This heaven that she found
is the bush her father planted.
It carries fruit, raspberries
that will rot before they ripe.
She loves them even with the insects
living in there, as this is her childhood,
how it should be memorized.
She learns her history by heart,
in children’s songs and kittens play,
a swing and siblings running,
laughing through a Summer garden,
of a big and friendly house,
and never there is rain,
and never darkness.
She picks the memories to guide her
further down the road back home.
Archive for November, 2011
This heaven that she found
Not sure how this day will end she stands
giving water to the plants
that might survive the winter.
Her grandchild will be born today.
Though quiet is the room,
the clock is ticking louder now.
Geraniums are still in bloom.
The waiting occupies her mind,
making coffee keeps her busy.
A grandchild will be born today,
the coffee’s getting cold,
the clock ticks louder
so she covers both her ears.
And then there is that call.
She takes a breath of air,
a prayer of some sort is said
before she answers. “Yes?”
Then evening comes and you are still the same
a silhouet behind a window glass.
Today nobody here mentioned your name
and in the dark your face is mirrored blank.
The night is still to come and makes no change,
there’s nothing moving in the quiet house.
The bed, so useless to the mind, feels strange
with damp and bigger than a bed should be.
The sound the gas makes and keeps you awake,
while comfort of her scent has left you now,
it is the hissing laughter of the snake,
and morning never comes for your relieve.
The Jennifer Avventura Reader Appreciation Award <http://laavventura.wordpress.com” >
http://dribblingpensioner.wordpress.com passed on the Jennifer Avventura Appreciation Award to me, thank you very much Harry!
It is a nice idea to put the commenters on blogs in the spotlight, esp. because those who are generous enough to respond with a comment, often have interesting blogs themselves I learned! I can honestly say, if it hadn’t been for the support of commenters, I would not have written and posted the 300+ poems here. It is inspiring to find others also enjoying, for instance, poetry.
Now I know not everyone likes getting awards; if you are nominated and don’t like it, I do appologize.
The rules for this award:
Award your top 6 bloggers who have commented the most.
You cannot award someone who has already been awarded. And you cannot give the award back to me.
Don’t forget to tell the bloggers you’ve awarded.
If you don’t want to pass on this award, that’s okay to. Just admire it.
Link to back to the person from which you received it.
The Reader Appreciation Award goes to:
The person with the most comments here on the blog according to wp site stats, is Belfast David, someone dear to many people and a very good poet, but he has already been nominated by dribblingpensioner. 🙂 So no way José!
ThinkerBelle (Private blog)
Christine (Journeyintopoetry) http://journeyintopoetry.wordpress.com , a wonderful lady with a great heart and great talent!
Becoming Herself, she is amazing, http://becomingherself.wordpress.com her postings are intelligent and deep and her comments a treat!
LatterdayPsalmist, a very good writer! http://bitterhermit.wordpress.com
GoneCycling again, he has many talents! http://gonecyclingagain.wordpress.com
countingducks, great blogger! http://countingducks.wordpress.com
For some reason, I can’t link the urls at the moment, maybe it is wp, maybe it is me; I will keep trying. For the moment: Just copy and paste them I suppose!
The journey is over, the suitcases, unpacked,
are collecting dust again in the attic.
We know more now, we saw and learned.
But here at home, the house has changed.
The rooms are smaller and the light is different.
The cat has gone, maybe forever, and the neighbour’s dead.
And every piece of furniture hates us
for being left alone. The plants won’t give us their generous
blossoms. Every machine is reluctant to work.
Neglected homes take revenge
when you want to make a picture album
of your holiday. They call you traitor in every corner of the photo.
Val’s challenge On Val’s wonderful blog I found a challenge. I wrote a poem to go with this painting and I hope it turned out alright.
sometimes I see you in a morning cloud
a friendly face for just a second
then floating on in horror scenes
and never staying long to be the same
making me wish I could be there
along with you, move on in air and light
at times you pop up in a flower bed
between the colours I can’t name
you are in rivers when the sun is setting
across the water in some pink and red
where I see you drifting on
past memories and sweet forevers
I suppose it is not me
whom you are searching
in clouds and flowers
in singing birds and leafless trees
or in colours drifting to the sea
I see you anyway
in all that nature shows me.
There were no answers in the lake,
the water was too deep to take
a look of what is down there.
The silence though seemed well aware
of strings and grabbing boney hands;
all evil memories of you.
Under the surface then appeared
your cold and cruel eye to have
a stare of great contempt at me.
I took a branch to hit the eye,
it drowned, a wild and open scare,
in circles of the troubled water.
I turned away and said it all goodbye.
Later the words came by
to fill in the gaps
the images had left me.
Strong words made by unknown others
I knew now what they meant
and decided I should focus
on hating the events
rather than myself.
A child can not be wiser than a grown up
and should never be expected to be.
The images will never leave me
but come closer, an acne face
haunts me in unexpected places.
Kisses never can be right.
Don’t kiss me.
Don’t touch me.
The gaps in learning about love
and how to be a friend
the biggest, darkest gap of all
I never might fill up
but I am here
events are over;
I am not
I am living
happily ever after
for a while
Recently, 3 more people honoured me with the Versatile Blogger Award, and I am very gratefull for that. Thank you Christine, Maiyata and Scott!
More about this:
On evenings when the shade of silence came
in thoughts and whispered sounds, as nature spoke
about the day, now dark, but silently,
to not disturb our nearly sleeping minds,
on evenings when I felt you think of me,
there always seemed to be a singing lark.
My words to you, unspoken, he sang them
to remember well; when cold turned into
frost, he flew away, no sound he left me.
I knew that he would go to you, tell you
of my evening thoughts, and of my quiet
shades, as my silenced whispers he knew well.
He always did return the other day.
An Autumn evening was so calm, I sat
under the tree where now the leaves had gone.
Silence felt more present in the absence
of the singing. My lark lie dead under
the last of fallen leaves. Our love was done.