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Seasons


To each a season: the planets
Turn in Kepler's gyre,
Swelling the mental weather,
Fattening the wealth
Of light and dark I weekly
Feel in my own solitude.

To each a season: a death
Of what was hard and cold:
A burst of sun to break
My hoary sadness
And gild the shining tower
I build around your smile.

But let's not talk of sun
But speak instead of life
And all the things I feel
When living through mortality.
The lovely times
We feast and meagre times
We only feed on memories.

I have my seasons.

Tim Holt-Wilson
Poetry Theme(s):

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Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess
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Torn Apart

Afterwards it was a long process, two years rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out. She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk or camomile, paced all night. She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium and rose oil hot baths; and only talked to those friends who made her laugh. No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine frothing, drowning she fought for breath. She tried counting her blessings. She put on the lost smile, pretended. She made consciously positive statements about herself, about others. No-one knew. She went to happy places, spent time with good people. She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness. Sometimes, now, even after all these years words needle her memory, but that is the stitching pulling, snagging. Soon there will only be a scar. No getting over it. Just a mend to staunch the bleeding. Sue Foster
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Drying the Eco Way

Rope across the lawn and a long fork-ended wooden prop too heavy until I was eight. Wooden pegs on a shiny spring never two pronged ‘dollies’ until I was twelve. Then I was delighted by a 24 pack of red, yellow, blue, white and green and, joy of joys pink plastic pegs.  Plastic coated metal line-twine across the balcony on pulleys and reels to be hauled across the Calla Boucheria to the apartment opposite on Mondays, Tuesdays or Saturdays. They could haul theirs across to my hook on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Neither of us ever could or did, on Sundays. The wooden horse in a Muswell Hill bedsit dank, mouldy drying space for a single young professional trying to pay her rent. Wouldn’t use the in-situ white-goods dryer concern for the environment a principle. Too many work blouses and not enough space or money to be clean or crisp. Danish designed the eco dryer fits into a corner easily. It takes heat and drying time from a radiator. Hanging all your clothes a whole wardrobe...
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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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Decay and Madness

From the depths And gazing into the distance Strength not normality Fallen to the post. Long in sadness Decaying and madness. Kim
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Birch Tree

White bark shedding tissued layers And stripes across the brown earth deep leaf littered floor. Diamond shaped fissures Twigs with small dark warts Pointing to the sky. Light green Tooth-edged leaves Swinging to the wind. Jane  
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To Shed My Youthful Skin

To Survive Against at the odds of secure authorities And recognised establishments. I shed my youthful skin. I Thrive Against the odds I flourish and prosper Desolate and torn by institutions. The arrogance of the untouchables. Anon.
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Thoughts Beside a Stream

Flowing alongside water's edge An overflow of activity And constricted Jumbled thoughts. Broken passages and swollen memories of channelled energies And intermittent promises. Hungry vines Competing for light Succumbed to the fragility of life. Awash with echoed considerations Downstream they float Towards a bareness. Dynamic vitality Sparkling from the frontier Invigorated to the final source. Daniel  
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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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That Coastal Feeling

The coast revitalises My lost energies Downtrodden to the sand Amplified by the wind. Respects returns Armoured by the origin Enlivened by the presence Of drifting dunes. The shoreline beckons With drifting sentiments Forgotten and vast reflections Rendered unbroken. Jeremy
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