These are the sort of postcards I would leave on the tables at my PoetsCorner@PagesCafe events. Done on my computer, printed 3-up on A4 card. It’s such an easy way to get poetry to the general public. There were never any left… Of course, when I needed bulk copies I would use Snapfish – only when they had a special on. I also place them into books in libraries and bookshops – with permission. NOTE: Cinquain is the style of poem.
Remembering my dearest Mum on what would have been her birthday, posting a poem I wrote in honour of her when I was studying for my Creative Writing Degree.
A Found Memory Fossil: Dry. Smooth? Not smooth – rough. Light! Weighs nothing. I move my finger to slip over the top end and find smooth. A clean cut. A harsh chopping off.
A crack has appeared. It’s old, dirt-encrusted, making the fissure stand out from the beige of light and dark mottled skin.
This portion of dead twig has been displaced, into my warm, clutching hand. It is bowed, perhaps with the weight of brilliant blossom in fertile times. But with age and exile, the object bears no hint of past profusion. No scar of leaf or flower. Only grooves in dry, brittle skin.
Viewed from the smooth top, a solid golden core betrays its strength. Marred by a red blemish - perfect oval, tree blood showing the pain of dissection.
Where did you come from, my severed arm? You stood in proud grandeur. High, looking down on sheep grazing green grounds beneath.
Your ghostly mother, her children housing nests, hollows, where new life begins. Waving in the sweeping wind. Bowing to earth’s elements. Dressing for season’s ball.
A young boy climbed your sturdy limbs seeking adventure, chasing the sun to knock a parrot’s nest – not caring about fragile eggs of new families.
You remind me of my mother. Her honesty. Loveliness. No frills - just lines of age. Her purpose obvious. To bear fruit.
The golden core of subtle strength was always known. The ability to bend when winds buffeted. Fissures evidence damage – results of force against will or ability. Life wasn’t always easy.
My mother has been gone for a long time now, but hugging this piece of dry, light branch, comforts me. The memories of mother. The naturalness of her protection.
I remember her hands at the end. Dry, mottled, beige and brown. Clutching mine in death. Cold. The heat from my warmth trying desperately to infuse life.
Even though I wrote this about the Iraq War in 2003, the sentiment is still relevent – Peace for all.
Bagdad Ballet
A young boy sits, comfortable on his mother’s shoulders, smile-excited in the sunshine, taking part in a parade. He proudly thrusts the finger-sign of peace forward, 1,2. Nice to see in an Iraqi child – family, bombardered by ‘Shock and Awe’ the night before. Forgiving. But the visual is blitzed as it flashed onscreen, by the plastic Sten gun held aloft, background-brandished in the child’s other hand.
Do you think the young lad plays in secret tunnels, knows where to hide, where doubles walk to keep the myth alive, so Saddam appears safe, un-dead, ahead of the big game plan… the magic tricks to keep awake illusions of still-controlled-city. Streetlights burn in defiance of invaders largesse. Traffic moves through the night while bright glows explode in distant thunder. Shelling shock waves shatter windows and shower shrapnel as
we sit on green comfy sofas, presumed warm and safe inside, miles away, enjoy sunshine day protest for peace in Shannon. How long before they come knocking on my door? Paybacks. News channels have started their adverts again, war-ratings down, who’s funding the theatre – the performance rhetoric carefully scripted, now? Permission is NOT granted – You are not allowed to speak for me or kill in my name! Stop War Now!
A short break in the nightly bombardment – peace of sorts. A woman searches in the only corner left of her destroyed bedroom open to the pitch black with just the hum of many generators (Thank God) breaking the reassuring silence. A gaping hole exposes all to the now-clear sky. No moon to light the enemy way.
Tonight she will wear bright colours, gather in Independence Square and dance in defiance remembering her carefree youth. Her gay costume will fit because stress and hunger have been her constant diet. Somewhere under the rubble, it’s safe in a Novus bag. Unlike her bed. She had cowered in her bathroom, as soon as she heard distant explosions.
A small smile of gratitude is quickly replaced by a feeling so strong when she thinks of family, friends who can’t join her. Tears flood her eyes making it harder for her to find the outfit. Reminding her of days spent sorting through piles of concrete, bricks, dust, broken furniture, trying to salvage anything useful…
Burnt and torn photos, bent cutlery. Lives ruined, everyone desperate to find something they treasured so all is not lost. A stray beam from outside sweeps the pile, catching the blue and yellow ribbons, embroidery on a blouse and woven sash spilling from a plastic bag in the pile. Yes! Her heart leaps.
Back in the dark corner, fingers brush her hair, smooth her dress, find the other shoe. Feet carefully feel, down what is left of steps. An old neighbour smiles in the darkness, he eyes the flower crown with glee. “Slava Ukraini!” Her heart swells with pride, thinking of her son in the frozen fields, God knows where, defending their precious land and its people. She replies proudly: “Heroiam Slava!”
I'm happy for you to share what's published here, so long as Frances Macaulay Forde is credited appropriately.
It would also be a great courtesy if you let me know when and where you've shared my work.
“Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigues of supporting it.” Thomas Paine - "Limitation is essential to authority. A government is legitimate only if it is effectively limited." ~ Lord Acton - Commentary on what interests me, reflecting my personal take on the world
Perth Words... exploring possibilities. 