Full of creepy bugs and covered in moss,
I knew it even then; with infant eyes:
when it rained, the algae would turn my clothes green
and mother crimson.
On summers days it scratched my legs as I made daisy chains
and served as a goalpost with its jacket-buddy;
a timeless hero to the generations.
I wonder if that log knew how much it was loved –
incorporated; a childhood hub.
Had it known it would be severed from its roots;
removed from its coppice family – status downgraded from tree to log –
would it have volunteered its fate?
Knowing that one day
it would jog just one child’s memory
and make that child smile.
I hope so.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Kick the can (haiku)
Someone will pick it up soon, surely? Though it has proved an unintended muse!
Aluminium skin:
noisy tumbleweed -
chivvied by brazen currents.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Aluminium skin:
noisy tumbleweed -
chivvied by brazen currents.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
La luna
I've been moongazing tonight. This is what I saw.
La luna
Our moon is bright tonight;
through whispers of clouds, it bathes,
makes darkness heavy and eyes sparkle
casts spell on serenity and bustle without bias
and as crescents of chalky water gently lap:
illumines us equally, though we are distant
That’s why I love you, Brother of Sun.
Our moon is bright tonight;
a cosmic sentry, trusted to remain when the Neon’s and Argon’s fade,
purified chills soothe scorched earth
icon of romance,
you join us when we are apart:
a lunar reminder
And that’s why I love you.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
La luna
Our moon is bright tonight;
through whispers of clouds, it bathes,
makes darkness heavy and eyes sparkle
casts spell on serenity and bustle without bias
and as crescents of chalky water gently lap:
illumines us equally, though we are distant
That’s why I love you, Brother of Sun.
Our moon is bright tonight;
a cosmic sentry, trusted to remain when the Neon’s and Argon’s fade,
purified chills soothe scorched earth
icon of romance,
you join us when we are apart:
a lunar reminder
And that’s why I love you.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
What do you think?
Inspired by the fantastic works of Antony Gormley - (in specific the sculpture called 'three thoughts'), I created my latest offering in ode to the genius that he is.
What do you think?
What’s in a thought and how is it free -
do our visions confine how you and I see?
A bubble of air or a strand of your soul;
an imprinted record in the rings of your bones?
Should they fly, could you catch them – and tie them to stone;
then be judged on intentions of actions untold?
If thoughts were a colour, what hue would they be;
are pessimists blue and optimists green?
To consider iniquity, does it make you bad;
or add to your virtue when you fail to act?
When a thought turns to memory,
where does it go?
There’s one thing for sure:
nobody knows.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
What do you think?
What’s in a thought and how is it free -
do our visions confine how you and I see?
A bubble of air or a strand of your soul;
an imprinted record in the rings of your bones?
Should they fly, could you catch them – and tie them to stone;
then be judged on intentions of actions untold?
If thoughts were a colour, what hue would they be;
are pessimists blue and optimists green?
To consider iniquity, does it make you bad;
or add to your virtue when you fail to act?
When a thought turns to memory,
where does it go?
There’s one thing for sure:
nobody knows.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Choose life
This one took me a week to write. I tried a different style and chose a subject which I vehemently loathe. I'm sure I don't need to say I'm wholly opposed to any sort of crime. But I am, and I will.
Choose life
The candyfloss kid,
chews gristle; grinds bone.
the Noughties, a decade marked
out as his own,
he knows-not of a place he
can safely call home,
yet this child just
turned out a light.
Talented tearaway – as
with trains on a track –
from one simple action,
there’s no going back;
a harrowing, unprovoked
vicious attack. This
baby, he carried a knife.
To the fear collector, he,
in tears, paid his dues,
though family and friends –
they paid them too, when
his victim expired, so
did his youth. The decision
stays with him; for life.
A sorrowful tale
of years behind bars; a
sickening cycle,
such indelible scars.
When he chose the steel,
he broke his mothers heart;
don’t make this mistake:
think twice.
Think twice for
the suffering you’d cause your
‘foes’; lives that will change because
of ‘cross-words’, we’re all
born to live and breathe in this
world, the answer: no violence;
choose life.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Choose life
The candyfloss kid,
chews gristle; grinds bone.
the Noughties, a decade marked
out as his own,
he knows-not of a place he
can safely call home,
yet this child just
turned out a light.
Talented tearaway – as
with trains on a track –
from one simple action,
there’s no going back;
a harrowing, unprovoked
vicious attack. This
baby, he carried a knife.
To the fear collector, he,
in tears, paid his dues,
though family and friends –
they paid them too, when
his victim expired, so
did his youth. The decision
stays with him; for life.
A sorrowful tale
of years behind bars; a
sickening cycle,
such indelible scars.
When he chose the steel,
he broke his mothers heart;
don’t make this mistake:
think twice.
Think twice for
the suffering you’d cause your
‘foes’; lives that will change because
of ‘cross-words’, we’re all
born to live and breathe in this
world, the answer: no violence;
choose life.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Monday, 2 August 2010
Stop and smell the flowers
Pretty, neat snowdrops,
the first ones of spring,
sweet petal petticoats;
of velvety skin,
heads bowed like Angels;
too weary to sing,
crispy green clothing prevails.
Leaves tinged with ice,
they shine Lunar white,
a delicate honey;
scented carpet of white,
small nodding flowers;
a major delight:
The first pretty snowdrops of spring.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
the first ones of spring,
sweet petal petticoats;
of velvety skin,
heads bowed like Angels;
too weary to sing,
crispy green clothing prevails.
Leaves tinged with ice,
they shine Lunar white,
a delicate honey;
scented carpet of white,
small nodding flowers;
a major delight:
The first pretty snowdrops of spring.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Sunday, 1 August 2010
My release
On second thoughts, I'd better introduce this one. My mother gave me the topic of rain. Perhaps she was thinking of that light and fluffy 50's film 'Singing in the Rain.'
Instead, she got this:
My release
Dry as the air; parched is my tongue,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Sore is my skin; blistered by sun,
Wash me free
Wash me free from the confines of sinew and bone;
This carcass a place that my soul calls its home,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Let me breathe
Let me breathe in the fire, that's burning my throat,
As it cascades in rivulets and relieves me of hope,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Hear my screams
Hear my screams for the rainfall; a monsoon awake,
With the storm now approaching I feel myself shake,
This is the day when the tropic rains come,
I am free
Free from the evils of what they call life,
Purged from my vessel; like a moth to the light,
The tropic rains stop once they sense my delight:
My release
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
Instead, she got this:
My release
Dry as the air; parched is my tongue,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Sore is my skin; blistered by sun,
Wash me free
Wash me free from the confines of sinew and bone;
This carcass a place that my soul calls its home,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Let me breathe
Let me breathe in the fire, that's burning my throat,
As it cascades in rivulets and relieves me of hope,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Hear my screams
Hear my screams for the rainfall; a monsoon awake,
With the storm now approaching I feel myself shake,
This is the day when the tropic rains come,
I am free
Free from the evils of what they call life,
Purged from my vessel; like a moth to the light,
The tropic rains stop once they sense my delight:
My release
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
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