Belated Day 30 ~ Where Are You Now?

Where are you now?

~

All the things that matter to me, mattered to us,

matter so little to anyone else

if they even matter at all. It’s all so intimate. Small.

No-one but you could ever remember how we sat in that bar.

Must be fifty plus years ago now.

I can try and explain, paint a picture, tell the tale of our joy and the blight on our stars,

But why should anyone care?

~

No-one but you can know or remember that one special night

when we met in a world that was flooded with lights.

We were there. We were present. We were so very there.

No-one but you can remind me of words I have forgotten beyond all trace.

I have to scrape every shadowy cave of my brain just to recall the shape of your face.

A face I so loved. A beautiful face.

~

No-one but you could make me keep looking, hoping to see you around every corner, through a window, in a crowd, alone on a bench, out with your kids (assuming you had some), walking through galleries, buying fruit at the market. Do you still play guitar and sing in the street? Do you visit our favourite tree in the park? Have we passed each other by? Maybe you can’t even walk anymore. I don’t care as long as you’re there. Somewhere, still there.

~

I’m so frustrated looking for you.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 30

I was feeling ill yesterday and will hopefully post my final poetry month poem today

Day 29 and flagging.

~

Told to write a fruit poem in 2 parts – I did 2 lines in Cockney.

~

Fruit Fool

~

Apples and pears rolled down the stairs.

Bananas screamed with laughter.

~

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 28 ~ What I Saw in the Fairylands of Wales

~

What I Saw in the Fairylands of Wales

~

I was sitting knitting when I dropped a wayward stitch,

a stitch in the web of the worlds.

I saw a one-eyed fish and signs of sudden rain.

I saw the wren new-washed.

I saw hills that were cast by giants.

I walked through warring trees

and heard the starling speak.

I followed him through twisting streets

where all the lights were out.

We left salt at ever house,

to exalt the rising sea and summon subtler dreams.

Then the Wonderchild stepped out holding a burning lance.

He swore to the sinking sun and the valleys filled with light.

The river-crossings and wells swelled with sparking water.

He refused to be baptised and vanished into the wood.

I stood there watching, wishing I’d caught his glance.

© A.Chakir 2023

The Day 28 Prompt ~ NaPoWriMo

The task today was to write and index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index.

Find a book and look in the index. You will find phrases. Make choices and use them in a poem.

I last used this method in 2015 and the resulting poem was published in Three Drops from the Cauldron (Issue 2). It was called ‘Journey in Ancient Hills.’

The index I used at that time was from ‘Welsh Folklore and Folk Customs’ by Thomas Gwynn-Jones. I will be using the same index today.

Day 27 – for my brother who died ten days old

~

The Tree of Remembrance (for my brother who died before I was born).

~

I forgot.

The tree did not.

~

The tree grew tall above the plot

where I, alone,

ten days old,

and not yet bones

rotted with the leaf mold.

~

With each year I climbed above

through roots and buds and branches.

In leaves I wear a crown of love,

the breeze my soul entrances

~

and now I know

that all we have are chances.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 26 ~ Lazy Little Rhyme

Jimmy is a jolly chap.

Bobby is a bully.

Pete’s a cheat.

I don’t know Francis Woolley.

Heinrich is an honoured man,

his virtue is complete.

Henry Long is handsome,

and Terry Tann’s a liar,

but Tom from Tobermorey Street set my heart on fire.

He’s kind and strong and sweeter

and when it comes to what we did

he’s very much discreeter.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 25 ~ I won’t send you flowers

I won’t send you flowers.

~

Love poems abound with flowers

denoting lovesick nights

bouquets of restless hours,

or scented petals of delight.

Roses, roses, roses

red, pink and white.

Don’t you have enough by now

Strewn beneath your feet?

As you walk you crush them.

~

I’m tired of your demands.

It’s not what loves about.

There are droughts and floods,

withered buds and broken bowers,

weeds running wild,

(weeds that later rot).

Why should I pick flowers

when I know you’ll watch them wilt?

~

I won’t refresh your vases.

Go and see the garden.

I grow delinquent dandelions

and neroli for neglect

(bitter orange for your lips).

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 24 ~ In the Forest

At the centre of the forest an acorn

like a fallen star landed on the earth

and opened as an oak, six centuries ago in April.

           In 1582 Shakespeare leaned against her,  dreaming of his future.

            Whispering susurrations.

            All the trees are listening.

She’s deep and well connected

beneath the forests skin

and speaks to hundreds of her kin.

            Dew soaks through the leaf mould. Can you smell it? Can you hear her?

Through storms and hurricane

draught and blight, day and night

she spreads her knowledge and advice.

              I climbed her branches and looked across the valley waiting for my lover. Shade spread out, cooling heated senses.

She soothes and shelters

a family of creatures

who cluster to her succor.

              Our squealing children run, kicking up the autumn leaves pretending they are squirrels, bandits, unicorns.

No sapling thrives without her.

Saplings need their mother

She is their school and mentor.

        The canopy above is cradlings leaves fine veined as baby birds refracting sunlight.

Come, you will be welcome too

But you must respect her.

Protection should be mutual.

         Robin Hood and Marion are hiding there in harmony.  Herne still hunts the careless.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 23 ~ Voices from a Village School

Voices from the Village

~

i.

A little history before we begin.

Let me take you in to Husbands Bosworth,

by a deep and ancient path.

A settlement in the Domesday Book,

in the Hundred of Gartree,

County of Leicestershire.

There were boar and deer in the woods back then.

Lord in 1066: Aelric son of Mergeat.

In 1086, landowners Guy of Raimbeaucourt,

and old Gilbert of Ghent

now to hell or heaven are sent.

All the plough teams are listed,

villagers, freemen, small holders, surfs,

meadows, mills and livestock

are all there in the book.

Let’s have a closer look at my own times.

~

ii.

Some of the families remained.

The manor house still stood,

surrounded by ancient cedars,

close to Sandy Lane

and the church with the gothic spire

that replaced its Saxon sire.

In Spring we had a fete.

The kissing gate was down Dag Lane

on the way to the railway crossing

and strange Ruby’s cottage.

~

iii.

He lived in Honeypot Lane.

In the 1950’s

they watched TV next door

until they got their own.

Things were different then.

We had good neighbours

and everyone mucked in.

I’d go back to that again

without a qualm.

~

iv.

Life was charmed.

We did country dancing in the school yard,

and nature walks

and picnics down Gravel Hole.

Good times were had by all.

The village had a soul.

I think there is some old cine film

of the sword dancing team.

I have boxes of photos in the loft.

I’m going to have a hunt.

~

v.

Uncouth youth,

lolling about and bragging

on the corner on Friday night.

Winkle pickers, hair slicked into a quiff,

duck’s arse at the back.

Sticky with Vaseline.

Lazy lout, hanging about.

Always the last to leave the pub.

Propping the bar, gossiping, boasting, blabbing.

Thinks he’s the king of the village.

Bully boy.

Every decade has one.

~

vi.

I remember the nature walks

up to the gravel pit spinney.

I stumbled on the track

down Tom Smith’s field

and cut my knee.

You remember the way?

I plastered it with burdock.

I still have a scar to this day.

~

vii.

Remember that winter it snowed and snowed?

We had drifts above our knees.

The canal froze over.

Icicles hung in the trees for months.

Horse breath plumed warm and soft as I passed an apple.

~

viii.

I tracked the hares and foxes.

There were footprints everywhere.

That was the year of the Ice Queen.

Fairies and frost.

So clean.

~

ix.

Lizzie with the pig tails

was my best friend back then.

I was nine and she was ten.

I still miss the village,

the fields and Windmill Hill,

the horses in the meadows

and our secret den.

In summer we played all day

and went home with the sinking sun. 

© A.Chakir 2023