Skip to main content

Stones of Old



Tell me your song oh stones of old
of the summers that warmed you and the strike of the cold
the voices of song absorbed in your heart
the anger and fear that tore you apart.

Speak to me of church bells and whispered dreams
the rough hands that gathered your broken seams
the waterways that carried your bones of lime
the soft crunch of bread and red rivers of wine.

Who did you cradle in your shadowed arch
as the songbirds heralded the soldiers march
as battles raged in the skies ahead
and you sheltered your spiders in a stony bed?

Is the wear on your shoulders the marks of the wild
or the scrape of a heel from a venturing child?
Discarded windows frame the dance of time
Oh tell me your stories great stalwarts of lime. 

 

Emmalene

 

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Twisted Love

Twisted trunk and milky stream, A glacial meltwater on serpent skin. Whirling optimistic messengers, Coherent and flowing, Yet random and broken Waiting to be spoken. Snake bark maple, And milky stream, Twisted love and shattered dreams. Anon .    
View Poem »

Why Do the Sunflowers Smile?

                                                    Vincent van Gogh, 'Sunflowers' (1888) D o you have a secret? Are your serotonin levels so high? Absorbing yellow radiance, you seem powered direct from the sun. Bending benevolent heads you shower me with joy, with the abundance hoarded in your life-giving seed, stored up, it seems, for a future when heads hang heavy, sunlight recedes and winter has come again. Anon
View Poem »

Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
View Poem »

Insect Playground

Hidey holes and pockets of flowers Silhouetted with a lonely crow, watchful of artists. A jumble sale of geology, thoughts, and passers by; A granulated sugar platform Of sandy grains and apple pie. Abbey Tales Group  Poem
View Poem »

Very Important Invitation

V VULVA! Did I capture your attention? E Each of us have our own experiences, relevance, compliments & complaints to mention R Race, religion, gender – cervical screening has little constraints it’s about prevention and Y You are in control. I Investment in your health, time to talk, education about look & feel M More talking about our bodies, knowing the facts and questions we have all tried to conceal P Putting it frankly, simply and laid bare O Out in the open and then you find yourself sat in the chair R Red rosy cheeks, being asked about your periods, dryness, sex, safety and infections T That’s an odd question A And did the nurse forget to mention? N Not only do we want to do your cervical screening but we want to check your safe at home too T That’s the aim of our holistic game. I Invest in your time to learn, to read, to look after what you need N Now if you ARE in need we can promise you one thing can be guaranteed V Very Important Invitation will be here to advocate,
View Poem »

Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
View Poem »

The Rain

Pitter patter falls the rain, on the roof and window pain Softly softly it falls down, Makes a stream that runs around. Penelope
View Poem »

Lost Trainers

Damsel- dragonflies alert Trainers sky blue soon to fall in Upstream A clue. Lost trainers Of picnics much fun No more isolation a drunken throw In full river Flow. Anon
View Poem »

A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
View Poem »

Above a Sea of Fog

Caspar David Friedrich, 'Wanderer above a Sea of Fog' (c.1818) She once said I looked like a graceful swan drifting serene across the surface of the water, giving no clue to the feet paddling so furiously beneath me. It was a cliché, small comfort unless you are obsessed with appearances. His wandering, like mine, is threatened by the drifting mist that twists and turns, obscuring paths that lie ahead, decisions that weigh so heavily on lesser minds, not lightly made. Masterful he looks, above this boiling sea, so nicely turned out, so dapper in his neatly tailored coat, perched high above the reach of such disorder, never likely to muddy his resolve. Webbed feet paddle beneath me so constantly I am not always aware. I dress well, tie back my unruly hair leaving a wisp or two free to roam. I do not want to look severe. But the fog creeps. Julia
View Poem »