Days Gone…

 

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Days Gone

I heard a shadow scream

With bodily form within

My heart wrenched with need to help

The cry held the tears of the world

Weighing heavily on my mind

Stepping into the darkness

I heard the whispered words

She took my life, I was flushed away

I cannot move back nor forward

My spirit lies in limbo.

I knew this spirit, my mind

rushed back to my 11-year-old self

On instructions, it was my hand

that flushed this small body away

my life went on. It’s now in later years

I hear the echo of those days…

©Anita Dawes

#Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge…

Colleen’s 2019 #Tanka Tuesday #Poet of the Week & Honorable Mention(s), No. 142, “Character & Wild,” #SynonymsOnly

 

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Old

Toy box

memories

Hidden treasures

hands no longer play

Time trapped in an old chest

Why do we keep these old things?

When we have no time left to play

Too often life takes joy from our hands

Why is it so painful to throw away?

©Anita Dawes

 

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Hidden box… #Poetry

 

 

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In a box hidden from sight

My mothers love letters

Have come to light

Written in 1944

A soldier’s heart she craved

Soft word written with

Such passion

Tear stained aged paper

Belies the woman who

Stands before me

Was it this lost love that turned

her heart to stone?

©AnitaDawes

Snow…

 

 

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I remember the thick blanket of snow

When I was eight years old

I found a stray dog on my way home from school

I carried him home, thinking my mother

would let me keep him

I sat him on the doorstep,

rushed to tell her of the little friend I had found

Her answer was no, but she did however,

let me take a bowl of lentil soup for him

Surprised to see him still there

I say in the cold wishing I was an adult

Then he would be inside with me in the warm

It broke my heart to finally shut the front door on him

And I never did see him again…

©AnitaDawes

#FlashFiction Challenge for Carrot Ranch Literary Community…

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99 words, no more, no less. It’s a simple constraint, an easy-to-master literary art form, and a powerful writing tool for creatives and entrepreneurs. Writers calibrate the usefulness and beauty of 99-words through weekly flash fiction challenges.

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Here in England

We used to have afternoon tea dances

In ballrooms across the country.

Those were the days when a gentleman

Enjoyed dancing with his lady

Holding open the door to let her through first

Pulling her chair out to help her sit

There are so many old-world charms we have lost

Writing love letters, eagerly waiting for the postman

To deliver those words you long to read

Taking pen and paper to reciprocate

A gentleman would also lift his hat when passing a church

I still I cross myself whenever a funeral goes by.

Those golden days…

©AnitaDawes

Beloved…

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Beloved…

She looked at me with salt worn eyes

Tears of a thousand years

Her pain I could not imagine

Her years are old, she has lived too long

Old memories haunt her days, her nights

A plait crowns her beautiful grey hair

Her hand small and gentle, touch my face

Her smile almost invisible, too hard

Her pain holds it at bay, yet I remember

that her smile lit her eyes like night stars

She will forever be my beloved Oma…

Anita Signature

Many Tears…

 

 

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Many Tears

… will be shed today,

Elvis has not just left the building, he has left our world for another

where I hope to God, he finds the answers he was looking for.

I know he may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, he was my first real crush. I deserted Cliff Richard the moment I found Elvis.

Sad to say, I never made it to Graceland’s

I am not one of those screaming kind of fans, I felt I could see beyond the performer and the part that haunted me, captured my soul.

I do not say this lightly; I am writing this because Jaye and I were discussing our heroes. Name three, she said. She knew the first one of course.

The second was Da Vinci. I could not name a third

There are many lesser ones that I like

Ones that have the same kind of spark in smaller amounts

Like idols with feet made of clay, they don’t quite match

What about writers, Jaye asked

I could only think of one, James Herbert

I had watched an interview once and he had a great sadness about him

I brought his last hard back, something I never do as I prefer paperback

Then found out a few days later, he had died

That left a little hole in my mind as I had contacted him a while back

His kindness is still remembered

I told Jaye, that’s enough of this nonsense, back to work…

Anita Signature

 

 

 

Perchance… #Poetry

 

 

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I dream of a smoke-filled room

With deep red leather chairs

An old boys meeting place

Where all my favourite poets and storytellers

sit with their philosopher friends

Pen poised, ready to change the world

With their great imaginings

Magic to soothe the mind

Help your own thoughts to expand

Lewis Carroll speaks of a young girl

fallen down a rabbit hole

My ears tingle with anticipation

H G Wells speaks of the time machine he has in mind

Reading from his notes I want to interrupt him

Beg him to please take me with you

Today they have a foreign visitor

by the name of Mark Twain

He speaks of a strange land

and people of a different kind

Of a boy, Tom Sawyer, made to paint

 a picket fence with white paint

Getting into all kinds of trouble

Helping a slave to escape when no one else would

His heart as big as the Mississippi

I would have helped with that expedition

A run for freedom that belonged to his all along

Morning wakes my still tired eyes

I look to my notepad by my bedside

Wishing I could write as well as my favourite authors

My mind still held in half dream

On my notepad I read two words, You can

Written by a hand that was not my own…

AAAAA