I must have said the words a hundred times that night
close to mother’s ear , in hushed voice with shushes,
‘sleep mam, sleep,
try to find your sleep’.
to an ear that had heard my first ever cry,
and the first sounds uttered by three others.
A shell that had heard the lap or crash of many sea tides.
pinned back for orders in service as a Wren.
A vessel generously lent, often bent,
but thrilled by a husband’s laughter.
An organ that balanced her true singing voice
given in celebratory song for her belief,
that absorbed a bible and Salvationist’s songbook.
Open to aid all others, never deaf to need
this was now the phone for my repeating
‘mam,
try to find your sleep’.
Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’
. . . find your sleep
Posted: December 28, 2016 in family, Health and wellness, Intimacy, lost, love, People, Poems, portraitsTags: Family, Life, Poetry, relationships
‘follow the sun’
Posted: July 16, 2016 in inspiration, memory, People, Poems, poetryTags: destiny, dreams, people, Poetry
1
riding out, on Matt's quarterhorse, Marky's pinto and cool Luke's thoroughbred, towards the house of John's good cheer, hear only our loose laughing tongues and horse breath in still, hot air. Then startled, sudden prancing, the horses turn a kick, no one fell, know calming tricks, check out fetlock or missing shoes. But, then on the trail comes around a guy with a gun, slowly smiling, but with no fun any horsesense can smell. He offers g'ddays and asks the ways to 'Peter's Grand Gatehouse', he's "following father, as any good son", looks worried tho, just like those folk whose trigger finger, will soon see them done. To lengthen wear of his saddle we tell him ride 'westward keep following the sun', and, on his calm, fine, snowflake Appaloosa to the frontier of the horizon, can hear fading... his sprinting horse's foot fall, drum an' a drum, drum an' a drum, drum an' a drum.dwk
. . . . . . . . love is the best disinfectant
Posted: February 3, 2015 in Brain Health, Disability, Health and wellness, Poems, RamblingsTags: 2015, Health, Mindset, people, Poetry, Side-effects
ripped from sleep’s desert
I punch air and leap
into the days pain
roll from dampened moss
that was our bed,
and the mechanics begin,
the automaton who has
fouled the grave, again,
rises as smoke out of fire
but there are no ashes to clear.
A new dawn, new sheets?
and planted on a towel erect
an overturned soda glass
within the sheets
to assure an arid place
in this mattress creek
for arms of understanding.
dwk
. . . . . . . over there
Posted: August 5, 2014 in Intimacy, love, memory, People, Poems, relationshipsTags: 2014, Love, Memory, Poems, Poetry, Togetherness
like a canyon’s span
the space between us
is now immense.
that speck of light & shadow
over there,
was once our planet,
was our delight of tactile warmth.
the prism of touch that brings bliss
beyond lips and hands.
the rock over there, where she stands
is her life sphere, her family and friends
that’s not my place,
over there.
but laid out like a drill sample
for inspection on electronic pages
it churns emotion like the blade
that pulled this strata cylinder
out of the background.
separated by existence itself
life has slipped through fingers
to make our places, there and here
and lost, infinite possibilities,
had I not leapt from the rig
over there.
© dwk
. . . . slipping, shifting shingle
Posted: June 28, 2014 in Intimacy, love, People, personalities, Poems, SeascapesTags: Love, memories, Poems, Poetry
was it ever quiet? were we ever still?
every day a struggle to master the storm? gusts of passion drove us from youth and innocence. love was tempestuous and softness and fragility became hardened. deep scars healed, taught and changed us. left us clinging to rocks in a sea of fears.
was it ever quiet? as we made our passage from ignorance to knowledge. were we ever still enough to find the stars, to feel tide flow, to plot our course? we hurled ourselves against the breakers, blind in passion within the foam and clasping hands, struggling for balance, for a foothold on the slipping, shifting shinglestone.
were we ever still? as bitter brine washed wounds with wet and cold reality, cooling the ecstasy of experience and now here, aloft in the safe arms of the rigging, over a green grey sea I search horizons for that elusive point of light and persist in hope,
a moment of peace in the skyline of your deep eyes and the sun of your smile.
for V
©dwk
. . . . and even time given
Posted: November 2, 2013 in Brain Health, Health and wellness, love, People, PoemsTags: destiny, fate, Health, Love, Memory, Mindset, people, Poems, Poetry
the edge of the bed
where hearts bled
help proffered, even comfort given
but the stain remains.
where vanity released,
partners pleased
and even time given
but the shame remains.
where time slows
and frames per second bend and bow
relief from weights given
but the life span remains.
where sunlight stripes
where smiles touch
looks and contact given
but the pain is sustained
and hours passed, time taken
on the edge of the bed
where this was written.
©dwk
as if. . .
Posted: September 16, 2013 in Neighbours, People, PoemsTags: Friends & Neighbours, people, Poems, Poetry
we dust in England
now that winter’s here
with thoughts of Caribbean shore
where the water’s clear,
while fighting with the furniture
cleaning clogs her mind
with the sand of golden places
and how to make time rhyme.
The bang and clatter of the chairs
drums of the swinging dance,
of carnival, now greyed away
in spots of rain and mirror spray
the kaleidoscope and spectrum play
upon her greatest fear.
Only to clean once a week
and not find courage for release
from such slavery to visit
such a glorious beach!
dwk
. . . . reflection
Posted: November 13, 2012 in love, People, PoemsTags: Love, Poetry, relationships, solutions, trial & failure
You see,
the problem is the solution is:
it’s broken, adhesion
in pieces: willing togetherness,
dull shards bright futures
of expectancy, of a full life,
lost euphoria, that awakening
fragments of intimacy. engagement
Thrown many times in a single glance,
dropped so often, caught in closeness
it no longer has a chiming bell
a pulse. a passionate throb.
It so depends on how you look at line or range.
dwk
. . . . . woe is 01110001
Posted: September 26, 2012 in Computers and Internet, Education, People, PoemsTags: computers, interdependancy, pen & paper, Poetry, technology
at every opportunity to write to thee
I cannot bring the stain to be
of ink on paper or on screen
for yours to be seen.
Curious, that ‘seen’ and ‘screen’
have not always been
of such close association.
Technology advances vision
by dot refreshing provision
disseminating all information,
binary packages reassembled
now even, on television.
But yesterday,
a pharmacist, of all professions,
could not supply, a price or receipt,
because……………..?????
the screen could not achieve the feat!
Woe, because the machine hadn’t catalogued
categorised, calculated or computerised
what if the net be diminished?
The comment, when I suggested pen & paper?
“You know, my grandmother asked recently
when was the last time you wrote
a letter?”
dwk
dwk
……. reverence
Posted: July 20, 2012 in Poems, relationshipsTags: Love, Poetry, relationships, self-belief, self-respect, way of the heart
Division destroys,
it locates the smallest crack
and levers particles apart.
The way of physics also seems
the way of the heart.
As unison employs
the healing of conscience
and setting aside of self.
Stable partnerships flourish
enveloping us, in love’s wealth.
Self-respect is only achieved
through reverence given.
No 3rd verse
Posted: April 13, 2012 in Brain Health, Health and wellness, PoemsTags: destiny, fate, Poetry
The diagnosis may be for long life
or to be on a shorter tether
and the dynamic of such restraint
are circles decreasing in diameter
less range, each turn
more decrepitude each cycle.
But,
the prognosis surmises lesser strife
you could have hit me with a feather
in fact, a portrait of oil paint
raising hope for ever after.
More an image of pink pattern
less the reality of life’s pickle.
And,
A third verse? No,
misuse of sayings, simile or metaphor
should end, caught in tangled tackle.
dwk
silver birds fight
to find the wheat land waypoint,
struggle with the south westerly
blowing sunday’s sky clean
of white tales.
Sideways glides and power compensations
make the place of turns
then, at waypoint hammersmith
elements batter and bend flight.
Trying to find the waypoint for approach:
laser, satellite, computer and synapse
battle to hub, eyes and seatbelts tight.
But the calculation obstacle course
of raw natural power
runs away from waypoint goat farm
or row of cottages on the heath.
dwk
who could be the robber,
who could, take it away?Or you deprive:
the loss of fertile fantasy,
happy dreams, light bulb ideas,
human synapse electricity?Or is there a component missing,
a toothless cog or some circuit broken
that once gave you
the high gear of emotion?x
dwk
I don’t know
if it’s “alright”
I don’t know
but have this to fight.
The shaking battles,
and the quaking rattles
and all the time
I feel I am about to begin
Never ending,
an infinite fight,
because at the start
all the time means
there is no flight,
and this perpetual
readiness to begin
means I don’t know
if it’ll be “alright”.
