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Jeanette Swan Poem
The sunset clouds are pinks and greys
in tattered strips, in rips and frays,
in feathered flight at end of days,
in summer skies that fill my gaze.
And in the pines beside the sea
a hundred birds talk endlessly
and shooshing waves lap hungrily
as we eat fish and chips for tea.
Before the day turned into night
the pinks were burned by dying light.
The birds were still, the moon was slight
when day had gone and it was night.
And then my eyes could hardly see
the scenery in front of me.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
Velvet red roses stand
cheek to cheek
with daisy faces, ringed
in petal fringes,
sweetly scented
by creamy bubbles
of double jonquil popcorn blooms
beside a starburst
yellow chrysanthemum,
and long leaves
squeezed between.
Below, their stem-straws blur
in the ribbed glass jar,
looped with a satin orange bow
for your 97 years
we must farewell soon.
The loved ones are visiting,
bringing flowers, hugs, reminiscences
for you, last of your generation -
two brothers, two sisters.
I don't want to say, 'Goodbye'.
Let's have a few more days,
or weeks, or months,
just for keeping company,
like the flower bunch.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
Adelie penguin,
dear little thing,
black on your back,
black on your wings,
round white tummy
and flat pink feet,
your waddle is funny
and so is your squeak.
When you dive in the water
and porpoise around,
jumping back on your feet
when you land on the ground,
it’s a penguin I’d be,
if a bird I would choose,
wearing dinner-suit feathers
and flappy pink shoes.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
With flip-flap wings
in rhythmic rowing,
two sunset-magpies
flew straight through
a sky of pumpkin soup,
as I drove home to you.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2025
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Jeanette Swan Poem
Was it just the juice of oranges?
Was it childish innocence?
Was it just a summer barefoot-song?
Have I swallowed it amiss?
My mouth remembers tasting it -
remembers it was sweet.
Where is the salty flow of tears?
Did sorrow soak into the soil – or run,
or roll, into a wider sea?
A sighing breath escapes.
Has every piece of me grown up?
Does any of that child remain?
Do I desire to find her soul?
Or, am I safer lying tame?
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
For Contest, 'What I Love-What I Hate' Sponsored by Tom Wood
Every Tree in the Park
I love to stare through leaf-shade under wide trees,
Under confetti-scraps of green-gold sunshine
Scattered by a breathing invisible breeze:
Each planted parasol a unique design.
I love seed-codes, sudden sprouts, giants’ ages;
Bud-burst, summer stretch, autumn, winter stages.
When bowed in purple storms, when wild branches thrash,
Lightning strikes, cracks. Trees, still magnificent - crash!
Mozzies Buzzing
I hate can’t-be-seen sneaky mozzies that whine.
Sniffing for carbon dioxide, these teasers
Ignore other people and focus on mine.
Why are all others not such mozzie-pleasers?
I snatch vacant air, slap and smack my own face,
Flick the light, but of the slim insect - no trace.
Could I suffocate hiding under this sheet?
I pulled it too high - now they’re biting my feet!
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2025
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Jeanette Swan Poem
Lights flicker,
buttons ping,
new clicks whirr
in the beautiful machine.
My head slides,
my eyes turn, peer in,
gaze:
magnetized by novelty, in this tiny
maze, slinking ever further, further in.
Purring springs exhale steel-sweet breath;
my narrow eyes glide between busy twirling cogs;
my ears perceive the melodies of electronic hums.
Then, snap!
I failed to hear the mind hiss
inside its trap.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
The moon flies,
the breeze sighs,
over the dark seas.
Here is a wall, a stubborn cliff,
above a raging water-whirl.
Here is a beach, where curling waves
meet wide sands and compromise.
The moon sighs – or was that the breeze?
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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Jeanette Swan Poem
"Sweet sleeping child: so near, so far"
Little face-feathers:
eyelashes fall on your cheeks,
fringing sleepy eyes.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2025
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Jeanette Swan Poem
I have inherited pleasure:
the rhythm of pegs, the smell
of buttery sun on sheets,
a whispering murmur of trees
standing around, and the company
of magpies inspecting
with one eye looking for worms.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
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