Journey Home

Posted on by estlh

There is nothing that can prepare you for the roller coaster of emotions you board when you become a parent. And once on, there is no getting off. As your children grow, the worries and the joys may change in nature, but there is no denying or avoiding them.

It is 16 months now since we first dropped our son off at his university accommodation. Each holiday he returns for a period, but the time always goes way to fast, and before we know it it is time for him to go back for the next term. 

This poem was written while sat in the passenger seat on the dreary drive home, after dropping him off.

I feel such pride and sadness
in a moment
I do not wish to end
When
at last
I release you from my embrace
I smile,
Utter two inadequate words of emotion
And walk away

After a few steps I turn and wave
And in that instant I have the urge
to run back
and embrace you again
but I don’t

Instead I reach out and open
the car door with a sigh
then turn
and wave once more
before taking my seat for a tiresome journey
to a home
that will no longer
hold you

Once upon a December

Posted on by estlh

Yes, I know I’m a little late with posting this one, but it all got a bit busy in the run up to Christmas. The prompt for this poem was “Once upon a December…” Here is what I wrote

Once Upon a December night
The sky was dark but the stars were bright
I took your hand and gave a smile
we lost the whole world for a while
Once Upon a December night
A frosty cold December night

Once Upon a December Eve
As snowflakes settled on my sleeve
we danced beneath the sky, carefree
So cold but happy as could be
Once upon a December Eve
A happy cold December Eve

Once Upon a December morn
As choir’s sung of messiah born
You took my hand and asked of me
myself, while down on bended knee
Once upon a December morn
A happy bright December morn

Now upon this December day
While children wait to see the sleigh
You smile at them and pull me near
to breathe devotion in my ear
now upon this December day
This joyful bright December day

2.12.24

Posted on by estlh

Day 2 of the poetry prompt advent and the prompt is patience.

The in-between
A time of malcontent
When what is no longer amiss
Is not yet as it should be
Patience does not come naturally
The grumbles burst forth unrestrained
By manners or propriety
And annoyed by my own agitation
My hackles strain skyward

Yet still you do not respond
My unanswered pleas for conclusion
Hang unrecognised between us
The strides we made in danger of being overlooked
When still our destination is not gained

All in good time my child, all in good time.

My petulant cry –
“Now is a good time”
Dies on my lips
As I finally meet your gaze
And am engulfed in the love within.

All in good time my love, all in good time

Twisted

Posted on by estlh

I have a stash of old notebooks full of thoughts and scribblings. Some pages hold just odd lines or paragraphs, some poems I have maybe just started and never finished. And some have finished poems that I have long forgotten writing, or have never shown to anyone. I can lose hours reading back through these notebooks. Sometimes I am looking for inspiration – to take a line or a half finished poem and make something of it. But also I get lost in memories. Many of my poems, especially the older ones are really just me putting my feelings down on paper. As I read them I can remember what I was doing when I wrote them, or why I was feeling a certain way. I can also see how I have changed over the years – how as I have grown my perspective has changed and my confidence grown. This poem was written at a period when I was lacking in self confidence and was a bit of a social chameleon.

I twisted myself up

I turned round and round

and got all tangled.

And then I had to unwind myself,

the other way round and round.

And when I fell on my behind

it wasn’t funny;

it hurt.

Even though I deceived you

when I sat there and laughed.

But the tears that rolled

down my reddened cheeks

were not the result of a

burst of hysteria.

My eyes all screwed up,

the tears fell from

sudden pain.

Riddle

Posted on by estlh

I have been sorting through some old notebooks lately. Over the years I have written hundreds of poems, but only a small proportion have made it onto this blog so far. I thought it was maybe time to share more of these poems so over the next few weeks I will he posting a mixture of old and new stuff.

I don’t remember what exactly inspired this poem, but it was the first poem in a long while that I wrote with rhyme.

If I were you and you were me
Then who is that sat there?
If you were him and he were me
You really wouldn’t care.

I wonder if our quest for truth
Has stumbled off the trail –
We took the path least trodden on
and now our quest will fail.

I’m not sure even who you are –
I started out alone.
I think I might be dreaming now,
this truth I’ve never known.

If I were young and you were old
Then I would be quite green,
You’d fill my head with stories long
From days I’d never seen.

If I were old and you were young
I’d tell you then to hold your tongue.

Off Track

Posted on by estlh

Unfortunately, I am no stranger to the middle of the night. At a time when most people are slumbering, I often find sleep elusive. Some nights I will get up and make myself a drink. I sit in the lounge and read or re-watch TV shows in the hope that I will nod off, and eventually, I usually do. But other nights, I find myself hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Stuck in a state where I am too conscious to be sleeping, but not conscious enough to get up; I am capable of dreaming, but unable to tell what is real from what is fantastic. I keep a notebook beside my bed with my pen in a blank page, so on nights like these I can reach out and start writing without putting on any light. The next morning I will sometimes find on the page unintelligible scribbles, or crazy thoughts that make no sense in the light of day. But every once in a while my scrawl will have a poetic bend and I can make something fanciful from the words that came to me in the middle of the night.

I knew twas not the path to take, yet still I chose to tread
Along the way that beckoned me with flowers of pink and red
I knew twas not the way to go for I had listened well
But still I chose to pay no heed and took my time as well
I dilly dallied up the path and gazed around in awe
Astonished by the blooms I saw – I’d never seen before.
The beauty that surrounded me full took my breath away
I lost some hours in marvelling this exotic display
Another chance soon came my way to get back on the trail
I should have taken from the first, but sense did not prevail
So still I wandered dreamily among the heady scent
Of blossoms green and blossoms blue until the day was spent
The darkened sky swirled fast around and I was thence afraid
And knew I could no more deny the mistake I had made
I knew twas not the path to take, yet I had chose to tread
The path that once distracted me and cost me now my bed.

In the shadow of the volcano pt 2

Posted on by estlh

The people living in Pompeii in 79AD  had no idea they were living next to a Volcano. They didn’t even have a word for volcano, and the earthquakes that occurred before the eruption were not recognised as the warnings that they were. Yet today the people who live and work in this area do so in the full knowledge of what vesuvius is capable of. Towns and cities sprung backup in the area  due in part to the fact that minerals present in the volcanic soil make the area around vesuvius incredibly fertile. Also the hardened lava underneath is porous, meaning the area has it’s own built in natural irrigation system. Hence there has always been an abundance of food and agricultural jobs to provide for those living here. There are even varieties of grape and tomato that grow only in this area and have geographically protected status.

Vesuvius is still very much an active volcano. Over the last few centuries it has erupted in 1660, 1682, 1694, 1698, 1707, 1737, 1760, 1767, 1779, 1794, 1822, 1834, 1839, 1850, 1855, 1861, 1868, 1872, 1906, 1929, and lastly in 1944. With 80 years now having passed since the last eruption, volcanologists agree that  vesuvius is overdue one, and after an extended break this is likely to be quite large. Yet still plenty of people go about their every day lives with the shadow of the volcano looming over them. We only stayed in Pompeii for a week, but already by the end of the stay my initial awe of vesuvius was abating. It was still a spectacular presence in every viewpoint, but it was odd that I became accustomed to the proximity of such destructive potential.

So life just goes on
In the shadow of dire might
Fear long forgotten

In the shadow of the volcano pt 1

Posted on by estlh

On holiday in Pompeii, or indeed anywhere in the bay of Naples, it is hard to ignore the presence of Mount Vesuvius, looming large over the landscape. Although we are all familiar with the eruption of 79AD that destroyed the roman town, there have been many eruptions since. In the last 3 centuries, it has erupted 17 times, the last of these eruptions in 1944; and geologists and volcanologists agree that an eruption is overdue. This, combined with the number of people living in the ‘danger zone’ (approx 3 million), means that vesuvius is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world. Of course it is monitored 24-7 and there are detailed evacuation plans in place, but on our first night in Pompei, watching the sun set over an actual live volcano, it is hard to describe exactly what I felt. I was promoted to write a haiku.

Mighty Vesuvio
Such destructive power possessed.
Primed. Poised. And patient.

To be young

Posted on by estlh

A few days ago I was having a conversation with someone about attitudes towards young people. Particularly the judgement thrown at them purely for acting like they are young and inexperienced and know less of the world. We have all been there at some point  – we all learn as we travel through life. Admittedly, some of us learn better than others, and sometimes we learn the wrong lessons altogether. But being young is not inherently a bad thing, and is something an individual has absolutely no control over!

This conversation brought to mind a poem I wrote back when I was a youth and was feeling judged for being young. It took a lot of rummaging through old notebooks but I eventually found it. Written when I was just the tender age of 16, here it is

The dying hate us
For we are still being born.
As we laugh and joke
They shake their heads in disapproval;
We are living too much for them.
They love the life they are dying,
why should we live more than they can?

They try to take our life from us
They complain to everyone
And grumble remarks as we pass.
We can do no right.
If we try to live a little bit for them,
To rejuvenate their dying breath,
They do not want to know.
Our life threatens them,
And they are untrusting and suspicious.

Their birth was so long ago,
It is forgotten,
And they cannot understand those
Who live like they’ll die tomorrow.

At the end of the universe

Posted on by estlh

When people read poetry they interpret it in their own way. I know from comments made to me about my own poetry that if I write a poem about one thing, some people will read it as being about something else entirely. And that is fine. Like any art form, people view it through the lens of their own personal life experience and preferences; it means different things to each of us. That is one of the reasons that I often write a little intro to my poems on this blog – to explain a bit about what I was thinking or feeling when I wrote the poem. But sometimes I don’t want to share that much of myself, and sometimes I just want to throw a poem out there and see how it is interpreted without any hints from me. Today’s poem is not straight forward for me to explain so I’m just going to throw it out there. Comments are encouraged!

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who lies quiet at the end of the universe.

Exiled.

Expelled with such force that he can never find his way home.

And all for a misunderstanding that can never now be explained.

So instead he lies in quiet contemplation

of the injustice of existence.

Wishing he had at least done something worthy of eternal exclusion.

 

At the end of the universe all is clear.

He can look back at what could have been –

The sheer potential afforded to those who so oft neglect it

chasing after instancy instead.

Oh to be once again in the opportune abundance of those at the centre.

 

The tears deluged once, but that stream has now run dry

Futile waters washed away no part of his pain.

His resigned heart long torn in two.

Naive and trusting he yearned at the start for a vindication that never came

Reliant on the honesty of another with naught to gain from confession

and much to lose.

 

So alone he waits.

All angered out

self pity over

indulgent hope abandoned

Surrounded by stardust and cosmic redundancy

 

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who dies quiet at the end of the universe.