Tag Archives: poetry

Lost

Mist lurks, gathers around a wan sun
in a fickle sky

Trees, afraid to stand in the open
stunted, bent, roots littered with bones

We pant raggedly, unyielding moor
draining us down to mires and darkness

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

We are off to hike in mid-Wales, where the farmers refer to the land as MAMBA  (Miles And Miles of B**ger All). Hopefully, we won’t get lost!

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Dancing with shadows

Any attempt to pin down
this exact moment, that exact image
exactly what I feel and need to say
needs words that are not born yet,
metaphors  for minds not yet formed,
such is exactitude.
Yet that is what poets attempt to do.
We stand at the edge of the crowd,
listening to the music
hearing the echoes of other times and places,
and ask a shadow to dance.

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……

 

Because I Liked You by A.E. Housman

Because I liked you better
Than suits a man to say,
It irked you, and I promised
To throw the thought away.

To put the world between us
We parted, stiff and dry;
‘Good-bye,’ said you, ‘forget me.’
‘I will, no fear’, said I.

If here, where clover whitens
The dead man’s knoll, you pass,
And no tall flower to meet you
Starts in the trefoiled grass,

Halt by the headstone naming
The heart no longer stirred,
And say the lad that loved you
Was one that kept his word.

by A.E. Housman

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

P1200804

Wrecks

In the dew-drop abyss near
Wrecks of molecules appear;
In the far abyss of the sky
Wrecks of outworn  worlds  drift by…
But in the protean abyss of the soul
Wrecks of motes and universes roll.

by Theodore Stephanides, who should be familiar to all who love Gerald Durrell‘s “My Family and other Animals”. Theodore was a polymath, and wrote wonderful poetry.

Grampee

Merry eyes, wicked smile, teller of tales.
Grandfather mine, I would sit on your knee
hear of Susan, the Mule that liked to kick officers
and saved you on a mountain pass.
How you were called the
Prince of Baghdad  by your comrades
and of meeting real Princes in India.
Self taught, you bought me
Maths books to read with you,
squeezed me into your
invalid carriage and drove to
expensive French restaurants for lunch.
Your love of life and learning
and food
is mine, forever.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

For my maternal Grandfather Alfred Domenico Brown, born Valetta Malta 1897, died London 1979. Much missed.

Alfren and Ethel Brown at Windsor 1957