See you soon

full moon illustration

Photo by Alex Andrews on

man sitting on edge facing sunset

Photo by Abhiram Prakash on

green trees near lake and mountain

Photo by Jimmy Chan on

woman on rock platform viewing city

Photo by on

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
. 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?
I can’t understand.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.


A very good blog to look at by Lyncrain



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.


Theatre forms the soul

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


The past a lost abyss

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

To a kettle

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.

The dream

Fifty years ago you took your life
And left me for the agony, the trial

Since then I’ve had no vision but denial
Your face was absent,cut out by a knife
I dreamed of you last night, your little smile

There was no motive, we had never quarreled
I was blinded, nervous and too shy
You left to me the agony, the trial

Who consoles the woman left in horror?
Sickly on my lonely bed I lay
I dreamed of you last night, you wore a smile

In my view, I could not see tomorrow
Through my suffering I did try to pay
You left to me the agony, the trial

The grief of fifty years has gone away
Oh, lay down, baby,lay down, baby lay
I dreamed of you last night, your face your smile
You consoled me then, old lovers reconciled

Copyright © Katherine Braithwaite | Year Posted 2020l

TheRaven Avatar

Block poet from commenting on your poetry

Katherine, There’s a rare gem in writing of a smile., though it chose to move on. -Richard

Michael Avatar

Date: 10/11/2020 8:10:00 AM

Block poet from commenting on your poetry


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.

Grass singing

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