So, all the poems in here is a draft / unfinished poem. Typed or dictated as I wrote it. Much like my notebook, when I write, I don’t imagine other people read it! poems that perhaps need more editing, poems that are perhaps a little personal.... we will see The text in italic are a forward or to help set the tone of the piece.
Roll over again,
I want this to be of hope.
I want to be part of this growing human conscience.
I want, not to write of tear smudged ink.
Because there is a revolution coming…
As we reach out to that “many of us”
As we learn to hold hands again.
Jan 2020
I am not quite sure what to write as a forward to this poem. It is somewhat confused or confusing. It was inspired by a tree I know. That I have known all my life. A tree that I have known long enough to see it change from the one in my child’s eye. I have seen it resting gently in a green meadow, standing destitute in a field of brown furos and hemmed in by stalks of maize. I have climbed and seen it climbed by successive generations of children.
It is a marker in time. It is representative of a changing world and a world, I fear is gathering dust. A world where children played in trees and cared about falling limbs. About a tree that was a home, now replaced by bricks and mortar. And I guess a reminder that we as humans are custodians of this natural world.
Mother.
I think of an old oak,
Bows laid low, like a gentleman's cane.
Tired, a once struck limb falls.
And gives up its wisdom
And nutrients to the Earth and roots,
To feed again, the parent tree.
Part two
We walked as boys into those green green woods,
To build things out of nature, dens and dams and leafy beds.
As young men we went there,
With our clever axes to build homes
And staves and boundary posts.
Now I am older with boys my own.
And I must remember.
Part three
Have you cried?
Have you cried for your mother.
She is calling you.
From behind the door.
Yes, from behind the door.
-yes, that door,
The one you do not open.
That door, all the children know.
The door you’re alone to walk through.
—heart of loneliness –
Part four
She is your mother.
So long, she has held you in her arms,
You have forgot them.
You forgot while you lay sleeping in her arms.
You forgot as you grew in her green green beauty.
You forgot as you fourt your brothers.
And now you are so clever.
With all your clever boxes,
car box, house box,
your nice neat, nice separate boxes.
Good for building mazes_confounded boxes!
-Now you worry about boxes.
Stop, STOP, LEAVE THAT BELL ALONE
Remember
Your mother is calling you.
As she drops her limbs.
—x-x—
In this quiet place.
You know what you must do.
Come home, be still,
Help your mother in this grief.
Your mother has grown old. And she needs your care.
21st oct 2019