a tigerish smile played
like a butterfly on her lips
blowing a kiss to tomorrow
twentyfour hours
twentyfour hours of light
brightening snow on horizon mountain tops
trust the future and keep the faith
midsummer’s night
shadows on shadows
midnight owl calling
smoke on the horizon
thunderclouds reforming
beyond the hedge
beyond the hedge the sound
of children laughing
beyond the bridge the sight
of feathers falling
beyond the sea the sense
of two hearts beating
beyond all time the memory
of your hand in mine
coincidence
you walk in the room
clouds clear from the sun
a coincidence
space
Give me space you said
and I
misunderstanding
opened my hands
above my head
so the distant jewels
of the farthest white stars
shone between my fingers.
You know they are already dead
you said
and I said yes
I know.
Highly commended by the judges of the @UoMCreativeMCR @geolsoc Poetry Competition
Three memories for Father’s Day
On Saturday mornings while mum was cleaning we walked along the canal, my hand holding on to one of his fingers. On the way back from the shops he would swing me up onto his shoulders so he could carry bags in each hand. Now I realise how I must have tugged on his hair but he was a quiet man.
Be sensible, son. I know you will be. I was eighteen and leaving home and did not know what sensible meant. Years later I began to understand and he did not judge. Stay as long as you need, son. This is your home. Stay as long as you want. A quiet man.
In the supermarket he gripped the trolley and his legs would not move. As we carried him to the car, he closed his eyes so others would not see his embarrassment. He was silent in the car and until he was safely in his chair in his new home. Thank you, son, he said and I started to tell him thank you for everything but he raised a hand. He was a quiet man.
For Sid, 1915-2008
always summer
memories burning fiercely
undimmed by ceaseless downpour
always summer in my heart
untitled 210618
hope
hope
hope and expectation
a swift heart-clutching dread
please
it’s the hope
a longlasting eye-closing dread
fear of the future
close to hope for the worst
and then deliverance
the stab and realisation
as the hope swirls away
acceptance
and almost enjoyment
it is not a fault
it is not a fault
in itself
to see angels in your yard
or to chase them away
by flapping your arms
and making barking noises
like the yellow-brown mongrel from three doors down
not in itself
you sit down on the kerb
head in hands
elbows on knees
breathing a challenge
now the angels are gone
you know they will be back though
rustling and humming in the corner of the yard
when the blue lights stop spinning
and those lovely young men
in their spearmint green kit
finish drinking their tea
you sit down
in the house now
and the silence is broken
only by the yellow-brown mongrel
and a forethought of humming
there’s plenty more biscuits
you say to yourself
simonsalento 