path,
In burning heat,
Sweat sticking my hair to my head,
I hear the faint jangle of goat bells,
High up on the mountainside,
Reminding me
That they tread these paths
So much better than I.

The Prompt 155 - Calling

Calling


I hear the calling in the night,
The calling of the owl.
It echoes across the garden
From the woodland down the hill.
The sound gives me security
As I lie in my bed.
Cosy, warm and safe,
Listening to the haunting sound.

I hear the calling in the night,
The calling of the fox.
Echoing through the bushes
Startling, cruel and sad.
The fox's cry is fraught and shrill,
It speaks of loss and pain.
As I lie in my cosy bed
I hope to never hear its like again.

I hear the calling in the night,
the calling of a child.
Echoing through my sleeping mind
Sad and far away.
Calling for someone I know not who,
Calling for love and peace,
Calling me to do I know not what,
Calling in the night.

I have no answer to that call,
I have no wisdom to impart.
The call is faint and far away,
I have no answer to that call.
What must I do?
The child is calling, haunting like the owl.
What should I do?
The child is calling, barking like the fox.

I hear the calling in the night,
Calling in the dark.
I close my ears, I turn my head,
And silently I weep.

Woman - a poem

Woman

The tapestry of my life is stitched with many colours.
Bright and vibrant when I was happy,
Muted and muddy when I was sad,
Cool and fresh when I was young,
Deeper and warmer as I grew old.
Sometimes the stitches are small, precise, careful;
These are the times I was learning about the world
Or about myself.
Sometimes the stitches are wild, chaotic, haphazard;
These are the times I was living life to the full,
No time for finesse or care.

The tapestry of my life is stitched with many relationships.
Daughter, sister, mother, wife, friend, writer
All add to the design and are threaded through with love and care.
Some relationships left a pattern that survives,
Stitched with love, laughter, life or loss.
Some relationships left a shadow
As the stitches were unpicked when the relationship ended.
Everyone I ever loved, everyone I ever lost
Has left a pattern on my tapestry,
A reminder of our times together and how they shaped me.

The tapestry of my life is stitched with many emotions.
The happy times when I soared and sang and danced;
The quiet times when I thought and planned and dreamed;
The sad times when I wept and mourned and hurt.
There is a pattern here that shows that time when I was fierce and proud,
Another there when I was angry and distressed,
A third when I was overwhelmed and doubting.

The tapestry of my life has changed and I am still adjusting.
Now there are new stitches, sewn in fear and sadness.
Stitches spelling out cancer. Stitches I hoped never to sew.
Sewn onto my tapestry with a bent and rusty needle,
Thread moistened by the tears I shed.
Soon I will stitch the part of the tapestry with hope following cancer,
The pattern of surviving, of moving through, of being strong.
But now I stare at those new stitches and feel hollow.


Most of this poem came to me in the early hours of this morning during that slow period between sleep and waking. I hope it speaks to some of you.

The Prompt 146 - Glass

Through a Glass Darkly


I look into the mirror,
What do I see?
Shadows of the woman
I want to be

She shimmers just out of sight,
Peeping over my shoulder.
Very faint and rather slight
A shade, a ghost, a myth.
Hair is glossy, beautiful and bright,
Tumbling around her pale face.
Eyes like diamond glints of light,
Teasingly beautiful and happy.
Behind her there are birds in flight,
She walks in beauty like the night ...

Now I've gone too far,
Caught up in a poetic moment.
So I gaze into the mirror once more
And there she is, the shadow me.
Physically we are the same,
Plain, unremarkable, sharing a face and name.
Yet she is serene, untroubled, content,
Where I am anxious, fretful and filled with doubt.
She clutches a book to her chest and smiles.
My hands are empty, dreams as yet unfulfilled.
She points the way, I must follow.

I look in the mirror,
What do I see?
Shadows of the woman
I want to be.

Phoney Valentine

You sent me flowers,
I thought of funerals.
You sent me chocolates,
I thought of the calories.
You sent me champagne,
I thought of false celebration.
You sent me a card,
I thought of the ruined rain forest.

You took me for dinner,
I had no appetite.
You gave me jewellery,
I saw a guilty conscience.
You played romantic music,
I heard silly, soppy tunes.
You tried to romance me,
I felt cold and betrayed.

You rushed off early to meet up with her,
I went home to shred your clothes,
Key your car, destroy your CDs
And leave you..
Happy Valentine's Day!

Goodbye to 2016

2016, you were filled with tears.
Too many left too soon.
Each day another star extinguished.

2016, you were filled with anger.
People divided by voting results.
Communities fractured and hurt.

2016, you were blood stained.
Wars, violence, pain and anguish.
The innocent caught up in the rage.

2016, you promised so much.
New Year hopes and dreams,
Shattered as the months rolled by.

2016, you will not be missed.
You were harsh and heartless.
You were painful and violent.

2016, you are consigned to history.
We do not mourn your passing.
We are glad you have left.

2017, we welcome you.
We are filled with hope, looking forward.
We pray you are better than the one past.

The Prompt - Red

Today is the 50th anniversary of the disaster at Aberfan. I was a primary school pupil when this happened and the same age as some of the children who lost their lives that terrible day. It is sobering to think that all the experiences I have had, all the things I have done, all the life I have lived never happened for those young lives.

The prompt 'Red' reminded me of the red Welsh flag, the red shirts worn by Welsh sports stars, the red dragon which represents Wales around the world. So I decided to try a tribute to the people of Aberfan on this most difficult day.


Red

Another school day, classes settle to learn.
Teachers take registers and young voices answer,
'Here, Miss', 'Present' and 'Yma'.

Proud red dragon nation,
Celtic heritage, land of song
And poets, your life is about to change.

A rumble, a rush then darkness.
The blackness engulfs all
And the silence descends.

Blackness covers the red.
Light and hope extinguished,
Buried beneath the waste of your lifeblood industry.

Many rush to the school.
Hands grab at the spoil, digging, pulling,
Frantic rescue and a few are saved.

Red faces, flushed with effort.
Bodies found and hope is fading,
Black eclipses the red dragon's future.

Late morning and only the dead emerge.
One hundred and forty four souls lost,
Half of the children at Pantglas School dead.

Red flags at half mast.
The red dragon weeps as the horror unfolds,
A generation snatched away one Friday morning.

A young girl hears the horror in the Midlands.
The scale too large for her to comprehend,
Yet fifty years on I still remember my mother's tears.

Red roses and flags, tributes to those lost.
We remember those young lives lost,
The promise gone and many hearts broken.

The Prompt - Return

Hooray! The Prompt is back from its summer break, all tanned and relaxed. So it's time to stretch out those writing muscles and get creating. So here's my take on 'Return'.

Return

I'm going back, back in time.
Back to my roots.
Taking the train to my home town.
The city that shaped me, made me,
Turned me out into the world.
Fully grown I return to the place
I left when young and green.
Memories flood through me as the train
Chugs northwards, heading back.
Mixed feelings assault me,
Nostalgia for happy, carefree times,
Sadness for those lost and gone.
Everything has changed, new and shiny
Replacing old and familiar.
Returning here has left me bothered,
Unsure how I feel about this place,
Once so familiar, now so alien.
The young me loved the noise, the busy-ness,
The life of the city.
Older me feels overwhelmed, disturbed
Not at all relaxed here.
Was it a mistake to return?
Should memories stay firmly in the past?

I take my leave of my old home town
And return to my now hometown.
Glad I did yet not keen to do so again.

The Prompt - Dance

Dance like nobody's watching,
Dance like you just don't care.
Shake and shimmy and boogie,
Pretend there are flowers in your hair.

Dance til your feet are aching,
Dance as the beat goes on.
Wiggle and wriggle and jiggle,
Feel every pulse and note til it's gone.



Dance with gay abandon,
Dance with joy in your heart.
Swirl and twirl and sway,
Dance like you've mastered the art.

Dance when your heart is singing,
Dance when your heart is sad.
Bounce and leap and pirouette,
Dancing drives out all that's bad.
Dance like you are the joker,
Dance like you're holding the ace.
Rock and rattle and roll,
For the world can be a sad place.


 
 

Thoughts

Such a tragedy filled week. All I can do is what I do best, write. So here are my thoughts this week reacting to the senseless deaths.


We never know when we will meet with Death,
When he will call us to him or touch our lives.
He is ever present, a fact of our humanity,
Yet we choose to ignore him at our peril.
There are times when he is welcomed,
When suffering and pain are too much to bear.
The tears are those of relief when a loved one's agony ends.
There are times when he approaches silently,
In the night and someone slips away, a life well lived.
The tears are those of love and gratitude for time with the departed.
There are times when there is no clue he will arrive,
A thief who takes a loved one too young, too soon, too quickly.
The tears are bitter, filled with anger and questions we cannot answer.

These are the times when he arrives suddenly, in violence,
With guns, with knives, with hate, with brutality.
Times when many go together, Death greedy for their lives.
Times when he snatches one surrounded by powerless onlookers,
Horrified at what they witnessed, helpless in the face of rage.
Then the tears are hot, angry, free flowing and anxious.
The tears are for the lost and for ourselves,
Struggling to understand how he can be so cruel and random,
Taking those before their time and seemingly for no reason.

Today we mourn many taken suddenly and pointlessly.
We join in thought and prayer with those we will never meet.
We struggle to understand how Death can take them,
No notice, no time to prepare, just violence and sadness.
We join together, hold them in our hearts and vow to remember.
Promise to hold those we love close, to keep them safe, to love them,
To live life to the full and embrace each day as if it were our last.

 

International Limerick Day

I'm using this as my post for BEDM Day 12 but I couldn't let International Limerick Day pass without trying my hand at writing one.

Limericks have had a chequered past. Some well repected poets turned out many of them, poets like Edward Lear and Ogden Nash. But more recently it has been seem as a verse form for children. In my previous life as a secondary school teacher I came across many poetry schemes of work which asked childre to 'write a limerick about ...' yet at no time expected that they would be taught about syllables, rhythm or the structure of the limerick! Presumably they were born knowing what a limerick is? Many children found it really hard to craft a limerick and this assumption that it's a 'childish' form of verse is one I came across a lot. But like most types of poetry it has a set form and it's often difficult to force what you want to say into 5 lines of verse with an AABBA rhyme scheme and shorter 3rd and 4th lines.

So in honour of International Limerick Day I've had a go myself. This will be the nth attempt as I know I'll have to wrestle with it before it conforms, something else that was never taught to those poor kids who had to 'write a limerick about ...'



Everytime I go into the Town
I wish I was part of the Gown.
They're clever, you see,
Not ditsy like me.
They's never cock up the last line! Sorry, rhyme. 

The Prompt - Choice

This prompt has got me writing outside my comfort zone a little. When I started thinking about 'Choice' I was immediately struck by the contrast between all the choices most of us have to make and the powerlessness of those who are denied the chance to make choices for themselves. I have been touched by the stories of the girls exploited by gangs of men in Oxford and Rotherham; I have always been moved by stories of young women forced into arranged marriages or forced to conform to rules set by others that were not their own choices. These are the things that were in my mind when I wrote this piece; I know it is a bit rough around the edges but I think it is meant to be like that.   

Choose what you want for breakfast,
 Choose what you want for tea,
Choose what to wear this morning, 
Choose who you want to be.

Life is full of choices,
We make one every day.
A normal part of living,
We expect to have our say.

She had no choice in her husband,
They chose for her when she was a girl.
She had no choice who to love and cherish,
She was gifted as if she were a pearl.

He chose to beat her and hurt her,
He chose to humiliate her and degrade her.
She was his property and had no choice
But to bear it and submit to his anger.

She had no choice to be ignored,
She had no choice to be neglected,
Her life was disorder and chaos,
All her choices were rejected.

She had poor choice in friends,
She had poor choice in who to trust,
She was exploited and abused
By men who used her for their own lust.

Twelve members of a jury
Will choose whether to believe
Her evidence of what went on
Or was it all make-believe?

Some choices are easy to make,
Others a trial and a struggle.
Some choices make us stronger
While others will make us fragile.

So as we make our choices as women
Let's remember those without any.
Support our sisters and brothers
And use all our choices wisely.

The Prompt - Broken

Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
On and on and on
Like a broken record.

Why did I listen to you?
Why did I jump from so high?
The plaster cast itches
On my broken arm.

What did I do?
Why am I not enough?
How can you leave me
With a broken heart?

Why did it finish so suddenly?
Did you anything you said?
Serves me right for trusting
Your broken promises.

Why do words hurt so badly?
How will I ever survive?
Down trodden, forgotten, alone,
My broken spirit aches each day.

Phoenix like I will rise,
Stronger, smarter, wiser.
You will never break me.
I am the woman
Who broke back.

A Poem For Aria

Aria tugs at Mummy's hand,
'Look at the pretty fireworks!'
Mum looks up to the starry sky,
'They're stars, Aria, not fireworks' she says.

Aria gazes into the inky void.
The stars twinkle, sparkle, glitter above.
Gazing back towards the beginning of things,
When fireworks blazed across the universe.

Swirling balls of fire speed across the universe,
Across the formless nothingness of space.
They collide, coalesce and reform,
A vast celestial firework display.

Aria stares at the beautiful, sparkly stars,
Too young to understand the cosmic past.
She wonders, she sees the pretty fireworks,
Glittering against the blackness of space.

My hope for Aria is that she keeps gazing at the stars,
Keeps seeing the beauty in the night sky.
That as she grows that childlike wonder and joy
Fires her imagination like a display of starry fireworks.

The Prompt - Silver

Isolated even when among others
Standing tall and stately,
Yielding in the breeze.
The silver birch is prince of trees.

The ghostly silhouette
Straight and fragile in the copse.
Untouchable in its solitary stance.
The silver birch is prince of trees.

Unapproachable and remote
It stands alone and aloof.
Not a trees that invites hugging.
The silver birch is prince of trees.

In autumn it sheds delicate leaves,
In winter clothed in ice white bark,
In spring the freshest green cloaks its branches.
The silver birch is prince of trees.

What is love?

What is love?

It's a many splendoured thing,

And makes the world go round.

It changes everything,

And it can build a bridge.

It's what we all need,

And is in the air tonight.

It is the answer,

And it is blind.

It is given a bad name,

And you can jump for it.

It can be tender,

And it can be like oxygene.

It can hurt,

And it can be deep and tender.

We can be addicted to it,

And it can be all around.

It can inspire poets,

And it can tear us apart.

It is the foundation of our families,

And the reason we exist.



Prose 4 Thought - The laptop is broken.

The laptop is broken
What can I do?
No Word Doc for me,
It makes me feel blue.

I'm bursting with ideas,
First time for a while.
But I can't type them in
So they can't become a file.

The laptop is broken
I'm feeling bereft and so sad,
Yet I claim I'm a Luddite,
I'm feeling so bad.

The laptop is mended!
Some tape is all it took.
So why am I sitting
And scribbling in this book?

The laptop is mended
But I'm loving paper and ink,
I'm still a bit Luddite,
Old fashioned, traditional I think.

I'm loving my laptop,
Loving my paper too.
So I'm splitting my loyalties,
Ink black or blue?

My handwriting's still awful
But it's individual and mine.
I feel like a real writer
(But not all the time!)

Hello to handwriting,
Welcome back to my muse.
I'm writing more often,
Isn't that the greatest news?