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Twenty-First Century Willow

weeping willow with the sun shining through its leaves and a bench seat underneath
I have always been proud of my body:
lithe, supple, quite elastic. Watch me while I
bow to reach my delicately painted toenails.
I have always been supple.

My sturdy trunk withstands the wind which
gently stirs my slender limbs and sets me
swaying, tossed like the ocean’s waves,
rippling the fronds of my lime-green hair.

Don’t waste your pity on me. I have a reputation
for weeping but I am content with my lot.
I am not one of those weepy women
you love to despise. Snivelling, you call it.

I have always been flexible. Don’t let
that thought mislead you into imagining
that I am easily led. Supple, flexible,
I may be. Pliable, I am not.

If you are inclined to stay, we may indulge ourselves
in a little laziness. Rest a while beneath my boughs,
see how I catch the sunlight in my hair
and we will dip our toes together in the river’s flow.

I am a little moody, a touch melancholy
you might say, and inclined to droop.
There are times, I admit, when the river flows by
unheeding and I crave a little company.


Julia Duke

 

Photo by Jan Antonin Kolar via Unsplash

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Forever Searching

Search the walls Scan the corridors Express the highs Scribble the lows Writing explores The state of my mind.   Judith  
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Acronyms

PTSD PPE BA 2.75.2 Ratios, numbers, percentages “look after yourself…” they said. We were all Marcel Marceau feeling the invisible walls closing in. I was lucky, I could get out for 30 minutes Music in the car on the way home from the crem., to those invisible walls carrying the grief of the world on my shoulders and forever in my heart. Ratios, numbers, percentages “look after yourself… Suzanne
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So Much Yellow

There’s gorse, of course and sometimes broom, the lichens yellow on the tomb and every churchyard has its fill of lovely yellow daffodils. There’s dandelions and celandine and yellow primrose, I suppose, and fluffy yellow chicks are born and yellow toads from slippery spawn. And green is seen on every lawn, at April’s end the woods turn blue and tulips bloom in pink and red with drooping leaves in every bed but yellow bellows all around: spring’s mating call, a joyful sound. Julia Duke
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Woodpecker Squall

The five feathers of Autumn weather Were a woodpecker’s downed chatter Under an Oaks wings And the rain’s prism sang in my lashes Over and over Ring in fast skies September October The beak of the sky Pummelled the wood But I dried it’s staccato why By waving the feathers of my hand Until the spots merged Back to fine weather Then left altogether. Stephen Kirin
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Community of Stones & Souls

Timeless, resilient stones; Miraculous creations. Fractured, yet not destroyed; Revealing artistic beauty within. Assembled into a constructive entity; A purposeful community of stones. Timeless, resilient souls; Miraculous creations. Fractured, yet not destroyed; Revealing artistic beauty within. Assembled into a constructive entity; A purposeful community of souls.   by Adrian
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Ecocide II. Lost Madagascan Solitude

Sloping crystalline falling away skies nudge a luxuriant forested isle - wide-eyed tree-skipping lemur-strewn  - obediently it slides eastward, ever further distant from anchoring shores. A boat-less earth. Hunched up blood-licking apes locked into fruit-held rift valleys. Sharpening their flints. The sautéing sifaka, jitters, nervy, princely pirouettes. Esoteric treasure trove, trust-bound, assembled exotica anciently unfolds. In solitude, a jolly party contained together in pacific balance: reptilian bug-eyed chameleons sure and slow-footed, shy slinking Fossa, a lone long-fingered aye-aye absentmindedly tapping out dangerous omens in primeval morse code. Waves crash, anguished howls - one rogue boatful with hungry bellies and hatchets. Chameleons adjust multi-coloured jackets - to hide away fast. The island’s grizzled chains slip their moorings grind down Noah’s Ark of charms. Axes sear, slice, ricochet Malagasy’s pristine wonders slump - wounded, bloodied, defiled. The world’s ...
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Post Traumatic Stress

Your steps alert yet furtive, Your actions so subdued, The walls you'd built around yourself, No others heard or viewed. Your senses sharp and heightened, Reacting to small cues, Kept memories lingering in your head No others heard your news. Self protection served its purpose, Of course, and that made sense, But little did you know that, It was all in the past tense. Relief it was short lived, in fact, The price that was to pay Was that years had passed before your eyes With not living in today. So walls built strong like concrete, Impermeable to most, Restricted you so badly, With the past a haunting ghost. Those dreams seemed like reality, Like you were still right there, The terror you experienced then again, Unjust and unfair. In later years you found a way, A chance to start again, Each gentle step to live once more, Crawling gently from your den. Putting back the chaos, That ran amok inside your head, Gave you strength to start to live, And deal with all the dread. Then pea...
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Who Is Saving The World?

The recycler, bicycler, bio-masser and solar paneller, the sustainable developer, the charity worker, the medics (sans frontieres?), fundraisers and carers, givers and listeners, growers of organics, designers of biodegradables. Genetic engineers? Surgeons and researchers, forgivers and forgetters, Billy the bug hunter, Immy the mathematician, Troy the paratriathelete, Wendy the wigwam maker. The ones who go last, the ones who smile, the ones who don’t want to argue about it, the ones who give up their seat, the ones who calm a storm, the ones who cook up a feast, the ones who sing praises, the ones who shine, Auntie Gwen and Malala…… ….and I drink water from a glass bottle. Sue Foster Image by Fernando via Unsplash .
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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
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The Pandemic

Unprecedented Unprecedented Unprecedented Present distress repeated, repeated recent disease breathed present unprecedented, sent in coughs. Cough, cough, cough. This disease sent on the air. Cough, cough, cough. Unprecedented present breathed in unprecedented disease breathed out unprecedented hand-washing unprecedented deaths dent the present. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe out. Dented breathing. Cough. Present deaths unprecedented. Enough. Too many deaths. Too many people. Too many families. This time Covid19. Another SARS disease present. Unprecedented but not unexpected 2020. Sue  Foster
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