Rainbows

Rainbows..

Like echoes bouncing back from distant cliffs, questions return to me.

During steady rain and rebellious sun,

rainbows.

I looked out and felt the lift.

Giggling like girls, 

mum and I followed their climb with wonder.

I, with busy camera,

She,with clapping hands.

And then she asked me,

"Where do they come from? do they come out of the earth?"

I stopped.

Everything inside me,

stopped.

She didn't notice my intake of breath,

my sudden remembering of her diagnosis.

Too busy admiring, still smiling,

excited at this miracle.

I tried to explain, simply,

about sunlight and water.

She didn't care by then,

not much.

Today, after dinner,

she asked me why spoons made your face look up-side-down.            

Been scribbling, going low a bit.
Don't worry it's probably just hormones.
This is what came out-

Septic

There is caustic blood flowing round my head.
It’s different from the stuff in the rest of my body, this.
Maybe that’s the problem:
Maybe my head blood doesn’t travel enough.
It stays in my head.

Round and round,
Never cleaned,
Never pure,
Collecting thoughts upon thoughts,
Spinning them,
Colouring them
Darker and darker
In a septic cycle of
Spiralling circles..
No way to get out
Of my head.

 Oh, time for an Earl Grey and off to bed I think.

Falling

Sometimes you scribble down a poem, and it feels just right.
Then you lose it. Forget about it. You don't find it for years, and then, when you do, you think, "What on earth was that about?" Laugh, with embarrassment. Then throw it away.

Other times, when you come back to it, you think how it still applies, and therefore, perhaps, how little things, or the world, or you have changed.

I scribbled this one down in 1994.
I'm quite frightened to have noticed lately, that the overall sentiment is once again true.
Also angry, as I had been well for a few months, dammit........
I'm still fighting.

********

Falling

The things that brought me joy last week
today are just a chore.
I've mislaid their fascination
and am too tired to seek.
And I know that I am falling.

The love I felt not long ago
has been left out too long;
like butter in a room too warm,
there's not much left to show.
And I know that I am falling.

The things I used to dream about
are nowhere in my memory,
I cannot call for help for them;
no energy to shout.
And I know that I am falling.

I know too well what lies ahead,
I know this sepid pool;
the heaviness of my emptiness
will pin me to my bed-
Oh God, I am falling......

Leaving

Leaving

Like apostrophes,

swallows punctuate the sky;

gathering, to leave.

I'm always sad to see them go. It always happens mid-August here. But this year, I'm noticing their leaving more than ever because I've seen so many more of them around. Especially when I was up in Yorkshire a few weeks ago.

I miss their high-pitched calls, high up in the sky, and looking up to see them, up and out from the busy High Street in town. I enjoyed seeing them, while all around me the crowd of shoppers carried on regardless, unaware of the glimpse of wildlife above their heads.


So beautiful, so sweet looking. Goodbye, my innocent little ones. I hope for safe journeys for you all. Avoid the French shotguns. Avoid the Greek glue-traps. Come back to us safely.

Remembering

Remembering

I remember we need onions.
I remember my keys.
I remember the library closes early.
I remember to cross at the traffic lights.
I remember the bus is due.
I remember her face.

I feel the rain on its way.
I feel the cold seat in the bus shelter.
I feel the list in my pocket.
I feel the fare in my hand.
I feel the stuffiness of the bus.
I feel the shock of being hit.

I see children coming home.
I see birds flying south.
I see a man folding an umbrella.
I see a dog sniffing chips.
I see the lights changing colour.
I see a red handprint on my thigh.

"Keep busy. Carry on. Smile.
Turn off the bad thoughts."

I remember we need onions.

One Haiku Is Not Enough For A Friend

One Haiku Is Not Enough For A Friend

I watch my friend rest
at my side, paws curled in sleep,
eyelids tightly closed.

A flicker of tail,
a shudder ripples through the
fur, betraying dreams.

What night-thoughts does he
see, that stay out of my reach?
Mice and birds and hunts?

Perhaps it was just
a shiver of old age, a
warning to me: be

ready for the time
when I shall search for movement
through tears, and in vain.

Never mind. Rest now.
I will not let that future
sadness soil this peace.

And so, I watch him
stretch, yawn, pad, roll, sigh, curl back
into precious sleep.

Here's a little ditty I wrote...

This poem fell out of my head about a month ago. I'm on a creative writing course run by The Open University. The latest section was on poetry. I wrote this for an online tutorial. What do you think? I love it. And I don't love everything I write. I contribute vast quantities to the council's paper recycling scheme...

My tutor? He stomped all over it.

Young Blackbirds

Young blackbirds were dancing
this morning, in the rain.
I'd never seen that before,
so watched, standing there
in my new black suit:
young blackbirds, fresh and new.
Spilling the puddles,
immune to grief.