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Rita Simpson Poem
Coat black with shiny, wet nose,
Whiskery beard, and gleaming eyes of brown,
Peeping out through long eyebrows
With pink, panting tongue and a cheeky grin.
All over black my Sambo was,
With wavy coat, plucked short on top,
A powerful tail just like a whip,
He never was fooled, not missing a trick.
Scottish Terrier, bred from Kennelgarth Great Scot,
Loved us all equally and gave such a lot,
We love him still, though many years since he passed,
He's always with us, minding our backs.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2011
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Rita Simpson Poem
Fearful fluttering, like butterfly wings,
Guilty conscience screaming out warnings,
Quietly trembling, feelings of breathlessness,
Yearning to understand what I cannot prevent.
I gaze upon him, and the trickling fire
Runs through my veins with burning desire,
Keep a tight rein, don't let it be known
That you're burning inside, it shouldn't be shown,
Yet daring to think I could beg to be touched,
Knowing full certain it would not be enough
To subdue the craving, hidden within,
Of a nightmare of need that seems almost a sin,
So powerful, so deep I can only weep.
Love is wasted, trust betrayed,
Like the promise at the end of a rainbow -
And then - the knock at the door - of hope.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2011
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Rita Simpson Poem
In an old farmhouse high on the cliffs of Dingli
surrounded by archaeology and mystery
lives Mary, guiding visitors to explore and find
caves and cart ruts, deep tracks seeming mined
that criss cross at Clapham Junction
it’s not easy to guess their function.
Talk to Mary and she will tell you
of times gone by, when there was so few
people who wanted to know and understand
what it was that remains so strange in this land.
Perhaps it will always remain unknown,
since archaeologists have come and gone,
not enough with perseverance and finance,
they come and go and lose allegiance.
Maybe one day an answer will appear
and all will suddenly be clear,
why the cart ruts run under, the house,
where Mary lived with her mother.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2009
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Rita Simpson Poem
Landing on Malta into a dry, sandy, hot afternoon,
Tears of happiness blind my eyes, excitement
at the feeling of arriving home, although I am not a native.
The dominating skyline of familiar domes and
roofs, grown nearer to the airport over time.
Roads resembling few maps, leading you
astray, and shaking your bones with attempts at repair!
I grieve, not long after arrival, for the
inevitable day when I will return to England.
Malta, my spirit I leave with you,
I leave my very essence of being behind when
I leave you,
You are at the heart of me.
I leave you with sorrow, and return with joy
to embrace your nation and its glorious culture.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2009
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Rita Simpson Poem
Sitting alone in a hotel room
Looking out over flat roofed buildings
At twinkling lights across the Island.
How many lights?
How many people?
Sitting alone in their rooms?
Looking out.
Alone.
Searching.
Despairing of finding ourselves.
Fearful of discovery
That I am Me.
Who is dying?
Slowly but slowly we all surely will.
Choice is everything.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2011
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Rita Simpson Poem
Tall, proud cliffs, rising out of the sea,
Straight and hard, withstanding bombs,
Its protective outer shell encompassing
The soft inner limestone of the Island
Like my body protects the inner softness of me,
The part that identifies with the Island,
Needing to protect and yet be protected.
Why do I identify with the stone?
Its beauteous colours of cream through gold,
Of its increasing hardness as it weathers
And waits,
To ripen and harden with age,
Breathless over time, until …..
It is chosen.
Finally.
Like the Island has chosen me.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2009
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Rita Simpson Poem
Rhythmic swaying of peaceful waves
Tides align with the influential moon,
Lapping gently on wave-beaten shores
Of frothy seaweed and golden limestone.
Dazzling, too-blue-to-believe waters
Mirrored in the bright afternoon,
Eroded shores ancient with history
Keeping its secrets of thousands of mysteries.
Within honeyed walls that echo through time
Are whispers of old that try to be heard by modern age man,
Who is so out of tune and his instincts low,
Not keyed to the earth.
Age-worn battles of power abide
Never realising that they’re against the tide,
For the Earth surely in its finest hour, will win its opponent in war,
And seal them in through Earth’s activity.
A very good and fitting cemetery.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2009
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Rita Simpson Poem
Trying to find somewhere to hide
Deep within myself, but no longer can I.
At the airport waiting for departure,
More and more heartache, it is such torture.
Feeling like a rope being tugged either way
Tighter and tighter becomes the pull and
Harder and harder I try to invoke fun.
But it simply is not there, only growing despair.
Barely able to see through tears of sadness
As if a permanent goodbye, my world crumbling around me,
Preparing for the worst, but without need.
For none of it is real, only within me.
Unable to feel happiness, weighed down with grief
Trying to lose myself, avoiding feelings of loss
Rejection and abandonment,
Repeated patterns so well known.
Like old friends
Finally being cast off as a snake sheds its skin.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2010
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Rita Simpson Poem
Tucked away in tiny alleys
Golden secrets in pyramidal design,
Tumbling layers of flats and homes
In blocks of cream and golden limestone,
Indistinguishable behind screens and doors
And built to withstand the heat and cold.
Fertile land farmed in terraced slopes
So precious it’s preserved for crops,
Animals seem hidden away
In sunken pits, not on display.
A different world in the Mediterranean,
So much so it is a haven
Of safety from the wider world,
Let’s pray it can be preserved.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2010
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Rita Simpson Poem
Zurrieq Festa our destination
Driving off late into the night
Over terrible roads, chasing islanders
All worth it to see the sight.
The church golden and brightly lit
Shining out for all to see
Bunting and stalls lining the streets
Everywhere people, excitement is building
Bands lining up to be heard as they march.
Suddenly it's midnight!
Melodic sounds keep time with fireworks
Each display more impressive than the last
Whirling and twirling freely on posts
Physics at the base of their design
As beauty shines through in the colours and patterns
Hands clapping, people cheering, part of the moment.
Copyright © Rita Simpson | Year Posted 2010
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