Poetry

Ma Quête

kites 407_DxO3

J’ai cherché sans te trouver,
Dans les étoiles qui scintillent
Et les ténèbres profondes
Sans te voir.
Je te croyais fantôme,
Image de l’espoir,
Né du désir,
Ephémère comme la brume
Ou mon rêve.
Je ne savais pas
Que tu y étais déja,
Ame de mon âme
Qui m’attendais
Au fond du cœur

I sought without finding
In the shimmering stars
And the deep shadows
And saw you not.
I thought you a phantom,
Image of hope,
Born of desire,
Ephemeral as the mist
Or my dream.
I knew not
That you were already here,
Soul of my soul,
Waiting for me
In the depths of my heart.

 

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Inextricable

600px-14crossings-decorative-knot-trig-curve.svgI took your mind into the darkness
Black and crimson
Like the weals
Upon your skin.
I took your heart across the Abyss,
Muffled screams
And a yearning
For more…
I took your night into the morning,
Bloodied tenderness
Eyes lost
In ecstasy.
I took your body into the Light
Winding it with ceremental kisses
And the feathered touch
Of a knife.
I took your soul into myself,
Essence mingled
Inextricably
With mine.

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Fred

3He strutted up and down the loft
While puffing out his chest
Where iridescent feathers
Caught a rainbow on his breast.
The hens were all aflutter
‘Cause they knew that Fred was King,
The undisputed champion
Who wore the racer’s ring.
His picture hung upon the wall
His trophies on display,
And when the flock flew overseas
‘Twas Fred would lead the way.
Blue-banded hunk, whose beady eye
Kept younger cocks in check,
Until the day he grew too old
And mother wrung his neck.
His coffin was a golden one,
A crispy pastry cave,
Bedecked with tender mushrooms
More gravy, then, than grave.

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Purpose

morningmisytThe pen paints the souls longing
In jewel tones.
The darkness veils the stars,
Yet their Light shines unseen,
But not unfelt
An ember of gold
In the shadows.
Now you remind us
To count all our blessings,
Holding them dear
For the little while.
You remind us too
That chivalry survives,
And the courage to laugh
In the face of tragedy.
Then you remind us
That friendship is precious
A gift to be cherished
And never lost.
I am reminded
That life has its purpose
And our purpose in life
Is to Live it.

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Fools Gold

fools-goldIt’s a farce, of course;
This worship of Mammon
And the daily grind
That numbs the senses
And warps the mind.
Rainbow chasing.
Devoid of style,
Kicking and screaming
The Golden Mile
Beckons insidiously.
Pyrite glitter
Blinding our eyes
To the hungry child
Beleaguered by flies.
And we cry charity,
Shed a false tear
And brandish the plastic
To save us the trouble
Of anything drastic…
Like being human.

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Yours…

stonehenge-004Yours were the lips that breathed against mine,
Sharing the warmth of desire in the darkness
Sharing the chill of a winters morning, laughing,
Like children, untrammelled by fear
Or the mendacities of survival.
Yours was the touch that opened me to fire,
To the conflagration of self, the immolation of passion
On an altar of self sacrifice and world denial,
Willing victim of the deepest blaze,
Consuming consummation.
Yours were the eyes, burning like ice
That bound me in flame and warped my perception,
Focussing my vision on the single point of your heart,
Blinding me with tomorrows that drew me inwards,
Drowning in the moment’s purity.
Yours was the joy of tender awakenings,
Feathered caresses in the dawn glow of slumber,
Golden in the mornings with the suns kiss,
Jealous of the shadows that hid your face
Beneath the duvet.

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Bedwyr’s Song

offering-lgOn the dark road to midnight
The bard takes his rest
With a song in his dream
And his heart on the Quest.
The hollow hills beckon,
The call of the Fae…
The Light in his heart burns
To show him the Way.

To the stone by the well,
In the green, leafy glade,
With the stars on the Water
Reflecting the Blade.
There Mother and Maiden
Will hold up the Grail,
Be true and your questing,
Sir Knight, cannot fail.

‘Tis only the purest in heart, it is told,
With an innocent faith, in his soul,
Who can follow the Path through the darkest of nights,
To the Castle that shelters his goal.
Though the wildwood bewilders his stumbling feet
The Knight marches onward and true,
Through bramble and thicket he forges ahead
With his Vision his hearts only view.

On the shores of a Lake
Our Knight stops to rest,
Where once, for a King
As a final request,
He had taken a Blade
Wrought of glory and pain,
Cast it far in the Lake
To conceal it again.

For the glory had failed
And the story had died,
Pierced with a darker Blade
Deep in its side.
There the Blood that had fallen,
The Life that was shed,
Rekindled the Heart
Of the Land where he bled.

As the dawn rises over the dark, glassy Lake
On the shore, where the mistwraiths arise,
The incense of apple wood perfumes the air,
And the morning Light shines from his eyes…
The Veil thins, revealing the prow of a boat
That sailed to him thus once before,
When the Blade that was forged out of magic and Light
He had cast, in his grief, from the shore.

Then the barge had appeared
As the Hand took the Sword
And the Queens had enfolded
His sacrificed Lord.
Yet, this time is different,
For there in the prow
The Lady is smiling
And beckons him now.

He crosses the water,
The song of the Quest
Echoes the drum beating
Deep in his breast.
The Mists close around him
No longer to roam,
For Avalon’s Lady
Is taking him Home.

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Rombald’s Moor

hor2Tall the cliffs of stone
That mark the entry to my heart’s domain,
Wild and empty in its vastness
The solitude of living earth.
The wind lifts the heart
And bears it through the storm
To where the lichen crusted rocks
Cling to the clouds.
Part of my heart remains there
Scattered with the ashes of a lost love
Mingled with the joy and pain of memory,
Of childhood wonder and a lover’s kiss.
Deep the roots which bind me to that land,
Like the weathered pines that cling for life
To the purple hillside…
Genuflecting, but standing, still,
Naked in the mist.
Or the great stones,
Ice carved in aeons past
Into a landscape of dreams,
Marked by ancient hands
With figures of Light,
That I may stand beside them,
Millennia apart,
And recognise my kin.

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Amazed

rocky_valley_labyrinth_tintagelWe walk the cosmic labyrinth
In sanctity and grace,
An interwoven farandole
Where each soul has its place.
A cosmic tree, where every fruit
In serpents coil is caught,
And every walker joins a dance
Whose steps are learned, not taught.
A stately, ordered chaos
Where the parts make up the whole,
Tells step, by intertwining step,
The journey of the soul.

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Seasons

tree-art-four-seasonsThe past drags its feet,
Backwards, away
Fading from memory
Half remembered
The present, needle sharp
Reminds us of its presence
Insistent clamour
At the door of vision
The future tantalises
Glimpses half seen
Pages that wait for our hand
To write the next chapter….
Life threads twining
Snake-like about each other
A lovers knot
Tied around eternity.

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Rewriting the Wrinkles

downloadOh give me a life on the open road!
With my dog and a caravan..
Just my books, paint and turps and a canvas..
And skin with a leathery tan.
Oh find me a place on a mountain!
Where the clouds can come down to play,
And the cold stream can ripple with laughter,
And no-one can find me all day.
Oh give me a hole in a hillside!
A warm, womb-like, bat ridden cave,
And skyclad I’ll dance in the moonlight,
I grow old, but why should I behave?
Oh show me a glade in the forest!
Where the fae and the sylphs still abide,
And in the grove dappled with sunlight,
I’ll stroke the white hart’s snowy hide.
Oh find me a desolate seashore!
Where I can commune with the sea,
And learn all the songs of the moon tides,
And finally learn to be me.
Oh give me the richness of cronehood!
For maiden and mother I’ve been,
I want to rewrite all my wrinkles
Before I sleep under the green.

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A Pup’s Apology

imgp0068I know I’m useful in your life, I know I make you smile,
Although you make a sterner face, just once in every while.
I know you like it when I rest my head upon your toes,
In spite of noxious gases rising up towards your nose.
I’ve taught you ‘fetch’ already and just how to throw my ball,
And not to leave the door ajar that leads into the hall.
Your sofa is a lovely place to snuggle when I’m cold,
(I’m sorry ‘bout the training shoe that wasn’t very old…)
I helped you with the gardening and dug up all the weeds,
(And in the other holes I dug I’m sure you could plant seeds..)
I didn’t eat the flowers off of everything you’ve grown..
I thought they looked so pretty you would like one of your own.
I like it when the laundry dangles, dancing on the line,
I couldn’t help attacking it, and trying to make it mine.
That single sock, just hanging there, and looking all forlorn,
I thought I’d keep it company… it isn’t very torn…
(I prob’ly ought to mention that I’m sorry ‘bout the lawn…)

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PTSD

ptsdThe creaking wakes me.
Four a.m., and again I am poised,
Ready to rise from the sofa bed,
Conscious of the steel strut against my spine.
Above my head, in the room once mine,
The bed that was mine, once upon a time
Grinds against the wall.
He is wakeful again.
Another bad dream?
There are many.
There are tears.
There is fear and ‘what if?’
Every day.
Even dreams hold pain,
Of loss and memory
Of what was and what should have been.
Reality is his nightmare.
“It is shit being me,”

I can dream too.
Helplessly watching
The flaying of a loved one,
A mangled body, broken in hate,
Love disembowelled by madness.
I dream in HD colour.
And stifle my screams in the pillow
Or sob in the bathroom, quietly.
Even now.
I can see the scars on his chest
The tubes went in there, and there, and there.
The stapled forehead where they peeled back his face,
And his eyes as blue as a babe again.
No escape from heartache and memory,
Even in hope.

Body aches,
Mind is tired,
Bones hurt,
Muscles beg for peace,
Wedded to exhaustion.
The last shreds of youth
Leached away.
Worry is my bedfellow.

Yet, how dare I complain?
How dare I feel tired?
He should be dead.
Fighting each day,
Hunting life with passion,
Pursuing the impossible,
Grasping its tail
With paralysed fingers.
I the squire, he the knight,
The dragon of disability
And the worm of despair,
And the quest?
The grail of normality.
Our shield is laughter
And gentle lunacy.
Our armour a refusal
To accept pain as answer.

My sin is hope,
My sin despair
Poised on the knife edge
Razor sharp, each step cutting.
My burden, guilt.
Failure to protect,
To prevent the unpreventable
Or heal the unhealable.
Illogical, ridiculous.
Yet human.
Because I’m his Mum.
And because I care.

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Paper Wings

fantasy_quill_by_kippcantdance-d48o7ur

In sleepless silence
night mourns the dreaming
lost to a fallen star.
Shadows chase the ghosts of morning,
ever seeking to consume them,
jealous of their light.
Paper wings flutter
unheeded to the floor
in flightless death.
The wakeful poet dips his pen
in cold coffee
beside the empty bed
and yearns for dawn.

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53 Responses to Poetry

  1. Awake in 365 Days says:
    January 2, 2013 at 04:29

    I really love the Amazed Poem, Cosmic Labyrinth, that’s so fitting, and really every line of this poem is so powerful, the carefully chosen words create a beautiful visual of the cosmic dance.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  2. thecheesewolf says:
    January 3, 2013 at 18:44

    Am hugely enjoying your work here… Rombald’s Moor especially (and not just because I look out on the back end of it every day when I’m at work,,,). The combinations of imagery, of traditions and of musics runs through your writing to great effect. Look forward to reading more (which side are you from? Ilkley, Keighley or Craven?)

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    • Echo says:
      January 3, 2013 at 18:52

      Most of my time was spent on the Ilkley side.. though I’m exiled in the South these days… far from home sadly! But I know the moor very well.. it is, if anywhere is, my heart’s home.

      Thank you though. Having been reading some of your work, I take your comments as a real compliment. And I’m never averse to those 🙂

      Like

      Reply
  4. Sue says:
    January 11, 2013 at 12:10

    Your work holds me…

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  5. Jenn says:
    February 15, 2013 at 23:09

    I smiled and laughed through your poems … Your pooch I can see as you write 🙂 Rewriting the wrinkles just sings so much to what i love to do 🙂 … Amazed .. Yes certainly a beautiful wonderful feeling 🙂 as to Fred … The biggest grin reading it 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  6. prospermind says:
    February 23, 2013 at 18:50

    I am so glad I stumbled upon your blog! Your poetry is amazing. I instantly fell in love with “Purpose” as soon as I caught sight of it! Very appealing, very touching, very inspiring, simply powerful. It really did something to me, I’m not sure what, but it certainly left its foot prints behind…

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  7. AJJenner says:
    February 26, 2013 at 22:48

    Awwww I just love your poems – especially the Rewriting Wrinkles one 🙂 In answer to your probably rhetorical question “why should I behave?” – one should never behave and my 88 year old Gran certainly doesn’t!!

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  8. stockdalewolfe says:
    March 14, 2013 at 01:10

    I love your poetry but my favorite was “Yours”– very beautiful.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  9. stockdalewolfe says:
    March 14, 2013 at 14:43

    It is apparent that it was something very beautiful but you captured the beauty and translated it into language– a huge transformation.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    • Echo says:
      March 14, 2013 at 14:49

      Thank you.
      I’ve just been wandering around your place a little more. The Mondrian post caught my eye and i found some areas as yet unexplored 🙂

      Like

      Reply
  11. ksbeth says:
    June 9, 2013 at 13:41

    good call, the kinders will love this!

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  12. harulawordsthatserve says:
    November 26, 2013 at 08:09

    I’ve just read the first poem so far, which made me laugh out loud and was a joy to read. I look forward to enjoying the others when I have time to really ‘hear’ them. I’m glad to have discovered you, through Rosie Amber’s review. I’ll be back:-) Blessings, Harula xxxxx

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  13. F.G.M. says:
    April 26, 2014 at 08:03

    Thanks for these very nice poems. I do like the lines
    “The incense of apple wood perfumes the air,
    And the morning Light shines from his eyes…”
    Among many others…
    Kind regards
    FGM

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  14. Kritika Vashist says:
    May 30, 2015 at 14:45

    I read a couple of poems and I loved the last one! Beautiful 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  15. Kunal Thakore says:
    June 7, 2015 at 14:20

    Sue – you have a gift. Pl keep sharing! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  16. thelonelyauthorblog says:
    November 7, 2015 at 15:59

    Thank you for sharing this.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  17. John (Jack) McClintock says:
    December 27, 2015 at 13:45

    impressive… so many noble hearts, so little time to visit with them.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  18. Jean Reinhardt says:
    April 13, 2016 at 12:29

    I really enjoyed your poetry and loved ‘Fred’ (my son-in-law’s name – though I’ve never wanted to wring his neck, we get on very well).

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    • Sue Vincent says:
      April 13, 2016 at 12:32

      Thanks Jean. I could wish Mother hadn’t wrung Fred;s too… or at least not served him up afterwards 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply
      • Jean Reinhardt says:
        April 13, 2016 at 12:37

        Lol! We had two hens when our kids were younger and at the end of their egg-laying days neither my husband or myself had the nerve to kill and eat them – the kids had given them names, never name anything you intend eating. We gave them to my parents and cried off Sunday dinner for two weeks afterward. We did tell the kids the truth, though, hence the reason for avoiding Sunday visits to their grandparents for a while.

        Liked by 1 person

        Reply
  19. palpablepennings says:
    June 27, 2016 at 21:10

    Such beautiful poetry..I read a few of them..just wondering if I can go on this way as I am too into writing Poetry!! Glad that I randomly visited your Blog!! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  21. waggytalesdogblog says:
    May 10, 2017 at 09:55

    Such beautiful words and I love your humour! .Can’t wait to read more x

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  22. colorfulpen says:
    May 27, 2017 at 15:24

    So many gems here! I’ll be back for more.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
  23. Victoria C. Slotto says:
    July 30, 2017 at 21:01

    My favorite, by far, the first one in French. I used to live in France and that language is oh-so-perfect for both poetry and prayer. And love. Very layered write.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    • Sue Vincent says:
      July 30, 2017 at 21:15

      Thanks, victoria. I lived there to for many years…just outside Paris, then Vichy.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply
      • Jack McClintock says:
        August 7, 2017 at 15:03

        A Certain Sense of Self

        Scent of mulled cider, pine boughs and melting wax;
        the aroma of roast turkey wafting from the kitchen
        on cold wintry holidays. The hushed roar of heavy snow
        falling on empty streets, or rush of night wind
        outside the frostworks on the bedroom windows. The
        gentle rhythm of her slumber beside me in the dark.

        ~

        Thoughtful consideration of another; the subtle joy of
        giving, learned from years of watching her.
        The warmth of a smile, and sweet contentment of rolling
        in affection. The reassurance of her too delicate touch;
        these are my riches, and my reasons for staying.

        ~ ]

        There was a time I was without her: unbaked bread,
        raw meat, green wine. There was a time I
        closed myself and needed no one; a fallow life that fed
        upon itself. Men endure without purpose, but
        flourish in service to something greater than self.

        ~

        How perfectly she tempers my inadequacy.
        How shyly she steels my courage.
        Odd fate, to find completion as the dark side
        of the one they call us.

        I’m her fist and her crusade.
        She’s my heart, and my conscience.
        I’m a sword; she, the scabbard that holds it.
        We are children seeking balance in each other.

        * For; Mavorneen:
        You are my reason for being in the world. When you go, we go.

        Liked by 1 person

        Reply
  24. christineplouvier says:
    July 14, 2018 at 17:21

    I just had to save a copy of ‘Fred’. My mother used to put the pigeons she’d get from my grandfather into spaghetti sauce. I had no bonds with those birds, so it didn’t bother me to eat them.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

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