Posted in Family, Life, Writing 201

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.

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2014, Family, Life, Time

#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”