Peace comes dropping slow

Peace comes dropping slow.
You know,
I wish it would?
With every sinew, and blood vessel,
heartbeat and breath,
with each vein, in each life giving tendril,
from my bones:
coccyx, sternum,
cavicle, humerus, radius, ulna,
carpals, metacarpals, tarsals, metatarsals, and phalanges.
From my pelvis, femur, patella, tibia and fibula.
From my soul.
Peace comes dropping slow,
I wish it would.
Let's work on it.

My father's father's face

The profile of the past etched out on thick drawing paper, delicately and gently, in 1962.

I never met him.
Yet I see him now, gently cast in a new and toddling face, frowning, exploring.
I don't know him yet.

He never met you.
Lyric, he might be; scholar he is; artist, we'll see; dancer, he tries; teacher, he will be; farmer, I hope for; bee keeper, we need; father and grandfather, we pray.
Your father's face, Da. 

The past casts the future after all.

Dandelion Clock

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
the dawning of a brand new day.
Fingers clasped on hopeful stems,
the world entire gently carried
with fragile smiles.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
rushed, running, turn and say:
'I love you'.
We are released, encouraged,
and so proceeding on and on.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
another generation
learning and growing
under the regular sun and water
of the words and gestures we use for each other.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
One gentle gust, the world departing,
dearly beloved,
loving mother, father, husband, wife and friend.

In everything you said and did,
we learnt from you.
Tick, tock, dandelion clock. Stop.

Going global

I sank into the bath
and nobody called.
I luxuriated under soft silken bubbles,
dipped my head listening to the watery silence.

Dolphins crested the glistening foam,
and carried me to Africa
to see efalants, wildebeest,
and a giant moclius bird
with two beaks.

In India I met a monkey
whose hair was red.
And a great green crocodile was caught
gawping in my direction
looking hungry.

A komodo dragon dribbled dangerously
near my warm and neatly folded towel
in China.
And an anacodona waved his head
as I surfaced and heard:
'Where's mummy? `
'South America', you said.

Rock

Your rock
is secretly pumice stone,
gets all frightened when shes alone.
Afraid of the dark.
and dragons and monsters under the bed
even though she knows
they are only in her head.

Your rock
is petrified that she might shatter
but it doesn't matter.
A molten heart is pounding,  
reviving.
Mothers rise
eternal.

Bed

I sleep in snatches,
Sandwiched.
Peaceful forms on either side, 
pinned close to feel my skin.
Sometimes the cat also finds a niche of warmth.
I dare not move, my stillness and heartbeat the harbinger of peace.

I awake and am lonely in company.
My hip throbs and back pains.
I listen to gentle breathing, dreaming, heart beating.
I wish, long, ache to be where you are now.
Asleep, alone and in the company of dreams.

Out like a lion

You sprang out
like the lion of March,
and we snuggled you into a lamb.

As new leaves unfurled
so did you.
And you blossomed
like the long awaited spring.

November Birth

When all the leaves have turned to gold,
and laid a carpet at your feet;
when the wind finally turned cold,
you and I did meet.

Year turns year on year,
leaves fall and crown ground,
the wind whispers in my ear
your name, your birth, my becoming.

At sea, blue

Deep milk blue,

the innocence of you. 
Your eyes dependent,
loving, needing,
sleep depriving,
limpet clinging. 

Deep silk blue, 
the playfulness of you.
Your eyes sparkling,
laughing, asking,
security seeking, 
safely anchored to me.

Deep grey blue, 
the loving of you,
your eyes alone.
Desired, cherished.
Safeguarded. 
Mainstay, 
my heart tends to you.

Attend flashing green eyes.

Set your course home and live on these rocks with me. 
I'm at sea without you, 
blue. 

Truth

Wisdom to learn

Knowledge to reason

Judgement to listen

Courage to speak

Understanding to love

Reverence to worship

Wonder to live

Winter was coming

I didn't see the seasons,

I missed the glistening, powder puff snow
that lay on the cold, hard ground
only fading away at Easter.

Crashing thunder and a deluge
which soaked the fields,
quietened and dried without a second glance.
New green leaves unfurled alone. 

Then the sun beat down hot for months on end.
Summer clung on in warm strong winds.
Conkers fell all at once. 

All I saw was you.

Then I looked up and winter was coming.

The Last Day of Us Unshared

It didn't go to plan.

Much was left undone. 

Your arrival tore me in two
and made me the one
to care for you
in every waking hour, 
to mind you with your brother, 
to teach you two to love each other. 

And whilst now I must be torn again
and divide myself between you three, 
my husband and my boys.

In six months unshared,
I hope the one thing I did not leave undone

was to pass the love, and peace and gentleness
you gave me at your birth
back to you, and to our family.

Enfolded

One year.
One year you've been in my arms,
not counting the months
you grew inside me.

One year and nine months -
let's face it -
you didn't know
you weren't me

until one day -
you became you -
 - and I became I
once more.

But, I am still you,
defined by love.
My image remoulded
because you're enfolded

in my arms.

No you

I saw from the window of my car,
As I was speeding by,
An old man.

He walked like you, Da,
one short shaky step after another,
looking forward with concentrated eyes
that told me in no uncertain terms
that this was work.

The world had changed
from a place of confidence and freedom
to a whirlwind of frighteningly infrequent familiarity.
Parenthood, no you.

You would, as you walked on your shaky pins,
give a characteristic wave and a happy smile.
To see a friendly face, a welcome in the road,
made you happy.

Now, I looked in the rear view mirror,
and glimpsed the new,
my unfamiliar, familiar future.
The one I named after you, Da.

And I wanted to stop the car,
and chase after the old man,
and show him,
and watch him smile,
that I might glimpse what your smile might have been.

How precious the young,
how precious the old.

TwentyPoemsYoung

I just want to keep a record of some poems which I draft every now and then, and collect them like stamps, so I can look again. They may become 'used' and 'redundant' - kindling for the fire, but perhaps, just one, might become a 'collectors item'. Even if the only one who collects it is me.