Medley…

There were bound to be poems which proved too difficult to fit into any of of the themes I have chosen for My Own Poetry. Here are a few of those. A mixed bag – a medley of verses.  Enjoy.

The birds will rise before I sleep

This poem comes gently
mind soothing slowly
tension seeping away
as body prepares itself  for rest
at last.

The birds will rise before I sleep
the sun might shine now night’s rain has stopped
the day will dawn but I will not see it,
hidden behind my eye-mask – faking night.

But when I wake I want to be
new born in bright moment
hope refreshed
trust regained

faith restored
in the the everlastingness of love.

This is a poem I originally wrote in April 2013 – now revised.  Quite often I wake up in the night to write – and go back to bed before the dawn……. to the sound of birds awakening.

Returning words

Words return slowly with early signs of autumn
whispering at the edge of sound
soul songs sung almost silently

no crescendos of love
no deep despairs
no overwhelming joys

just lovers coming home
suggesting we start again.

This Summer, because of lots of other calls on my time, I didn’t write much poetry and at times I wondered if my ‘muse’ had taken a holiday.

 

Strange Lullaby

Restless soul
brain too tired to sleep
adrenalin triggered
blood flow.

No love interest here
in my home, my bed
my life, my heart. My dreams
perhaps?

If so ‘tis
a secret e’en to me
scattering
longed for sleep.

No muse tapping at my creativity
no task undone, story untold,
no poem unwrit
I know

except

perhaps

this?

 

Lost Words

They are written somewhere
on a scrap of discarded paper
or postcard used as a marker
perhaps in the margins of a magazine
or newspaper, now hidden in a pile
yet they resonate still in my heart

waiting to be found
these silent echoes
growing in the dark.

Will they turn darkness into light
or darken my lightness?
Will they sing of sorrow
or trill in joy?

No, no trilling, there was none of that
but there was surprised contentment
mixed with regretful envy
in this meeting of old friends
in this remembrance of old lives
this re-living of old times

leaving lost words as a legacy
questions now filtering through the mesh
of my too hopeful mind.

Can I return again to innocence lost
believe again in a simpler truth
hope  again for a life eternal
trust again in a love everlasting
from a God who echoes in words
of faith?

In February I met up with a dear friend I had not seen since we were teenagers ( a long, long time ago).  We were last together when I was a Mormon and had the security that faith can bring. She still is a Mormon as were other friends I met on my visit. It was an emotional time, lovely to meet them all again. Such experiences, for me, often result, eventually,  in a piece of writing. As a writer I nearly always carry around a notebook in which  to write down inspirational words, descriptions or thoughts but sometimes I forget my notebook and my words end up on various other things – which sometimes get lost – or forgotten. This was one of those times but I did find the words soon after – see below.

Found Words

“Love is not always enough –
temporal or spiritual.“

Lost words found the day after
I found they were lost.

Brief notes  – a phrase
a comment – on the need for love
in potential times of crisis – listed:

ill health
ill childhood
ill ageing
ill behaviour.

What words hide behind these written words?

Words which sing
faint melodies
inadequate songs
about feelings

as, quietly
shadow-like,
we pass
through a life
without the salve of loving actions
and words

given and received.

Perhaps these two poems should be in ‘Life’ ?

Sleepless night

Night wraps itself around the house
wind strumming roof and gables
humming
encouraging
a bedding down to sleep.

Body reluctant to perform nightly rituals
convinced it holds forgotten memories
of tasks
not done
essential to complete before surrender to sleep.

Mind hangs on to seeds of the day
thought flickers of electricity
subsiding
then flaring up again
as consciousness struggles to set them aside.

Soul stretches out for rest, even from dreams
and romantic fantasies
longs for the balm of sleep
waits for the healing

a sleep-filled night can bring.

If you ever suffer from insomnia you will recognise some of these “symptoms” I think.


Birthday Cake

My twin was good at cakes – not me
She of the cool, light fingers
And the heavy beating spoon.

For years, I obeyed the rules
Followed instructions
Minutely measured and accurately timed
More devotedly than an alchemist
Seeking to make gold
To create the cake of dreams.

But whatever I did
My kids still seemed to like the mixture in the bowl
More than the cake itself

Still do!

I wonder if that’s why nowadays I do a Birthday Trifle rather than a cake? I’m good at those ……

Almost New Year’s Eve

The wind is wrapping itself around the house tonight
yowling not howling, low and blowing
rumbling down the chimney in intervals
tugging at my soul.

It would be more at home on the moors than here
on this quiet London evening, in this suburban street
better to whip the moorland bushes, stroke the hill worn stones,
ride quickly flowing brooks, than sigh into my heart.

But, the wind obeys the weather’s wiles and wishes,
chooses chance, or  follows fate, travels its own path
not mine, not where I would prefer to be
on this dying-of-the-old-year evening,

if it could only have its freedom
if it really  is so free to be free.

This poem was written late on the evening of December 3oth 2012, running into New Year’s Eve.  Later on, after sleeping, by chance, I read ‘I Stood On The Tower’ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The wind was still with me that morning, as it was with Tennyson all those years ago.

Halloween Happenstance

Midnight hour
Owls hoot
Long, low, mournful.

Bad omen.

Black cat slinks through the slit of light
Pushing the door ajar.

She creeps silently past the fridge, into the room
Stealthily, stretching  sexily
Stepping over the abandoned umbrella.
Brings in dark, damp outside smells
Tinged with woodsmoke
Which mingle with the acrid odour
On my hands.

Rubs my legs in anticipation, purring
Sensually, fondly, possessively –
Then suddenly she
Jumps

Knocking over the blood red
Bright red nail varnish
Spilling it on white carpeted floor.

I stop painting my toe nails
And swear
And curse

That bloody cat!

This poem was the result of an exercise in which each of us  took a selection of unseen cards out of a bag and wrote a poem which used the words written on the cards. My randomly chosen words were – fridge, cat, owl, nails and umbrella.

There is a peace

Strange to feel at peace
after so many years warring with myself
fighting against my fate
trying to change
that which is unchangeable.

Good to feel in grace
after too many times hurting in loss
crying bitter tears
in fruitless poetry
instead of choosing to live beyond the words.

Sad to know that it is dead
the dream I tried in vain to create
taking too long to learn
that others choose their own lives too
and you alone
(and we alone)
live ours.

There are times we feel we have come to terms with life, sometimes after many years of pain and frustration. This was one of them.

Wind words

Words on the wind or the electronic ether

fragile as thistledown
strong as steel

let them go, let them go
let them land where they will

they are no more yours
they are theirs

words sent, words given
words found, words read

belong to those who receive them
like the wind.

I wrote this poem way back in 2008 – and now it has landed here.


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