Stolen from the Shore by Tessa Thomson

A woman stood beside the sea, a dear child at her side,
I watched them as they gazed, from side to side and wide.
Their gazes fell around the shore but no one could they see,
But then they caught my watchful eye and caste a glance at me.

I turned to see if there might be a person at my back,
I looked along the sandy path and up the roadside track.
But there was no one I could see that looked a part of them,
No other person man or boy to hold their gaze and then,

I turned again towards the sea, but now the strand was clear.
No longer stood the woman and child held so dear.
I searched the sea and rolling foam; the waves that crashed on shore,
The pair who stood alone that day were gone forever more.

Many years have passed since then and many walks I’ve had,
Along that beach and on that strand, and often I’ve been sad
To wonder if I saw things right or did my eyes play tricks,
For surely it was the not the pair passing o’er the Styx.

Should I have questioned why they stood so lonely and forlorn?
Should I have wondered why the world held nought for them to mourn?
Or was it me imagining that I could be like them,
With death and thoughts of afterlife tugging at my hem.

Did that same mother and her child feel life could not be borne?
Did something happen in their lives from which their hearts were torn?
Did friends release them from their love and caste them both aside,
If so I understand that loss, and the wishing then to hide.

For I have stood in that same place and wondered what could be,
What did my life accomplish; what good was there to see.
What friends will praise my legacy after I am gone?
To tell the tales of how I lived and where my life went wrong.

But I shall live a few more years and count my blessings now,
Not take to swimming in the depths of life’s despairing jowls.
But think upon that mother and the dear child at her side,
And bless that sight for giving me a reason not to hide.

Your house with doors of English Oak,
Handcrafted lovingly, bespoke,
Lay open wide for all dear folk.

Light a candle for those present or past,
Feorgiveness in your heart will surely last.
Give support for those you love,
With the knowledge, strength comes from above.

Breda Ware

1994

Love(s) Lost

“Love? Two hairpins

On the bottom

Of my backpack’s pocket.”

Karel Kryl: Zbraně pro Erató (free translation)

Love? A sense

Of perfume

Of a leather jacket.

Love? A picture

Of a snowy

Mountain peak.

Love? A chalet

In a snowstorm

Won’t last a week.

Love? The first kiss

In the school hall

Goodbye.

Love? A letter abyss

A farewell

No try.

Love? Confusion

Desire less

Uncertainty.

Love? Illusion

Nothingness

Vanity.

Love? The sound

Of words

Unspoken.

Love? The wings

Of birds

Got broken.

Love? Two hands

That touched

In the forest.

Love? Just a shadow

Of an innocent

White wrist.

Love? A gap ‘tween

The audience

And the stage.

Love? A poem

From the Diary’s

Last page.

2019

Love(s) Found

(quarter of a century later)

Love? A lover

A companion

And a friend.

Love? A relationship

You wish would

Never end.

Love? Two little

Suns calling

You father.

Love? Boys,

The best girl of all

Is your mother.

Dear Poets

we were inspired by the series The Young Pope where the pope writes a letter about love (see below).

Love lost, love found….. we can’t wait to read your ideas and poems on this topic.

Marie, Jarek, Adam

What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find… . or to lose? All around me, people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now?
And you, the shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.

As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.

Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.

Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.

Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay.  Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,

Breda Ware 

Wealthy, unashamedly I may not be,
But a truly proud grandma,
Brings much more pleasure for me.
Simple treats not expensive teas,
Romping about, climbing trees.
That’s the world you’ll get from me.
Plenty of hugs and genuine love,
In time watched over from above.

Breda Ware

Take my nest cuckoo and enjoy the fruits of my womb. 

Discard at will as you have, the runts.

Keeping only the bright baubles,

Like that of the devious Jackdaw. 

Once upon a happier time, 

You measured wealth by just one of mine. 

At the end of my days,

My fortune truly is guaranteed, 

A legacy left for all to see. 

Family is all that has ever mattered to me.

Sadly true, some leaves have fallen, 

By the wayside, far from the tree. 

Pray tread gently, for know they are parts of me.

Breda Ware

Road Trips

Road trips are fun, I think you’d agree,
Travelling the length of the country,
Sat-Nav gadgets are not for me,
Would rather a road atlas, upon my knee.
With route laid out easy to see,
No fear of a lane sending me up a tree.

Cheerfully we set off smiling, happy and free,
Nomadic life, yeah! That would suit me.
Passing wide open pastures green,
Pretty thatched cottages tantalise me.
Rolling hillsides an idillic scene.
It surely would be, living the dream.

Cities and towns wheezing by,
Villages are gentler on the eye.
Charming hamlets tucked away,
Quaint places for folk to stay.
Visits to the seaside on sunny days,
Sandcastles, rock pools, endless play.

National Trust sites on our list,
Agatha Christie’s not to be missed.
English Heritage now there’s a thing,
Of Ancient Castles, legends, Kings.
Forests and moorland so much to see,
Road trips are truly a must for me.

Breda Ware

“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Dear poets,

do you like spring as much as we do? Write about it, express it, share it – we can’t wait!

Marie, Jarek, Adam

when I put on my shoes

I have to go to the city trough

I heard tap tap on sidewalk

someone called to me – funny sillywalk!

My different shoes

have a smalltalk

one of my

one of Stáňa

they are not paire

but it doesn´t care.

We start with breakfast a new day

in deligtfull office – MaryWay

my feet will be most freshest

and my shoes can fly away.