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Annabelle Jane Poem
Despite the black, the birds begin
To call the light unto the day,
Persistent songs remind the Sun
To send the stars upon their way.
There's hope in this which I admire:
The birds trust what they're yet to see,
I know I trust you just the same,
And always will, unfailingly.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2012
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Annabelle Jane Poem
I will tell you when they met:
in the burnished flush of autumn,
when each rising of the sun
turned each golden leaf more golden.
With the trees and fields aflame,
so the scholar's heart was stolen
by that blushing, bold nymphet,
In the burnished flush of autumn.
I will tell you when they parted:
in the middle of the winter,
when each slicing of the moonlight
filled her heart with thawless splinters.
With the trees and fields laid bare,
and each footpath silent, silver,
so they lost each other's shadow
in the middle of the winter.
When shall they meet again?
I cannot say for certain.
Their lives have grown divergently,
through seasons sparse and verdant.
To meet again beneath those trees;
more tempting than the serpent,
but such temptation never fades,
that much, I'd say, is certain.
Inspired by 'One Day' by Christina Rossetti.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2018
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Annabelle Jane Poem
Books half opened
Lines half written
A bridge half built is halfway there.
Bones half broken
Lives half hidden
A heart in half has half to share.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2012
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Annabelle Jane Poem
The lilies were excessive.
Bless her, she does her best to
Lift the funerial hush
That's settled on this damned household.
Get them out,
You can't contain their boisterous bloom
To the kitchen alone.
The overspill of white
Does little to obscure the silence they're replacing.
Graceful, disgrace,
Wretch like me.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2012
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Annabelle Jane Poem
I do not love you by comparison.
It isn't borne of desperation, pride, or pain.
I do not need you for counsel, release.
I do not dream of you to alter you or your words.
I do not follow you because I am weak.
I follow you so that I might go too.
I dream of you, and know reality is better.
I need you because I choose to.
I love you because I do.
It's simpler.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2011
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Annabelle Jane Poem
I slept all day and woke to the rain,
With the low purr of thunder rolling around my temples.
Through my open window rose, darkly, the scent of the earth,
Cool, ripe, metallic,
Revived by the unforecast shower.
I waited, the airless gap stretching wider,
Time stepping, achingly, forwards,
Slicing away second upon second,
Until, finally, the clouds sparked with great forks of lavender light
Which, with all their majesty, faded as quickly as they had come.
It has rained for many hours now.
The sky demands we witness her.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2017
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Annabelle Jane Poem
The Lady of Liberty looks me in the eye.
I am tempest-tost, and welcome reliant.
I pass at her feet, yet gaze at torch high:
Soon to be standing on the shoulders of giants.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2011
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Annabelle Jane Poem
I have a friend who is, to the best of my knowledge, a magpie.
All shiny, all sparkles of metal and glass are placed in my palm as a little gift, a bit of treasure.
So maybe then, she's a pirate. One Long John Silver with a golden tooth and a keen eyed parrot. And she pillages and purges to bring me little metal castles, radio faces, moonstones and roses and bright button badges.
Just like a Brownie. On a long brown sash wrapped around my chest. She brings me glittering adornments that glow with my achievements.
One day, I'll give her treasure for her nest.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2011
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Annabelle Jane Poem
You are my warrior.
The fighter, my own.
Let me be your armour,
And never outgrown.
I cry for you, warrior,
Or one day I might.
If you, gentle lover,
Are called up to fight.
For you would be taken,
With no time to think.
And see in your armour
The slightest of chinks.
A chink which could open
The door for just one
Arrow, or spear...
Or kiss from a gun.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2010
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Annabelle Jane Poem
I miss you most at Christmas time
and it's hard to know why, other than this:
with each December I feel the loss of you so keenly.
December when we first kissed,
December when we'd discuss all future Decembers together.
And fantasise of curling together on some remote sofa, vaguely aware of the tree and the twinkle of another Christmas. And brothers and board games and brisk beach walks, having long forgotten the circumstances which led us there together.
Accepted and affectionate and, oh, beautifully orchestrated.
Carols in quaint churches, and more Spanish love poems, love like topaz and love like carnations.
But the shadows were always there, they grow deeper all the time. Each fantasy, each gnawing reminiscence crumbles yearly; the Yule log burnt to ashes.
I miss you most at Christmas time,
and it's hard to know why,
other than all this.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2018
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