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Beverly Shackleton-Jones Poem
Somewhere in the dead of night
when you seem so very far,
I’ll look up and see your name
written in the stars.
Somewhere in the dead of night
when you had gone too soon,
I’ll look up and see your face
reflected in the moon.
Somewhere in the dead of night
when everyone’s asleep,
I’ll look up and search for you
although we cannot speak.
Somewhere in the dead of night
when nocturnal creatures prowl,
I hear an owl screech, the crackle of a witch
and a lone wolf, howl.
Somewhere in the dead of night
as my powers grow,
I’ll ask the wind to tell me things
that only you could know.
Somewhere on a starry night
when life had just begun,
The big bang split us apart,
and I began my journey round the sun.
Copyright © Beverly Shackleton-Jones | Year Posted 2025
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Beverly Shackleton-Jones Poem
Cuckoo, cuckoo, the false songbird sings
a maiden has committed the original sin.
The seed in her belly she cannot hide
before it swells, she must become a bride.
Who was the father? Was it Bill?
(a name I recall she mentioned still).
He rejects her and the child inside
before it shows, she must become a bride.
She seeks a cuckhold to raise the child as his own,
and from there the lies are sown.
No church wedding for this bride
which wounds her ego and hurts her pride.
A pact with the devil is hastily made
a secret she believes she’ll take to her grave.
In exchange he takes her soul
an earthly creature that he can now control.
A blackness fills the empty space
filled with anger, laced with hate.
It consumes her but she hides her shame
seeking others on whom to lay the blame
She wreaks anger and vengeance on all those who know
even the family who welcomed her, before her belly began to grow.
She manipulates and dominates those who are kind,
but memories sow clues, like breadcrumbs, in a child’s mind.
The truth will come out, the stars reveal,
then those left behind can begin to heal.
The church bells will toll, although she won’t be missed
and her secret will be told, when she is laid to rest.
Copyright © Beverly Shackleton-Jones | Year Posted 2026
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Beverly Shackleton-Jones Poem
In the Land of the Dragons
my grandfather sleeps -
a place of legends, castles and keeps.
In a magical land of gentle green hills
where new-born lambs frolic still.
Under a carpet of flowers
and the Holy Spirit’s dove
a paradise on earth
mirroring the heavens above.
In the Land of the Daffodils
my grandfather rests
at the old church of St Arthens
by the river Gwynon, that flows under the bridge.
At my grandmother’s side
my grandfather sleeps
together again, united in peace.
In the land of the bards,
where giants once roamed
back in the place,
the place, that is home.
Copyright © Beverly Shackleton-Jones | Year Posted 2026
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