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Best Poems Written by Paddi March

Below are the all-time best Paddi March poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Paddi March Poem

Embers

Embers
I watch the dull fire glowing red and hot, 
my face feels sunburned and my eyes are tight.
I look into the shadows, at the others in this spot,
all my people together, in the dull steady light.
They are  a joyful people, they laugh a lot.

I feel her in them, now, clearly on this night.

In the embers I see laughter when I was young,
when I had burnt hot and felt fire in me.
I moved easily and surely, was quick with my tongue,
went out drinking and dancing as if it were free,
there was no life unlived or song unsung.

I was so strong and my thoughts were so bright

In the shadows of the coals a loved face appears,
so serene. The moment we met, we began to talk,
talked so many things over our wine and beers.
Then we married and often she and I would walk
I loved what she loved and there were few fears.                                 

The  heat dulls my sight and makes my eyes water.

In the fire, I see my mother die in the car crash,
me, at fourteen, so long ago, but still in the pain.
How the embers of life roll on and leave ash. 
This year they lost their mother, all seems in vain.
Only she cared if I stayed up late or had been brash.

The loss is a hollowness inside and my chest is tight.

A grandchild heaves a log onto the camp fire.
Sparks burst up, like brilliant memories in the night
He brings more wood  to build the fire higher
but covers the embers, ends the memories with the light.
A mothers voice sounds,  “No more!”she is a sigher,
just like her mother. She looks at me and grins outright. 


I realize that the fire will, in time, make good new embers.

Details | Paddi March Poem

Sonnet 1 - Sea Trout

Fast river on my thighs, an act of god.
The soft silvery arc of the sun caught line,
the swish and the wish of the long fly rod,
the singing of the line  and the reels whine 
and whipping back, line stripped off and out.
Line tightening strike! Straight as an arrow
from the bow of the rod to the Sea Trout
The fisher fights footing in the shallows.
And yet,  as he struggles to win the match
the fish fights for life. Where does my heart lie?
Splash, sudden slack. Freedom!  No more the catch.
Coffee cool in my tight right hand, I sigh.
And an untouched sandwich in my left hand 
with fresh cucumber and salmon, canned.

Details | Paddi March Poem

Unsung - a Sestina

My brother, Lincoln Beachey, made my life a wonder,
Mother's eyes were full of him and loved how he was bold	
I was the shadow elder son of a family in poverty's control
and struggled to to sustain them until my blind father's death.	
In a grey world, Linc was bright colour caught on the fly
I felt drab and responsible but he dreamed of the sky.

Together we built airships and sailed  upon the sky.
people lifted up their eyes and pointed up in wonder.
Then Orville flew and out of the blue, we began to fly.
we both were taught but I flew first, and I was not so bold.
It was almost suicidal but Lincoln feared not death
but I was timid, not like him, not nearly in control.

I flew straight, flat, low and slow tight grip on control
but Lincoln from the take off; it was like he owned the sky.
He danced on the air and I worried, fearing for his death. 
Others tried to dance his dance and they died.  No wonder
My brother always dared more, did more, forever bold.
Then grief for the dead filled him and no more could he fly.

He was sure it was his fault that they had died, so he did not fly
But like me they had lacked his nerves and his iron control. 
They were others,  the sky was full of men who were bold
Linc tried very hard not to fly but he soon went back to the sky
Then people came in thousands to see his  latest wonder. 
Flying low and slow I bumbled, crashed and came near death.

They saw him loop the loop for the first time and avoid death
He flew the thunder of Niagara's mists; where none had dared to fly
Then raced a car neck and neck, It was a screaming wonder
his plane howled inches over the  drivers head, the finest of control. 
Once he climbed his plane, until fuel was gone, high into the sky.	
None had been higher and silently he glided down. That bold.

Over San Francisco bay he flew and still he was bold
Watched by thousands he seemed to tease death
then, suddenly, my ice cold brother fell from the sky
and I saw him smash into the water. No more to fly.
A wing strut had collapsed and he had no more control	
and I lost my brother and it ended an era of  wonder.

I am old now and look at the sky and I think of the unsung men who used to Fly
Those like me who were not bold  and those who were. We all meet death
but we all look at the Control of a Lincoln Beachy and  love all the  wonder.

Details | Paddi March Poem

Liquor

An empty bottle
leaves twenty percent guilt
and ten percent regret.





Paddi March
Philosophical

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The Changing Sea

I have seen the sea be a mill pond,
seen it like a mirror 
where mountains reflect 
unshimmering there.
And herring skittered
on the surface to escape
the mouth of the killer whale.

But I have seen the sea
off Newfoundland's Cape Ray
when waves were mountain high
and on reaching the wave top looking down
into a vast valley of iron coloured water,
The grave of many a man.

To me the sea is a changing thing
like life and breathing in
and the salt moistened air in my face
forever gives life to me.

Details | Paddi March Poem

Marriage

Between two people in love
the lover and the loved.
The loved always wins

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A World In My Hands

She looked down into her hands resting on the table. 
There lay the  remnants of her life.
The scars and pains of another time.
The mark the cut made on her palm
from the baby food tin when she was thirty.
Her bitten nails torn and ragged.
She smiled at the little pains and pleasure there.

Hints of psoriasis on the backs of her hands. 
The worry of  that, all that, all her life. 
The first diagnosis when she was seven.
The pain and shame of it as a girl and woman.
Oh how she used to cover herself.
How she wanted to be beautiful for him. 

She looked deeply at her hands
and could not see the tears that had fallen there.
Tears for her lost baby.
Tears for the worry and fears of a good life.

He came into the room
and walking by he touched her.
Never a word said as he went to another room,
she raised her head and watched him,
smiling deeply at his back.
She was happy.

Details | Paddi March Poem

Moving On ---

Oh death why are you painted so black
you are white, a relief from hoary age 
and pain wracked days. you are life.
The ego maligns you, calls you down.

You are  a door another change
a movement on, not black.
Not black as twisted priests would have.
Not dark , not sin, not emptiness.

You are the next stage, the new birthday
show me, guide me, take me when my time comes
but not before, let me have this to the end
Let me love all of this as I love thee.

Details | Paddi March Poem

The Gardener

This day is hot and bright and  fills my weary eyes,
and while sleep is gone it lies in wait.
The years have gone and the weeds have come. 
The dandelions are hard hot yellow in the sun.
This place I loved and here I see my Eleanor, 
who turns to me,  to touch my arm and  softly say, 
Do not let them see your pain.  
I have no trust in any move and I feel all aches.
And every step I do take is an avoidance of a fall.

I feel her laughing warmth about me,
I feel the perfume, the lavender of her,
or is it remembrance, a wish from my heart.
I see the lavender, then, at my feet,
and tears wet my eyes. 
Ravens in the tall pines, the sons and daughters
of the sons and daughters of the ravens that she loved, 
the tricksters of this world, the noisy comics.

Remembrance past, I lift my head and see the apple tree
With hoary bark and flaked around about.
Twisted leaves, curled browned and scabbed, 
The tree a shadow of its former self. 
Then through the weedy grass, the fire pit overgrown,
air filled with childish voices and games they played with sweet Eleanor.
About me all for a moment a whirl of dark and musty memories
then comes back  the ragtag garden of today.
Here is a broken tree, there all plants so out of place.
The dried out stems from other years of daisies.

Is hard to weed when bones all creak and sound
to stoop and lower down, to reach, to touch the ground.
Today I try, and it is done, 
To sit in lawns tall grass with weeds beneath.
Reach to touch the lavender,  take some weedy grass and pull.
The children said that they would come today.
They live their lives, but still I wish them here.
O Eleanor you were my one.
In all the world you were my home, the single one.

It is colder now, has sun gone awry
but shadows still so sharp, 
The lavender perfume so heavy. Like a drug. 
My face in the pillow of lavender, 
Prickles my face and the bees are loud.
Eleanor's breast. I see her clearly now.
My eye, near sees a lavender flower
Why is my head here?
All the world shrinken to a flower 
All light, the simple light of life.


Its so dark, but the light is there.
Our children playing, the ones who didn't come.
So still now. Why now so quiet. 
No blood rushing in my ears.
The children fading ...don't go, stay.
Just the life light glimmering like a candle in the dark.
Watching it.  Its cold .....  Eleanor?....  
Its warm again, soft slow, no beating,
never has it been so still.
I reach for the life light and sigh it into nothing.

Details | Paddi March Poem

I Was Born a Fairy Child

I was born a fairy child
I remember being born
from a dark  warm place
I was told to leave
and even though I said no
some other one said yes
Forces beyond my control 
made it so.

I sat on a beach I remember that
and my mother sat behind
and we waited for .....  I know not what.
but he came and my heart it leapt
as he sat down on the sand.
and made me feel full of him.

I remember pictures in the sand 
that he drew for me with a stick,
some things I didn't know,
but that was no matter, 
He was there  and he talked to me.
and I know that he mattered.
I'm told now he wrote my name
And I saw the sea rub  it out.

Then he wasn't round us anymore,
and my memories just not there. 
my mother says he once came back
before he went to war,
and I remember a train station
trains puffing steam and dirt
and being told goodbye,
mother says I said goodbye 
"goodbye uncle" I'm told I said.

I was a fairy child,
and these are fairy memories 
that I'm told I couldn't have. 
but they are there, 
and more besides
as I grew to fairy size.