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Sheila Haskins Poem
Pretty muse, pretty mistress
Feed me, repair my bleeding heart
Give me an ending, a beginning
Give me a start
You offer no recourse
No poetry
No beauty flowing from the source
I am in sore need
Of a friendly word; a foul deed
My words have hit a mountain
A solid wall
I cannot write at all
Pretty muse, pretty mistress
You are coy
Elusive as a butterfly
Fluttering through the wastelands
In my mind
Pretty mistress, inspire this boy
On the blank page a shadow falls
An ink blot shot in indigo
The dark sweep of Angels’ wings
The mists slowly vapourise
The pen rises
Leaps into my hand
I have been blind
She is divine
Mistress Muse
Is, was, and always will be....
Mine
Copyright © Sheila Haskins | Year Posted 2017
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Sheila Haskins Poem
Splidgy splodgy, squishy and squashy
Time to find Dad’s old mackintoshy
Time to jump in the puddles so deep
To splishy and splashy, and cover his feet
In glorious slime and silt from the stream
Making chocolatey coately mud pies with cream
When he was seven, what fun the boys had
When he was eleven splidgy splodging with dad
What joy for a boy and his father to be
Splidging and splodging, through forest and lea
Then to go home and sit by the fire
Drying their clothes with the flames rising higher
Grandpa went fishing, even though it would rain
He wished he was fishing with Grandpa again
Down by the millstream the puddles were huge
The water came over and covered his shoes
Grandpa said jump from the top of the hill
From the bridge near the crossing beside the old mill
It was so high he was a bird in full flight
Just watch where you jump boy, and you’ll be all right
The words of his grandpa are with him today
Though when grandpa died he had nothing to say
Dad coughed and gurgled the day he went down
Now he’s dressed in his best ‘neath puddley ground
Dad’s mackintoshy still hangs in the hall
Smells of bulls eyes and baccy, like when he was small
Grandpa and Dad are with him today
As into the mud bank he goes out to play
Splidgy splodgy, squishy and squashy
Safe from the rain in Dad’s old mackintoshy
Time to jump in the puddles so deep
To splishy and splashy, and cover his feet
In glorious slime and silt from the stream
Making chocolatey coately mud pies with cream
Copyright © Sheila Haskins | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Sheila Haskins Poem
He stamps the ice beneath his feet
Fallen leaves, gifted from the trees clinging to his soles
Softening the thud of clumping boots
Patterns shimmer in the fading light
As he trudges up the path
A reveller hoots
Somebody laughs
A drunk is haloed in the street lamp’s torpid glow
Echoes of himself; of seasons long ago
Surely the decorations were much brighter
Surely the streets were full of singing
Red robins; church bells gaily ringing
Fragrant pine and holly
Those were the seasons to be jolly
Couples kissing ‘neath the mistletoe
Santa bellowing: “Yo ho ho,”
Of course there was proper snow
Not damp and mist
And rain
It’s plain
They’d got Christmas all wrong
Again!
His feet begin to glide
On frost mimicking snow
On his face a grin
He sails through his gate
Never too late to recapture
The rapture......
Of an illicit skate
Copyright © Sheila Haskins | Year Posted 2017
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