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Charlotte Watkins Poem
I, to the pasture's green could run,
and fly a kite beside the sun,
but choose, I do, to linger still,
among the dirt, what is my frill?
Low, be it may, to sink my feet,
into the slimy, pungent peat,
but with my grandad by my side,
would daily stroll along the tide.
To rescue guls stuck in the mud,
or gather sticks for firewood.
As luck would have it on one day,
the tides did change and under clay,
a viking boat from days gone by,
with shields of pine and rivots ply.
Unmasked itself from muddy deep,
a secret for ourselves to keep.
Each day, we returned, with a spade,
with picnic full of marmalade,
and feasted there beside the boat,
in our wool hat and winter coat.
Charmed not only by history,
but by such untold mystery.
Then on one fateful dreaded night,
the waves were high, the wind a fright,
storms blasted down upon the shore,
Until the longboat was no more.
My granddad early on that day,
forgot to mention or to say,
he felt unwell, or rather ill,
but trudgeoned on, a soldier still.
But in the haste of wind and gale,
I didn't realise he was pale.
By the morning when I awoke,
to no smell of cigarette smoke.
I went downstairs and saw the fridge,
his oatmeal there, still on the ridge.
Maybe a lie in, thought my head,
I ran upstairs to grandad's bed.
There asleep, I thought at a glance,
I nudged him, but he kept his stance.
He was gone, how? I hugged him tight,
and ran for the river at twilight.
So here I am beside the tide,
Waiting for the mud to reside.
But if it does, what shall I do?
For treasure is nought, without you.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2020
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
God is in the air tonight.
Do you feel his presence, this passing night?
He comes as a whisper, but full of might,
whilst heaven, and stars, twinkle bright.
Our God is in the air tonight,
he comes, all dressed, and robed in white.
To watch, his children, with pure delight,
and bless those whose hearts are contrite.
Yes, God is in the air tonight,
feel his presence, now burning bright.
Pray for wisdom, to do what's right,
and ask for safety, this winter's night.
For God is in the air tonight,
this does indeed, my soul, excite.
As I invite, my Lord tonight,
to be, my one, eternal light.
01.05.2023
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2023
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
Time is a gracious thing,
Not designed to be troubling.
But rather, allows us to,
Make ourselves whole heartedly anew.
It promises a new tomorrow,
When the past harbours sorrow.
Allows us to learn more,
Make memories like never before.
Enables our dreams to soar,
And understand life's precious core.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2019
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
Why fear tomorrow?
Does one not have faith?
Surely faith and fear can not reside in a common resting place?
One can not barter with the Lord and claim faith,
or seek counsel with another and know trust.
Vanity casts our minds and hearts aside selfishly,
when the works of his hand differ from our own intentions.
Why do we turn to God only in times of affliction?
May we instead praise his name in the morning,
rejoice in the evening and thank him before we sleep.
Let not the war that wages in this world consume our hearts.
Make sure in ALL things it is God and Christ Jesus we seek.
One must choose to whole heartedly discern his ways through prayer and scripture,
and work tirelessly in everything we do.
Faith can then be put to work,
fear shall be ever cast aside.
For we shall ask only what we need,
we shall pray not only for ourselves,
and we shall rejoice irrespective of the outcome.
That is when we shall become one through him,
in him and with him,
guiding us until the very end of time itself.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2020
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
The magic gem of curly hair,
Procures itself in sodden downpour.
Frizz retracts and curls define,
Revitalised by heaven's moisture.
No brolly required.
No wind-swept locks.
A long-awaited makeover,
Of the most natural kind.
28/04/2019
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2019
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
Arthur's seat sits hidden by the cloak of night, his head up in the clouds.
Princes Street lies empty, no royals, no life, no crowds.
Nelson stands neglected, having made a monumental mistake.
Charlottes' going square without new books to articulate.
St Giles has closed his doors to weary pilgrim seeking refuge.
The Palace has lost its money, its reputation, its gold.
Up at the castle, the one o clock gun,
sounds to mourn Edinburgh's loss.
For all I hear, tonight and every night,
is the pitter patter of the rain.
It marks the tears of old Edinburgh town wondering,
will I be loved again?
Where be the Scottish man in kilt with bagpipe sash?
Or corner street drunken birthday bash?
Edinburgh weaps the soil untrodden,
those lost of late shan't be forgotten.
May we once more run wild with glee,
old Edinburgh town, the land of the free.
5.15.21
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2021
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
I know life is fleeting, it all but crumbles to dust,
willessly washed away by the passage of time.
So easily lain waste and forgotten.
Yet for me who knew her dearest,
so easily enamoured by her graceful nature,
swooned over by her cosmic appeal,
chose not to sever ties with this short life.
But honour her in my lasting days, knowing
full well the reconciliation that death shall bring.
Contest: One on the chin Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Date: 10/09/2020
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2020
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
What gratitude is of greater reprise,
Appraisal sought within four wall confines.
Yet tests congure my personal demise,
Subpar intelligence is redefined.
Determined only by pure blood descent,
Whose family heritage dominates.
But haste, why linger, such foul discontent,
Saved from years of unethical debate.
Bitter sweet rejection bore new mercies,
Undrained from society's precedent.
To pursue a life without fallicies,
Devoid of tragic human sentiment.
For now, I delight, reap labour's success.
My life is all mine, to live and to rest.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
Oh how, I cry, disdain toward the word,
that gaslights sanity and truth defy.
When hapless, hopeless person, undeterred,
begs ask the question, of the victim, why?
Does thou holdest thee in purest contempt,
whilst quick, to grant, my aggressor pardon?
Lest I, in whom, no violence breathes, attempt,
to find, just cause, yet does, in myself, shun.
Yet still, it is, not I, that strikes the blow,
not I, in whom, is ruled, by selfish gain.
Not mine, the tongue, from which, hate seeds doth grow,
nor my, the hands, whose vice-like grip, chokes pain.
So when, I'm asked, the accusat'ry 'why?'
I'm shook, as you, dispel my truth, as lie.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2023
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Charlotte Watkins Poem
In the dark of the night,
when all are sleeping, out of sight,
the Oggles come out to play.
For they love to flirt,
in the rubbish and the dirt,
a curious courtial display.
For Oggles mate for life,
on the banks of the Fife,
wearing kilts like the Scottish do.
With a fondness for tartan,
and a raving for starkin',
all besotted soon taking the pew.
Yet what happens when an Oggle,
e'with a shove and a noggle,
but no niggle or noggle does work.
Well that tired, lonely Oggle,
with no Oggle to hoggle,
is shipped off to the hills of Falkirk.
And there in the hills,
away from Fife's thrills,
are sent Oggles, all sad, with no pair.
And what makes it worse,
than their lovesick curse,
is the notorious Court-de-fair.
For each year in Fife,
the Oggles smitten for life,
all date at the Court-de-fair.
And the Oggles all forlorn,
must man the stalls, pop the corn,
then return to their hilltop lair.
By now, each Oggle with no mate,
felt doomed to their fate,
until a stranger walked by their camp.
This pilgrim all smiles,
who had walked many miles,
with just a backpack, a book and a lamp.
The Oggles thought 'how strange',
this bearded man with no name,
was content with his journey alone.
For he spoke of a love,
that came from above,
where all Oggles and men were as one.
Then he gave every Oggle,
a kiss and a hoggle,
and told each one they were loved.
He said that each Oggle,
alone or in toggle,
could be happy, blessed and enough.
He them taught them a life,
free from jealousy or strife,
of great joy, dancing and of peace.
They then learnt to share meals,
of boiled spuds and jellied eels,
and their fellowship never did cease.
And sure enough with time,
these wholesome Oggles did not pine,
for their grins lined their face, ear to ear.
So along came the fair,
meant for Oggles with a pair,
now home to single Oggles filled with great cheer.
You should have seen the glare!
When this courtial affair,
was embraced by this once lonesome bunch.
Who now had found merit,
in each songbird and ferit,
they creamed for their shared Sunday lunch.
These paired Oggles ran amock,
to see this happy Oggle flock,
all cheerful, and happy, and in love.
When they asked 'how come,
they were, no longer, so glum?'
They sounded in unison, 'the love from above!'
So this once divided town,
Oggles up and Oggles down,
now live together as one.
For no matter if paired,
the bonds that are shared,
show love, in all forms, values everyone.
04.23.2023
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2023
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