Poem: Autumn

Autumn is more than a season.
It’s the feeling
Of the world falling down around you –
Yellow and reds:
Heaven and hell.
The closure of warmth,
The fug of turf fires,
A subtle breeze biting your skin,
A familiar darkness closing in.

It’s the season of horror
and hiding behind masks –
A chill leaks into your soul
as you look around
at what is lost.
The silenced children’s voices
now hide behind closed curtains,
Their once glowing faces now white
From the glow of their screens.

Trees sway, unconfident in their nakedness,
Their once plentiful garb strewn to the ground.
Desolate, they wait patiently
For longer days
And a hint of sun.

And so, we go about our days,
Our houses and cars lit to fight the darkness,
Waiting until we see that first green bud
On the old, dependable sycamore tree.

Sarah Fitzgerald, 02/10/2018

 

 

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Poem: Grand Achievements

by Sarah Fitzgerald

 

Sitting down
Shoes exactly two feet apart
His breath becoming deeper,
His eyes focusing on nothing
But the task at hand.
With determination and tenacity
He held the little piece of plastic
In a pincer grip.
He bit his lip, channelling his concentration,
Ignoring the voices of the past
Swirling around him, whispering in eerie voices
Useless, failure, imbecile, waste of space.
He ignored his leg, which was jumping violently,
Trying to distract him.
His fringe was wet from the sweat of effort,
The pursuit of success. He could not fail.
Another deep breath, and with confidence and inner belief
He successfully
Pushed the button
Through the hole.

Four Years Old (poem)

for Alison

 

A doctor’s visit can be healing,
But not as instantaneously as mummy’s magic fairy dust.
The beating of a butterfly’s wings entertains you for hours.

You don’t need any help, and yet you need me,
Your head slots so perfectly into the hollow beneath my ribcage.
Your soft hands always so busy, so dirty
Creative delicious mud pies or digging for buried treasure.

Your lips purse together into invisibility when you’re looking for something,
Hands behind your back, swaying to and fro, grabbing at my heartstrings.

Every night, you sit, pen in hand, practicing your letters,
You tell me that you want to learn. Well, you are also my teacher,
As I am yours.

You teach me that time is sand slipping through my fingers,
You teach me that what I am is all you want, that perfection in your eyes, is me.
You teach me that sometimes you need to make time to pick dandelions out of the grass.

We both know that you will never be four years old again,
And that one day you will tower over me with a mischievous smile,
But still I will hold you and rock you like a baby,
My daughter, my Alison, my world and my life.

The Elusive Word – Poem

 

Words? words? Where are you? I can see
Your shadows lurking behind that great big wall in front of me,
Whispering and giggling like schoolgirls in the yard,
Can’t we just be friends? Must life be so hard?

Words, oh words? Come out, come out to play,
I’ve only a short time frame, I’ve not got all friggin’ day,
So let us all cooperate and jot down a line or two,
Why can’t you be as kind to me as I have been to you?

WORDS? Come on now, I won’t chide you again,
You better come quick smart when this paper meets my pen,
You were so excited when my bum cheeks hit the loo,
And now there’s only silence – WHERE the **** are you?

Fine, then. Be like that. No, really – I don’t care!
Stay away forever! Only come back if you dare!
It’s not as if I hope to depend on you for a living,
And that when you come skulking back, I’ll always be forgiving.

Words, I know you’re in there, but please, do not leave;
Perhaps a good night’s sleep will grant me some reprieve?
I know we fight and argue, we don’t always agree,
But we work so well together, don’t you think, you and me?

Words, just come back – I want us to be friends,
We can talk it over, I want to make amends.
Please don’t make me write a shitty poem just for the sake of writing,
Otherwise people will likely guess that we’ve been fighting.

Oh crap. Oh well, tomorrow’s another day,
Let’s hope by then my dear old muse can think of things to say.

When no words are coming, what do you do? Write a poem about it!

No. Words. Are. Coming. Lately.

As I sit at my laptop, waiting for the words to come,

Thoughts crash together in my brain, becoming mangled and broken;

I try to stay calm and serene, but the right words elude me,

I feel they are watching me from a comfortable distance

Laughing and mocking me. I feel the frustration rising within.

It burns my soul and crushes my being. The words must come,

Without them I am nothing. I can say nothing, I can’t be defined

And if this is the case, can I really exist? So I persevere

Writing bullshit and nonsense and shaking my head,

This is not good enough. Who will this offend? Who can I impress?

Writing is not a choice, it’s a terrible infliction

That follows the victim forever, strangles them, drags them down.

And yet I can’t fight the urge to keep trying

To create something special, something small, in a world

Where the search for perfection threatens to destroy our humanity.

I take a deep breath and say,

I am not perfect; I am shattered and broken,

But I will continue to try, to search for the unattainable,

Because the search for the right words is as important as the finding,

And when they are found, there will be nothing more to say.