What have you been up to since high school?

I’ve been doing that thing called learning.

Every day I have begun again.

My life is like a candle burning.

In the fires, I have found my Zen.

 

I live in a world filled with anarchy.

I have battled the front lines of darkness.

I have stood with my friends in unity.

I have fought to bring back their sparkle.

 

I have studied Durkheim, Weber and Jung.

Travelled the world with Mr Bryson.

Found Shakespeare in a crowded room

and Chesterton in darkest London.

 

I’ve climbed atop Arthurs Seat (Scotland),

and rode a plastic cart down the Great Wall.

I’ve drunk Champagne on the banks of the Seine

and got lost in a Kowloon mall.

 

I’ve driven along Australian highways

in my beautiful Red Capri,

I’ve swum about Port Phillip Bay

and watched the stars on the drive to Sydney.

 

I’ve felt the emptiness of waiting rooms

and drunk coffee that tastes like piss

I’ve felt the skies roar with thunderous booms

peace and miracles are my Christmas wish.

 

I’ve worn different characters and costumes,

they have called me Chum, Alice and Red.

The weirdest one was in a ballroom,

and like Cinderella, I danced and fled.

 

I have laughed until I’m blinded by tears,

and cried till I couldn’t breath

moments made memories through the years

of my friends, my family and me.

 

What have I been doing since high school?

Well, simply put, it’s just like this

I’ve been playing the game, learning the rules,

creating memories to reminisce.

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Ode to an old photograph

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Nestled in between some ageing letters
the bright young face of a family tree
captured time is a historic treasure
another life for my great Welsh granny.
Why did you girls cross the River Severn
and pitch your tents on England’s mighty shore
starting a trend of nomadic children
far from the valleys we found our heaven
London, Surrey, and the Devonshire moor
exchanging tales on the pavilion.

You left the world before I could breathe
before you eldest son had a daughter
You are a fairytale I want to believe
studying every corner of your picture.
I have the copper hair that curls and twirls
I have the deep hazel eyes of wonder
I have the Welsh blood running through my veins
and with every dream of this little girl
your memory echoes like a roar of thunder
in your granddaughters hearts you shall remain.

Written for Writing 201

Drawer (things you find inside) > Ode > Apostrophe (talking to someone or an object)

The person I am talking to in this poem is my grandmother, Iris. She married my grandfather shortly after the war leaving Wales behind and travelling the world while my grandfather continued to serve in the army. She passed away a year before I was born leaving behind six granddaughters and two grandsons. Four of whom she never met or knew existed. I have an old photograph of her for as long as I can remember and have always admired it quiet curiosity.

Carpe Dium

I see you in our little coastal town
a photo awakens a reels of memories
of childhood antics on rocky beaches
and Welsh mountains that we would race down.
A traveller of the last century
I remember how you could spin a yarn
We would laugh at your terrible acting
every moment you made legendary.
Written across a tattered birthday card
printed like a human type writer
said the infamous words “Carpe Dium”
words that are tattooed in my mind and soul
as the world twists and turns without you.

Inspired by We Drink Because We’re Poets prompting us to reawaken a so-called dead language via a Latin proverb. I chose ‘Carpe Dium’ meaning to Seize the Day.

#NaPoWriMo Day TwentyFive – “Dear Sir…”

Todays prompt was inspired by my other interest in researching my family history. The journey took me and my dad to the New Forest where we found the church my great great great grandparents were married (and presumably) buried in. I remember sitting in the churchyard thinking about what I would say to them if I could…

 

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Dear Sir

Looking out from St Andrews

last May – it was a lovely day

the sky brushed in shades of blue

we’d been wandering the forest

studying Landford – tracing

you – on an ancestral quest.

We found you on this country hill

reaching up into the heavens

coated in yellow daffodils.

The world you knew is history

the young’uns migrated to the Smoke

why it’s all a mystery…

But, here stands the same ol’ church

of course in your time it was new

much like that weary silver birch.

Are you in the breeze about these stones?

Listening to my quiet whispers

as I ponder this place – your home.

Do you know we are related?

I’m your grand daughter’s grand daughter

and wanted to say hello – albeit belated.

 

 

#NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen – “a weeping angels woe”

 

Alone in the churchyard I watch

mortals mourning in tears and flowers.

Leaning against a rowan tree

abandoned by my family.

Beneath my feet a girl is weeping

I open my arms and kneel down

In surprise, she looks up at me

screaming like a startled crow.

She runs back through the stone and grass

reaching out to her, I follow

She turns to me – her eyes are cold

and zap – she’s now in the past.

Falling through time – I am weeping;

my eyes hidden behind grey fingers.

Left within eternal sleeping

this is where my Winter lingers.

#NaPoWriMo Day Five “Tin of Air”

Today’s challenge was inspired by this Gogh painting which reminded me of a story my dad told me about my great-grandfather and the long line of Welsh coal miners in our family. The poem itself is still a work in progress but I thought I’d share what I have so far…

 

Vincent Van Gough

Vincent Van Gogh – Sorrowing Man

 

Jus’ a weary Welshman, these days

sittin’ quietly in me lounge chair

all the young’uns are around me

they don’t know me tale, they don’t care.

Young ‘arry came up from London

now, spittin’ image of his mam

can’t be more than six or seven

such a clever little man!

“Bore da, Grandad” he says to me

and looks up with is bright blue eyes

he asks me about me birthday

me tears I try hard to disguise.

Give us a tin of air, me son

so I can speak without getting puffed.

Give us a tin of air, me son

so I can stop feelin’ so stuffed.

Me heart belongs to the valleys.

Me lungs belongs to the mines.

Me legs belong to the colliery’s.

Me soul, is jus’ a prisoner of time.

Jus’ that weary Welshman, these days

rockin’ quietly in me chair

all I want for me birthday son:

“Jus’ get us a big tin of air”