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.
“Love? Two hairpins
On the bottom
Of my backpack’s pocket.”
Zbraně pro Erató (free translation)
Love? A sense
Of a leather jacket.
Love? A picture
Of a snowy
Love? A chalet
In a snowstorm
Won’t last a week.
Love? The first kiss
In the school hall
Love? A letter abyss
Love? The sound
Love? The wings
Love? Two hands
In the forest.
Love? Just a shadow
Of an innocent
Love? A gap ‘tween
And the stage.
Love? A poem
From the Diary’s
(quarter of a century later)
Love? A lover
And a friend.
Love? A relationship
You wish would
Love? Two little
The best girl of all
Is your mother.
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’,
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.
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.
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.
“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
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.
we think that our March topic “Breakfast” should be rewarded with a real breakfast so one of you will have an opportunity to spend a morning with English conversation and something nice and traditional to eat.
Write a poem about breakfast and post it in March! 🙂