Author: lyndyh

Today I’ve been reflecting on spillages.

Red Wine 

Ruby jewel rivers

of desire running

across the table 

between us, 

flowing into my palms,

between my fingers,

dripping 

onto my bare legs,

blooming,

like pink roses. 

Today’s challenge was to ‘write a poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun.’

The Lilies of Happiness 

Consider the lilies in the fields 

opening to the sky.

Contemplate the longing inside 

you to be among them, 

to lie down and breathe

the fragrance, to be washed 

clean by that beauty. 

When you think about your life 

and where you can find 

the happiness you crave 

so badly and the love

you yearn to give and receive,

look to the lilies in the field.

They know not of struggling, 

suffering, desiring, longing.

They are as they are – at peace.

Walk to the fields, notice 

what you notice along the way, 

talk to the lilies and ask them 

where is this happiness. 

Listen carefully, then go back home 

and eat what you want to eat 

and do what you want to do. 

The Glass 

It was three days before my mother died, 

when I broke the glass, a gift from long ago, 

a birthday present for my mother from her sister. 

That day, I received a phone call from my Aunt

it was the sort of conversation where you have 

to wait so long to speak you forget you can speak. 

I needed to tell her about the broken glass but 

she went on and on about the honey vampire 

who, she assured me, survive not on blood but sweat. 

And then, in three days, the impossible sequences 

of death and the longest night when my mother died,

I lay in bed with the completeness of loss and regret.

The next morning, my body was tight, hot and as dry 

as scorched sand so I drank some water and rang

my Aunt to tell her about the glass and why I broke it. 

The challenge today was to ‘write a love poem, one that names at least one flower, contains one parenthetical statement, and in which at least some lines break in unusual places.’

You are Here

With me. 

You always have been.

Even when you left

to carry on climbing

the mountain, 

we were together. 

There are spaces 

in our togetherness 

as recited in our  

wedding vows,

honouring 

Kahlil Gibran. 

For you roses,

for me

primroses.

We grow 

in the same

soil, our roots

entwine. 

I think of us 

as one magical

tree, spreading 

our branches 

outwards,

upwards.

You are here.

So am I.

I am.

We are.

Today the challenge was to write ‘a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year you were ten years old.’

My Father 

His hands are my hands

and if I ever doubted 

the old man 

in the red woollen 

jumper was my father, 

I did no more.

An absent father

is like trying to fly

a kite with no wind 

or speaking 

when there is no-one 

to listen

or like when your throat 

constricts 

or when splinters 

shred your skin.

I’m off prompt today.

Here is a view from our holiday barn located deep in the Kent countryside. Although it has rained all day, the sun is now shining, bathing us in it’s warmth.

Between Us 

From across the orchard 

the sheep and I regard

each other, she with almond

ochre-yellow eyes,

I with urgent hands 

waving, wanting, wriggling.

We are aware of each other,

She of I.

I of she.

We are.

As all there is.

Basking in a golden sun.

Stillness between us.

She goes back to her grazing.

I go back to scouring 

the meadow for her lamb.

I twist in my seat, searching,

scraping the chair on stone. 

She startles, but does not run. 

I release my breath.

Her nose twitches.

Baaaaa. Baaaaa, she goes.

Her lamb skitters, gambols

from behind an apple tree,

prancing, leaping to her side.

A fragile moment of trusting, 

witnessed in presence. 

The sheep settles.

Her head lowers.

My hands find each other,

to rest in my lap.

They are full of nothingness.

The challenge today was to take an Emily Dickinson poem and craft it into something else, adding and subtracting words and altering line breaks. I chose her poem ‘Hope’ and my own feelings about a walk we did today along the white cliffs of Dover.

Delight

is a thing 

with feathers.

It soars above 

the white cliffs 

of Dover where 

buttercups glow.  

Delight 

sings without 

words. 

It rises

like the skylark,

spiralling

higher and higher.

Delight 

is shimmering 

white.

It flows in

with the waves

and settles

in the soul. 

Honesty

Today I am 

going 

to listen 

intently

and be 

present

as I am.

I lace 

my boots

and walk

following 

our leader.

It’s a kind

of love,

is it not?

An ordinary,

extraordinary

thing 

to walk?

And yet.

If I am 

honest,

today I

would 

rather 

have rolled

out my 

yoga mat. 

I am off prompt again today and chose instead to write about where we visited today :

Dungeness

Where the land meets 

the sea 

is the best place. 

To taste salt 

on my lips.

To have my hair 

whipped

about my cheeks.

To discover sea 

kale is purple 

and green.

There is space 

at Dungeness.

To be alone 

with nature.

Be free

of thoughts. 

Where the land meets

the sea

is a place desolate

in its beauty.

A place to find

myself.

Today it’s about childhood – to write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you.

The Bedroom Door 

In the night when I am awakened

by a creak or a thud, my heart still

thumps, thumps, thumps.

We think we get over things. 

I am a statue lying on my back, 

listening, listening, listening. 

Eyes glued to the crack in the door.

My seven year old baby voice

calls out:

is there anybody there?

We don’t get over things.

Not those that go deep to the marrow. 

My mother pushes open the door,

I pull the blankets over my face

as she leans over me and breathes

her smokey, Bacardi breath. 

I need to get over things.

So now when I lay down to sleep,

the door remains open.