Newborn

Newborn

Years before your birth

When you were just a twinkle in my eye;

A speck of dust floating in the cosmos,

A thought, a need, a longing of mine,

With no physical existence,

I planned for your arrival.

Buying bootees and matinee coats

At jumble sales and church fêtes,

I collected anything to do with babies

To store away in a bottom drawer.

Boy or girl, it would not matter,

Thoughts of motherhood,

Of toothless smiles and laughter

Would fill my mind and days.

Before your beginning, I would wonder

Did you choose me for your Mother

In some pre-mortal world?

Could you see me collecting baby clothes?

Now you have your own newborn,

The same thoughts come to you;

You notice him gazing at things

That no-one else can see.

Some say newborns play with angels.

One day a bridge between the worlds

Is crossed; the newborn can't look back.

The veil of forgetfulness descends,

And the newborn has a task to fulfil.
*

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Oh where. oh where....

Oh, Where Oh, Where...

 I’ll open a drawer and what do I see?

Lots of odd socks and they’re laughing at me.

I’ll try to sort them but it takes all day -

There’s just got to be an easier way.

Oh, where oh, where can their partners be?

Under the bed there’s another three.

The washer’s devoured them - it must be so.

Or up the Hoover they surely do go.

Looks like I could easily fill a box

Right to the top with all these odd socks.

There’s long ones and short ones, old and new

It’s all too much like hard work for me – phew!

There’s striped ones, spotty ones, red and green

But matching pairs are nowhere to be seen.

All day long I’ll toil and then soon it’s night -

Next time I buy socks they are gonna be white!

 

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Under the Stairs

Under the Stairs

Cold is the night when the warning sounds

That dreaded wail which rouses us from sleep.

We grab warm blankets, a good book perhaps

And a flask - no time for anything else.

Tonight Grandma refuses to get up.

'I'll die in the comfort of my own bed'

She growls, as the Heinkels fly high above,

Homing in on our city by the sea.

We hesitate, too late now to reach the shelter.

Huddling under the stairs we begin to pray

To God or any deity who cares to listen.

The drone of the bombers grows nearer,

A hideous cacophony echoing overhead.

As these cruel machines of war invade our shore

We wait patiently for the all clear.

Shrugging our shoulders and shaking our heads

We wonder what horrors will assault us

As dawn breaks over our fair city.

Dad pushes the stair cupboard outwards

And everything in the house looks normal

A friend bangs abruptly on the front door.

'Thank god you were under the stairs she cries,

Hugging me closely.'The shelter was hit...

Eleven people in the street are dead.'

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Sands of Sentiment

Sands of Sentiment

Come walk a golden mile with me
And gaze upon a sunlit sea;
We'll search for shells along the shore
And I'll love you forever more.


We'll jump the waves and splash about
The sands of time are running out;
When walls and distance separate
Though loving you will be my fate.


We'll stroll across the sandy bay
The sea is calling you today
Things anew we'll soon discover
Here I know, we could be lovers.


Don't run and hide - he can't follow
You're still safe until tomorrow
Then going back will test our love
And I will pray to God above.


Don't you forget when you were free,
You walked a golden mile with me.
Those times are gone and now it's sad;
Did we cherish what we once had?

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No Flowers for Mrs. Jones

No Flowers for Mrs. Jones

  

Amongst chrysanthemums and crimson roses,

Clutching bunches of lilies wrapped in foil,

Mrs. Jones lays her perfumed posies

Upon the cold, bleak, hardened soil.

She stoops here in this quiet place of rest,

Remembering those loved ones gone before.

Her husbands, two - they were the best,

Both parents and five siblings are no more.

Each month she comes in duty to reflect

On lives long lost; so seldom brought to mind.

Whispering a prayer, she pays her respects.

One hope remains now she alone is left behind.

But who will come and flowers lay

When Mrs. Jones has passed away?
 *
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The Swimmer

 
 The Swimmer

He decided he would swim.

Always a swimmer.
Though no Burt Lancaster now,
The pools of life had been rich
And deep and as blue
As the ocean he loved.
No complaints.
No anguish.
No defeat.

His medals shone from their cabinet
Bright as the day he'd won them.
He decided he would wear the gold,
On the day he swam.

He would rise early
Wheel his chair to the beach
Perhaps when gentle sunlight
Sparkled on the water to caress his
Back as he swam.
A new day dawning
Over the sands.

Or gentler at night in the sea
Swimming below a full moon
And silent stars.
Companions to guide him
No sound but the lapping of waves
Cradling him.

Jagged rocks below his villa
Beckoned each day
Beneath his window.
Invoking irksome thoughts of spilled blood.

                              He decided he would swim.

While there was still strength in his bones.

'Soon,' he promised himself.

It would be as before his beginning
The cycle complete
First to the egg
And one in a million in life
Fastest and best in the water.
Always a swimmer.
Rivers of life should run down to the sea.

 *

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Sanctuaries

 Sanctuaries
  
A childhood den was my sanctuary in the bushes
Or the natural shelter of a Cornish cave.
In places like these I could be Tarzan,
Or Raquel in 'One Million Years B.C'.
A taste of the wild and the primitive
When the modern world offered nothing.
I'd erect a Bedouin tent between wardrobe
And bed with mum's striped beach towels.
Shut out the real world and construct my own.

Another welcome sanctuary for a loner,
Behind the stacks of mashed potato boxes
In Tesco's stockroom I'd make my lair,
preferring solitude to the smoke
And din of the staff canteen.

What now in busy family home
Where there is nowhere to run and hide?
What else but to retreat into your own mind
Becoming introspective, to preserve sanity,
Tapping into a sanctuary within.

In a state of panic one day,

Escaping noisy house full of feuding kids
I ran in tears to the brick-built
Bus shelter, opposite, and imagined it
With windows and a door, complete with brass bell.
Surrounded by a little, white picket fence.
I'd transform it into a sanctuary to call my own.

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Night Walker

 Night Walker

I missed the bus and swore last night:

Then forced to walk a mile or two,

I cursed the rain - bemoaned my plight

But soon my thoughts all turned to you.

You'd envy me that walk, I know -

To gladly breathe the sharp night air;

You'd gaze up at the moon's bright glow,

Cold raindrops running though your hair.

You'd marvel at the twinkle of a star

And splash in every muddy puddle

You'd not complain, the walk's too far

Or say your life's a bloody muddle.

But where you are the night's forbidden

The moon and stars are out of bounds

Even daytime skies are tightly hidden

Where metallic clanks of keys resound.

We never knew what freedom meant

Until it was cruelly snatched away;

We'll live our lives and be content,

Some day again - I hope and pray.

*

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