Friends In My Garden: Oak and A Time For Tears

The following poems were written for a man I once thought was the centre of my universe. It’s almost nineteen years since I shed those tears and I’ve found new, strong and lasting love. This post is for those of you who think that your life ends with the loss of one love. It changes and you change but it can get better. You just have to pick up the pieces (probably best to discard the not so good ones) and face life again. As usual, please pass one or both of these on to anyone you think might like to read it/them.

OAK

Rooted firmly in the ground

my oak

is tall and strong

protecting creatures

that snuggle into his trunk

and hide in his leaves.

Wide he spreads his branches

and so high

his canopy is sometimes in the clouds.

I sit in his shade

and lean on him.

His bigness can be overwhelming,

too long in his shadow

I shrink and fade

then I need to walk in the sun

content

secure

knowing he is there

in the centre of my garden.

A TIME FOR TEARS

Flowing like a waterfall

these tears I shed for you.

At night I wake to wrenching sobs

my pillow wet

my soul bereft;

I want to sleep forever.

Do you cry too?

Does guilt grip you with remorse

for leaving me

for what you too have lost?

Perhaps one day

my heart will mend

my tears no longer fall.

One day I might not

think of you with sadness

but after forty years

I know there’ll never come a time

when I can say

‘I don’t love you anymore.’

Friends In My Garden: Exotic Bird

I hope that many of you have at least one person in your life who fits this image of a good friend. Mine has been a bit off colour lately so this is a tribute to her, to remind her how much I appreciate her.

Please feel free to send this poem on to the exotic bird(s) in your garden of friends. My words are free for you all to enjoy and share. If you would like to leave me a comment that would be great, thank you.

EXOTIC BIRD

Exotic is my little bird

gorgeous her plumage

of brilliant emerald

and sapphire

and the richest ruby red.

She’s something of a loner

rather shy

and quiet until she sings,

then she leads the chorus.

Her voice fills my garden

with the sound of crystal music.

I love to sit and listen

not only to her song

her words are never wrong.

We share a tranquil moment

rest for a while on a bench

chat about friends and daily affairs.

A peck on my cheek

a feathery wave

and she flies home to her nest.

Friends In My Garden: A Cute Little Snowdrop

The following poem was written for one of my granddaughters when she was about four years old. Many other grannies bought my book because they had their own little snowdrop – a sweet child with blonde hair and that entrancing giggle we hear from a happy little girl. Mine is now in her twenties, a charming young woman, she still fills my heart with joy when she comes to visit my garden.

If you are fortunate to have a Snowdrop in your garden of friends and family I hope you enjoy this poem and that you will pass it on to your own Snowdrop even if she is no longer little.

A Cute Little Snowdrop

A Tinkerbell laugh

an ‘Aren’t I beautiful?’ grin.

Pretty petals

soft and light

purest white

little snowdrop

shakes her head

shimmers her leaves

twirling and dancing on tippy toe

swaying and bowing in the breeze.

Friends In My Garden: Wings Of Turquoise

Like the other poem which I have posted today, this was written for a friend who had been in pain, emotionally and physically. I wanted to depict a woman who was once artistic, creative, talented in many ways, but who was trapped in a marriage of violence and humiliation. It applies to any women and girls who are beaten and made to feel inadequate or worse, by men who bully them. To see such women blossom once freed from that sort of environment, gives joy to my soul and theirs. Please pass this on to anyone you think might benefit from and appreciate it. The words are mine but the message is for everyone. As always, I would love to receive your comments, especially if this poem gives courage to someone you know.

Wings Of Turquoise

Is this the same bird I once knew,

a dove beige pale and sadness grey

of shrivelled soul

caged in fear

feathers pecked

and head held low

to hide her pain?

Now she glides on wings of turquoise

golden tipped

a shout of sunshine in her laugh

her eyes sing ‘Joie de vivre.’

Fly high my friend

now free now strong

love your life

delight in your dreams

soar on winds of happiness.

Friends In My Garden: Chestnut Tree

Today I have gone back to my book of poetry, ‘Friends In My Garden,’ for a poem that deals with family and friends who were grieving. ‘Chestnut Tree’ applies to men who suddenly lose a child, sometimes through death, but it could also be through family breakdown or some other kind of separation, hence the ‘branch in youthful bloom.’ The men for whom I wrote this struggled on never really recovering from that loss but hiding their grief, grateful for any moment of happiness that came their way. It’s a sad poem. I offer it to you to pass on if you wish. My poems were written to be shared and many readers told me of their gratitude for my ability to put into words the things they wanted to say but didn’t know how.

CHESTNUT TREE

Braced

upright

his strong side

fronts the world.

Once the chestnut tree stood firm

thinking nought could shatter him

but look to the scar he bares

where ripped from his heart

a branch in youthful blossom

crashed to the ground

one winter’s night.

His days now greet the morning mist

relished is each ray of sunshine.

Friends In My Garden: Zinnia

When I was writing poems for my book, ‘Friends In My Garden,’ I had a few young female friends for whom this one was suitable. The sort of people who never seem to tire and who make you laugh whenever you are with them. I’m sure you all know and love someone like my

Zinnia

Exuberant is Zinnia

full of zest and vigour

radiating merriment

she paints a smile on passing lips

this zippy zany flower.

Friends In My Garden: Cuddlesome Pup

He was a bundle of cuddlesome delight

when first I brought him home,

a bouncy, yappy pup

full of mischief.

He loved to entertain

performing tricks and making silly noises.

Even when I tried to teach him

to be good

to sit

be still

he’d roll around, do his stunts

wag his tail

and look at me with a goofy grin.

How could I be stern?

As he grew he gathered round

a motley sort of pack.

They trampled flowers

and dead-patched the lawn

his noisy doggy gang.

Now he’s grown

left this home

but still he comes to visit,

still makes me laugh as no other can

and wishes for me to be happy.

Into my garden he brings the funshine

to me he brings love.

Cold Hands

White sheets white gowns white faces

walls a putty-coloured grey

dreary vinyl scrubbed thin.

Disinfectant pervades the air.

Lumps on beds, wrapped like mummies

body functions monitored,

minds in zones beyond our reach.

Around them hover guardians of gadgetry

in sterile masks

adjusting tubes

connecting life support machines

to almost lifeless bodies.

Cryptic messages scribbled and hung

on boards at every bed.

This one says she’s dying.

With shaking hands I reach for hers

clasp the claw-like fingers

and remember:

dresses for a teenage Cinderella

who turned into a pumpkin

despite your efforts to catch her a prince;

Sunday roasts and several thousand casseroles,

bottling fruit and making jam.

A gardener’s hands,

no time for manicures and painted nails.

Despite hospital scrubs

a patch of green remains

from the weeds you pulled last week.

Three generations of babies

your hands have cradled.

How many knees have they patched?

Brows stroked?

Tears wiped?

Can you feel my tears on your fingers?

Are you still here or have you already gone?

Mum, your hands are so cold.

Jealousy

Jealousy is insidious.

Its poison drips

twisting thoughts and crippling hearts

of those who feel its wroth.

Jealous souls

are whipped by demons

cruel

and all consuming.

Their eyes are blinded,

minds devoured

by the smouldering flame.

Destruction is the only path it follows

and the ones who suffer most

are those who give it freedom

to ruin their lives.

Grey

Grey is the colour of sorrow

of hopelessness

and long abandoned dreams.

It’s a life that’s wasted,

an old man

sleeping in a cardboard box

clutching the bottle

emptied

drained into the greyness of his being.

Grey is the colour of hearts devoid of love.

A colour that confines

and crushes

grinding the spirit into a pile of dust.