Poems of late November
There’s something about this time of year that makes us very aware of our mortality.
As we see the final leaves clinging to trees, we can’t help relate that to our own lives, to what we are holding on to that has to go, those things we must say goodbye to.
And then, what is left?
I suppose that’s the frame of mind I’ve been in this week when I’ve been writing poems. That bitter sweet reminder late Autumn delivers for us.
But you know the up side?
How much brighter do we then see the sun once all those leaves have shed! They obscured so much for us!
Do not be afraid to shake off what is weighing you down. And to those of you frightened of what you have to lose, remember, if all trees were evergreen, we’d never get to experience the most vivid colours of all, hey?
Exposed
I am the house upon bleak hill
With windows smashed and stone a miss
The slateless roof that whistles chill
My rafters, host to moss and hiss
This sturdy door has given way.
Names bored and gored into the rot
Red roses dead, but thistles stay
An empty dwelling, time forgot
Imperfect Lipstick
I ended the evening with imperfect lipstick.
Jam daub faded, its dark wine siphoned.
Not destroyed by devil-may-care passion.
But rather, because you get to an age
When all you put down, rejects the stain and shine you try to give it.
It frays and bleeds, seeking escape via any tiny thread of exit it can fumble.
Meandering tributaries spreading from source to deface your once crisp map.
And maybe it was always so.
But when I was younger, I never noticed.
Before it had chance to be scrutinised,
The mere thought was deliciously decimated in the freak wave of a waiting pirate kiss.
Daisy Chains
There is nothing keeping me
Apart from sense of duty
Sleeping rough on devil’s broth
Until I dare uproot me
Like a tree I’m anchored deep
Encouraged by the view
Branches swaying, children playing
Sky, a cornflower blue
.
Life will never go to plan
Time honours no designer
Surfacing a diamond day
Still happens for few miners
Making beds and lying on them
Rafts of rusty nails
Scratching heads and sighing
Shafts of light reveal our jail
.
Dreaming futures like a cat
Twitching in her slumber
World implodes, fog smears the road
Our bridges burn or crumble
All we have is now
Don’t go for walks down memory lane
And so I practise how
To see my ties as daisy chains
After School
He chatters as a hedgerow bird
Of all the bright day brought him
Things he saw and said and heard
All that the teachers taught him
Sometimes I’m tired but he’s so fired
I try not to let it show
For chicks are born to fly the nest
One day
His song
Will go
I should add that as well as the time of year, this week I was also thinking a lot about the news about my friend (previous post) and a documentary I watched at the cinema about the photographer Tish Murtha and how she really should have been more well known in her lifetime than she actually was.
The darker make up was probably informed by the time of year too. When I go paler I feel the urge to go a bit more goth with it.
And I should also add that the lipstick was also probably smudged by trying some truly vile ‘cauliflower buffalo wings’ but couldn’t work that into the poem, you know?😉😂
In what universe did I ever think that was a good idea?😂😂😂🤷♀️
When I walk and come across those old tumble down dwellings I stand and imagine living in one, seeing it whole and full of life once more :)
I have never really worn lipstick but totally understand and love your poem!
The school chatter is spot on. Our children want to talk to us less as they grow so we have to make the most of the time they want to chatter (no matter their age really!). x