Two Shadows… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

I am twice-born, yet I remember

 all my other yesterdays

Dark times, too many mistakes

the pain I left along the way

I cannot go back or forget.

How can I live this life with so

many memories from another life?

I touch the darkness that lives inside

it pushes back,

I dance with the ghost of myself.

If I cannot rid myself of these old memories

old ghosts, there will be no new life.

Living with two shadows

the days are overcast, brooding

 Heavy, like a storm waiting to break.

I cannot walk through the same footsteps again

I must find a new path, make myself worthy of this life

in order to be rid of the old…

aaaaa

#Writephoto: Snowfall

Thursday photo prompt: Snowfall #writephoto

 

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I walk under a black and white moon

in fresh snowfall, soft and sparkling

as if made from fallen stars.

Shadows slide across the ground

Beneath snow-laden trees, lies Folcor

A beautiful white dragon, made from luck.

He sleeps, waiting for the first breath of spring.

Before he wakes, whisper your wish in his ear

he will carry it back to the beginning of time

opening new doorways

Letting new luck enter the universe.

The life you wished for circled back in time

to greet you under the snow-laden trees

where Folcor lies sleeping…

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This is what I saw when I looked at Sue’s image…

For those of you who won’t know who Folcor is, I include the trailer from Never Ending Story…

No End… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

No End

Sleep my pretty one

I will be right beside you when you wake

To look into those beautiful blue eyes

That touch my heart with invisible hands

Planting seeds of love

The kind that needs no watering

And never dies

Otherworldly kind of love

Born from Eternity

That kind of love that lives forever

Returning to new young lovers

Waiting to meet

That first kiss, that first touch,

That speaks of something long remembered

There are no words to speak its meaning

A comfort, a warm blanket on a winter’s night

When lightning flashes and storms rage

Washing the earth, a life remembered

This is why time goes in circles

Love does the same

A new body, time and space

The same love returning

There is no end…

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#Wordle 383 #Poetry

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Shades of Blue

Morning shadow falling across my face

A touch of something calling

Needing to be remembered

To return

My thoughts tied in a string

I am shaken by a memory

A view from the deck of a ship

A lonely shadow of a man

Walking unsteadily on the pebbled shore

The ship passes, I hear dogs bark

I remember feeling sad, not knowing why

The kettle calls me away from my window

The shadows gone, sunlight fills my room

I sit with the brew, feeling spent

As if I had taken a long walk back

 From time and memory

Notes left on my pillow

Soft summer breeze lifting lace curtains

Float into the room, like the veil of an invisible bride

The kiss that never was, the lips I never touched

Yet the memory of both, haunt me now

The love I left behind

The life I could have had

I wonder, is memory a sweet treat

Or lost dreams, returning shades of blue?

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Christmas Snow… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

 

I remember Christmas with deep snow

Yellow streetlights glowing

Changing the way the world looked

Landmarks vanishing

You walk with remembering

Breaking through snow as if you know where to go

Each step crunching like rice pops

Beware of walking too close to trees

They like to dump their heavy load as you pass

Like mischievous children throwing snowballs

I remember nights with the full moon

Stars too many to count

I look down from my window and wonder

Did God make extra stars to fall with the snow?

That shines, sparkle, brighter than those above

Late night snow, reflecting heaven

Earlier footprints filled in as if some

Unseen hand had swept the carpet clean

As my mum does before we go to bed

I love this memory…

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A Story for Christmas… Two White Mice

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A cold wind rattled the window frame and whistled through the cracks, lifting the faded cotton curtains like a summer skirt. It was dark outside, but Ruth hadn’t noticed, so intent on keeping warm.

The last of the coal was gone, nothing but ebony dust in the scuttle. The embers were nearly cold. Time to go to bed, she thought, at least it would be warmer there.

A loud knock on the front door made her jump, but she made no move to see who was there. It was probably those rotten kids from the Council estate again. They were always knocking on her door and running away.

There was another knock on the door, followed by another. This was unusual, she thought. They didn’t usually knock twice. But who else could it be?

Pulling the old knitted shawl closer around her shoulders, she shuffled in her shabby slippers to the front door. She peered through the peephole, but its field of vision was quite small and distorted. But even in the darkness, she could see there was no one there. She turned and made her way to the kitchen, thinking a nice cup of cocoa would set her up for a good night’s sleep.

As she passed the living room doorway, her mind played the same familiar trick again and she saw Jim, her husband, sitting by a blazing fire. His snow-white hair flopping over his eyes the way it always did. As she opened her mouth to ask if he wanted any cocoa, he slowly vanished; taking the blazing fire with him and her heart sank. She missed him so much, especially at this time of year.

They had never made much of a fuss about Christmas. Something nice for dinner, and maybe some shop bought mince pies. And every year without fail he bought her two white sugar mice. She had confessed her love of them when they were courting and he always managed to find some every year since. This would be her first Christmas without him.  She prayed every night that she would be allowed to go to him, but no one was listening and every morning she woke up in an empty bed.

 

Ruth had no family and no real friends. Days would pass when she wouldn’t see or speak to anyone. One of her neighbours would wave if she saw her at the window, but that hadn’t happened lately.

Sipping the hot milky cocoa in her chair by the dead fire, she listened intently, hoping to hear the carol singers again, but all was silent. Not even any traffic to prove she was not really so alone.

She sighed and struggled to her feet, intent on rinsing her cup in the kitchen. Just as she reached the hall, a muffled sound from outside the front door drew her attention. Two more knocks and she moved slowly to have another look. Again, there was no one there; at least she couldn’t see anything. But someone had to be out there, for she could hear something.

Then a very small voice said, “She must be asleep,” followed by a giggle.

“Knock again, and then we’ll give up…”

From where Ruth stood, she could hear small scrabbling noises, moving up the door to the letterbox.

Up close, the door echoed with another knock, accompanied by several giggles. She looked through the peephole again and saw nothing. Convinced she was losing her mind, she turned towards the stairs. The sound of the gate swinging shut stopped her. Someone was there. What on earth did they want at this time of night? Knowing they were probably gone now, she slowly opened the door.

On the doorstep was a small boy, clutching a small pink paper bag that had reindeer on it. Another child, a girl by the looks of it, was swinging on the gate. “I told you she was in,” she said, and as she smiled, a dimple appeared on her left cheek.

“These are for you…” the boy said. “Me mum made ‘em.”

Ruth reached out and slowly touched the paper bag. It had been used before and was wrinkled and soft. He pushed the bag into her hand and let go. Ruth didn’t know what to say. What should she say? That it was far too late to be banging on her door? Or would a simple thank you be enough?

But it was no good. The emotions racing through her mind had rendered her speechless. That someone had thought of her and brought a gift, overwhelmed and saddened her in equal measure and her eyes filled with tears.

When Ruth looked up, she noticed the mother, standing just a few feet away on the other side of the hedge. She looked thin and worn out, but somehow peaceful, watching her children with a small smile on her face. “Come on now, you two,” she called. “Say goodnight now.”

A chorus of good nights and they were gone, leaving Ruth standing there, suddenly stupid for not saying anything. She should have said something.

As she closed the front door, she wondered what was inside the bag. In the kitchen where the light was better, she opened the crumpled paper and looked inside.

What she saw made her heart leap with unexpected joy.

Inside, lying next to each other, were two white sugar mice…

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London… #Poetry

 

 

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Silent faces walk the streets of London

Never stopping, no smiles to give away

Tourists, cameras flashing

Strange sounds assail your ears

Like too many bird songs

Chalk art on pavements that should be seen

Trafalgar fountains spraying

With Nelson watching all

The bells of St Martin’s ring

To someone in need of prayer

Get your shoes shined here

Take a piece of London home

To say you visited here

Artist’s paintings hang on railings

Visit museums if that’s your thing

Ride an open top bus, hope there’s no rain

See the street vendors, card tricks

Stick pins in their flesh

Take the bus that sails on the water

Walk the pink roads, see Buck House

Give a nod to Queen Victoria as you pass

Stop for lunch, ride the London Eye

Before you take the train home…

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Memories…

 

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Painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

 

 

Memories are funny things, aren’t they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think – hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it’s down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that’s not always the case.

Just lately I have been remembering a specific time in my childhood, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me. Or was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won’t always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate.. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point I didn’t really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn’t change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother’s problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was a very impressive grave stone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for a while, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite important. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (12may 1828-9april 1882) and I remember being very impressed by the sound of it, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter and some would say that he wasn’t very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he had ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I tend to think he was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today…

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti (wasn’t he cute?)

 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born 12 May 1828 in London, the second child and eldest son of Italian expatriates. His father, Gabriele Rossetti, was a Dante scholar, who had been exiled from Naples for writing poetry in support of the Neapolitan Constitution of 1819. Rossetti’s mother had trained as a governess and supervised her children’s early education. Few Victorian families were as gifted as the Rossettis: the oldest child, Maria Rossetti, published A Shadow of Dante (1871) and became an Anglican nun; William Michael Rossetti was along with his brother an active member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and became an editor, man of letters, and memoirist; the youngest, Christina Georgina Rossetti, became an important and influential lyric poet.

As a child Dante Gabriel Rossetti intended to be a painter and illustrated literary subjects in his earliest drawings. He was tutored at home in German and read the Bible, Shakespeare, Goethe’s Faust, The Arabian Nights, Dickens, and the poetry of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron. After leaving school, he apprenticed himself to the historical painter Ford Madox Brown, who later became his closest lifelong friend. He also continued his extensive reading of poetry—Poe, Shelley, Coleridge, Blake, Keats, Browning, and Tennyson—and began in 1845 translations from Italian and German medieval poetry. In 1847 and 1848 Rossetti began several important early poems—”My Sister’s Sleep,” “The Blessed Damozel,” “The Bride’s Prelude,” “On Mary’s Portrait,” “Ave,” “Jenny,” “Dante at Verona,” “A Last Confession,” and several sonnets, a form in which he eventually became expert. 

Rossetti divided his attention between painting and poetry for the rest of his life. In 1848 he founded the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with six other young men, mostly painters, who shared an interest in contemporary poetry and an opposition to certain stale conventions of contemporary academy art. In a general way, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood sought to introduce new forms of thematic seriousness, high coloration, and attention to detail into contemporary British art. Members of the group included John Everett Millais, its most skilled painter and future president of the Royal Academy, and William Holman Hunt, Thomas Woolner; Frederic Stephens; and William Michael Rossetti, who as P.R.B. secretary kept a journal of activities and edited the six issues of its periodical, the Germ (1850). Associates of the group included the older painter Ford Madox Brown, the painter and poet William Bell Scott, the poet Coventry Patmore, and Christina Rossetti, six of whose poems appeared in the Germ.