Boots

April 2, 2018 at 10:56 am (Poems) (, , , )

Heber sits down on the dusty driveway.

He unties the double knot, loosens his right boot and takes it off.

His woollen sock has a hole at the toe

And another, larger one, at the heel.

Heber tugs at the string on the other boot.

It is stuck, fast. With mighty will, he breaks the string, and removes the second boot.

Heber takes the broken string in his old fingers

And mends it with a knot his father taught him.

Then, he takes the other boot and ties it to its shabby brother

He pulls himself up to stand upon the dusty driveway, in his woollen socks, boots in hand

And looks up.

Heber looks up at the great tree branches

Still leafless, after a keen winter.

He looks up at the pale grey sky edged by impending weather

Heber learned to throw, as a lad, long long ago, at school

As he raises his arm, a memory of winning crosses his lips and he smiles.

So Heber has his arm raised, then swings it far back, and up again,

The weight of his two old boots lending momentum

Up, the boots fly, high into the tree.

Heber looks till his neck begins to ache.

He looks up at his boots, swinging from the great tree,

And he looks at all the other boots, strings tied and paired, swinging in the tree.

Heber has a thought, chuckles, and walks

Noting the sharpness of pebbles in woollen socks, on the dusty driveway.

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Tree

December 19, 2016 at 10:40 pm (Poems) (, )

We are baubles on a tree
as eclectic as can be
sharing time and bending branches
hanging on and taking chances
delicately we deck the year
with brilliant colours, life and cheer.

 
Each of us has their own story
sadness, love, success and glory
old and new, each orb is precious
countless special shiny treasures. 

Beautiful diversity –
bless and keep our Christmas tree.

 

 

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Roots

October 17, 2012 at 9:40 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , )

This tree does not grow straight
but arcs and bends
honouring its earthly pact

Likewise, lives are not line props
not linear answers or roads of crow

Rather, we are shaped to wend and roll
haywire, globose, melding and merging
doubling back to blend and kneed

We are guardians of an eccentric past
seasoned by inaccuracies
rendered imperfectly real
by our inconsistent insistence

If we continue to sway this way
by the time we reach a round return to here
I will be knotted and gnarled
you may be old, softened or rotten

But we are not arrows shot by a bow
destined to forsake our roots
so we will likely cross again
I understand that now.

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