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Emma Green Poem
Dear, dear lady, with crumpled
tissue paper skin and
spidery fingers fretting hanky,
'Couldn't find cannister,
don't know where it is, Em. '
Silent me knows is always in the same place.
Tea bag, two spoons sugar
in white half-filled china cup,
rose patterned napkin neatly
folded close by and ready
for too frequent spills ..
Safety first: neither too hot or full, m' dear.
Old phone trit.trit.trits,
her fingers fidget fear of bad news,
mustn't be, can't be..
I answer, 'Fine, yes,
you'll be here later? Thank you!'
Thank goodness, Norma won't be lonely.
How that small lined face pinks -
Unusually aware day and date,
second Thursday in month,
visitor visits, tea biscuits in larder,
hair to comb, best shoes to wear..
A sweetly smiling day to come..
'Do I have to have a bath?'
'Nurse was here yesterday, love,
you're fresh as a daisy.'
Fidgeting stops, smile starts,
'Thursday, Betty comes'..
Sad, so sad. What to say? Nothing's best.
Stir porridge, my tears trembling,
standing at Norma's side;
should I remind her that
sister Betty died near ten years ago?
It's so sad to be eighty..
and becoming more forgetful every day..
This lovely woman, this fragile shell,
drove ambulances during the war,
WWII was her hell on earth,
she lost too many kith and kin.
Her mind still grieves.
Many would might say that deceit is a sin
Her visitor - Betty's wonderful daughter,
brings flowers or a small plant
and sings songs that Norma - with
a little reminder, sings and sways to
For two hours she comes alive.
And the Lord understands and - forgives.
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
when listening to music I hear it played in colour
two arythmic arcing shapes
sway to moaning baby blues - then
burst from syncopated sleek-hipped dreams,
veiled they in smoke grey gaze
where figures drift an' dive,
mischief minds bedecked by
clock face golden dandelions with
far too little time for sweet euphoria..
when listening to music I feel it played in colour
cerulean sweet the sky
sprinkled by breeze divine all
diving dun-bronzed blown birds,
keen-eyed of ambered fawn 'neath
flick-froth slip of wild white steeds
riding the drift of damp eternity,
where Davy guards the swaying weeds
of green intaglio 'gainst coral rich..
when listening to music I dream it played in colour
echoes roar in deep encrusted wombs
caves - carved by sea-love insanity,
thund'rous time an' crenelated moon
flushed furious by blood-red storms..
wrecked rust the rocks without
where gannets scream incessantly
wailing widows' kin all chapel-held mid
time-stained rich rainbowed glass..
when listening to music I hear it played in colour
waves hold the puckled skin of love
balladic undulations' lure
aquamarine in endless flow
swept onwards out by artist's brush
'pon canvas damp in endless mass..
throb colours rich displayed in song
an' air so soft that dawn with silver night unites
to share their hearts in evensong..
when listening to music I see colour dance my world
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
Love is indescribable
said one person to anothe'
its fingerprint original
unique, yet understandable
no cloying sentiments
no mal-worded melodrama
perhaps upturning a hand
to fill its palm with whispers
maybe an echo of 'love you'
sighed by a smiling heart
Love is indescribable
said this person to another
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2018
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Emma Green Poem
In village Taraigh
smoky limbs - gaunt grey
arms akimbo
twirl an' sweep from stumpy stacks,
peep faces from chimneys
to dark night falling
whilst 'draggled' owl cedes to instincts
navigation near done, over
from-by this old beast dying
was time
when ancients told
an owl's screech oft heralds
its sleep of fame full blameless
that the echoes
'cross valley an' path to peaks
play welcome to another world..
but nobody told
who unlocked the way to Great Tawny
there in the midst of Gharigh Bael
sits he a'bough
watching grime-grey shadows
seep midnight dark
eating holes 'bout mourning Moon's faint reflection -
hiding his face 'neath
sentry Sirius' soft wing,
feebly stretching
invisible path 'cross Sloulti tarn
this - his many years wise-royal realm
filled full to brim
of beasts a'plenty
of tales told of the heat of slate..
'.. avoid the rise
of the grey gasp born of earth
flames burned from northern old oak
once the rest of my night
the home of my love.. '
the poet heaves a solemn sigh
hears moans of winter come
crisping an' crunching
the sharp sheen of holly to raw rich silver
an' in a nearby coppice
trembles a proud full stag
holding tears at bay with sucking gums
remembering
the sound of his friend's wings sweeping space
in the dull of midnight
barley sugar stack loses helm
to the murk of smoke-smudged Monday
comes now
Basaillun Mort with song-smiling face alive .
an' - soft from velvet night
far beyond in the best of brightling space
an owl calls in woman tone
'Come lover mine, come fly.'
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
Warning - Mature.
Sweet night, a blanket made from scented space - holds this would-be poet in its arms.
Tightly - yet with care. Caring - yet with passion. Smiles her heart. Trembles her dreams. Hides them silverine in moments indescribable. Night caresses her spirit with unspoken thoughts, echoing from places foreign to her understanding.
From time taken by liberties, he waits, stubbled chin resting in broad cupped palm. He longs for her. Needs in the flame of passion's roar to fly that time long laid in stone.
Clouds drift. Days flee. Eons wreak weather to endless confusion. Creatures fall within time. Fossils lie crushed in their past. Ocean drowns land. Land erupts from water. Breathing rents the air. One step. A second. Knees buckle. She waits in her wondering why and what.
Hidden within cloud where the highest mountains touch the sky, the man sits. Alone, he is, wrapped in silence. He groans, wanting. Weeps. Prays to the gods, calls to the elements. Weeps more.
A sound, gentle, soft said, drifts space. Man hears. Wonders. Frowns. Understands. Wanting becomes pain. He groans. He moans. He laughs! Somewhere, she sleeps!
A rippled breath gasps my palm,
floats 'tween fingers flexed,
darts space behind my ear, laughs my neck
caressing thoughts I've not yet dreamed..
what language now,
what meanings, what delight,
pray tell?
you touch me with a hint of
honeyed power -
oh sybarite -
wrap me in heat so high I sizzle in my sleep..
look me.. sheet rushed aside I wait,
I moan, I sigh
to float 'tween fingers formed too much,
intentions still unsure but now.. oh now..
you lean forward
closer..
closer..
inhaling deeply..
sensing my gender
sighing -
sighing yet more
until..
temptation dared
and passion flared
I soar, I fly,
thereby -
thereby
however perceived
evol becomes reality
turned inside out upon its cap of what you will
emotions motion..
tumble in
turn and
turnabout,
spinning words, knitting language into shape..
explorers of such subjects
binding heart to hope and - yes
exotic inamorati all,
lie bed or floor or chair or shore
let loose that secret word
that spell - that lost civility
from A past where and when
when
one word
once found
once felt
once shared
was is forever..
love
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
endless sky brushes crimson strokes
upon a cloudless Summer void
sea soft to pastel blue benign
robs shore of its sparkling treasure
trees drip opaque tears 'pon sharp blades
of velvet grass stood to attention
queen bee summons dawn's light to blaze
a trail across talc-ed pollen paths
birds drift thermals as if hung
to dry their new inked melodies
whilst lovers lick chocolate from lips
agape for breaths of fantasy
at speakers corner atheists
sing amen to politics' tarnished guilt
as listeners turn a blind eye to memory
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
Was never sure whether or not to laugh, smile or cry when
auntie came to tea, a matriarch she, wearing white gloves
plus purple cardigan - seven buttons tidy, top one below chin,
and a black beret perched precariously over left unplucked brow.
In winter she wore a short fur cape. It smelled of mothballs.
Her first words demanded I be good becauser, in her pocket
she had a surprise. Of course, I knew exactly what was
what because small girls knew such things!
Given gently - a book, a miniature book, one to hold in my palm,
a book with tissue fine paper, smelling of age, covered in swirling letters,
held 'tween soft leather covers plus spine gold-type title.
Mind you, the titles seemed foreign, but full of magic - apparently.
I was only eight years old, still enjoying pictures and rhymes,
not funny old words auntie insisted on reading after her surprise -
wrapped in blue toilet paper then put into a paper bag
was passed over with a hug and almost a kiss.
Auntie had been the family’s first female to have a three layer education.
History was her subject, with prizes and cups awarded.
But, language was her love, words were her suitors, books were her life.
Considered single, childless, she quite liked me - apparently.
My little ma told her I’d used the words ‘de-lec-table’ and ‘ny Eve’ -
from a tale told by a TV lady wearing a long skirt and ear-rings.
Thus, auntie laughed for the first time in years, exclaiming,
‘That girl will go far, let her fly. I’ll navigate.’
‘Prothalamion’, ‘Il Penseroso’, ‘To Skylark’ (wonderful!)
were but a few of the gifts dear Bella gave, sniffing into her cup
as I pretended appreciation - an ultra long polite smile.
My friends were given Milligan, Betjamin and Roger McGough but
auntie had decided that if I were to understand literature then,
her taste was the unsullied, academic rule of thumb!
That lasted til I was weeks short of eighteen and reading
words with more than five letters like idiosyncrasy and gravitas!
One day, ill with measles I found my copy of 'Il Pensero' and flicked
a few pages, 'O let my lamp at midnight hour be seen in some high.'
The words sang, I sensed something, felt something,
felt that man Milton knew 'bout Hermes and other clever things.
I was hooked. Mother phoned Bella who came a’rushing
to read the poem to me - every comma and dot. Plus, she didn’t
complain when she came out in a rash soon after. She’d infected me
with a love of words. Whilst.. I’m still desperately, wonderfully ill!
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2018
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Emma Green Poem
reveries mine -
boat careless moored by less
than hope in an arboured cove
I hide in a saline shadow
pebble-dashed
by a wild tide
whispering..
rippled raw
by the repeated ebb and flow
of your once perfect possession
I tremble at the dark hour's moon
low lit by a ripening harvest moan..
now in a memory
slow-slowly waking
I remain your late Summer shore
history ceding its crystal myth
to the gasping yawn of fading mist..
you ran me through your fingers
trying to read my thoughts,
golded me, moulded me
early morning yellow ..
then touched me with meaning..
you enraptured me
in the gasp of Sunday birthing
loved me in sweet sonnets
a'flying my hair with strokes
of vivid imagination brought to life..
reveries mine
boat moored by more
than hope in an arboured cove
I hide in a saline shadow
pebble-dashed
by a wild tide
whispering..
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
trembling t'wards dawn's path today
anorexic pale horizons lay
starved of light, of hope
sans by your leave or come -
I cried, i sighed
'oh.. stay with me
please.. please.. pleas ..
hold my emptiness'
pale yellow sheets became worn grey
presumption rinsed of five o'clock -
an' rain tapped impatient fingers 'pon the glass
of this unlovely lonely world -
frayed, dismayed
ere sun hung kaleidoscopic dun in space
there's a sense of do or die
do we colour thoughts to match
the day.to.day mis-harmony
an' make sweet music in the mind?
methinks there's too much out of focus
out of everything..
'tis all a mystery to me
when praise turns back on favour in the viewer's lens
whilst retribution earns reward
am losing the here and where
and there..
losing the straightest path you've ever drawn
see.. blade sharp it is
unbeautiful though to the nth degree -
'that figures', muses mathematician playing tunes
'pon acoustic ancient abacus -
dementia determined by gnarled digits
ruled by graphics all phrased
by dull already dead modernity
rapt in unsubtle sublimity - smiling..
blind to the tasteless tug of where to leave
before arrival,
day fadea into a pit of anxiety -
a hole in the space of where once lived
a welcome beam to those
destined to crash the rocks
an' finish as I've become
lost in the now and then..
again
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2016
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Emma Green Poem
I tottered to the bedroom window
then, painfully, clumsily
drew back the curtains ‘pon my today.
At first glance
morning blinded me with wilful extravagance
reminiscent of a woman at a certain age,
bling-ful, blinding!
Until - unwrapping my senses
I awoke to facts, figures and self-made fake!
Time dripped into view, stuttering
cruel reality, t’was
four thirty-four of too early the clock,
too cruel a symphony,
conducted by maestro insomnia?
Stripped of silver veils
a near final chorus of pink-tipped stars
slipped ‘tween two soft breasted hills
they, distant enough, moist with dew..
an I smiled, drawing my blue towelling robe
around my insurgent wakefulness
denying dreams.
Old oak clock chimed irreverent
as mile away waves thundered gainst a covey of
ancient cliffs, their Jurassic throats
echoing the satiated depths of time past
where soft played the reel
luring me quiet the salt
coating my cheeks ‘tween sanity and sleep.
Trembling my empty mind to work, slowly, slowly
my eyes opened wider than wide
sleep-walking the stupidity of my role
tiI now unaware.
Nary a word penned, nor a need to.
A few blinks away time calls reality:
‘Hello, Monday, welcome to my world!
Copyright © Emma Green | Year Posted 2018
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