Midnight Struck

07/10/2020 –  Poem a Day Compilation



Midnight struck

No witches swooped

No demons gathered

No strange storms

Just the clock ticking



        The stars twinkled

        A possum scurried

        The birds roosted

        The city slept

        And my mind was sticking



Midnight struck

The roads were silent

The trains infrequent

The ferries docked

Just the world turning



        Somewhere out there

        The sun was shining

        The city awakened

        Life carried on

        But my mind was burning



Midnight struck

The sky was dark

The lights were out

There was nothing to see

Just my heart breaking



        The thoughts welled

        Caught behind my eyes

        Then seeped slowly

        Down drawn cheeks

        And my mind was aching



Midnight struck

The words failed

The pages didn’t turn

My fingers didn’t work

Just playing dumb



        No sleep came

        No sweet relief

        No tormented dreams

        No maudlin verses

        But my mind was numb



Midnight struck

No covert snacks

No last tipple

Not even a cup of tea

Just perfect awareness



        I can just be

        I can go easy on myself

        I can simply exist

        I can place my work to the side

        And my mind in recess

A Year in Haiku

06/10/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



        I

The new year rolls in

Resolutions freshly made

Soon to be cast off



        II

Hot summer kisses

As I run across the sand

On bare burning feet



        III

Autumn falls slowly

Summer lingers far too long

I don’t like the heat



        IV

Easter brings me joy

In days spent with family

And much chocolate



        V

Weather cools more now

The leaves turn on the branches

And life is better



        VI

A nip in the air

Is more consistent outside

And night falls early



        VII

The snow is falling

Up in the mountain ranges

But rare on the coast



        VIII

Winter bites at toes

Left uncovered by blankets

On dark, frosty nights



        IX

The spring drizzle falls

Riots of colour explode

Under blue-grey skies



        X

The year continues

Halloween has been creeping

But I don’t like it



        XI

It’s warming up now

Tourists a more common sight

I prefer quiet



        XII

Christmas is too hot

For a roast turkey dinner,

Better for cold cuts

The Significance of Childhood Possessions

05/10/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



There are so many material objects

From our younger years, our childhood,

That we manage to let go of,

Never understanding their significance,

Yet hanging on to the insignificant

For the remainder of our years.



They’re not so insignificant, really,

But their significance is just to us –

A cheap locket with a faded photo,

A trophy from a spelling bee,

A dress worn to a cousin’s wedding

Or a teddy bear given at birth.



They are the ties to our past,

The anchor for our futures,

Our life jackets in times of need

And the safes for our memories

That we dare not throw away

For fear of being haunted by them.



They are the parts of us

That will live on long after us –

That tangible link to our lives,

Speaking stories of our adventures

When we are no longer able

To generations we may never meet.

Circles

04/10/2020 - Poem a Day Compilation



I’m going round in circles

And I don’t know where to stop.

I turn and turn and turn and turn,

Making circles in this crop.

The Last Call of Boudica

03/10/2020 –  Poem a Day Compilation



Prasutagus, my love, my only,

My husband dear and always beloved,

With whom I bore two daughters true

Of such strong will and character,

Passed without due recognition

For the loyalty that he bestowed

Upon the great Roman emperor

And it’s vast and mighty empire

That encompassed land so far

From its own home and hearth

That rulers rose and fell without word

And were barely noted in the histories

Of our own glorious people,

Let alone those of that terrible realm

Who send their soldiers to abuse this land,

Its occupants given no sovereignty,

And living in awe of what may come

Over some horizon at any moment.



My husbands will, his spirit, his desire

For his kingdom to go to those two

Who bore his resemblance so well

And carried his name with pride,

Was usurped by unfeeling goons,

Annexed by those not of this land

And his property thieved before our eyes.

This was not the worst of his humiliation,

Thankfully inflicted after his death

So that he would not bear witness

To such a brutal beating of his wife,

My skin torn by lashings harsh and cruel

Simply for daring to be wife and mother,

For being only of the female persuasion.

My horror was at once compounded

By the screams and cries of those two

To whom I promised fair protection

And all a mother’s love and care,

Yet there I lay,

Unable to move for pain and grief,

Tortured as they were tortured;

Their childhood ripped from them

As soldiers ripped their clothes

From bodies yet undeveloped,

To carry out that horrid deed

Made from the corruption of their power

And the absence of affection,

That plucks that which should be left to grow

Without permission or any care.



This physical pain was but temporary –

A slave’s scars born by the wife of a king

Would live long after the wounds healed

And remind me of that horrific ordeal

For which the might of Rome would pay

With the blood and lives of their own sons

And the sons of their sons

Until my vengeance was duly sated

And my daughters bore the crown

They so rightly did deserve,

Earned by the theft of their modesty,

That which was theirs only to give

But was taken by force by those dogs

Who had not yet learned to heel

Before the Queen of the Iceni.



Though the tribes that surrounded me

Harboured me no good will

The enemy of mine enemy stood true

And their hatred for those from Rome

Outweighed the many petty disputes

Over trade and resources and soft borders,

And we Britons came together

To defeat a common, hated foe,

Though there was little choice for them

As my reputation preceded me

And I laid siege to Camulodunum

Burning their city to the ground.



The temple to that emperor, Claudius,

Of whom the Romans thought so high

They deified and worshipped him,

Was no match for my warrior band;

Its façade crumbling before those men,

A mere two hundred unarmed men,

Who were sent to protect that which I ruined

By leaders so far removed from battle

As to underestimate my conviction

And send so few as to be in humour

But I spared none in my endeavours –

Those loyal to Rome were soon dispatched

By sword and spear and the fires of hell

While those brave Britons joined my ranks

As we marched on to Londinium



On the Island of Mona, far away,

Roman governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus

Made easy work of those feared druids

Where he murdered all he came across

And pillaged villages with reckless abandon,

Yet when he heard of my exploits

He though me no match for his wiles

And travelled towards that same town

As I was accordingly headed

With a force that would be no contest

For the army that amassed behind me.



With each passing town I gained still more

For it was barely a choice to fight with me

Or be trampled under the weight I bore

Down upon any resistance to my will,

That Suetonius turned tail and ran

Before the complete destruction

Of that settlement of Londinium

At the hands of what was a rabble

Turned torturous, bloodthirsty militia men

Under my stern and watchful eye.



Onwards to Verulamium we marched,

Swelling in numbers through fear and favour

A combined tribe of some many thousand

Outnumbering any opposition met

And absorbing those rebels who wished to join

Our noble cause of justified vengeance

Against those who would oppress our people

And spill the blood of the innocent

And I would make a firm example

Of those who stood against my command

And all who ever heard my name

Would know the destruction that surely followed

Was nothing compared with that which befell

That legion ninth of the Roman Empire –

Their fate sealed by their misplaced loyalty

To a long distant crown who abandoned them

To fight my own massed soldiers then

In ambush all but a handful lay deceased

Running off to masters unprepared

For my now all-consuming passion.

Three cities I had laid to waste,

Burned to the ground by fires fierce,

Their protections decimated in my wake.



This caused much consternation over seas.

In Rome, Nero weighed up options few –

To fight my vast army undermanned

Or withdraw to the last the soldiers of Rome –

But that thorn in my side, Suetonius, returned

To thwart my plan to rid these isles

Of those invaders and traitors all

Who sided with a foreign enemy,

And I was draw into a battle once more,

Yet my troops of far superior strength

Showed signs of that one defeating trait:

Hubris, that over bearing pride,

That allowed them to bring their kith and kin

To observe them engaged in battle from the rear

Preventing retreat from certain death

When caught by treacherous tactics of war

Where, squeezed into a valley fine and

Flanked by the enemy on higher ground,

We were exposed by that coward of Londinium

And he claimed his undeserving victory

But without that scalp he prized so dear

As I lived on to tell my tale.



But what am I without a fight,

Without an enemy at the gates?

My vengeance never wholly gorged,

For Romans still inhabit my land

And demand my taxes for leaders afar,

A tribute I will never pay

So long as I draw breath in to my lungs.

I would rather die by my own hand

Than give over my pound of flesh

To men who will not stand face to face

With that woman they so feared,

That nearly brought them to their knees,

And whose legend will live on forever more

In mistold tales of feminine heroism

When all that drove me in my ambition

Was a wife’s grief and a mother’s anger.

The Smell of Breakfast

02/10/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



There is nothing better in this world

Than waking up to the smell of breakfast

Cooked by someone who knows you

And loves you with all of their heart.



The smell of bacon and eggs sizzling,

A freshly sliced tomato sprinkled with salt,

Mushrooms cooked in their own juices,

Sausages oozing with flavour.



Baked beans bubbling in the saucepan,

Bread toasted under the grill,

A couple of golden hash browns,

All served on a pre-warmed plate.



A pot of piping hot lemon tea,

A glass of chilled orange juice,

A jug of water fresh from the tap,

And a hot chocolate for the kids.



There is nothing better in this world

Than waking up to the smell of breakfast

Knowing that the family is all together

And the meal was made with love.

The Cold Up Here

01/10/2020 –  Poem a Day Compilation



I don’t feel the cold anymore

I’ve grown accustomed to it.

That’s what happens when you live here

More than half your life.



I love the snow as it falls

And creates a frozen wonderland;

Drifts line the roads all around me

But I don’t need to leave.



It’s a good thing I like the solitude

Because I can spend months alone up here,

Just me on my own with my writing

And a couple of pets in tow.



The cat likes to pretend to help

By watching over me as I work

Expecting as her payment

An endless supply of pats.



The dog enjoys building snowmen,

then knocking them down again,

And gnawing on the carrot nose

Or playing fetch with its stick arms.



Sometimes I just sit at the window

And watch the world go by –

And endless parade of wildlife,

Their only care to survive.



The white-tailed deer frollick gleefully

As the spring thaw slowly edges closer

To my little wooden shack in the woods

Far enough from civilisation to forget it exists.



The cold up here never really leaves,

It just mellows into a soft puddle

At the bottom of the winding driveway

A mile or so away from the deck where I sit.



Even now, in the summer, sitting in the sun,

The wind leaves my cheeks a dusty pink

Where it’s kissed them as I stroll

Beneath the sugar maples and the birch.



The lake looks inviting right now

But I’m still not brave enough,

Even after all these years,

To swim out into its icy depths.



I’ll leave the water to the trout

And marvel at the birds flying high above me,

Their wings outstretched in splendid form,

Sailing in from their winter hideaways.



They’re not bothered by the bite of the water

As they swoop majestically out of the sky

Diving in for a well-earned feed of pike

After such an arduous journey north.



In the distance a black spruce has grown up,

Battling maples for every second of sunlight

And now home to a huge Osprey nest,

Their home after a day on the lakes.



As the sun sets, a nip returns to the air

And I think about picking up a log or two

For the fire that roared incessantly in winter

But now lays dormant most of the month.



I haven’t even opened my laptop today.

It’s sitting on my desk inside, unloved.

The next chapter can wait another day,

Up here there’s no reason to rush.



It’s only when I venture into town, I feel it.

The hustle and bustle of everyday life.

I left that world a long time ago

And return less often as the years slip by.



I don’t feel the need to head down there,

Not very often, at any rate.

The occasional trip to the doctors, maybe,

Or to pick up mail that doesn’t get delivered.



I stock up on supplies for the season.

I’m due to head in for the fall groceries

But I’ve put it off for three days,

It really should be done by now.



Whenever I think of that trip, I stop dead.

My heart beats faster and I suck the air in,

As if that my stop the world from turning

And put off the inevitable.



The town itself is pretty enough.

It’s filled with decent people, mostly.

There’re folk who are there all year round

And those that just come for the season.



I used to live in town, when I first arrived,

In a flat above the grocery store.

I’d sit at the window and people watch,

Looking for characters to fill my books.



Now I watch the wildlife do their thing.

If I’m lucky I might see a bear stroll by

But usually its just some claw marks on a tree

Or a footprint in the lakeside mud.



I’ve had enough of people these days,

They leave me colder that the arctic winds

That bite at exposed fingers and toes

In the dead of winter months.



Their stares as I drive the main street,

My beat-up truck older than their kids,

Tell me I shouldn’t be down there

And to make my business quick.



Twenty years, nearly twenty-five,

You’d think some of them might forgive me

But I will always be the outsider,

So that’s what I’ve become.



I’d much rather talk to the hulking moose

That saunters through my overgrown yard

To bathe in the lake when the summer sun

Becomes too much for its large frame.



It won’t judge me for what I’ve done.

It won’t take anyone’s side against me.

It barely acknowledges my existence

Which is just fine with me.



But I really do need to go into town soon.

Maybe in a day or two when I’m sure

All the snow has definitely melted

And the roads will be clear to drive.



What can’t I be like the skinks I see

Scuttling about between the rocks,

The flash of a red jaw or a blue tail,

As they search for snails, spiders and insects?



Then I wouldn’t have to face them at all,

Their condemning looks as if I were the one

Who ruined someone’s life for a bit of fun

Instead of being the one who was ostracised.



The joke was on them, though.

My little shack in the woods is my haven.

My writing den away from prying eyes

Where no one knows who I really am.



I’m sure they’ve all read my books.

I smile inside when I see them

Proudly displayed in the bookshop window

By owners who have no clue.



Sometimes I wish I could see their faces

When they find out who wrote that novel

Featuring the heroine from their home town

Who always manages to save the day.



The loons know because I tell them.

I dutifully read them each chapter

As I sit on the end of the dock

That juts purposefully out into the lake.



When I finish a chapter in winter,

I wrap myself up in my doona,

And hug my hot water bottle

And I relate the latest part of the tale.



They don’t care what I write,

Or if I read to them, or not.

But their haunting replies seem appropriate

As my words are carried away by the wind.



No one else knows, though.

They are too busy looking down on me

To wonder what it is I do up here

Tucked away from prying eyes.



I should have written today.

Knowing I will see him in town,

Knowing what fate waits his fictional self

Has made me more uneasy that I thought.



My heroine gets the justice I never could

And he gets his just desserts

While in real life he holds all the power

With his uniform and privilege and power.



But I find myself procrastinating,

Putting off writing this final chapter.

After all these years of wanting this

Why do I feel so monumentally hesitant?



The stars are twinkling against the velvet sky,

The fire is crackling peacefully in the corner,

And my laptop sits on the desk unopened

As it has all day, all week, long.



No matter how many times I tell myself

That this is cathartic and therapeutic,

This last book has been the hardest,

The closest to letting go I have come.



But there is no letting go of what happened.

No amount of snow filled seasons

Could freeze out reality forever,

And it is like an ice pick through my heart.



If they hadn’t believed me, I could understand.

I could have forgiven them years ago.

I could have moved on.

I could have persuaded myself it wasn’t real.



They all knew and accepted it,

Closed ranks around the town’s favourite son.

They couldn’t deny the wounds he caused

But they could sweep it under the rug.



Up here in the woods in my shack,

I still hear his footsteps on the stairs,

But those stairs are long gone from my life

As is the man who climbed up them.



Up here the trees protect me,

Their branches wrap around me all year long.

And in winter I welcome the snow fall

And the walls it builds all around.



The leaves will soon start falling,

A carpet of fiery reds and yellows,

And I will be safe with my animals

But not until this last trip to town.



Each time I go I pray I don’t see him

But he’s there waiting for me,

His presence making me silently relive

Every moment from when I said no.



The white-tailed deer know how he smelled,

The trout know every action he took,

The ospreys know the colour of his eyes

And the bears know that he smiled.



I didn’t feel the cold that night

And I haven’t felt it ever since.

The world can’t get any colder

Than when its people turn their backs.