Author: breda ware (Page 5 of 8)

Why is the sky so grey?
You could have stayed for one more day.

Why did you to go away?
There was so much more left to say.

Why do I have to pay?
With my heart aching, bound in clay.

Why has the sun lost its rays?
It’s warmth left, it took you away.

Why am I left with pain?
Unable to function, get through the day.

Why do they remain?
Light indentations where once you lay.

Why didn’t you think to say?
You struggle, afraid to face another day.

Why did you write,” it’s ok”?
Not listening to what you say.

Why is the sky so grey?
Because; you’ve passed away?

Breda Ware

What pleasure do you gain from consistently putting me down?
Why make things awkward; do you not want me around?
Who are you to judge what I do, when you, yourself, hadn’t a clue?
What will it take to get through to you?
Where is your loyalty for one of your own?
Would you prefer me to leave you alone?

How was it you took such offence?
Haven’t you heard the saying, “sitting on the fence”?
Had I known you were going to betray me in this way?
How is it that I’m not given leave to have my say?
Has it always got to be your way?
How many more scars will you inflict, day after day?

You choose not to listen; do you not wish to hear?
Yearning for acceptance, is it not clear?
Your indifference; no longer wish to hold me dear?
Years are passing, are you not a feared?
Yet patiently I accept, how long must I wait?
Your mortality is indubitable, will you leave it too late?

Awaken by a muted, deafening silence, 
Although, sounds are present dull, numbing. 
Deep inside my ear.
Familiar;  announces you are here.

Drapes asunder, there you lay,
White as the given day.
Falling softly to the ground,
Appearing as a soft eiderdown.

Lightly covering, all around,
Gently gliding, can be found.
Lace like flakes, of a formation,
Each one differs, no combination.

Footsteps with caution, gingerly taken,
Each a crisp, crunching sensation.
Leaving behind, indentations,
Clear prints, map a destination.

Breda Ware

Step inside a church, and wonder at what you see,
Decked out with gold, silver ribbons, pretty as can be.
A brightly lit up Christmas Tree,
But alas not me, sadly I cannot see.
Smells, I can there all around,
In the air and upon the ground.
Rituals preformed out over the years,
To help alleviate all our fears.
Frankincense, Myrrh are heavenly scents,
Evoking memories of childhood, of Yule times spent.

The local pub frequented well,
Fragrant hops producing fine local ales.
Aromas of decanted deep red ports,
Musky, aged consumed, sought.
Blazing fires burning seasoned wood,
Eyes a water-never good!!
Egg Nog and a warmed spiced Toddy,
Walking home the weathers foggy.

Mistletoe hung above the door,
Green stems, sour berries white and pure.
Turkey trussed with chestnut stuffing,
Rich Mince Pies ready for the offing.
The distinctive smell of boiling ham,
Reminding me that home: I am.
Sprouts a bubbling, oh! pungent veg,
Enough to send some over the edge.
Cinnamon in the Christmas Pud
Smells delicious, truly good.
Church bells ringing, welcomed sound,
A Merry Christmas to all around.

Breda Ware