No words that I say
Could ever explain
In any way,
How huge-
How enormous-
How much my love is for you.
That beautiful first day
In May
When we met…
I will never forget
When you looked at me
With dark blue eyes
And cried.
Your clothes are so small
When I look at them now.
How can this be?
When your life was such
A huge part of me.
Your heart was broken,
And so is mine.
I will see you again.
Soon,
My baby boy.
The clouds are roiling,
Seemingly spoiling for a fight.
The fern is unfurling,
Nearly see-through in the light.
The sparrow rests for a second,
before quietly taking flight.
A tiny spider clings
to bluebells that are white.
And after a day of toiling,
Settles down for the night.
Michael Rosen, the author, gave the prompt for today’s 64 Million Artists’ The January Challenge. He said to write a poem about your earliest memory. I don’t think that this is my earliest, but definitely one of them. I was 3 years old when this happened.
Gran is brushing my hair,
Gently,
Gently,
Ow! A knot.
The sun is shining on us,
Hot,
Hot,
Sea breeze Hot.
Laura and I run off
To the playground
Climbing,
Climbing,
On the monkey bars.
Another girl joins us,
But she doesn’t speak our language.
That doesn’t matter.
We speak,
She speaks,
We play together.
Earlier, I saw a baboon
Sitting on a rock.
He looked sad
And wise
And I liked him
A lot.
I was asked to write a poem for my church’s recently Christmas Carol service.
Mum:
It’s been a tough year, that’s for sure.
Bills and prices increasing and happiness and health going down.
Every day is a struggle, And there are too many troubles…
I just want one thing; is it too much to ask? The best Christmas for my kids.
But there is so much pressure: the perfect dinner, the perfect gifts, the perfect matching family pyjamas, for the dog too, of course!
How am I meant to do it? I’m only human!
There is so much pressure.
Sometimes, I want to give up.
But I want to be happy, like others are.
So, I keep spending more money.
Credit card is overflowing.
And the mulled wine keeps flowing,
And the photos aren’t showing
That my patience is near breaking.
I wish that there was more to Christmas than just this.
When did Christmas become about the best home, the best clothes?
Trying to impress others?
Posting your perfect tree and matching decs on Facebook,
trying to look like your house is always tidy and calm.
Forcing the kids and dog into shiny outfits and trying to look full of joy;
that you haven’t spent the last hour arguing.
Pretending to everyone else that you aren’t worn out when all you want to do is relax with your family, making free memories?
Credit card is overflowing,
And the mulled wine keeps flowing,
And the photos aren’t showing
That my patience is near breaking.
I wish that there was more to Christmas than just this.
—
Child:
Mummy is stressed: I think it’s because I didn’t want to get dressed.
Into a sparkly frog jumper.
I shouted, “no, it looks silly!”
Then tried to thump her.
I shouldn’t have done that, I know.
I just get fed up with smiling for photos,
brushing my hair and holding hands
with my smelly brother.
We don’t get along, so why pretend that we do?
Just for her nosy friends on her phone.
Why do they care what we do anyway?
Mummy is shouting and the dog is howling.
I have to hold hands with my brother
and wipe the crumbs off the sofa.
I’m fed up with Christmas already,
it makes everyone cross.
I wish that there was more to Christmas than all this.
…
Older person:
Do you ever wish that there was more to Christmas than all the stress?
Well, I have some good news for you.
Many years ago a perfect baby boy was born to a woman.
She was young, not married and no doubt, worried, sore and exhausted.
She was normal, no-one special,
But she trusted God with her life: that is the important part.
The baby is God: named Jesus;
A perfect person sent to an imperfect and messy, stressy world.
God loves us so much that he sent His son, Jesus, to save us.
Born on the first Christmas,
he lived a perfect life in an imperfect world.
Jesus doesn’t mind if you are messy or well-dressed; bored or stressed.
Jesus doesn’t need money to be spent:
You can’t buy his love: he already loves you,
and hopes that you will love him too.
The tiny leaf
flutters in the
blustery breeze.
I thought it
was a moth, at
first: so alive.
Finally, it
rests on the soft
Autumnal soil.
With its sisters,
it soundly sleeps.
Alex Dixon 19/11/2023
A time of eggs, rabbits and cherry blossom.
Lawnmowers, waking after a winter’s rest.
Holidays, hot-cross buns and yellow bonnets.
Celebrating fertility and new life.
Relief that the darkness of winter is
finally gone. Enjoying the sun of spring.
Yet in the centre of all this verdant life,
sits death.
The death of one man: one king: one God.
Jesus.
He who chose to die, beaten and bleeding.
Mocked and murdered. He wanted this.
He died as a sacrifice, for all of us.
He died to make us right with God our Father.
Three terrible, dark days he lay entombed.
But he knew. He beat it. He is stronger.
He died once and for all.
One for all.
And when the chocolate has been eaten,
the leaves fall defeated from the weary trees,
The darkness and chill of winter rules again,
I will still have hope.
When my knackered body finally gives up,
I know that I will still live, with my God.
The God who chose to die, who gave up his life.
I was three years old, my sister four.
Mom was pregnant with our little brother.
Our mother wore a beautiful dark blue
Spotty dress. Laura wore green and I pink.
…
A couple of years later, we baked with
Mom. Laura’s cupcakes were perfect, mine blue.
…
Becoming a mum in my early twenties
Changed everything. But then, doesn’t it
always? My eldest son just turned 17.
The first two years were like one thousand,
And no time at all, were the next 15.
…
It snowed today: the daffodils yellow,
bowed under the burden of heavy white.
It is spring and Mother’s Day soon. New
life appears from the ground up, but winter
isn’t quite ready to loosen its grip.
…
I have four children, but only two are
on Earth.
Mums are the keepers of memories,
Hope and grief. Side by side, they grow.
The tiniest sunflower
peeks its head out.
Its petals unfurl
to face the sun.
Yellow as butter.
Perfect like a picture.
The sun warms its face
and if flowers could have feelings,
then this one is happy.
The wind whispering
Through chilly trees
Sounds like sand on shore
After a wave hits.
One dry yellow leaf
Swiftly falls from its
mother tree’s branch
And an apple clumps
Softly on the lawn.
A toad hides under
A fallen leaf,
Alert for danger.
The labrador jumps,
Trying to catch him:
But misses by miles, Settles instead for
Chomping a spider.
Her web-smeared black
Nose sniffing loudly,
Hoping for more snacks.
She smells wood fire
On the breeze. Shivering,
Heads back inside to
Her humans’ sofa.
6 October 2022 is National Poetry Day.
Why don’t you write a poem? It’s easy to do and doesn’t have to rhyme. Write about what you like, or how you are feeling. 🙂
For more info, go to:
https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk
The National Literacy Trust helps children and families to develop a love of reading and writing. They have great resources and a local site for people from Swindon, called Swindon Stories.
September’s first sunset
Is candyfloss fluffy
Pink on watercolour
Azure. The drought-cracked ground
Thirsts desperately for rain.
Yellow, salmon, crimson
Roses scent the cool air.
Perfectly formed, like
Fragile, living sculptures
Too good for this world.
Sparrows fly overhead,
Heading for lofty nests.
Juicy soft blackberries
Are waiting to be picked
And cooked in jams and pies,
Just like when we were kids.
The nights are creeping in,
I can breathe again.
Autumn has arrived.
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