In my poem The Colour of Dragons, I was considering what colour a dragon might be. I was planning a present for a very good friend, who may just like Dragons ever so slightly (English understatement here).
Here is my first picture of Larry’s Dragon:
Another will follow next Monday….
Lost between the words
is true meaning
the real message
perhaps the marriage
perhaps the correct diagnosis.
We all use metaphors
similes
when describing emotions and pains.
Doctors and spouses
should by rights be poets
for poetry conveys what is lost in translation.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A poem inspired by the quote:
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
Robert Frost
Wild ponies snorting in the shade of a thorn tree
The kee of a buzzard soaring overhead
A ragged baa from a startled ewe
All underlaid by the irregular rumble of falling tumbling water
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A note to readers from America: An English buzzard is not a vulture, but catches live prey.
The big oaks at the corner
stretch their leaves to gather the evening sun.
A breeze lifts and turns them,
dark, bright, bright, dark.
Giving a green glitter effect
that entrances me
starting the long stretching walk along the lane.
As I walk, the sun lights overhead leaves,
creates broderie anglais shadows
where cars slowly trail only feet apart.
Above a lacy sheet of alto cumulus spreads
pierced by the setting suns laser rays
up to the stratosphere.
I pause to enjoy, then
move on past the McDonalds drive in.
Cars queue for their Friday night treat
around the roundabout and beyond.
Full of the bored and restless.
And I retrace my steps
on the sunlit stretching walk
back towards home.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Cant remember where
Or when.
But in the busy travellings of last week,
alone in a lane of green leaves,
Stood a single tree.
Clad in oranges and crimsons,
lighted with brief yellows.
Spectacular.
These days,
I have just two seasons clothes,
Summer and Winter.
‘Layering’ is supposed to fill the gap
And so, I sit here
Jeans, T-shirt, hoodie,
slightly chilled.
Where once I would have had
an autumn coat
With thin woollen gloves.
Autumn clothes,
Like the tree.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Blue Baltic waters
semi-sweet to taste
Pale rose rocked islands
Rising softly from the sea
And oh
Oh
All those Birches
So many Birch trees
tall straight trunks
massing on every surface
White wrapped
Or black inked?
Design icons
Bearing thin scrolls of bark
whose paleness
reflected summers northern light
into grateful eyes
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
I’m still trying to capture my delight in the islands around Helsinki in poetry
When a poem dances with your thoughts
Sunlight and shadows mark the walls of your soul
Something echoes within
You change
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
It is your eyes that pierce me
Bright baby blue
In Sicily they marked you
Erroneously
As German
In Jordan, both men and girls followed you
Hoping to see your wonderful eyes again
It is your eyes that hold me
Windowing your soul
In your much loved face
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
For my love, and part of the daily challenge I’m following for a short while. This poem is in response to the prompt ‘Face’.
Drowsing on the wayside
Halfway through our walk
We are stopped
Something rustles and I open my eyes
Raise my head
There in the red tipped grasses of the moor
Stands a doe, ears twitching
Black liquid eyes gazing into mine
Two creatures on the uplands
We exchange something in that moment
Before the nearby bleat of a sheep
Startles us each
And the moment and doe are both gone
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Faint stars pooled like milk at zenith
Coloured lights tracking across
Blinking
Deep night swallows all light
Here on the Moor
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
