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Best Poems Written by Matilda Gratton

Below are the all-time best Matilda Gratton poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Matilda Gratton Poem

Isis stole my son

Isis stole my son.
My hand was clasped, tight, I swear
Our fingers entwined, as he tugged me, eagerly, around the fair

From the ducks, to the teacups, his smile was mine alone
We were two, hand in hand, tone within tone.

A plane, it juttered, just above his sweet head
The wind jostled his fair hair, drowned out the words we both said.

And I was distracted, briefly, by a fraction of a noise
Or a tug, or whimper, from a small gaggle of young boys

Until my own, he ran, our fingers unentwined 
My own, left lonely, unable to find

His small thumb, from my palm
Was disconnected, slightly lost

I ran, crazed with emptiness, from stall to stall
Checked the ducks, and the teacups, scowered the food hall

Till alast, he was found, by a gingerly old lady
Exhausted, equally frightened, he grasped my hand, then everything goes shady

Was it my fault, then, or now
Now he truly is gone, from our safe little town

Now he truly is lost, as he chased fickle promises
As he once chased butterflies, yet now, he chases prophecies 

I feel so exhausted, my tire is everlasting
My sweet little boy, caught in a dangerous casting

He loved the patterns, on the bumblebees back
So much, he cared little, of their painful attack

He would cry, yes, lots of tears would pour
So I would put him on the counter, swoop him up from the floor

And kiss his little finger, take the pain away
I was magical then, my promise was all he’d obey

And with a cuddle, he return to his tasks
Falling through the grassery, before that required a gas mask

Collecting crickets in his palm, where my fingers sometimes lay
On my mind, these sweet little nothings, ever so do weigh

But he grew, and things became hard,
His laugh became less, and less so, to be heard.

Their was a boy at school, a mean little soul
Who would kick him, and punch him, his games were so foul

But I always put a plaster, on the bruises so sore
And promised him better, for this I never foresaw

Things did not get better, but he learnt to fight, 
And punch, and kick, which was fine, until he started going out at night

And im sure, though not certain, I had once seen
A sparkling, white, silver, knife like gleam

But I was now frightened, on who shared my home
Less my son, now a stranger, I was completely alone.

He returned later, and later still, 
Until, one day, my son left, abruptly, to kill.

But I had no idea, if return, he would
Until a month later, when call, he felt he should

And he whispered, very quietly, his fate he was sold
And the reality he kept, so very untold

And I told no-one, so ashamed I had failed
My sweet little boy, could even become jailed.

He is married, something I did not witness
To a girl, frightened, the phrophet their eyewitness

Her only escape, is the day he might die
In a field, alone, I will never say goodbye

So my sweet little child, whos knees were so sore
Can return to an angel, as he was once before.

Copyright © Matilda Gratton | Year Posted 2019

Details | Matilda Gratton Poem

Cinderella Red

Her hair was red, frizz with frost
Crisped, solidity, warmth was lost

Porcelain skin, eyes of deep blue
Hair falling in wisps, reminds you of someone, 
you likely once knew

how her voice danced, twirled dangerously in a box
of concrete and bricks, the soft patters of her socks

on the ground of the gym, you had admired her pace
she was frivolity, not a single strand of haste

born light, a light she had raised
tenderly, carefully, creating her grace

learning to sing, to talk soft whispers
that everyone hears, that everyone hears.

Her voice, less spoken, now lies 
In the grass, strangled and trapped, 
From the corner I spy

She had been happy, so happy, its profound
She was always so quiet, yet her image so loud

So soft, she screams, as she walks past your way
I hear, I do, but little do I say

Smudge, like a smudge, when you breath onto frost
A small dollop of black, perfect eyeliner was lost
Frosty blue, she wore, frosty blue
It matched her skin, like most, this did too

Her boyfriend, he was rotten,
A nettle that might sting

But her frost blue, believed
A wedding ring he might bring

As she waited, patiently, legs crossed
Her frost blue tint, seemed to be lost

Has it fallen, Ill check, When she finally clears
When the small crowd moves, and I can go near

She waited, smiling blue, rooftop high
He said he would meet her, sticky red she would cry

Frost doesn’t settle, on surfaces wet
But ice does smother, on the fate she was met

She had stood, abrupt, on the rooftop that morning
Just a day after, I had heard, her silent little mourning

Her dress that day, so pretty, emerald green
Not blue, but it matched, her porcelain gleam

She stepped, or leapt, at the least she travelled not far,
The ledge fell behind her, but did not dent a single car

Yet neither did she, as her limp bodice fell
Rested silently at once, like a twisted fairytale

Cinderella found no prince, for he matched her sister
Who cut of her toes, for him to kiss her

She was less perfect, much so, indeed
But she was louder, fiercier, more open to greed

Poor little Cinderella, her life was pure hell
But the trips to the furnace, meant her skin did stay well

And her work in the dumpsters, meant she found quite the bargains
In makeup and clothes and books, so her appearance never faded

But inside she felt broken, he made her whole
But her sister was entitled, to the entirety of her soul

So little Cinderella, whose skin looks so white
Lies quietly beside, the schools parking site.

Copyright © Matilda Gratton | Year Posted 2019

Details | Matilda Gratton Poem

A painter sits

A painter sits
Alone and in solitude
Staring at a portrait
He paints of society
He starts at the bottom,
The beginning of time
It is wild and unkept
Colours outside of the lines

Animals, they roam
Without boundaries, birds soar
Evolution is yet
To rise from the core

Then he goes on,
 a short while at least
showing the first signs of red
with flickers of heat

On he goes, some colours cutting short
Not everyone continuous, some deaths not fought

Later still, and colours go dark
Hunger and suffering 
Stories of the Ark

Hope is seen,
Although followed by war
The strength of emotion 
Soul from soul were tore
Red becomes blackening
An oozing dark brown
The painting becomes abyss
No colour to be found

Quickly, we move, into more hopeful times
Slavery abolished, creates beautiful lines

And swirls, they continue 
As women gain voice,
And independent, they emerge
In a bid to fight

But war, it strikes, and so civil liberties abided
Courageous young men, flee to fight it

Heroes return, some do not
In fields of red
They are never forgot

Whilst the portrait shows red, not all is blood
Some is hope, some is sadness
some a reminder that be intolerant, we should not,

And without a doubt, more will fill the space
That currently is snow white, 
With anger and hate

But yellow will emerge, and silver too
And gold, and purple
With hints of blue.
So the artist, he sits, 
Quiet, at work
In his studio, he paints
Us out of the dark.

Copyright © Matilda Gratton | Year Posted 2019