Birthday poem

Woman in a red chair, Pablo Picasso

Here's a bit of a Birthday Poem.

Body

This body’s not finished yet.

It has scars, wrinkles and veins,

and that’s only on the surface,

even worse troubles lurk underneath –

its brain forgets things,

all those names disappear;

its lungs get short of air,

the blood flows sluggish,

there’s cholesterol gathering,

joints ache and stick,

knees pop and creak,

but it ain’t finished yet.

This body’s got work to do.

There are more hills to climb,

lakes to swim, bridges to cross,

woodland paths to walk;

Two Nudes, Pablo Picasso

there is sea air to breathe in deep.

Stories to be read, words to write,

more friends to laugh with,

and many more people to hug,

animals to stroke, kids to cuddle,

more peaches to suck, berries to savour,

cake to be cut.

None of it is finished yet.

This body’s got work to do.

There are fires to stare into,

races to run, gates to jump, trees to climb,

fences to cross, fields to wander in,

swings to swing on,

more journeys to make,

there's more music to bring joy to the heart.

And there are hands to hold,

bodies to caress,

lovers to kiss,

secret places to be explored,

so much more love to be made.

 

This poem was written to the Week 3 prompt in this great little book. Week 3 - Exposing Yourself - happens to coincide with my birthday. I am revisiting the 'Write a Poem a Week' prompts this year. Writing some new material and revisiting work started when 52 was run as an online project in 2014 by Jo Bell. 52 is on Twitter: https://twitter.com/52poetry
and the book is available here:

 

http://ninearchespress.com/poetry-collections/52writeapoemaweekstartnowkeepgoing.html

Midnight walk

It has rained every day here in this corner of west Wales since October 31st. We have got used to floods on the roads as the water continually runs off the land onto lanes where  gulleys overflow and drains are blocked by debris. Last weekend we decided to go on foot to a friend's place, which is less than a mile away through the woods, much further via flooded roads in the car. It was still raining, but hey, there was a party at the end of the journey.

(We only had to walk back afterwards!)

Midnight walk

Your nose runs, you sniff,

wipe it on the back of your soaked glove,

this doesn’t help,

it makes your nose more wet,

but at least there is no one to see

deep in the night forest where

tree trunks loom in the torch beam

and brown leaves shine on the ground

as you slip, slither and slide

down the steep valley side,

hang onto branches for balance so

squeezed moss fills your hands with rain.

Step through roaring streams,

stumble up the other side,

search out the path in torchlight,

skid down again on slipping mud,

the only sounds the thunder of bursting becks,

the constant drip of rain, and

your nose sniffing to no effect.

The world is drowning.

War widow

Dorothy Charlotte Biggs, 3.12.1915 to 29.1.1985

On this day, when we are at war again, I am particularly remembering my mother on her centenary.

Dorothy Charlotte Biggs

December 3^rd 1915 – January 29th, 1985

She was a lone parent to two girls for several years after her first husband was killed in action in the Dambuster raids in 1943. She was widowed twice in her life - her second husband, my dad, died in 1978.

She wasn’t the only woman of her generation – or of any other age – to experience what war can do to families. There are many still becoming widows today. And as we go to war again, this poem is for my mum and for all the war widows everywhere, then and now.

This poem is set in London in World War II.

War widow

The telegram is on the table,

their Daddy’s dead.
 
Their Daddy’s dead,
a hero, but not here, never here, now.

The bombs are falling on the street,

the earth shifts, the world crumbles,
while the silence in her soul – cracks –

and explodes into a thousand unshed tears.

 

Devastation is all around,

but her house stands firm.

Her two lovely daughters are under the stairs,

clinging together.

She stands, quiet and still in the dark kitchen,

the lump in her throat suffocates,

but it keeps the feelings down.

Life is calm and steady for her girls,

while only deadness fills her empty broken heart

and a cold numb stone fills her stomach –

all her days and all her nights.

And when both her loves were gone,

she stood firm in the ruins of her world,

and never let her twice-broken heart bleed into our lives.

Tears run down

This is the latest from me after seeing more news from the Calais camps in the last couple of days. I also have a poem on 'I am not a silent poet', one of many responses on there to the attacks in Paris. See that here: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2015/11/14/words-in-blood-by-jackie-biggs/ >



You don’t need tear gas to make them cry in the jungle
 

They bulldoze tents,

bury identities in mud,

people sleep out in the rain,

tears run down.

They load up rubber bullets,

fire the water cannon,

gas the refugees,

 

tears run down.

They came to find peace,

but now they know the only way out may kill them,

as tears run down

(Calais, November 13^th, 2015)