A place to pause for a poem
I'm pleased to share a few of my recent poetry ventures with you...
I think that I’m in trouble
For playing in the dirt,
Cos I’m going to be an astronaut
In a spacesuit, not a skirt.
My teacher stopped me playing -
Called me in to count her blocks,
But I’ve done counting already
When I found all my space rocks.
She wanted me to help her,
Make some pattern, don’t know why,
It’s sad that she can’t do it -
She didn’t even try.
Then I had to find my name card,
But she knows I’m Maisie Jane,
I’ve got my spaceship waiting
When I go outside again.
Argh - I’ve got to write my name now,
Can’t I show her over there?
I wrote it in the mud outside
With this twig that’s in my hair.
I love twigs and sticks and pebbles,
I collect them every day,
They’re my space food and my star tools,
When I go back out to play.
Asked if I could make a rocket
And how fast it would go,
But my teacher didn’t answer,
She didn’t seem to know.
I’ve got to make a hand-print now,
I don’t know what that’s for,
I want to find a cardboard box
And paint my rocket door.
In my head, I’m counting backwards,
Five, four, three, two, one...
Yes! I’m back in my moon mud pit,
Before ‘tidy-ups’ begun.
What draws the eye to stare upon the moon, when it's glow is full?
A beacon in the midnight sky,
A skipped heartbeat of mystery,
Watching us beneath, amongst our toil,
Returning our gaze with silent stare,
Softly hanging there...
THE MEASURE OF A MAN
How do you start and where do you look to find the measure of a man?
Not his height or weight but the mark he made in his lifespan?
The figures in his bank account,
The steps of a career,
The hours of time invested,
His hopes, his dreams, his fears?
Is it the races that he ran,
The wit of jokes he made,
The years of marriage that he shared,
The sacrifices paid?
The wisdom of experience,
The views that he has seen,
The games played with his children,
The places he has been?
How do you hope to catch it all?
Hold the details if you can,
For all of them together,
Give the measure of a man.
Summer 2020: Written in memory of my father - a quietly determined man whose loss is too great to measure.
Still in this place,
This place of calm,
To float on thoughts, thoughts to encapsulate
Blue sky thinking
Freedom of escape, de-stressing the mind
Bathed in the rays of the sun,
A sense of renewal begun
As a shroud of silken blue to enrobe,
To comfort, to complete, to pass unnoticed to the eye,
Save for sandy footprints from a dipped toe
An ocean of blue, expanding to the horizon to hem the sky and sea together
Such vastness in a microcosm,
A ripple, a wisp of cloud, a breath of a breeze,
Drawing into the soul,
Bringing a peace to the wrestling blue within,
Blue is a breath, a beat, a pulse
A place to be still, to reboot and refill,
Wide, far and insular blue.
YOU DON'T NEED TO
You don't need to tell me how to style and fix my hair
You don't need to tut or shrug about what I choose to wear
You don't need to limit me in what I choose to do
You don't need to hold me back from trying something new
You don't need to pigeonhole my skills in any way
You don't need to talk for me as if I have nothing to say
You don't need to write me off or say I'm getting old
You don't need to like itas you watch me break the mould
In these days of screens and online, instant information - it makes a change to receive something traditionally. Snail mail or special? Opening a handwritten letter with a Pocket Poem included is a little bit different.