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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
Sitting so pretty in a vase
You lift your deceitful faces to the world.
I may arrange you how I wish
And I may rejoice that your thorns
Lack the sting of real thorns;
But betrayed, you always are
When I touch you.
Your delicately moulded petals are cold,
And you stand upright
Because you can do no other.
You lack the perfume
That is nature's inner attraction,
And you do not droop and wilt,
For you know not what it is to lack water.
In pretending to live
You are no flower.
Forever beautiful,
You live not at all.
Forget artifice, but dare to take a drink
From the bottomless well of life,
And you will find the wonder of your making,
The divinity of life, ripe for the picking.
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
The story of "Little Black Sambo",
with foreign lands all exotic,
was written over a century ago,
when imaginations were chaotic.
The young boy is clearly a hero,
for despite his tender age and race,
terrifying tigers reduce to zero;
and he returns home with bold face.
If Sambo is a brave Indian child,
I would prefer he had an Indian name;
it seems ignorant to have styled,
African and Indian cultures the same.
Our frissons of moral discomfort,
as we note this narrative proclivity,
shows that modern readers now sport,
Increased serves of racial sensitivity.
Today we have African friends,
and also Indian associates,
as travel and immigration blends,
and modern society all equates.
Every child is exceptional,
brimming full of infinite worth,
developing with precious potential,
no matter what their country of birth.
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
I cry when I think of the loves lost,
Embraces missed, hands not held;
While I encased my heart in frost,
Whither nice young men repelled.
The fresh boy who remembered,
Me from our old primary school;
I wish now I had surrendered,
And not dismissed him as a fool…
The teen who wanted to take me,
To the final-night feast at camp,
He was vastly too short you see,
Although a very lovable scamp!
The classmate who collected essays,
For me from the marking pile -
And lingered to give me praise;
Wish I asked him to stop a while.
The earnest young student who waited,
To talk after Friday social-tea,
He is one I ought to have dated;
But I thought him too pious for me.
Taller, smarter, or just plain weird,
I saved myself for him who loved not;
Leaving the sweet boys who appeared,
To find other girls to tie the knot.
When I grew wiser I knew to miss,
The fine menfolk I had passed by,
Lost many opportunities for a kiss,
As I had a crush on the wrong guy.
11/5/2017
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
The smatter and patter of May showers,
Falls on the remnants of April flowers;
Rivulets of design the soft rain weaves,
Running freely among March's fallen leaves.
Autumn is my favourite time of year,
It is neither summer nor winter here;
I know not which season's outfit to wear,
And my wool jumper is thrown over there.
Soon cold winter will arrive so bitter,
But in May we still see the sun glitter;
Green grass grows gathering under our feet,
And the scented air is balmy and sweet.
Oh May-time showers are gentle and fine,
Barely blocking beautiful May sunshine.
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
Lightly down he springs
Eyes gleam with expectation
The woodland way leads
Soft a nesting bird notices
Brushes branch aside gently.
Slim princeling with pointed ears
Running through the green forest.
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2019
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
Fire breathing, ash streaming dragons stomping,
Across the landscape are ruthlessly romping;
Clanging, banging, with metal feet shodden,
Bushes and plants slash, flowers downtrodden.
Across the landscape are ruthlessly romping;
Iron beasts with jaws and tails heavily clomping,
Bushes and plants slash, flowers downtrodden,
Until clay into red mud is smashed and sodden!
Iron beasts with jaws and tails heavily clomping,
Great ditches riven with incessant chomping,
Until clay into red mud is smashed and sodden,
These monsters make way for all things modern.
Great ditches riven with incessant chomping,
Clanging, banging, with metal feet shodden,
These monsters make way for all things modern:
Fire breathing, ash streaming dragons stomping!
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2019
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
In a future that did bleep and blare,
Under a sky full of darkest pollutions,
These zombies have no thoughts to spare.
Faces glued to screens without care,
Lacking energy, making no contributions,
In a future that did bleep and blare.
Minds gone and bodies barely there;
Breaking out into gross contusions,
These zombies have no thoughts to spare.
Forgetting how to farm, build or repair;
The horrid creatures ask no absolutions,
In a future that did bleep and blare.
Having destroyed their water and air,
Surrounded by unspeakable protrusions:
These zombies have no thoughts to spare.
Chemical radiation spilling everywhere,
Wheels in wheels spinning revolutions,
In a future that did bleep and blare.
These zombies have no thoughts to spare.
In a future that doth bleep and blare.
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
Twenty years on I'm visiting the moon,
Enjoying a space tour for retirees,
An experience out-world and a boon:
Low gravity is great for my old knees.
Hotter than the century every day,
I bask and enjoy the blessed relief,
As my arthritis almost goes away,
The sights are so clear beyond belief!
Long days are good for the insomniac,
Staff store solar energy while they can,
Because nights are months; long, cold and black,
And the seniors know how to party, oh man!
Spent all my superannuation way too soon,
Have to help science and settle on the dune!
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
When the war of worlds' was done
And the Colonists owned the sun,
The old miner from Sirius One
Gleaned the galaxy for his son.
He sought the brave boy he knew
He'd disowned in four thousand & two.
Though the surviving rebels were few,
he had word of his boy's crew.
Hurrying to the caverns of Lithmulu,
A prodigal father faced a boy in blue,
But it was too late his dream to realise,
For a parasite looked out of the wild eyes.
Originally Published:
Clarke, R. (Ed) The Mentor 83, July 1994, fanzine published by Ron Clarke, Sydney, Australia, [Archival copy available online at http://efanzines.com/Mentor/TM83COMP.pdf].
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer Poem
Raindrops keep falling on my head
Long after I think I am dead;
With a chest of iron and legs of steel,
I have a body I just can’t kill.
Rain drops cover the gut in the bin,
And I am powered by a motor within.
Far cheaper than a positronic brain,
Is a ‘borg with a mind hazed by pain.
When the raindrops fell in my heart
I rose-up and tore myself apart.
They came and put me back together,
And guaranteed me to last forever.
Originally published:
Clarke, R. (Ed) The Mentor 85, January 1995, fanzine published by Ron Clarke, Sydney, Australia, [Archival copy available online at http://efanzines.com/Mentor/TM85COMP.pdf].
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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