Strength

I never saw how small you were,
How birdlike was your frame,
I never saw those tiny hands,
How frail you became.

I never saw the sinking cheeks,
The papering of your skin,
I only saw the powerhouse,
The strength that burned within.

Yet now I sit beside your bed,
And watch you drift away,
I marvel at the life you’ve led,
And silently bid you stay.

It hurts to rise and leave your side,
To kiss you in farewell,
But in my heart your echo sounds,
Forever there to dwell.

 

 

Leaving Loved

Don’t go now
Don’t go yet
Yet you must
Yet you will
Will leave me
Will spirit hence
Hence my anger
Hence my tears
Tears for you
Tears for me
Me being selfish
Me who must let go
Go then softly
Go then gently
Gently wish farewell
Gently slip away
Away from pain
Away to him
Him who waits
Him your son
Son you lost
Son you’ll find
Find peace at last
Find peace together
Together we wait
Together we listen
Listen to your breath
Listen to your life
Life that’s leaving
Life now quiet
Quiet room
Quiet days
Days to wait
Days to share
Share the laughter
Share the memories
Memories that ache
Memories that sing
Sing the loss
Sing the love
Love is here
Love is here
Here with us
Here with you
You are loved
You are loved
Loved forever
Loved and leaving
Leaving …
Forever ….

 

For my Granny, for whom my world now holds it’s breath. 

Ego – an Overreaction

I cannot write a poem
for your wedding
and I’m dreading
the point at which
I’ll have to ditch
the spiel
about being honoured
and admit
I’m feeling bothered
by the whole damn thing.

It’s not that I don’t care;

I do.

But I’m not yet ready to share
and square
my words with you,
who, so quick to ask for
a poem of your own,
never asked to be shown
any
of my previous writing.

I have written poems for you.

The two of you,
who stick like glue
and live together in
your perfect love story.

I think you’d like to see them

and smile when they touch
on touching knowing,
tenderly showing
my love for you both.

But I can’t.

I won’t share my written soul
with one who reads
only to find herself.

I must not write
for your approval,
to earn validation
through my self-removal
from these poems that
were never
truly
about you.

So please ask me
about my writing
and I’ll
delight in
the chance to
show you
the innermost workings
of my soul
but let that insight
be your goal.
And then,
hopefully,
you’ll know enough
to see
your self
reflected back at you,
through the story
of one who loves you.

26.01.2018

These newborn eyes of bright surprise
blink fresh and wise
on a world that’s
held its breath
for her.
Each shell ear,
hat wrapped,
set to hear
the call of an unmuted universe,
that whisper of potential
yet to be dreamt into reality.
She is a love-chalked slate
marked on this date by
joyous welcome
for a little girl,
a brand-new soul,
whose eyes of bright surprise
are already awake with life’s promise.

 

For a new little friend and the beautiful road ahead of her xxx

Anonymous

My identity is
meant to be an
open book,
there for you to
take a look and
judge me
(if you will)
because I’m not supposed to mind
if you don’t find
this
attractive.
But I hide behind
my nameless blog
and, shameless, slog
to get my ideas
and hopes
and fears
to cooperate
and operate
as one cohesive chunk of writing
that might be exciting
to a reader.
For shame, I attach no name
to my imperfectly honest soliloquies,
though each one of them
frees me
momentarily
from my fear and reality.
What if some of my thoughts
are not right
enough
to be
the kind of stuff
I want others to see
of me?
I, as Miller’s Loman,
am desperate to be

Well Liked

and, fine,
if you’re unreasonable,
it’s feasible
we won’t get on
but this pen is
not yet ready
to speak direct
to those I respect
for fear that they will
lose their respect
for me when they see

what I am

who I am

who I truly am

when I am me on paper.