Thursday, December 4

A Poem For Thursday

I have gone over to the dark side during the last few months.....the dark side?.....you know Face Book, Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr Pinterest, Flickr et al .....oh how deeply have I fallen!
Seduced by the instant, by the quick sell, by the new......how sweet can seem the instantaneous reaction!
But blogger calls me and I recognise the empty gap can only be filled by the writing from the heart and the poetry of life.
Yeah...yeah I hear you say....lets just call a spade a spade.....unfaithful!
Part of the problem is the fact that most of the above goes on from my iPad and I've just today discovered how to upload a post on it to blogger! I'm excited. Now that winter is finally in full flow I resent sitting in the colder room by the french windows with the PC. The fire is a far far better heat to sit in front of.
But from now on......hopefully...I shall pass this post of happenings on to blogger......as well as you know all those other gratifying social sites.

The Southern Town
When I walk into this southern town
I know I'm old
This town is young
New life is everywhere.
Young business people inhabit new cafes
And prop iPads up on Italian coffee tables.
They talk with easy confidence
And silver laughter.
Accents polished
Into general comprehension.
Whether Northern or southern
European or Brit
They move south or west
To join that melange of ideas.
While I move to the left or the right
To let them pass.
They know their place and are secure in the knowing.
I know my place.
I once walked and talked as they do.
I kept a middle line on the pavement
And the old and the very young
The out-of-work and the stranger let me pass.
Those days go and go for all
They should enjoy them while they can.
They don't know that inside old heads
Live young women
Young men.
Who team with new thoughts
And new ideas
But have little time left to perfect them.
We were taught not to demand when we were young.
Now we find the demands hard to endure.
Now we walk with other grey heads
To playgrounds for the young.
Standing back from the bustling parents
We grandmen and women who watch and wait
We know the power of waiting.
Know that it's strength is greater than impatience.
Time to leave the playground behind.

Sunday, August 31

A Poem for Thursday...."After the Rain"


Maghera Falls




After the rain
The creamy waters
         Mist 
and bounce noisily
Over slimed black rocks. 

Escaping streams find new paths
To explore uncharted ways
           Down.

Past hanging gardens
of green moss.
         Down
To peat-coloured pools.
Where summer sedge springs up
By granite slabs.

And  frothy cappuccino bubbles
Race past each other
To fill the sparkling paths of blue.
Down to a western ocean.






Wednesday, July 9

A Poem For Thursday



The Blue and White Ikea Sofa

It's seen better days
The old Ikea blue and white striped sofa bed.
But there I sit
Opposite the sky blue french windows
And look out on to the garden.
It has the best view
of all the seats
In the wood framed building
We call the summer house.

Once it housed single mums
Held the pain easing smoke
Of skinny roll-ups
That was before we came to a more mature understanding
Of teenage girls and their babies.
Before councils asked what colour they would like
The kitchen to be.
As if a different colour on the cupboard doors
Could ease the the terror of listening alone
To a baby cry and cry.


But the garden is looking good this year.

Tuesday, May 13

Human



At twentyone I left the land
And travelled on the Irish Sea.
I reached a southern port
And taught the children
On the chalky hills.
They thought I was a foreigner

French perhaps.

At twentysix I travelled north
And settled in a smokey town,
Where words were old and beer
Was drunk on Friday nights
In crowded bars.
They thought I was a foreigner.

Scotch perhaps.

In troubled times I went back west
To where the planted people lived.
And dodged the bombs and
Feared the fires where city folk
Still walked and worked.
I felt I was a foreigner.

English perhaps.

Now forty years have come and gone.
And wars are fought and lives are lost,
And fights are won or
So they say though where
Or when I do not know.
And none of us are foreigners.

Human perhaps.

...this is my response to the prompt put up by Marina on DeVerse Poets Pub today.
I have posted this one before but the time seems right in so many ways world wide for it to  be part of DeVerse  this time.....thankyou Marina.

Saturday, April 26

Blue-booted Camels



...these fine ladies came out of the kiln this morning and into the sun ...
...all-singing...
...all-dancing...
...blue-booted...
...what more could we ask of them!!
...a swing to the left.... 
...curtsey to the right...
...and altogether now with a good ending!!!

Thankyou Ladies!

Tuesday, April 22

Pelicans...



...a new commission has brought these fellows into being....
...wearing boots and ready for action...
...they will soon leave so I'm making sure that I have a memory of them...