Florence wears her poppy with pride.
Bloody Mary at the ready ,
fag a dangle from painted lips,
burgeoning breasts child bearing hips.
All a wobble; she waits for the last post.
Lips a tremble; as she drinks a silent toast.
Her eyes and demeanour belie her pain the most.
An orphan of war; his body unfound.
Buried deep beneath foreign ground.
For peace he fought and lost his life,
then suicide tore away his grieving wife.
Alone, eyes all a puddle, she stands. Two minutes never brings them back. Silently clasping her shaking hands.
While, we all remember them.
Do you think my attempt is too fickle for such a poignant rememberance? Leave me a comment its good to talk.
Thanks to the artist of Florence who holds full copyright, giffy for use of tumbling animation. Both poem and poppies are my own.
I catch a noise before I sleep
The whistlers skulk about
Spreading fear skin deep.
Chirruping secret calls,
Hiding behind garden walls.
Disturbing young girls dreams I wake with terrifying screams.
I pull a quilt over my head,
Hide a torch beneath the bed.
Prepare to fight for my life
I take Mum’s vegetable knife.
It’s old and blunt, bent a bit
She stabs at spuds in the pot
To ascertain if they’re soft or not.
Armed, I squeeze Emma tight,
Her yellow suit warm and bright
She comforts me as I hum
a lulluby learned from Mum.
Doll and me are doing fine
Until music starts keeping time.
Through the crack, behind the bed
I hear the tune, inside my head,
Sweet and soft hardly heard.
Matching me word for word.
Spuriously stuffing notes in a sack
My sleep is wrestled into the black.
Sheets tangle around my legs,
like on the line, around Mummy’s pegs.
I can’t escape, I scream at last,
Sodden sheets and whitened mask.
Tapping her foot beside my bed
Mummy glares, shakes her head.
washed and clean no longer soiled
Tea is made …
For those who want to listen to me speaking the poem click the link below…
Written for A Halloween poetry competition press here to see all the wonderful enteries here Thank you Auroura for the opportunity.
A little Halloween can go a long way… What were you scared of? Or maybe you still are? leave me a comment I’ll answer quick smart.
Words I read dance on my tongue
Library books join in the fun.
A myriad of majestic lust
Move in a flurry of mite dust.
Turning pages straightening spines,
Composure coreographed in lines.
Come watch the Pas de deux
Girls Pirruette in clasic tutu.
A library putting on a ballet
Watched by books in the alley.
It began with the arabesque
Pointe at librarians desk.
They Gathered all in croisè
Danseur with a grande jetè
Prima ballerina took a bow
Books that dance holy cow.
My answer to a beautiful poem left on a passing blog JAMILA MURTAZA she asks what i would tell my six year old self. read it here
After reading her poem I leave this for her. I hope you like it.
I wipe the wet from my face
and wish it wasn’t so.
But as a teen there are still
horrors you don’t know.
Things that make myself gasp
That slip through my aging grasp
hate and fear don’t belong
To a girl so very young.
I have known so very long
that love resides inside a song
And despite the pain and dying air
this world is full of loving care.
Have a wonderful week.
Do me a favour stop by her place tell her I sent you, follow and comment, fill up the space. Her talent is to be encouraged by all of us here, give her a clap give her a cheer.
leave me a comment *whispers* it feels like I’m collecting a wage. 😆
W.H.Auden an inspiring Author poet playwright
My second choice is #leanardCohen An extraordinary man with talent that will live on long after he is gone. He will fill the heaven’s with passion and song. A thousand kisses deep.
|The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
W.H. Auden The most eloquent of poets my first one learned was this,The plan was to step up to the challenge to take 3 poets you love and use their essence to create my own on a canvas fresh, I began thinking it too huge a task and it was for me. How do you step into the arena with these? GIANT’S of men and words. I baulked at the idea of choosing my favourites; how the hell do you choose? This is how I did.
E.Lear my earliest remembered poem.
you see The challenge didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t choose my three favorite poets or even three poems, so there was a hope in hell of me publicly pitting my self beside them. And Cohen the voice that soothed a broken teenage heart. So while the going is good i lay some of the best before you… no competiton.
To see the exercise in poetry and to be inspired press 🔜 creative and good luck to those that can.😇
Has a challenge you meant to take been a step too far? or have you excelled?
And did you enjoy… slip answers gracefully into the comments i will feel as if i have somehow been forgiven for failing.thank you.
All thanks to #youtube and #google for providing the copies above.
I am not going physically,
I haven’t a secret key to a special place,
but an agent wants a look at my hope for a book.
For a while at least my work will be my feast.
Keep your fingers crossed for me,
it’s a learning curve you see.
Giving it a go may teach me
something I don’t know.
So I thank you all for your patience, loyalty and friendship. I will give this my best shot and if, just if I am sucessfull I will celebrate with you all. If I am not we can commiserate and learn for the next time. 😇