Category Archives: Poetry

The trees of the mind are black

Their branches
broken arms reaching up
and out
encoded with meanings I cannot
decipher
the grasses beneath weep
move inconsolably

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Sylvia Plath is haunting me…..

Friday Poem: The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

by W. B. Yeats

Husbandry

He talks to chickens
Sometimes with their own sounds
Otherwise in English
Discussing the state of the hen house
The undesirability of chickens entering the house
And pooping on our elderly carpet

They themselves have their own opinions
Apparently
The availability of fresh greens in their diet
The joy of scratching about on the shingle path
The delightful crunchiness of dried meal worms
When I suggest that the girls take part in family decisions
In order to address the gender imbalance
I am rejected
They have their own forum
Talking with my husband each day
True husbandry

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

 

Green

Green rumbles rambles rolls and ripples
in all its shades and hues
rustles murmurs sways and drifts
floats on and under the waters of both
chill chalk stream and ocean
surfaces the land
spawns and augments tall trees
defines jungles, swamps, farmland
cools and shades, feeds and shelters
sparkled with daisies
strewn with buttercups
cut red with poppy wounds

Green is waste light reflected back from leaves
by the quantum machine of photosynthesis
that powers all life

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Green’ was first published in the Environs issue of Snakeskin: http://www.snakeskinpoetry.co.uk/

Breakfast

Today I’ve arranged to breakfast with the sky
we haven’t been talking much lately and
so need some alone time together
in her lovely blue halls cushioned with fluffy cumuli
although blue is probably not her best colour
at breakfast, she’s more into yellow and rose.
Trouble is, she gets up so early and those of us who
don’t need to rise for work tend to sleep in….

I wonder if that’s why she’s been so distant to me?

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Love of the gods

To love a god was dangerous
although it was really
according to many stories
the great god pursuing you.
Surely an sensible girl
knew to run and hide
or was the lure too strong?

Prescient were those that named
the great planets after gods,
for they sit deep within
the interlacings of many satellites
luring other bodies into their scope
bright comets drawn into the gods embrace
destroyed within his mass
by his great and dangerous attraction

And then there are the ring systems
those stunning girdles or garlands
that first we thought were only Saturn’s crown
now our robot voyagers have shown us glorious treasures
each gas giant adorned with a skirl and swirl
of godly skirts
striped and shepherded by tiny moons
sprites joyfully dancing around their deities

Great are the old gods
Lordly their presences
Dark their love
Strong their powers

We are but lichen on a wet rock
a thin complexlayer of life
tumbling falling in an orbital curve

Gravity’s embrace encompasses gods
where tiny robots roam
sent by lichen

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Love of the Gods’ was first published in Eternal Haunted Summer, the Summer Solstice Issue 2019

Friday Poem: Dear March – Come in

Dear March – Come in –
How glad I am –
I hoped for you before –
Put down your Hat –
You must have walked –
How out of Breath you are –
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest –
Did you leave Nature well –
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –
I have so much to tell –

I got your Letter, and the Birds –
The Maples never knew that you were coming –
I declare – how Red their Faces grew –
But March, forgive me –
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue –
There was no Purple suitable –
You took it all with you –

Who knocks? That April –
Lock the Door –
I will not be pursued –
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied –
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame –

 

by Emily Dickinson – 1830-1886