
L
Traumas hidden victims
Photo by Alex Andrews on Pexels.com
Photo by Abhiram Prakash on Pexels.com
Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com
Photo by picjumbo.com on Pexels.com
When he went away,
He said,”Lehitraot,mama.”
Do vstrechi.
He died but I’m still here
Yes,in my heart I feel his love
But why did I live,
And he did not?
Auf wiedersehen
Lehitraot
. Yes,darling,I’ll see you later,
When the sky turns black and all the stars blaze bright
I’ll see you shining in the night.
I’ll see you in my dreams alas.
Do vstrechi.
But why you and not me too?
Araka
I can’t understand.
Lehitraot,beloved.
A plus tard
Some where in this world,you fell
But no-one,not even God, can tell.
God was absent then or in some other place
He’s gone again.
They said He’s died too,
But He didn’t have a mother like you.
Do vstrechi.
My breasts ache and my heart and soul,
My breasts were made to make you whole.
To feed, give love and to console.
A plus tard
And now they ache with grief as my tears
fall.
A bientot
My body trembles in the night
As dreams may bring my lost ones to my sight.
A plus tard
I’d walk across the roughest bleak terrain
If l could find my loves and hold your hands again.
Do vstrechi.
The bell rings on the ancient clock
As time goes on as normal ,
it doesn’t stop.
Araka
I wish the hands of time could be reversed,
And I was not living with this curse.
People forget that I once had a son.
They think my grieving has been done.
Araka.
But grief and loss and pain will never end
Until the curtain of my death descends
Auf wiedersehen.
Meantime I look at flowers and birds and trees,
But it’s really you my deepening insight sees.
Lehitraot.
The inscape of my heart is shown to few,
An artist of the lost would know this view.
I know I want to see just you.
Do vstrechi.
But for me there is no Auf wiedersehen
Never again will you say
What you said that day
Lehitraot, Mama.
Papa A plus tard
Tot ziens
. See you later
See you soon.
See you.
You
Extract
I started Ursula K. Le Guin’s Conversations on Writing with David Naimon this morning with my coffee. Delightful read, it’s like we’re sitting down at a table discussing different thoughts on writing. I was particularly amused when I read, “Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren’t real” says Ursula K. Le Guin. “But they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books.” My granddaughter, Olyvia (7 years old) would agree, she’s a huge unicorn fan. I remember her telling me that if they’re in books, they’re real.
Conversations on Writing is broken down into four sections, Introduction, Fiction, Poetry and Non-Fiction. So you can read whatever section you want or in whatever order you want.
When the fruit has rotted on the stalk
Bruised and broken like the poor in need
When leaders meet but rarely truly talk
When children caught in cross fire lie and bleed
Don’t we see God’s Kingdom is a joke
One hundred million deaths in two world wars
Not quick death but tortured bodies broke
They lost once and love dies in their gore
Utopia, evolution, grandiose plans
Sacrifice yourself for those to come
We saw the little children hand in hand
Ground mines blow them up, they could not run
One thing’s clear, God’s here or not at all
The future’s fiction, theatre forms the soul
r
What to you may be a worthless weed
Bears its little flowers to make its seeds
Thus it spreads itself as Love requires
Humble speedwell,hear of our desires.
In the pavements cracks were home to grass
The sidestep slabs were broken like thick glass
When deep frost came, rain made frozen pools
I trod in them as I tore up to school
The crackling ice, the mist dropped on the park
Our ginger cat, the trees, the dog that barked
A woman in the kitchen making tea
The oven by the fire, the big door key
Little signs spark tender memories
The future fiction, past a lost abyss
Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use
And, as your lid is hinged. it can’t get lost
An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot, not warm
I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire once with kettle stand.
Its metal black from soot an burned by coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.
Ah ,kettle , instrument of civil life
We cannot boil our water on a knife.
Copyright © Katherine Braithwaite | Year Posted 2020l
Katherine, There’s a rare gem in writing of a smile., though it chose to move on. -Richard
Date: 10/11/2020 8:10:00 AM
One dear husband is enough
Oh,steam iron how I love your heat
And how you make my clothes so neat.
A flat iron is no use to me
No open fire is here,you see.
And thought I liked the flickering coals
I feared those faces that looked droll.
They were in the flames and peered
At anyone who ventured near.
I wonder how the people past
Kept their trousers neat and pressed.
Now I’ve bought a hand steamer
To keep the germs off my femurs
I didn’t like to say,my crotch
In case the devil is on watch.
I never ever used to think
My body perfume was distinct.
And yet it may appeal to men
I don’t want to try again.
One dear husband is enough
Though he did enjoy a cough
He had asthma and bad eyes
Looking out with wild surmise.
He saw my golden hair float by
As by his window it did fly
All at once he fell for me
And we sat by an apple tree.
His clothes were wrinkled so I thought
I would iron them for a start.
He could darn and polish floors
Cook lamb chops and apple cores.
So my steam iron sees much use
I wonder if it’s self abuse
For as a woman feminist
I’m not meant to iron vest
I’m not meant to boil men;s socks
Nor their pants of interlock
I’m not meant to make them tea.
What a naughty person,me!
I must confess these wicked sins
Then I’shall polish my cake tins
Satan wants me down in hell
Don’t say he needs my iron as well
As he was an angel proud
I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud.
I have heard grass singing in the wind.
I have walked through poppy fields in sun
I have known how dark gried can descend
I have watched trees’ shadows in deep ponds
I have felt the arctic wastes of pain
I have heard grass weeping in the wind.
Another soul is writing with my hand
Yet I have wept while loaning them my pen
I am mangled when sharp rain descends
I have known the edges of the mind
I ‘ve sensed the silence un-contained
. I have heard grass singing in the wind.
I am here for people who’re confined
I record the old deals of cruel men
I have suffered when dark rain descends
I have caught the storm by camera lens.
I have felt the solar system bend.
I have heard grass singing in the wind.
I have seen the pitch black rain descend
I