Hannah

It is like you danced with art -
your showcase sparks a desire in me to understand.
Painting with words -
leaving us with inspiring blessings that came from the depth your heart.

It seems you shone through the shadows,
those blue days.
Despite strains, pains, tears and fears,
you battled those demons and kept them at bay.

It shows you're an intimate, intricate artist, a visual storyteller;
with skills innate,
and with your sweeping, weeping acrylic on canvas,
you flirted with fate.

Stubborn explorer - a flurrying fleet;
a daring discoverer - on crashing waves.
You took risks.

Firework - one of the tribe: our nude, our sunflower, our blue bells,
in poppy fields and tulips.

The reflected rainbow of colour reminds me of you the most.

It's that time of year

It's that time of year
- many of us fear it;
shuddering at the prospect of queuing hours on end in heated stores or online, trawling the pages for the perfect present or a gift that's 'best fit'.

It's that time of year!
You hear it called near and far
and see it as you crawl through the traffic of miserable but hopeful shoppers stuck in their cars.

It's that time of year.
We welcome it, invite it in,
make it one of the family, sit it down, offer it a festive bite to eat, even a tonic with homemade sloe gin.

It's that time of year again,
I have heard it said,
as we try to remember those less fortunate than ourselves but we're tucked up snug and warm in bed.

It's that time of year again:
we crack open (another) bottle
baste the turkey and turn the spuds while the Christmas tree lights twinkle, casting a light that's mottled.

It's that time of year.
I truly hold my family dear
and remind myself to be thankful for my friends - for their love and support - 'cos I fear
It has been a shitty year my dear, let's hope the next brings more cheer. My dear.
It's that time of year
again.

Horizon (draft 1)

If I'm gazing out to sea,
forgive, if it seems
I am measuring the horizon,
eyes narrowed, calculating,
enthralled, fearful, hands
fidgeting nervously
in anticipation
next to you, my audience,
forgive, and forget this
glimpse of my inner torment.

I'd like to think it's you
that am thinking of
but, thoughts hushed and secret,
I'm planning an escape
from you and this life.

I will keep it simple
in these final moments:
sorrowfully, it's a slow
and painful realisation.
I hope, for both our sakes,
to steal away and disappear
despite the conflicting surge
coming from the pit
of my stomach,
gripping like your hand
on my wrist, to stay, which
is what i'd like if only
I could face this life
beyond this moment.

A rite of passage

On the stony setting of the day, this woman blesses

           her son.

He'd dash to Totnes, then trundles casually 

North

to, what may be known as, the back and beyond

      of Scotland



 

The smooth sleek winding train yawns onto the

platform

inhaling from the platform his bags and bike to the

          lock up.

Her thin lips, held tightly into a smile, quiver as she stands like a

                                                    statue.

 

The tick of the track signals its departure;

it toots.

The sniffling woman with whom his eyes

meet . . .

Three pigeons, disturbed by the train, flutter and

fly past.

Escape

What is this ever changing state
where thousands cross border to meet their fate
and, in doing so, escape
from the destruction and slaughtering
- failing leaders who stand proud before them, and us,
as corrupt as ever?

Yet, the beheadings and bombings,
the suicides and exploitation
are not the product of
one man, or one vision, or one idea, or one religion.

History repeats itself
and this time the net is cast world-wide.
Atheists, the sinners, sit side by side
with Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Protestants, Catholics,
for a cyber showcase
in shock at what unfolds before their eyes
on our screens
(and what we hope is a million miles away).

Innocents march, stumble and fall
alongside once corrupt officials,
ID-less, paperless, homeless.
Like the crusaders,
they hope for a better future
that sadly comes at a cost.

Everything costs.

Desperate parents guide their hungered children
in the shroud of night across continents.
Friends gather their energy and traverse countries
full of repent.
Sick and sorry that it has all come to this.

I sit aghast.
Horrified at what has passed
and feeling utterly powerless.
Gutless.
Scared but full of sympathy.
Silently grateful it's not me, or us,
... yet.

The World Yesterday

The hurt doesn't go away
despite the passing of the day:
indifferent to the moon
traversing the sky at night
after the sun has taken flight.

It hurts remembering
and this backwards thinking.
An intense heat.
Even the buds opened from the bright day
making it feel like yesterday.

The hurt doesn't go away.

Then, when the rain had
fallen in a summer shower, carrying a myriad
of the flowers scent;
then, when the swooping birds at play
held me silently, dumbfounded by the day.

What can I say about the world yesterday?
The hollowness hurts.

The bruised bark of the tree,
suffering, reaches above me.
A starless sky.
The stillness of air is suffocating,
when it's suddenly battered by a wind that's biting.

Don't

Don't -
don't console me
that way you try
with sad knowing eyes
and a questioning, quick shift of your lips.

Don't -
don't console me
and hold me close
so I can hardly breathe:
suffocating and choking my tears on your chest.

Don't -
don't console me
with a stroke and tap
and grip and grasp, with fingers that grate
like sandpaper they shred my sensitive spirit.

Don't -
don't console me
and think those atonal words
you offer can change anything
(if I hear the dry, dreary drone at all through my torment).

Don't -
don't console me.
You try: you touch and speak
too much to nothingness, to a shell,
echoing your efforts out to sea - words wandering amongst the waves.