All posts by The Cheesesellers Wife

About The Cheesesellers Wife

I write poetry and paint in watercolours and acrylics. My Cheesesellers Wife blog is mostly about poetry and, yes, my husband sells cheese. Sometimes I help…….

Capture

We have captured the stones in their circles
first with maps and sketches
now with our many photographs.
They would otherwise move
dance in moonlight’s shadows,
shuffle away to the devils lair,
creep up on a King or a witch.
 
We have opened the barrow graves to sunlight
pinned them to history with interpretive notices
collected the many bones within.
Lurking on ridges, smothered with grass,
besieged by fields and fences,
children now play in dark chambers
where once ancestors dreamed.
  
Do the stones protest at their confinement?
Do barrow wights still lurk after dark?
Have we chased away the Gods-smith?
Do we care?

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

First published at London Grip https://londongrip.co.uk/

Every book

All those half written, half finished, half-remembered
tales, myths, superstitions
every unedited, mistyped version
still cannot tell of those long ago
who placed stones in lines and rings
who left solitary huge monoliths scattered
who carved ditches and lines
over landscapes which had different meanings then.

All is lost to time

Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Where the Wild Mushrooms Grow

A wonderful poem from Rebecca Cunigham. Enjoy! (Scroll to the end of the post for the poem).

Fake Flamenco

Eagle led me into the woods yesterday after school. Read to the end to see the poem our hike inspired. A forest grows between the golf course and the bike path following reclaimed railroad tracks half mile (1K) from the school. Oak trees, standing and fallen. Those that were horizontal were covered with half moon mushrooms.

Mushroomed Log Photo: Rebecca

We walked a kilometer through the woods and the city disappeared. A sacred quiet descended. I felt uprooted from time. When were we? Were minutes in motion? We arrived in the spiritual home of the mushrooms. Was it once named that way, rather than by the family name of the owner…?

Oak Log in the Snow Photo: Rebecca

The mushrooms took many different shapes, as they did their work returning nutrients to the soil.

Upright Log Photo: Rebecca

Silent workers, recycling trees, feeding tree children grown into the canopy above.

View original post 61 more words

The bells, the bells….

Church bells have many voices
joyous peals clamour across Saturday weddings
bellow for Sunday attendance
toll sonorous to the dead
but at Wednesday evening practice
the tonal song and dance differs
depends who is pulling the rope
sometimes tempestuous
sometimes a quivering drone
other times the bells
(and the seething listener)
may beseech release
from an idiot beginner

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Today,  dVerse asks us to celebrate thesaurus day and write a poem that includes at least one word from each of the categories below:

  • bellow; clink; drone; jingle; quiver;
  • clamour; dissonant; rip-roaring; tempestuous; vociferous;
  • dulcet; honeyed; poetic; sonorous; tonal;
  • blabber; cackle; dribble; gurgle; seethe;
  • beseech; chant; drawl; embellish; intone

‘Seed Guardian’ at Silver Birch Press

I’m very pleased to point out that my poem Seed Guardian is now up at Silver Birch Press.

The poem is about my husband, who not only sells Cheese but is also a Seed Guardian for the National Heritage Seed Library, helping to save rare vegetable varieties for the future.

Seed Guardian by Kim Whysall-Hammond (HOW TO HEAL THE EARTH Series) | Silver Birch Press (wordpress.com)

Lost City

Vanished cities, drowned, razed
desolation and grief done and dusted
Atlantis gone into to myth
Carthage, Mohenjo-daro, Great Zimbabwe
all left ruins to wander and wonder
in history’s depth lie others
lost in deserts, buried in forests, slipped into oceans
more will go as sea levels rise, storms devour

There are other ways to lose a city
I have lost mine, changed and changing
beyond what I once knew
foreign in my home town
I archeologise
observing layers buried by new wealth
(transitory puffs of global capital)
visualise the people that have moved on
as I have
refugees priced out, social-cleansed
living on the fringes
looking back to better times

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Terminator Line

It is always dawn and dusk
Time moves on geographically
The terminator line marches inexorably
Round and round the planet
Smoothed across the sparkling Pacific
Cut to shreds by jagged mountains
Rippled across desert dunes
Unnoticed in the mega-cities
Each second brings a thousand tiny awakenings
A thousand tiny refugees from sleep
A thousand predatory opportunities
A thousand closings

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

First published at https://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com/