Tag Archives: Life

At The Meat Chiller

Own up folks, we’ve all done something like this at some point. As usual Glenys captures these moments so well:

lifecameos

On a busy morning at the
supermarket meat chiller
I studied shelves of
sausages, chops, mince
and shin meat on the bone.
I tried to slide right
to see the chicken packs, lamb
knuckles, corned beef brisket
but the person to my right
simply would not move.
I sidestepped along slightly crowding
but still they did not move.

I turned to say “Excuse me !”
and found myself facing my
reflection in the mirror
on the end section wall.

Previously posted June 2016

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The Art of Living

The art of living appears to be in accepting the inevitable
Negotiating a peace with oneself
Making a treaty with the world
And then becoming free to really live

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

First blogged in 2016.

“The art of living lies less in eliminating our troubles than in growing with them.”
― Bernard M. Baruch
From http://dailyinspiration.me/

Glimpse

I turned away from the platform
The vain staring down the line
For the train that would not come
And found the trees beyond the station
Viewed from the municipal greyness of Bracknell
Their greens were varied and splendid
Their depth intriguing, a beckoning call to some other place
I probably saw wastelands “Soon to be redeveloped”
But, for second or two, it was Faery.
Then the train came.

Copyright © 2016  Kim Whysall-Hammond

Re-blogged from 2016…..

Dance

By the door of the living room
away from the adults
a girl dances.
Lost in her own world
lost in shadows
dreaming unknown incandescent things
that even now she cannot fathom.
But the echoes of those dances
float across years.
Each subsequent dance
at a wedding or festival
evoking something
until she finds, in middle age
a need and urge to dance again
to feel the echoes, sense the incandescence.
Just once more.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Originally published at (along with Boy Migrant, Watercolour time  and The overwhelming sky)  at http://www.longshotisland.com/2018/01/26/bridge-poems/

She came to see me

She came to see me
Resplendent in red
Glittering with dust
Her elegant bone structure evident more than ever
Desiccated and dead
Spacesuit blown
Floating past the view screen
When I  know we retrieved her from orbit yesterday

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Originally published in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Associations print journal Star*Line 40.4  October 2017  http://www.sfpoetry.com/sl/issues/starline40.4.html

Space Within

Considering the expanding universe and ultimate cooling, I pause
remembering photos of star birth amid nebulosity,
nuclear furnaces blossoming.

Telescopes in orbit or secluded in foreign deserts
produce pictures in lights we cannot see
show immensities in glorious un-colours.

In the back garden, I look up, past scudding clouds,
watch coloured pinpricks arrayed over black sky
with occasional satellites twinkling by beneath.

Feeling the breeze, green with trees, redolent with life
thinking of all those things we cannot see
here and all the way up there.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Rain

Delicious dampness, fresh scented grey,
Washing the stuffy warm weather away
My soul is a sponge, expanding when wet,
And sunshine’s a word I’d rather forget,
I like the newness of autumn (but its only July!)
The soggy clean clouds that fill up the sky
Change is the thing, after two weeks the same,
Filled with humid hot weather –Thank God for rain!

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

It rained today and more is forecast. This year we have had over 12 weeks of very hot dry weather. We English are not built for that……

 

The girls

They comment as they watch me weed
and as I go, they start to plead
for freedom from their boring pen
restrictive to a busy hen.

Now free, they root, scratch and dig
As efficient as any pig
Rustling through every flower
I watch to while away the hours

Later, the washing that I carry
Commands attention, so they tarry
Weaving about by my feet
Hoping it’s something they can eat

Finally it is time to end their roam
I need to get these chickens home
A line of treats upon the grass
Leads them back to the pen at last.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

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