Life is not full of beautiful gardens, scenic landscapes, love and fulfilment. Well, it is, but poetry is with you in the depths, as well as the heights.
Have you ever thought, 'I wish there was something I could read that said...'. Something that tells it how it is. Sometimes life is hard; some moments are not full of joy.
Poignancy in life - and in poetry - is here disguised by the title:
Angels' Wings and Stars.
Whatever you think about those eternal moments; those times of greatest loss; there is beauty and meaning in every rose that falls.
Some look for bird feathers. Some look to the skies.
Whatever, however, dip in here - there's a lot to read; packed with nature, light and dark, flowers and beautiful gardens, wildlife, and above all... our loved ones. Read on... Real poetry for real moments.
From the book:
EYES OF THE BEHOLDER
shuffling by with arthritic joints.
Deep crevices carved by the tears,
massed in a disorganised web.
Knobbled hands reach, clutching with cares,
grasping door jamb to climb the step.
The shapeless bright sack that she wears,
billows before closing the door.
Lowered slowly into the chair,
she rests on the faded old suite,
and contemplates whether she dare
risk mounting the steep wooden stairs.
Bedridden, the old man’s face smears
as she treads through the door with care.
Well-practised, she wipes away fears
and sits on a chair by his bed.
Stroking his hand, she seems to hear
unspoken, his thoughts of the hour.
With toothless grin she calls him, Dear,
wandering through his memories.
Like comfy old slippers she wears,
he peers through her visage, and smiles.
Snug fits this glove, worn tags to tears,
grief’s beauty grown in a lifetime.
SOLSTICE LIKE YESTERDAY
I remember that day so well, like it was yesterday,
the day forever after when the Beatles’ song moved me
to nostalgic tears; unsuitable at my age.
Sky so dark; the night I laboured into the shortest day.
Night felt like the longest, to deliver a firstborn.
Proud mum, blue-eyed blond-haired boy.
Mystique deep-breathes the blood-shot moon
in – you know – THAT month. I could make this happy,
but you wouldn’t believe me. How could you, unless…
Simply, I will say, he was beautiful.
Self: beaming for England, husband drove home
that day. The summer solstice, the longest day
Learning to change first nappy; breastfeed successfully;
sleep eventually; full of hope, the future.
I could say there were 19 happy years that followed;
we traversed Stonehenge regularly (or the M5/M4).
Would you believe me? How could you, Except, if you…
They were happy years. Hellish as life itself.
We learnt – everything.
(Oh, there are special mums out there; they say, no way…).
For us, he was our whole world.
Each sunrise/sunset, like the Mona Lisa:
perfect, impossible to explain, argue over
and yet; beautified on moonshine,
starbright, sunless days. Contemplate your own.
They were enough.
AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW
In the long ago forever,
when I was young and free
and my autumn-golden hair strands
danced like waves on gleaming sea.
Then my voice was loudly singing
through the rattling of dull chains,
as love’s itch kissed brash and freshly,
embracing hope’s remains.
Oh, what long ago for-never
captured spring’s Persephone:
in her sweet-step doom of flowers
faded bright in memory.
Will she brush against next season’s
sentient melodies’ embrace?
Where this winter chills her lively
to a joy-found faith-deep place.
Lover, cherish inner silence
of the damned breath’s coldest skin,
till those melting fleshly earthworks
blade and bud their wandering.
One day to shoot sky-daisies
in an ashen storm-blanched plain’s
darkened fulsome depths of richest
brightened dust-steps of remains.
But for now let us remember
Pluto’s rage of loved ones; gone
to that long ago arced rainbow
treasure chest where dreams belong.
