Category: Monthly Poetry (Page 2 of 9)

Look yonder at the church its steeple lit,
Wonder at the mystical white light it omits.
Enter through the ancient stained oak doors,
Pass carvings and paintings on walls.
Christmas carols are being sung,
The festive season has begun.
Faithful voices raised in joyful sound,
Smiles on faces, happiness all around.

The sun rising majestically from the east,
Seen glistening on the backs of flying geese.
Village appears bathed in a clandestine light,
Breathtaking sublime, all powerful sight.
Rabbits appear quietly from underground,
Frolic in snow drifts all around.
Christmas morning at last is here,
That extra special time of year.

Children jump eagerly from their beds,
No heed taken to what’s been said.
Parents tired from the night before,
Frantically dash for their bedroom door.
Not quick enough, they come tumbling in,
Exploding with excitement, what a din!
Nothing to do but join in the fun,
For Christmas time has just begun.

Breda Ware

I held your hand as we walked around,
Still wearing that ridiculous crown.
From out of the cracker along with a joke,
Reminding me how strange are folk.

A Christmas tree we’d come to buy,
Searching out with my beady eye.
A fine blue spruce straight and true,
Full figured, not skinny it will do.

Taking in smells, sights and sounds,
Sprigs of holly and mistletoe found.
Hot toddy sampled, not too bad!
At times this season makes me sad.

Family parties when I was young,
With neighbours, were so much fun.
Simple pleasures:
Forgotten all over, done.

Chestnuts on a brazier glowing red,
Reminds me that I’ve not been fed.
I settle for hot chocolate instead,
Nearly home it’s way past my bed.

I held your hand as we walked around,
Still wearing that ridiculous crown.
Sweet memories buried in the ground,
Silent, lost the seasons familiar sound.

Breda Ware

 Tramping along a winding path,
In the dead of night.
The full moon she follows me,
Shinning ghostly white.
Casting bright shafts, illuminating light.

Rabbit’s glazed eyes,
Feeding through the night.
In an instance hurriedly,
Scarper, bolt from sight.
Hind legs thump out warnings, with all their might.

Jack Frost casting his net upon the ground.
Stealth like encroaching,
Afghan fauna all around.
Underfoot producing a crunching, crisp sound.

A proud stag barks loudly for a mate.
I push on it’s getting late,
Climbing over a five bar gate.
Steadfastly on I go, ignoring the gently falling snow.

The deep dark forest,
Temptress, she beckons me.
Axe in my hand to source a fine tree.
Thieving mongrel,
That’s little ole me.

Breda Ware Continue reading

Dear Poets

Advent is knocking on the door so let’s share some poems about this enchanting time of the year.

“Advent: the time to listen for footsteps – you can’t hear footsteps when you’re running yourself.” Bill McKibben

Marie, Jarek and Adam

My Love

With spiky hair and eyes that care,
How often I would smile and stare.
Ways in which you held your smoke,
A pleasure unknown to those that don’t.
Your walk; nay a stride,
Paced out with such pride.
I courted discreetly with my eye.
Gentle touch; condoned by others,
Openly embraced, we ‘came out’, as lovers.
Inseparable, too painful to be apart,
Chastised my foolish fluttering heart.
Alas; stolen by you from the start.
Pray we’re granted many more a year,
In which to cherish and hold; my dear.

Breda Ware

Dear Poets,

in September 2016 we encourage you to write a sonnet. As an example, we would like to share one of those that William Shakespeare created – see below. We look forward to reading your own sonnets 🙂

Marie, Adam, Jarek

SONNET 145
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’
To me that languish’d for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
‘I hate’ she alter’d with an end,
That follow’d it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying ‘not you.’

I am always in my prime

I am one of an infinite host

No one can divide me but me and one

I am one from a host of odd characters

Just one of the whole host is even

I never stand side by side

With any of my siblings

There is one exception, though

Who am I?

Rebus

Gnarled, contorted, knotted weathered am I,
Stupendous stature ascended have I.
Severed, mutilated, dismantled I lie,
Noble comrades razed either side.
Sapped of life left to die.
Know me ; Who am I?

Breda Ware

Love is like chameleon in that it takes many forms,
Given freely and received in different ways.
Once there it has a habit of spinning you around,
Rendering your senses numb, turning your life upside down.

Love in a marriage tender, passionate and real,
Each other’s bodies excitedly explored and revealed.
The smallest kiss renders feelings unexplained,
A pain, an urgency for it to linger longer or remain.
Lips which moisten with the briefest of touch,
Hearts pounding on each and every clutch.

Love of a brothers is powerful and strong,
Forever in your heart where it belonged.
Happy in the knowledge he knows you well,
A relationship that should be safe and sound.
Someone you take immense pride in having around.

Love of a sister a comfort ideally it should be,
Given warmly, a reassurance in that you know she will care.
Quietly without reservations to listen, guide and share,
Installed a belief in that she’ll always be there.
When life’s bumpy and your facing a tricky bend,
As a sister, you trust her, she’ll guide you through it to the end.

Love of a child is a miracle, a wonderful thing,
With laughter and happiness, warm feelings it brings.
Perilous uncharted waters lie ahead,
Unconditional love raging forever in your head.
Be it a delight in a daughter or that of a son,
A lifetime journey has now begun.

Breda Ware

Love

 What’s left of an old flame?

A plant bought again, taken care of.

In the air, lingering that name

That used to mean love.

What’s left of an old flame?

A thought if those letters still exist

After those days when first got kissed

In the air, lingering that name

What’s left of an old flame?

A memory of lyrics that said goodbye

For hesitation’s squander

In the air, lingering that name

That did not want to try

Then any longer

What’s left of an old flame?

A flashback of palms’ incidental contact

A remembrance concrete or abstract?

In the air, lingering that name

What’s left of an old flame?

Raspberries planted and taken care of

In the air, lingering that name

That used to mean love