Waiting – 1966

January 18, 2015  :: 0 comments

Beneath the high walls of the Middlesex asylum
She waits for the bus to bring her back home.
Each hour on the half one passes the siding
And sighs in the hoping that soon hers will come.

Wind cuts the ground around Middlesex asylum
Winter brings pain that grows when it’s dark
Walls offer shelter from rain when its slicing
Waits in its shadow to keep safe and warm.

Soon all will be well in the arms of a mother,
who will kiss her face off in front of a fire.
Joy will be boundless when they sing to each other
in soft gentle tones as if still a child.

A bus breaks the mist around the asylum
Brown battered case edged to the kerb
Passes the stop with a wave from the driver
His thumb facing backwards, soon hers will come.

Evening falls to a whisper by Middlesex asylum
Last bus long gone as gas lights burn low
Rain trickles over the rim of her collar
Picks up her case and walks back through the glow.

Tomorrow again she will wait by the siding
Smile in knowing she will see mother soon
Wait at the stop that will take her to Riding
On a bus that stopped running so long ago.

© 2014


featured in the poetry forum January 18, 2015  :: 0 comments

I will wait for summer!
For grass to grow along the path
To make soft my crawl
Lessen the dust in my mouth,
Pain in my legs, rain drowning my voice.

I will wait for the sun to make it pleasant
So I can whistle and stand high
Pretending flowers heard no cry
Or saw the pain that stung my eyes.

I have borne the cold of being alone
Longed for the perfume you brought to my life
Whisper your name at the lonely end of night.

I will wait for summer to make things right.

© 2014

editors note:

Waiting to be making, a wrong to put right. (Read another fine poem from Alan on his page; about another waiter – check it out.) – mh

Salamanca Red.

featured in the poetry forum November 28, 2013  :: 0 comments

Boiler kicks in.
Unpleasant chill gone.
Dark blood red and soon right!

Spiders that creep me out raise dust across my name
and move to darker spots.

I need love,
kisses around my neck.
Hope from the dark.

Light flickers above my head
The searching hand finds my warming body.
Uncertain we climb the wooden steps.

A gentle screw, ardently turned, pierces my heart.
I explode, gushing over a tired glass.

Alone, she sips from me and rubs her eyes again.
Shrunken heart by a bedroom door.

A long way from the sun kissed vines of Salamanca
we cry together.

© 2013

editors note:

A vintage red whine to quaff and quell a cold lonely togetherness. – mh

Holding on

featured in the poetry forum June 16, 2013  :: 0 comments

I do not want to die on a Monday with rain raging down on my pain
my mind drifting back through a lather of dreams & fear grabbing hold of my name.

I do not want to die on a Tuesday it’s the least of my favourite days
like the start of New Year there’s little to cheer unless I change my ways.

I do not want to die on a Wednesday in sight of the weekend fair
too much to remember & much more to do – not easy to let go there.

I do not want to die on a Thursday for it’s my favourite day of the week
the cheque in the door the wine on the floor – do not want to go anymore.

I do not want to die on a Friday because my father did
fallen, alone, by a railway line just as I started to live.

I do not want to die on a Saturday with people rushing around
voices that laugh in the sun in the park & footballers pounding the ground.

Let me drift off on a Sunday when my summers have no more to give & children play by
the Great Lucan weir unaware that I ever had lived.

editors note:

When that reaper comes calling, my life to request, my newly shucked soul to seek; I’ll hide from that falling by starting a quest for a newly named day of the week. – mh

An unfortunate fool

featured in the poetry forum March 11, 2013  :: 0 comments

An unfortunate fool that you are she replied coming to sit outside
she stroked my hair & gives me a hug & looks to the sky the way my mother could
I shrugged my shoulders that brought on a smile & acquired the face of a scorned child
after 4o years that simpleton look was quite often enough to get me off the hook. Xxx

© 2012

editors note:

Sounds like this fool has perfected his technique; after infractions, forgiveness every time. Unfortunate for whom? – mh