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Category Archives: poetry

Rainbow, Front Door and A Poem

We drew the curtains to find a beautiful rainbow this morning.  The house across the street must be full of the crock of gold as the rainbow ends in their chimney. It wasn’t until I put the photo on the computer that I saw the one red leaf left on the Copper Beech next door.

One Copper Beech leaf

Walking through Penryn this morning in driving rain, I had to stop with the camera under the umbrella to take this photo of a very attractive front door.

Red front door with an Autumn wreath

A poem about Autumn for you, one that was in a poetry book I had as a child, about nine years old,  another that I liked to make up a tune for so that I could sing it to myself.  Certainly today we have had ‘great gales incessant’ and the ‘golden leaves’ have been scattered far and wide.

    Autumn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
  With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
  Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
  And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
  Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
  Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,
  Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
  So long beneath the heaven’s o’erhanging eaves;
  Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
  Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

The rains have been incessant over much of the country and my heart goes out to all those who are flooded out of their homes around Doncaster where we used to live, in the villages of Fishlake and Bentley, Sykehouse and Arksey and now we hear in many more areas across the Midlands.

 

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The Parade, A Poem and A Neighbour’s garden

It’s Remembrance Sunday and we went to watch the Parade in which both LiveWires 2 and 3 were taking part. T said it made her feel very important to be in her Cub uniform marching along with everyone.

The start of the Remembrance Day Parade

There are many war poems to choose from. I like the simplicity of this one, Perhaps by Vera Brittain,  its honesty and the fact that it applies to the death of anyone dear at any time, not just in wartime.  I posted another favourite poem for today here in 2012.

Perhaps, by Vera Brittain

(Dedicated to her fiance Roland Aubrey Leighton, who was killed at the age of 20 by a sniper in 1915, four months after she had accepted his marriage proposal)

Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.

Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.

Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.

Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain
To see the passing of the dying year,
And listen to Christmas songs again,
Although You cannot hear.

But though kind Time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of You
Was broken, long ago.

In a neighbour’s garden, after the solemnity of the morning, these flower pots made us smile.

 

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Bonfire Night

My Mum was born on Bonfire Night one hundred and five years ago and, as a child, thought that everyone was celebrating her birthday with enormous fires and fireworks lighting up the sky.  Memories of my Mum came to the fore a couple of weeks ago when a poet friend sent along this poem which touched me deeply and I was given permission to use it today in honour of my much missed Mum.

 

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A Pink Cloud and A Quilt

I love it when the sunset in the West lights up clouds in the East.

 

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Take Your Time, Mount St Helens and Happiness

This is a beautiful piece of writing and such important thoughts.

Another photo from our trip –

Mount St Helens

Relief today but now 6 weeks of uncertainty…….

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2019 in poetry, Postaday 2019, Uncategorized

 

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Downpour, Garden Flowers and Mary Oliver

We got caught in a downpour when shopping in town so we popped into our favourite coffee shop, Home Ground, to shelter and have some excellent coffee. There were roses on the window ledge.

There are still flowers in our garden despite the wind and rain. I decided to bring some in to enjoy indoors.

I have shared Mary Oliver’s poems before and this seemed so apt for these nights that are drawing in earlier and earlier, not eight o’clock tonight but by seven o’clock it was properly dark.

Lamps – Mary Oliver

Eight o’clock, no later
You light the lamps,

 

The big one by the large window,
The small one on your desk.

 

They are not to see by—
It’s still twilight out over the sand,

 

The scrub oaks and cranberries.
Even the small birds have not settled

 

For sleep yet, out of the reach
Of prowling foxes. No,

 

You light the lamps because
You are alone in your small house

 

And the wicks sputtering gold
Are like two visitors with good stories

 

They will tell slowly, in soft voices,
While the air outside turns quietly

 

A grainy and luminous blue.
You wish it would never change—

 

But of course the darkness keeps
Its appointment. Each evening,

 

An inscrutable presence, it has the final word
Outside every door.

 

 

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Queen Anne’s Lace, A Poem and Our House

Our walk ‘around the back’ along a short stretch of the Flat Lode Trail was rain free today. It was wild and windy and quite hard work but very satisfying. I was delighted to find Cow Parsley as our niece-in-law, a brilliant poet, recently shared the following poem about Queen Anne’s Lace, the much prettier name used by Americans.

 

Queen Anne’s lace grows quiet
by the roadside in spring.
With brilliant purity, leaves of chartreuse
and flowers champagne.
With edible bitter roots,
wild carrots you could call out by name.

Queen Anne’s lace grows dark
and brittle as a backdrop by fall.
She stays the night just as quiet as before,
with a heart hard as timber by sunrise
still delicate and breakable and
by some fortune still ignored
by the creatures with limbs that might call
out her name and

snap her by the stem for a memorial.

She will not break beneath the endless rains
the frost of the morning or
the bleak quiet of the cul-de-sac,
the shades of grey you could call out by name,
the warm bodies which brush blithe
against the lines of her form.

Queen Anne’s lace sleeps with
her fingers to the sky
and her body deformed in glory,
patient for the warm rains of late winter
and the sun like a cold flashlight
in the hazy sky which will beckon her
to wake once more and
glimmer by the highway
in hindsight
restored.

By Kari Bijou

We call this walk ’round the back’ as it goes up behind our house which can be seen, just, in the next zoomed in photo. Ours is the yellow painted one (the paint is called Cornish Cream) with a window in the attic, on the right of the two Victorian semis.

Our house

 

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