Poetry

My Lion

My little lovely tabby is looking rather sweet

The elegant and tabby tail is curled around her feet

Expressionless she looks at me with bland and secret eyes

Assured the plate of sausages was dinner in disguise

I want to read the paper but my lap is occupied

A tabby cat is dozing so I’ve put my read aside

And though it’s really painful as the claws are sinking in

The sound of cat contentment keeps me tickling her chin

It’s as if a dozen devils are fighting on the floor

And a screwed up piece of paper is tossed from paw to paw

It’s thrown, bit and fought and then chased across the stairs

Then the tabby runs in panic from a fright that isn’t there

My cat lies soft in sunlight and her fur is golden bright

Her eyes are slits of slumber as she turns into the light

She stretches like a lion sprawled who drowses in the heat

And dreams of Serengeti mice are twitching at her feet

My tabby’s meditating and her limbs are all tucked in

Her head is nodding forward as she draws herself within

And who knows if she meditates to the fire’s gentle hum

Her focus will reward her and a lion she’ll become.

Originally published April 13 2013, commemorating Evil cat

The Craft Kit

Finally, the new kit’s here

I’ve waited for the post all day.

The door is shut, the table’s clear

The furniture is pushed away!

Okay, I put the screw in here

And tighten up the bracket there

And slot the tab into the rear

And push it in, hard as I dare.

I sand it here, and rub it there,

I add the paint and wax and buff,

The fumes are stuffing up the air,

I wonder if I’ve buffed enough.

The picture’s blurred, is this quite right?

I’m sure I got the stencil straight.

Is this quite the shade of white?

And will it really hold the weight?

Oh no!  No visitors today!

I shove the thing across the floor,

Push a chair to bar the way,

And rush towards the knocking door.

The mother of my husband’s here.

She doesn’t like the kitchen blind

She doesn’t like the new veneer

She doesn’t like the box I’ve lined.

She checks how full my cupboards are,

And is my laundry all inside,

She lifts the cushions, now ajar,

And spots the kit I’ve tried to hide.

She picks it up and turns it round

And touches the still-drying lace

An opportunity she’s found

To put me firmly in my place.

She sneers with praise that’s damning faint

“A painted footstool, oh how quaint!”

Originally posted January 20 2014

Prove It

A warning bell rings in my ears

You do your best to soothe it

You tell me that you’d die for me

I turn and tell you, ‘Prove it’.

I Kept My Word

‘Tell them I kept my word,’ he said

As the storm clouds gathered overhead

With the setting sun tainting them red

 

‘Tell them I came, as was my right’

But the locked Great Hall was shuttered tight

And the echoes mocked in the fading light

 

He rested his head on the deep grained wood

The sunset glowed on his travel stained hood

‘Tell them I came as I said I would.’

 

‘Tell them I travelled over the seas

Across the great rivers and under the trees

But I kept my word and I held the keys’

 

A raven cawed in a twiggy nest

The wind was rising in the west

‘Tell them, say that I did my best.’

 

‘I saw strange stars and stranger skies.’

But he listened in vain for the listeners sighs

‘I kept my word, all else is lies.’

 

At the edge of the sky the thunder growled

And the rising wind wept soft then howled

At the dead Great Hall the traveller prowled

 

‘I kept my oath and now am free

I no longer approach on bended knee.’

He opened his hand and dropped the key

 

It seemed like no stroke of luck or chance

That the heavens threw down their fiery lance

As he rode away with no backward glance.

 

He felt the heat hard on his back

The Great Hall flamed from the lightning’s crack

But he still rode on down the weedy track.

Frost on the Moon

There’s a frost on the Moon

The cold, shivery light is tumbling down and the frost comes with it

It gleams as it slides over the twiggy trees

There’s a frost on the Moon

I rest my hot, hot face against the cold, cold bedroom window glass

The heat of the argument ebbs out into the cool, clear night

There’s a frost on the Moon

The street is silent and pools left from this morning’s rain

Reflect back at the empty sky and the falling frost edges them

There’s a frost on the Moon

The silence is scattered by a strolling cat

As the knocked can rattles into the empty street

There’s a frost on the Moon

The frost is falling and slipping down the street

My hot heart’s pain fades and drains as I watch

There’s a frost on the Moon

Displacement

The cupboards need cleaning, I’ll turn them all out,

 I can check all the contents and move stuff about.

I’ll rotate the cans of the sweetcorn and beans

And won’t have to think what a eulogy means.

This floor is disgusting, I’ll get it scrubbed clean.

I can move out the chairs and sweep in between.

I can polish the legs of the table and sink.

I can scour and rinse and I won’t have to think.

The table needs moving, it’s in the wrong place

And tablecloth’s edged with the wrong kind of lace.

It all needs renewing or at least turning out,

Which means no time to think what tomorrow’s about.

I’ve dusted the top of the doorway and door,

I’ve counted the candles and twice mopped the floor,

Tomorrow’s the funeral, but I’ve no time to think,

As it’s far too important to scour out the sink.

Harbour

I have a dream where the dusk is falling

And I can hear the sound of the sea birds calling.

The wind is soft and the air is warm,

The storm has passed and the sea is calm.

The fishers are home on the turning tide,

Their boats tied tight to the harbour side.

The steps lead down to the quay below,

Clean and safe in the lamp’s soft glow.

Just step, I know, on the wide, stone stair.

Just step, in the soft and dreamy air.

A gentle path to a solid quay.

And a harbour safe waits there for me.

There Should Be Storms

There should be storms, not the calm, still sky.

There should be storms, and dark castle walls.

This faded coffee shop, half empty, in the shade,

Is not the place to watch your life crash down.

I wait for you, and you are late again.

In the corner, reading a cheap magazine,

A woman droops and, trying not to yawn,

Turns the page to new adulteries.

I check my phone, there’s nothing new from you,

Just half an hour wait and waiting still.

I wonder if you know what waits here, crouching,

In this faded, shaded, tired coffee shop

Two girls behind the counter, talking low

Of boys and school and last week’s hair.

They bend the paper clip from next week’s hours

To try and free the block in the machine

They sound so young and earnest, taking care

Warning each other about the burning pipes

Promising to be there at the club

And one will lend the other their new dress

The woman yawns again and leaves the place

Out into the bright and shining mall

Past the old rabbi playing careful chess

Facetiming with his friend in Tel Aviv

The two old men talk with kindness, they are kind

And measure the words they use across the miles

What words can I use to you so close

When I stare across the table at your face.

The old rabbi taps his hearing aid and shouts

A gentle, kind goodbye across the miles.

Packs up his chess and leaves into the mall.

I am reading the discarded magazine

The coffee shop is shutting with the mall,

The sun is draining down the peaceful sky

There should be storms.  I text you, ‘It is over

Do not contact me again.  Goodbye.’

The Faerie Wall

Keep away from the wall, my child,

It keeps us from the faeries wild.

It keeps us from their faerie fear.

Keep away, my child, come here.

They blight the cows and cost us money

They steal the bees and take the honey

They spoil the butter in the churn

They cause the cakes and bread to burn

They steal our children, blight our wheat,

Ruin pigs and taint the meat.

Keep away from the wall, my dear,

Keep away, my child, come here.  

The Castle

There is a castle on the hill

A king sat there in days of old

His knights were brave, his ladies fair

The pinnacle of brave and bold

 

Minstrels there were, and jesters sharp

Ministers with wisdom deep

Priests and monks in cloistered nooks

All knowledge gathered in his keep

 

There was a knight, a lady fair

A false man and a desperate fight

A riven kingdom, empty hope

A funeral pyre and fading light

 

The story’s old and patched with songs

On threads that wore out long ago

Who knows the truth of treasure there

Before the final overthrow

 

Young lads go there to try their hand

Digging the vaults and dusty hall

The tombs are empty, nothing’s there

A bird’s nest in a broken wall.

 

Some nights, when Venus sails the sky

And Mars is courting near the moon

They say that ghostly dancers whirl

To echoes of an ancient tune

 

Splendour and crowns have tumbled down

The painted walls have faded pale

And while we bustle round our lives

Dust slowly settles on the tale. 

The Bells of St Brigit

The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight,

The moonlight is sparkling over the sea,

The stars are shedding their magical light,

And my lover’s dead soul is calling to me.

The roses are breathing their passion filled scent,

The soft waves are hissing onto the sand,

The bells chimes are ringing an empty lament,

I feel the blessed touch of my lover’s cold hand.

Down the stone staircase and out to the sand,

Across the storm wreckage to the now quiet sea,

My lover steps slowly away from the land,

A final farewell and he’s now lost to me.

Sparrow

Flit through the branches, bounded by brambles, nimble witted

Squabble and scatter, chatter and chase, dawn clatter and dust-baths

Tiny not timid, tenaciously territorial, quicksilver to the seed heads

Singing from gutters, pattering on pavements, defying the traffic

Unruly urchin birds, diminutive, darting and dashing

Yet cousins to swans

Photo by Nastya Kvokka on Unsplash

Shadow in the Corner

It’s an old stone house with a tall stone tower

It’s bent and battered but it still holds power

And the priests keep blessing but the dark’s still calling

So the cattle’s brought in soon as night starts falling

We’re the edge of the kingdom so we don’t pay taxes

And the only human sounds are the woodcutter’s axes

So the lords don’t bother and we like it that way

Though few who come to work here have the heart to stay

There’s a new girl in the kitchens and we have to warn her

Of the stain that hides in the shadow in the corner.

Sea God Calling

He stood between the land and sea.

He cocked his head and beckoned me.

I shook my head, ‘You let me be.

You’ll get no power over me.’

His hair waved dark, his eyes sparked blue.

He raised his hand and the cold wind blew.

‘I will not bow nor bend the knee,

You’ll get no power over me’

Strong he stood, the clouds hung low.

I wanted him but dare not go.

‘A mortal woman’s not for thee,

You’ll get no power over me.’

The waves dashed high where the sea god stood.

I bit my lip and I tasted blood.

I wanted him, ‘You let me be,

I’ll give no power over me.’

He beckoned me, I felt the call,

The sun shone warm on the sea god tall.

I whispered, ‘Do not call to me,

I daren’t give power over me.’

He strode across the warming sand

And knelt to gently kiss my hand.

‘Lady, at your whim I be

You have love’s power over me.’

Perspective

I look around, my mind is filled

With pots and cloths and clothes and things

The clutter that comes in bags from school

The scattered stuff the postman brings

A sock hangs off the angled chair

A cup is perched right on the edge

Fingerprints on walls abound

Cat fur lines the window ledge

But if you walk across the park

And head towards the underpass

Ignore the coloured painted tags

Step round the routine broken glass

Look up, a square of pristine sky,

Windwashed leaves are dancing free,

Nothing besides, that’s all I want

The sky, the leaves and, down here, me.

Not Death

So slowly creeps the lichen in the sun

And slowly the trees stretch their arches

Spreading shade over the green acres

Where the snails leave their silver paths

Slow too is the slow rise of the hedges

But beating quicker is the grass,

Which is pinned by the spring daisies

Lest it rise to the clouds

Beating quicker are the green shoots

Twining at the base of the hedges

In the corners of the dim shade

At the base of the stones

And the spring bulbs are bursting

And leaves push out and up to sunshine

As the first bees harvest the dying grave flowers

Warmed by the growing sun

Birds flit, their shadows racing

Across wood and stone and grass

As the fledglings call and cry

Daily getting nearer to their own flight

And underneath, the shy voles

Scamper and search among the offerings

Tiptoeing through last year’s leaves

Slipping down the root tangle

And in a corner, busy ants

Harvest the crumbs and keep their march

As their nest warms in the mild sun

And the petals are dropping.

This is no place of death

This is a place where the dead remember

The rushing, pushing, pulse of spring

And celebrate their life.

Image from the Swedish National Heritage Board and used under the Creative Commons Agreement

My Room

I thought I heard your voice,

But it was just an echo.

Outside a car door slammed.

It was spilling laughter around it,

People were shouting across it,

And I think it reminded me.

And that is all the noise I hear.

The room is silent.

I stopped the clock

As its loud ticking hurt me.

The shadows through the curtains

Rise and fall with the daylight.

My room is dark and paused.

I should light a candle.

I should eat some food.

I should breathe carefully.

I should get some sleep.

I should push myself out of here.

I am here, quiet in the dark.

You have gone and are elsewhere,

In the daylight and warmth.

And that is all.

Movement

The day is without motion, all is quiet

The smoke across the valley rises straight

And in the silent room that is my kitchen

I sit and nurse my tea and slowly wait.

I careful move, not to disturb the silence

The frost is hard and the brittle grass is white

I sit and chill within the silent garden

The sunshine has no heat, just frozen light

As slow as moss, I move back to the kitchen

And breathe while waiting for my heart to fill

One day I’ll thaw and rattle through the hours

Till then the light, the day and I are still.

Love Spell

Cast your power over me,
Burn it to the sky.
You cast a love spell over me –
You’ll own me till you die

Now I am dead and gone, my dear,
And you are living still.
The spell persists beyond the veil
And wraps around my will

But things are different in the dark,
So much is clear to me,
The lines of magic run two ways
Though I cannot break free

For many years I was your love,
For many years your slave.
And still you feel my dead heart close
Still linking from the grave.

I’m standing at your shoulder now
I’ll never leave your side
You made your bed, now lie in it,
The love spell never died

So do your dreams grow dark, my dear?
Do your days drag long and grey?
You took my will away from me,
It’s time to make you pay.

First and Third Saturday

The first and third Saturday are set in stone

And nothing may disturb them.

It is inviolable that she goes, through wind and weather

No let or hindrance permitted

First the train ride, then the bus,

Then the long walk up the wooded hill.

Dragging the flowers and the cleaning kit

Into the murmuring cemetery.

It is a ritual, disposing of the old flowers from the grave

The browned leaves and petals on the heap,

The washing of the neat urn on the grave

The snipping of the stems

The flowers renewed, she wipes the headstone,

Trims the edges, picks up the gravel

Waters the tiny alpines in the cracks

Brushes off the dead leaves.

Nothing stops the pilgrimage.

And once the grave is neatened, then she sits and reads

Perhaps in the shelter near the church

Perhaps on the stone seat near the tree

The first and third Saturday are hers, defended

And who could argue against tending to a grave.

Who’s grave?  She doesn’t know but cares

Because they gave the gift

Of the first and third Saturday, unassailable.

Feeling the Tension

Your monuments, what do they mean?

Build your stone high and shout your deity.

Hope that the stone outlasts the age

Hold tight to written, lawful piety

And when the old roots wrack your faith

When the cold moon bites and rags your mind

How do you hold on to the bitter dregs?

How do you slip into your role assigned?

Old shadows creep and stretch before your feet

Old lanes and lines cross across your path

You’re happy to bask in summer’s generous warmth

Are you willing to take the lash of winter’s wrath?

Look at the stone path, that’s where you tread,

Turning away to turfed green paths that roam.

Is it because your faith outlasts the stone?

Or do you listen when your soul hears home?

Dreaming

As I sleep, my faerie lover

Curls against my back and sighs

Deep in slumber, resting with me

Dreaming of pearlescent skies

Matching me in dreaming’s dances

Stepping through my idling mind

Petals fall in springtime meadows

Winter’s cares are tossed behind

When I wake, I don’t remember

In the dirty light of day

My days are creeping through my autumn

But in my sleep, I dream of May.

As It Should Be

Tell me again, about the fight

And how you fought it to the damnation

See me writing how you fought the fight

And I look on and nod in admiration.

Hey, look at you, I lean in closer

You fought the fight and here I am admiring

You are the destiny, I just cook the meals

You come home to a hero’s welcome

And as I scurry round to find the feast

And wonder whether the wine will last the night

Tell me again about the fight

And I’ll make sure an audience awaits.

I do a thousand thousand tiny works,

I find your shield and shirt and sword

And lay in preparations for your feast

And wonder if I’ve done enough

So here you are, hero and warrior wild

And I am grateful that you stoop to me.

You are the centre of the bardic tales

And I, peripheral, will worship thee

Memories in Dreams

I am dreaming.

Down the empty, echoing corridor,

Step by ringing step,

Heels click and soles tap,

Door after door.

I stop at the first door.

Inside I can hear memories, my memories

I don’t want to know,

I don’t want to remember.

The memories tap at the door.

I hold the door shut.

I can hear the urgent whispers.

I turn the lock in the door.

I think hard about a picture of sunflowers to blot the memory out

And stumble to the next door.

I stop at the second door.

I can hear the memories, more memories.

A snatch of music and a tap, tap, tap.

I see fingers against frosted glass and I hold the door shut.

I don’t want to hear the music.

I don’t want to remember.

The door is tugged.

I hold harder against the music.

I turn the lock in the door.

I think hard about the sound water over pebbles to blot the memory out

And stagger to the next door.

I stop at the third door.

I can hear memories, many memories.

A scent of flowers and old books drifts past.

I feel the door tremble as I struggle to hold the door.

I don’t want to smell this.

I don’t want to remember.

The door shakes.

I see the handle turn as I lock the door.

I think hard about the feel of clean sheets to blot the memory out.

I slide down and crawl to the next door.

I stop at the fourth door.

I am too late.

Memories spill out.

Your smile in sunlight.