Cottage Down the Track

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
Narrator's voice



Cottage Down  the Track

A dog barked from the secluded home

tucked between forest and water,

protesting at being left while its people

set out on the track to the market.

A Spartan dwelling, one might observe,

but cosy enough, and very private, away 

from society's harm. Not for the gregarious,

it could suit the hardy and self-sufficient. 

On balmy nights the sound of the sea

would be sweet reassurance. Although

they can't grow all they'd like in sandy soil,

they can grow enough. And they fish.

                       *********

The startling reunion began with tentative talk

gradually replacing initial mistrust. After all,

there had been other loves of the heart, other 

memories and losses. There's no going back.

What there is, is the action called "going forward".

They haven't mastered that art, perhaps won't

in whatever time's left. But they have chosen

to journey the next part of the adventure together.

They don't believe in or expect the fairytale

"Happy Ever After". But they have learned there are

Guardian Angels, even for recalcitrant lovers,

and they're willing to take some new chances.

After Long Silence*

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 



After Long Silence

"Oh, darling!" I say in my heart,

"is it really you? This is a miracle!

This is all things marvellous." But

out loud it's not like that. No basking 

in each other's smiles ... or arms.

Her face freezes hard after the first

blank surprise, disbelief. She is not

the slightest bit glad, but rather, is looking

shocked to see me. I start towards her

and she recoils. Then she's laughing –

but bitterly, thinly, no hearty warmth.

It's clear she perceives me as intruder.

"It's been too long," she says in parting.

"I don't know you any more." Non-plussed,

I pick up a stone, add it to the old cairn.

She can't fail to mark the action

or it's meaning. She stops, hesitates, 

then slowly bends to reach for one of her own.

*The title also belongs to a poem by William Butler Yeats about a meeting between old lovers. 

Turning My Back

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
Her Voice 



Turning My Back

The burden of solitude can become 

habit, then preference, then pleasure.

Is it even possible to regurgitate

old words of connection long unused?

We'd need to learn each other

all over again – and not as before.

He seems earthy, savoury: basic and useful as

a root vegetable. A potato, perhaps, or a turnip.

Yet he reminds me too of mahogany, coated

protectively with beeswax and turpentine.

I, on the other hand, could use a refurbish, 

a polishing up. I feel raw, almost crude.

Whereas he has a burnish. How is this old man

able to gleam like that? (Despite ropey arms, grizzled hair.)

I am more like a saggy couch, I think, if we're furniture –

faded, and probably not even comfortable any more.

Fear is a spur, turning me sharply aside from this ... what?

Opportunity? I distrust fairy tales and happy endings.

Yes, a strange coincidence, to meet here of all places.

But I'm spurning, not buying it. It's been far too long.


Sharing with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #419

Making a Pilgrimage

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
His Voice 



Making a Pilgrimage

When I would rendezvous with her,

it was island, oasis, outside of time,
between the worlds. We were complete

in each other, free with each other,

uninhibited as creatures of fur or feathers,

wild and playful – and happy, happy!

How much further now, to that place

deep in the forest, that place where the trees 

merged, closing out the hostile world? 

It seemed to be all turning hostile then.

I was seventeen, and beginning to burn

with passions both political and personal.

On the verge of owning the world (we believed)

and planning to remake it closer to perfect,

in fact we retreated from it, to each other

and to our sanctuary. We raised a cairn of stones

back from the surge of the tide, hidden

from beach or path.... I know it must be near.

Stones in a Forest

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
Her Voice 



Stones in a Forest

We made a cairn of stones

where we used to meet,

so as to declare our love forever,

fair and square. We thought

it could be a kind of signal beacon –

a little like sending up flares

if we ever lost each other.

So we spared no toil or skill to make it

lasting – that we could always find 

and would always return to.

Somehow, we became careless

and lost each other anyway,

straying too far from our stones

and off across the airy blue 

in different directions. Now at last,

decades later, bearing old memories 

like invisible flowers to leave by a tomb, 

I come back. Well, I did swear to, 

then, when this was our secret lair

and we were foxes. I need the farewell.


Sharing with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #417.

Washed Up

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
Narrator's voice



Washed Up

They share a story, these two,

who were lovers briefly, once,

and since then have travelled far.

Where they have been, what done,

they cannot know of each other – 

it's been so long. But sometimes,

when she combs her hair, does she

remember him running his fingers

through it, and under its fall on her neck, 

before drawing her face gently to his?

Of course she does! And prays 

to Mother Mary that he is well,

wherever in the world he may be.

As he too, staring out at the sea, 

doing his own remembering, fervently

wishes that she may be happy 

somewhere (sigh). A foghorn blares

across the bay. He startles 

out of that old dream, shivering,

and puts the memories away.

They see themselves, each of them,

as old and wise – poor scared children

breathing, separately, the rarefied air 

of their refuges along this lonely shore.

He plays guitar. It's more immediate

than the piano he learned as a boy.

As for her, when she wants to tear a hole

in present reality, to find her own soul,

she sketches tiny pictures with charcoal –

a leaf, a gauzy dragonfly, a quick fairy....


Linking to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Treasure, on the basis that the poem speaks of these characters' treasured memories.

Transforming Into Hermit Crab

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
Her Voice 



Transforming Into Hermit Crab

Messy, sporadic, surreal ...

you might describe my life so.

For me it has its own music:

it is a flute, or a chiming bell.

I hold it sweet and very tender,

a small thing I nurture and cherish.

I see in others’ eyes they think me wretched.

By this I can tell that they don't see deep.

I am myself. I don't heed their scorn,

nor does it damage me or constrain.

I walked out of their world. I meant to.

Instead I have this universe here.

It may appear I took a header and fell –

it was head-first into Paradise.

My splendid isolation is rich with life,

even now scuttling around me unseen.

This inlet is a meld of plants and oh,

many creatures; how could I feel alone?

The secret is, I never see myself

as aloof, superior, apart from all this.

A Homecoming

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
His Voice 


A Homecoming

I was just a whelp

when we first came here,

the best part of fifty years ago.

Can I sever

this old man from the child

I was then, tasting heaven here?

My daily bread

suddenly became manna.

I still wish we'd never left.

Now that I've found again

the exact blend of elements

in unchanged perfection –

there is also terror.

It's the same I felt then

when we went away, lost from here.

I send up prayers

to a God I no longer believe in.

"Let me stay. Let me keep it this time."

Things I Must Not Say

Things I Must Not Say

He shows me the poem

with which he hopes to persuade

a beautiful young woman

to fall into his embrace.

It's hilarious,

even a bit frightening

as he threatens, I mean promises 

to explode with violent passion.

How can I tell him –

what she really wants is someone 

who doesn't think his dick will drop off 

if he does the dishes?

Deepest Love

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 

Deepest Love

Rinse away the grey

from my heart, blue ocean!

Tip out the sludge

from my soul, upending that

as the swift surf tosses me

when I'm careless or cocky.

I savour your salty kiss, dear sea!

Who needs mistletoe? You give me 

drowned weeds, intricate shells,

the weathered ribs of dead ships,

jewel-like fragments of glass

with the cutting edge smoothed.

Whimsical, skittish, moody,

even downright dangerous – 

still, you have never hindered

me from living my truth. Here

with you, I am free to be silly

or wise, stormy or placid ...

I am, perhaps, a reflection

of you, my true companion.

I drink you in, mother's milk. Or 

am I becoming other? Apparently fish, 

to disport in the shallows. Then 

shall I turn, dive, sound the depths?


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #414

Finger Painting

Finger Painting

Because I had jubilant splashes

of wine-red, purple, tangerine, mauve,

I could fling them at a page –

my hands wet and gushing,

my arms dripping, up to the elbow.

Because I had paints made from plants

and dyes mixed from various muds,

and huge flat leaves and plaited reeds,

I could sit or stand or lie full length

creating chaos, covering it with patterns.

Alone inside my engagement, enraptured,

I swished and swirled and scraped and piled

colours on colours, on reed or leaf,

shaping them this way and that

with my will, with my hands … like a god.

Prompted by Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Colour, and based 
on the poem (at that link) The Art Room by Shara McCallum.

Leaving Singing

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
Her Voice



Leaving Singing

The one who is missing,

the one we are missing,

sang her song of goodbye

quietly, before dawn

when no-one else was awake to listen –

except one, and he, misunderstanding, 

thought it a piece of flim-flam.

Did she finish, or simply

trail off, unwilling to utter 

the final words, reluctant

to fill the space with anything

so irreversible? Did she perhaps

catch a glimpse of that one

dismissive listener, and quail?

No, it was just 

that her prison doors opened

at the moment her song began,

and so her spirit lifted

off and up, out of the body,

immediately: the song's completion

hidden, beyond the veil.


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #413

Saint Patrick and the Snakes

Saint Patrick and the Snakes

So he ran the snakes from Ireland?  

So they say.

A jolly fellow, was he?

Raise your glass!

We can toast the lovely Saint

with happy unrestraint –

but as for me believing

all that Blarney,

no, I'll pass.

Did not the snakes of Ireland

slip away?

Were all the Druids butchered

wantonly?

See, I think all that's as maybe,

for where the woods are shady,

aren’t the Sidhe still roaming 

wild and free –

and aren’t we?

The Pagan “snakes” of Ireland

sneak to play

between the trees in moonlight,

cloaked in grey,

and underneath the hill

you might hear the singing still –

except it’s very secret.

But we never

went away.

At "imaginary garden with real toads" the weekend challenge is Blarney Me – anything about Ireland and/or St Patrick's Day. Well, as you see, I have a bit of a quarrel with the saint. Now, I don't have any Irish ancestry that I know of, and have never even been there, so I also don't know if there are any Pagans in Ireland nowadays. But I'll bet my bottom dollar there are! 

Contemplating My Friend Yasoda

Contemplating My Friend Yasoda

The lady of laughter

and practical kindness

has gone from sturdy to frail

in just a few months.

We think, when we hear,

"This many months left to live"

that they will be lived as normal.

Instead, dying's a progression.

In December I visited her at home,

in January at the hospital,

and in February the hospice.

She was smiling every time.

I gave her a bracelet of honey calcite 

labelled For Happiness. "A bit ridiculous,"

I said. "You're the happiest person 

I've ever known." Then I filled it with Reiki.

Her children thanked me as I left.

One of her daughters was cuddled up

next to her on the bed. The window view

was full of leafy trees. The day was balmy.

Last year we gathered for lunch

at the Rainforest Café – at a long table

outdoors, twenty or so good friends

feasting together on the bank of the stream.

I was sitting directly opposite Yasoda.

She threw back her head, laughing free –

but later patted her belly, muttering

about the hernia she thought she had.

I remember the time I said to her,

"Whenever someone's in need,

you're always there." She smiled, 

a trifle bemused. For her, it was just normal.

When our "wisdom circle" studied the book 

on the various origins of our souls,

it was clear to us all, she was Angel

incarnated here, still being of service.

This poem has no easy, obvious end.

As I write, her life hasn’t ended yet.

And even when it does – which now we hope 

may be soon – for us, she will not be ended.

14/3/18

Yasoda at the Rainforest Café, October 2017

Message received today:

Our Beautiful Yasoda left this Plane of Existence yesterday (Saturday 17/3/2018) at about 3pm.  She was surrounded by Her Loved Ones and had a Peaceful & quite Beautiful Passing.

She will be greatly missed by many but is now free from pain & safe and happy in the arms of The Divine. 

A Truly Beautiful Soul whose Heart Shone Always. 

In the Presence of Fear

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 



In the Presence of Fear

That first howl,

beyond the circle

cast by the fire,

seemed to crowd

or herd us,

no-one saying aloud

the sudden fear,

though all cowering.

The sour smell

of our sweat

brought us down

to the truth. 

This place, renowned

for certain "incidents",

shook with power.

Out there was 

no kitten's miaow.

Once we faced

our desperation – strange,

there came clarity

and sudden courage.

We built up

the fire, huge,

and took turns

guarding and sleeping

all night until

moonlight faded and

fresh day flowered.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #412

That Moment When ...

That Moment When ...

you’re reading

a book she’d have liked

and thinking,

when I’m done

I must lend … then it comes back:

two days gone, she died.

Another shadorma for dVerse MTB

Haunting

Haunting

What is that 

phantom I discern

through the fog?

Can it be…?

Yes! It’s that shadowy form

(whisper): shadorma.

At dVerse, in Meeting the Bar, we are invited to try a shadorma, a syllabic form with rather mysterious origins. 

Thank-You Letter

Thank-You Letter

My dear friend,

I wanted to thank you

You gave me a bookmark,

do you remember?

You chose it thoughtfully,

especially for me.

In beautiful writing, it says:

"My soul is tranquil and at peace."

And I realise, ever since,

it has been.

You are a worker of magic!

I should have known.

You tell the truth

and you give love.

Those are both

essential requirements

for good magic

that really works.

Bless you!

– Love and kisses.

Written in response to Karin's request, at "imaginary garden with real toads", for epistolary ("Dear") poems.

Still Coming For You

Written for the (fictional) series, "Edges".
Her Voice 



Still Coming For You

How is it that they who are younger

leave sooner? And look older, too,

for years before they go. The loud call, 

"Look, I've decided I'm elderly now"

must be attractive to waiting Death.

I'm not opening my mouth to say

any such reckless thing! If children

play unheeding, and my vow as guardian 

is that they be safe and free of worry,

this means I too must remain safe.

How proudly so many 

march over the precipice,

wowing each other with their daring –

or in some cases resignation –

as if there was no crash at the bottom.

The possibility of Death, it appears,

cows no-one. Do they think they'll go 

in a blaze, a shower of beautiful sparks

like an exploding rocket ...

not grasping how fast it burns out?

We who are left plough the ash

back into the earth. At least it's good

for something. New crops come up. 

Clown-faced scarecrows keep guard.

Death withdraws, murmuring, "Later".


Shared at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #411

Afraid of Grief

Afraid of Grief

It’s late at night (I suddenly notice)

but how can I go to bed –

to be alone with my thoughts

of my friend who is dead?

Instead, I’ve been reading

other people’s poetry;

I’ve been answering emails

and playing on facebook.

Earlier, I watched that show

we both enjoyed – stopped short

a moment, as this night she wouldn’t

be watching with me (in our different homes).

I watched it anyway, and even laughed.

I raised a glass of red.

“Watching it for you, Nan,” I said. 

But this time, I couldn't text her.

Then I went back to crying. Then

I started reading other people’s 

poetry, and answering emails and.…

It’s late. I can’t go to bed. 

RIP Nan Doyle, 26 August 1941 – 14 March 2018