Calling Sky

The unspeakable vastness
of the unconquerable dark
speaks to our hearts
where no harbour beckons
no port waits

A calling sky lids our lives
it shields, shelters
imprisons us
gravity the jailer to be overthrown
the well to climb out of
hand over hand

Climbing to where the only sounds are
a popping of particles
into  matter phase

We will not see stars with our own eyes
nor hear the sounds of space
our travelling world
built of systems noise
ventilation hiss and engine thrum
will seep through our lives
even outside
suit noise and visors will hide
the photons trip

Yet unspeakable vastness
and unconquerable dark
will sink deep into our subconscious
refashioning our very selves
varying what is human

Will we wish to sink once more
into the trap of gravity
or shall we run with the particle streams
out into the dark?

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Calling Sky’ was first published by Utopia Science Fiction  in the April 2020 issue.

Friday Poem: Death, be not proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

by John Donne

Toddler

You cuddle up to me in your sleep, comforted by mother warmth
What do you dream little man, my child full of wonder
You exhaust  me by day and then enthrall me at your time of sleeping
Always asking for more, lifting my soul and life
Every day is an  adventure for us
As I discover the world in and through your eyes

  Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

I wrote this poem when my sons were much much younger….they are both adults now!

In The Rain

A brilliant poem from Glenys about a Blackbird in the rain:

lifecameos

In steady light rain
low clouds compress
the light’s dull glare.
The blackbird’s feathers
sparkle under their fine cloak
of minute droplets.
His chuckles, shrieks of glee
from the clothesline pole
fill the garden as he raises
his head half spreads his wings
in the sensual joy
of tiny moist diamonds.

Previously posted January 2016.

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Friday Poem: To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
   But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
 Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

by Andrew Marvell