Vesta-poetry

A little 'Honourable Mention' Wit

2011-10-25T21:54:00.000+10:00

An Honourable Mention

Now who would mention something honourably – or maybe more importantly who would mention something dishonourably. It is quite a question.

Tonight my photograph was mentioned honourably – what did the judges see in this particular photo – whatever it was that they saw – they mentioned it honourably.

So, here I share an honourable mention to the flower in question – thank you for your beauty.

An honourable mention to Canon for the wonderful camera that you designed produced and sold at a reasonable price; so that I was able to take this photo which received this honourable mention.

To the computer on which I edited, saved and printed the photo – without you there would have been no honourable mention.

To the Ipswich City council – an honourable mention for holding the competition.

To the sponsors and judges for your support and your honourable mention.

And most of all to God – for blessing me with an eye for beauty; a steady hand to hold the camera; and the joy and wit to write this honourable mention, and for the amazing world we live in where Honourable Mentions Make My Day!

Written by

Beverly Adair

October 25^th, 2011 on receiving an honourable mention for her photograph of a Grevillia flower.

A short story - inspired by a photo

2011-09-24T07:09:00.000+10:00

HENRY AND JONES

(Written for my friend Julie, who inspired me with her beautiful photo)

A story about days long past

“Henry, are you awake? That woman is looking at us. She is pointing at us with one of those modern things; Henry, you still there Henry?”

“Yes, Jones, I am still here. Only just, but still here. It has been a long time hasn’t it? A long time since a woman looked at us. Longer for you than for me, but I feel older than you. I wonder why I feel so old. I am tired Jones, so tired. . .”

“Hey, Henry, don’t go back to sleep, please – it is so lonely here. Since the old man died no-one even comes to the shed anymore. Henry – you awake?”

“I’m awake.”

“I think I figured out why you feel so old, you were made old – you were a stately, gentlemen’s car; while me, with my fancy spokes and wheels and open-top; I was made for the young ones; for racing the countryside, down the lanes and for laughter. It is why I stay awake longer than you, why I feel young and you feel old”

“Maybe, Jonesy, maybe. I do remember those days; I remember them well.”

“Please tell me Henry, please. I love the stories.”

“Look – she is leaving – the lady with the modern thing. She must be one of the poor folk – no car, always walking. I guess she was envious and that is why she stopped; probably off to work – maybe to work in the big house. She is probably a cleaner or maybe a house-keeper . . .”

“Don’t go to sleep Henry, please stay awake a little longer.”

“Do you remember the big house Jones? Do you remember the Master long ago, when he was a gentleman and we took rides to the big city?”

“Henry, the Master never rode in me, you were his favourite. It was young Mister James who drove me, we used to race along the countryside with Miss Charlotte. She used to squeal, as we bounced along, her hair falling out of her hat. It was sunny, racing days – them days.”

“Yes, Jones I remember. The Master used to despair about young Mister James – always scared that he would have an accident in you, but you kept him safe. It was the horses that killed him. His hunting with his horses; they used to race past here – him and Miss Charlotte, always laughing; the week of the wedding was when it happened.

All the guests were up from the city. Most had come up in carriages, but a few had cars; not as fancy as us, but we were kind of new back then – weren’t we?

Mister James decided to organise the hunt – he loosed the hounds early. Miss Charlotte and he were out in front as always; when that big Red Roo, bounded in front of the horses. Australia’s not a gentlemen’s place like England – hunting’s not so civilised, and they forgot about the kangaroos. It took out Miss Charlotte’s horse on its first bound and then Mister James with its hind legs. I didn’t see it, but I remember them telling the Master. He had just arrived back from the city – we were still idling in the driveway when they came running out to greet us. He just sat back in the seat, still-like, no breathing, just still. I could feel his heart slowing, I thought it would stop. But, he stood up, quiet-like and walked into the big house.”

“I never saw the Master again Henry, they brought me out here and covered me up with the oil-cloth. No-one said anything. It was dark for a long time. The shed doors never opened. Not for a long time. I wondered what had happened, what I had done wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong Jonesy, it was just the Master’s way – he couldn’t look at you – you reminded him of young Mister James too much, of happier days. He still drove in me, to the city and back each day. It was silent times, his sadness seeped into my leather, but we kept each other company. Then one day they drove me here – I heard them talking; the Master had taken a turn – he couldn’t talk or move his left side anymore; he wasn’t going into the city. They were going to get him a nurse in to stay, so I came here to the shed.”

“I remember, Henry, I remember that day. The sun was so bright that I had to dim my headlights; they pulled back the oil-cloth when they opened the doors. Miss Tilly was weeping, she was weeping for the Master and for Mister James. They drove you in next to me, and shut the doors on us both. I was too scared to say anything to you at first Henry; you were so grand and serious. Then you started to tell me stories, do you remember our stories?”

“Yes Jones, I remember, but, time passes and people forget. Even that lady with the modern thing will forget. She will walk onto her life today and we will be a memory for a few hours and then she will forget. It is time to sleep Jones, time to sleep again, time to dream . . .”

“No Henry, please don’t go to sleep. It is so lonely here, only the birds and the mice. The spiders don’t even talk to me when they make webs in my spokes. Please Henry, stay awake.

Henry . . . Henry”

White Child of Africa

2011-04-07T20:15:00.000+10:00

White child of Africa

Born to conform

White child of Africa

Blown before the storm

White child of Africa

Have to leave your home

White child of Africa

Destined to roam

White child of Africa

Eagle calls, all alone

White child of Africa

The drums guide you home

White child of Africa

Floating way up high

White child of Africa

No place to rest and die

White child of Africa

Bones of white – like all

White child of Africa

Soon the dust will call

White child of Africa

Your colour – you outgrew

White child of Africa

Come and taste the dew

White child of Africa

The fires of the morn

White child of Africa

Where you were born

White child of Africa

Welcome back home

White child of Africa

Buried beneath the stone

White child of Africa

A nomad no more

Children of Africa

We are one and all.

The River-stone

2011-01-28T16:08:00.000+10:00

Today I looked around our beautiful park

Not a tree was standing to build an ark

The river had risen before we had time

To save all the things that would us remind

Of picnics & cricket games, under the trees

Of benches & pavilions on which we took ease

Of playgrounds and paths that meandered through

The park where everything now lay askew

I picked up pebbles in my hands
And collected a pile from across the sand
Where once had been grass and now was muck
Where the river had flowed and created havoc

I looked at those pebbles I held in my hand

They didn’t belong in this place on the land
I found a river stone, which belonged so deep
I decided this stone I was meant to keep

I've kept the river stone from our park

It stands on my shelf to help me embark
On a journey of renewal and reminder too
That we all can begin any day anew.

The awe of nature that I felt, as I stood, and gazed all about

The beauty of sunset overhead, shone on the devastation so widespread

Yet as we talked to strangers today, I knew that God in his own way –

Had shown us through this tragedy; love, community and true beauty.

A poem about what I would take in the flood

2011-01-20T06:49:00.001+10:00

I wrote this poem last night and although it needs a little work, I wanted to post it now. It came about as a result of thinking of what I would take out of my home. All the things that were important to me. I have also spent hours talking to people whose homes are completely flood destroyed and this inspired some of my thoughts.

What would you take?

The water is rising, it is rising so high

The land that we stand on isn’t going to stay dry

They’ve told us to pack up; they’ve told us to go

What should we take, I really don’t know?

I decided I needed my clean underwear

I needed the children, I stood and I stared

All my possessions that for years I had bought

I thought were important, it seems they were not

The dogs, we added to the car load,

The laptop and documents hardly made an inroad

I stared at my books, my pictures and plates

I wanted it all, but needed to make haste

I grabbed albums of memories, my jewellery and dreams

I watched as the water through the house made a stream

The children were calling it was time to go

The rest of the house; nature would swiftly swallow

That night they all sat, in the dark, in the hall

They were not alone, there are many more –

Who like them had left all their possessions behind

They had their lives, so it was too soon to mind.

What would I take if I had to leave?

I was one of the lucky, yet still I grieve

For all those who lost so much in the flood

And what was left is now covered in mud

So I hope I can help in just a small way

By giving my time and some possessions away

All of the possessions that were so important to me

I didn’t need when I thought I would have to leave

So if I don’t need them today or right now

There’s someone out there who may use them somehow

So I will sort out all the extras that I own

and give them to others to start a new home.

All that I need lives in my heart

My family, my dogs, they will always be part

Of a rescue from water that rises that way

And yes I need love – which is free anyway.

A new poem

2010-12-05T13:34:00.000+10:00

Tears
Tears can be for joy, for laughter, or for fear

Tears can appear at any time of year

When tears fall from our eyes they clean life’s lens

Allow us to rinse the eyes; our emotions to cleanse

Tears come from the spring that washes hurt away

They are a sign of our pain – all on display

Our throat begins to tighten, and our heart clenches tight

We hang on to our emotions, but soon lose the fight

It surely is a waste of time, you never should cajole

A person filled with tears, that is out of control

Instead just offer warm strong arms, and keep them safe until

Emotions and their sobbing begins to be still

Don’t tell them not to cry, don’t try and make them stop

Tears relieve pressure that could make you pop

Tears can be such a cure, a healing from within

Tears are the water of life held in your skin.

3 December 2010

A ghazal.

2009-10-30T13:45:00.001+10:00

Blood Dance.

Pointed toes in ballet shoes, feet floated – in blood
pain etched on faces straining, reflected – in blood.

African roots, slavery, blues songs of the land
generations downtrodden, thwarted – in blood.

Tango anger, passions fuelled, drawn into the clash
Brazilian beauty, men challenging, defeated - in blood.

Belly bloated, stretched purple, veined and heaving
birth screams, mother’s cries, baby coated – in blood.

Salsa women, dresses weaving, tempo hot and fast
Bodies merging, lustful dreaming, heated - in blood.

Children grown, leaving home, time to start again
Language studies, essays written, noted – in blood.

Poet's lines, words of power, magic to add
Stanzas voiced to the air, metered – in blood.

Summer storm Villanelle

2009-10-17T15:01:00.003+10:00

Summer Storm

Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance
Rain and hail fall from clouds in a downpour
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

The ground drinks all it can then takes a stance
Rivulets begin to run and explore
Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance

Angry water leads the charge with a lance
Cutting down trees, creating an eyesore
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

Water swirling by, people entranced
Houses lost, lives lost, the future unsure
Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance

The power of a summer storm romance
Driving debris downstream to the seashore
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

One day the river increased its expanse
Nature through our land took a mystery tour
Lightning in the clouds, weaved a heavenly dance
We stood and watched nature’s fury advance

Earlier this semester we were told about the poetry style called a Villanelle. It is a 19 line poem with five 3 line stanzas and a concluding 4 line stanza. The other rules are that each line must have 10 syllables and that the first line is repeated in line 6, 12 & 18 while the third line is repeated in lines 9, 15 and 19. The most famous of these poems is Dylan Thomas's poem 'Do not go gentle into that good night.' I have wanted to try out one of these since then and finally got around to it. I hope it works.

Something a little lighter!

2009-10-07T11:30:00.004+10:00

The Dead Elephant

It’s Wednesday,
time to drag the dead elephant out of its cage.
Its lumbering bulk following behind me.
Inert, grey and dead!
Tugging on its tail provides a spark of life.
Hauling on its trunk, it leaps forward
propelled with energy,
bumping into my ankles

Turning, glaring, I stare at it
while it rumbles back at me.
We are at an impasse.
I drag it from room to room
Scaring up the dog.

The dog hates the dead elephant,
fears its trumpeting and wheezing.
The dead elephant resents the dog.
Its trunk sucks up dog hair
and creates wheezy, smelly farts
that belch from its stomach, filling
the air with stale doggy aroma

The grey trunk searches under the furniture reaching,
for the crisps, peanuts and food
that the house monkeys have dropped behind.
Dropped during their clamber over the couches,
dropped as they gazed mindlessly at the glass
window of their virtual world.

As Ring master I conduct the circus.
Dictate when the Dead Elephant will appear.
Wednesdays are Dead Elephant Day.

The rest of the week – Monkeys rule!

I am dedicating this poem to a family friend - Margaret Middleton. She coined the phrase "Dragging out the Dead Elephant." This morning between 5.30am and 6am as I tried to capture just a few more moments sleep, I started thinking about my chores for the day and this poem began to percolate. So hope you all enjoy just a little Housework Laughter.

Yes for those of you who didn't get it - It is the vacuum cleaner.

Our Name is Ruth.

2009-10-05T21:27:00.002+10:00

Standing in the dark wings of that brightly lit stage.
Elegant stockinged legs, encased in glossy, ebony court heels.
At their side –
two shiny, black, buckle-up shoes,
white socks, and two little legs
Waiting –
waiting for their cue.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Ruth!”

We step into the light, out of the darkness, out of our secret world.
The audience stands and I feel her hand tug in mine.
She knows that today everything will change.

Our name is Ruth.
How can we both have the same name?
We are not the same person – we are different.
Ruth with the long stockinged legs strides through life;
she is courageous and telling our story.

Our name is Ruth.
How can we both have the same name?
We are not the same person – we are different.
Ruth with the white socks steps quietly in the shadows;
she is scared and telling our story.

I cannot reach the microphone.
I step up onto the box, the box given to me by the man in the grey suit.
I fold my hands in front of me to stop them shaking.
I take a deep breath, the audience breathes with me.
They wait –
I open my mouth.
They wait –
I open my mouth –
and scream!
I open my mouth and let out the scream that has built for 35 years.

What did they expect?
That I would stand calmly and relate our story.
No it is time to scream!
I see it reflected in their eyes.

Now I have their attention and we can begin our story –

“Our name is Ruth.”

What a life?

2009-10-04T15:14:00.000+10:00

Yellow Washing Gloves

The sink filled with hot, soapy water.
Hands filling yellow gloves
Gloves capturing her hands
Imprisoning her behind the bars of her marriage.

Prison uniform yellow,
Worn hands sliding into the rubber handcuffs.
Her marriage rings
Links in her chain gang life.

Sentenced to a life of hard labour
and servitude.
The warden – her husband
Her jailors – three children
clutching at her skirts.

Freedom yearned for, beyond
even her dreams.
Instead nightmares of dishes,
cleaning, housework and
Duty Sex!

Escape glimpsed in the faces of young,
teenage lovers
Hopeful, youthful like she had once been
In Love
In Love with life and her man.

Death Sentence passed at the sink
Yellow gloves autopsying her life
Result:
Nothing, No Joy, No Soul
She died years ago, only her body –

Died yesterday.

Eyes Wide Shut

2009-10-02T08:47:00.001+10:00

Eyes Wide Shut by Beverly Adair

She knew if she opened her eyes, she would see him
She knew if she closed her eyes, he would be there
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

He lived inside her soul, always with her
He lived in her house, always there
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

Even when he left, part of him stayed
Even when she left, she took him with her
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

Each morning she shut her eyes wide and woke
Each day she shut her eyes wide and walked
She learnt to live with her eyes shut wide.

At night when she rested, she remained on guard
At night when she prayed, no God heard
So she lived with her eyes shut wide.

The day he died, she shut her eyes
The day he died, she opened her mouth
The day he died, she screamed
The day he died, she cried

And then she slept –
with her eyes shut.

A Triolet

2009-09-22T14:00:00.002+10:00

A Triolet is a very structured poem, that has been described as the 'Hallmark' of the medieval period. It was written as a little poem that could be stuck into a box of chocolates or a small gift.

It is often sweet and romantic or even rather humourous.

Here are some details:

Line One is repeated in line 4 & 7

Line 2 is repeated in line 8

Line 3,5 & 7 are different.

There are also 2 rhymes in the poem.

We were given the following example, which became so famous that it spurned a number of replies. I hope you enjoy it.

To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train by Francis Cornford.

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

Chesterton's reply

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Who do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such?

Houseman's reply

O why do you walk through the fields in boots,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody shoots,
Why do you walk through the fields in boots,
When the grass is soft as the breast of coots
And shivering-sweet to the touch?

Missing so much and so much.

And here is mine which I am thinking of submitting for the competition. It has to follow the example we were given, so lets hope it is popular.

Writing 2100 - A poetry student (by Beverly Adair)

O why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning
Sprouting your poetry and prose?
O amateur poet for fame so a yearning
Why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning?
Lady Love, your heart always a spurning
The Hallmark Crap that you do compose
O why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning,
Sprouting your poetry and prose?

A Poem for my Mom.

2009-09-10T17:18:00.003+10:00

My Mom recently had a big health scare and was taken to the ER with heart problems. When I went to visit her, she handed me her rings to take home as she was being admitted for some tests. I took these without even thinking and placed them on my finger. Driving home, it hit me, these were her rings, I shouldn't be wearing them. It was just horrible. I have written this poem using poetic licence and creativity, but it captures this moment. I hope it touches you like it touched me.

Her Rings

One day I would wear her rings, not today.
One day they would be my rings, but not today.
I had always known this day would come . . .

Her hands that had always been so strong
The hands that had always pulled me through
Her hands now, so frail and blue

My hands, warm and feeling wrong
My hands, the ones pulling us along
I had always known this day would come

I was not ready today.

She slipped her rings off one by one,
Cold bands of gold and diamonds encircled my finger
Cold hands of fear gripped my heart.

I placed them on my finger, knowing she wanted me to take them
Knowing she wanted me to keep them safe.
I would return them to her tomorrow; I would keep them for the day.

Visiting time was over; it was time to leave again.
Even now, leaving her, I still obeyed.
One day I would wear her rings forever.

Her rings are on my finger – today.

Prose submission

2009-09-02T06:59:00.001+10:00

This is my re-worked version of the prose poem I shared earlier. It is what I will be submitting for assessment. I think this works a little better.
Turkish Groove

Music sinuous, music mesmerizing, foreign music, gliding her across the floor. That glorious woman in the mirror her scarlet coin-covered scarf slung low across her hips. Undulating, taunting hips. Ruby light reflecting off the little stone nestled in her belly button, gold powder reflecting off her pale skin. Perspiration sliding seductively between her ample breasts, breasts captured and held in chiffon netting. Her hennaed hands, crimson finger and toe-nails, talking a language of dance, a language of love - an invitation. Brazen bare feet - rising and falling. All the invitations of womanhood hidden behind her veil covered mouth, her kohl-blackened eyes, mysterious, welcoming. That foreign Turkish Goddess in the mirror and stared back at me, mother no longer. My child-bearing belly no longer my shame; my shame now my glory. Belly dancing for beginners.

Free Verse - An object poem.

2009-09-01T13:44:00.004+10:00

Our final assignment in our exercise part of the poetry course, was to write an object poem.

An object poem describes an inanimate object in detail, focusing on singular characteristics of an animal, natural phenomenon or manufactured good. A vivid description of the object's physical form, functions and potential is used a s a literary devise to personify the object. Employing straightforward and highly descriptive language, an object poem leads the reader to fresh perception of the subject. Ultimately, the reader senses the significance of the object as a metaphor for human interaction, emotional situations or spiritual truths.

This is a big ask and I hope I captured the essence of the task below - Anyway you be the judge!

His Piano

Pools of warm beer light cast a glow over yellowed ivory keys.
August Forster stencilled in gold letters on honey-wax warm wood.
Red felt cloth, folded neatly each time he sat down to play.
Green tapestry-weave worn covered stool,
under the lid the secret books, the lines and notes of music magic.

Condensation pooling, sliding down the beer filled glass.
The cork mat capturing the water droplets, between sips.
The white foam head covering the amber ale of his lubrication.
Smoke tendrils winding out of the ashtray towards the ceiling.

Hands large and gentle that cradle my childish laughter.
My fingers, small beneath his nicotine-stained ones.
Do-Re-Mi – my sound of music.
Our red heads resting together, my Grandad and me.

Sleepy time music, beer breath and smoke-tinged clothes
Warm cardigan arms, laying me on a satin pillow.
Family songs and carpet kisses on my cheeks
As he plays Goodnight, sweetheart, Goodnight!

My hands no longer small, wandering up and down the keys
Scales, arpeggios, performances and exams
Daily practice and grind, the music a chore now
Faded worn books put away with the memories.

Time has passed, slim shoulders, long red-hair, and a young girl
Still sitting on the worn tapestry-weave covered stool
Fingers slender and fine-boned, bird-like -
dancing across the still stained keys.

My daughter encased in the memories of my Grandfather
His books out, the smell rich and tobacco stained.
Her musical talent - his gift to her
His piano, my piano and now her piano.

Prose poetry

2009-08-24T22:30:00.002+10:00

This is something a little different. Prose poetry doesn't really have any rules as such, although it maintains a poetic quality, often utilizing techniques common to poetry, such as fragmentation, compression, repetition and rhyme. It can range from a few lines to several pages long. Our exercise this week was to write a prose poem of less than 150 words (mine is just over 90) and it must contain the title of a book or film. I have based mine on a romantic novel by Liz Birski. Hope you enjoy it, I am not sure if I have captured the feel and style of the prose poetry genre, but I like the story.

Ruby light reflected off the little stone nestled in her belly button. Gold powder, reflected off her pale skin. Sweat beaded between her ample bosoms, encompassed in gauze netting. Slung low across her hips a coin-covered scarf tinkled. Hands hennaed, finger and toe nails red and ready. Feet bare. Veil hidden mouth, kohl-blackened eyes seared the mirror.

Music, sinuous, mesmerising, foreign eased her across the floor. Hips undulating, taunting. Voluptuous beauties of womanhood, bellies - the gift of child-bearing.

No maidens, no ‘Kate Moss Sticks’ in this class – Belly dancing for beginners.

Stepping out into the world

2009-08-18T09:25:00.002+10:00

The Ballet Shoes.

In ballet shoes she stood on stage, waiting for her cue

A ballet dancer dressed in pink, remote in her tutu.

She was the perfect dancer, so elegant, pure and shy

She spent her life waiting and it began to pass her by.

One night we swopped those ballet shoes, let her hair out of its bun.

She slipped into a dress of red and took a sip of rum

The heat and rhythm of the beat, it coursed along her veins

The steps of salsa swayed her hips, she let go of the reins.

He drew her close and hip to hip, they swayed around the room

One step forward, one step back, his body made her swoon

No longer was she a little girl, trapped in those ballet shoes

Oh No! This was a woman – and how she’d learnt to move!

Written by Beverly Adair – August 17^th, 2009

(Inspired by Elizabeth’s face and voice after her first Salsa lesson)

Inspirational

2009-08-13T17:06:00.002+10:00

I am very proud to suggest that anyone who has been following my university attempts at poetry this semester take a look at my brother's blog. He has taken up my challenge and has been composing Haiku, Ghazal and Blues' poetry. He has an amazing talent with photography and also with words. Check out some of his work.

http://ianweatherburn.wordpress.com/

Ghazal

2009-08-11T13:15:00.005+10:00

What is a Ghazal? It is a lyric poem of thematically autonomous couplets, unified by rhyme and metre. It originated in Persia around the the 7th - 10th century and has a number of distinct features.

- It has between 5 and 15 couplets (2 lines)

- Each couplet is structurally, thematically and emotionally autonomous (they do not have to have any relation to each other)

- In the opening couplet, both the first and second lines close with the refrain ( a word or brief phrase)

- subsequent couplets repeat the refrain in the second line(which rhymes with both lines of the first couplet)

- the final couplet usually includes the poet's signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently the poet's own name or a derivation of its meaning.

- There needs to be a rhyme word, just before the refrain in the second line of each couplet.

This has been a difficult genre to master and I am not sure if I have it yet, but I am really thrilled with my first attempt. I hope you enjoy it.

Ghazal practice

‘Only at night’

Stars and moon, day unseen, only at night
Naked woman, skin pristine, only at night.

Milk-filled breast, the child still suckles
Tired mother needs to wean, only at night.

Angry voices, hatred filled, picking a fight
Coffee with a taste of strychnine, only at night.

Graffiti walls and teenage girls, boys hanging high
Spray paint wielded, words obscene, only at night

Diamonds, rubies, emeralds flashing, cold firelight
Hands that shimmer, fingers sheen, only at night.

Rifle sight, moonlit deer, hunting in the dark
Single shot, bloodstained scene, only at night

Diving deep in meadow stream, beaver hides in fright
Name of mine, its meaning seen, only at night.

Written by Beverly ‘Old English for Beaver Meadow’

Blues poetry continued.

2009-08-11T13:11:00.002+10:00

An update of an earlier Blues poem. Read today's earlier post first, for explanation of style.

Homeless (These are the simple lines that I started with)

Soup line, waiting time
Bed time, long line
No space, have to face – outside.

Dole Queue, where you?
Faceless who, charity too
No life, society turns – aside.

No fame, no name
All same, all shame
Homeless world, no free – ride.

Homeless (Blues poem)

Waiting in the soup line, waiting for a long time,
Waiting for a long time, waiting in the soup line
No space, have to face – outside.

Very soon its bedtime, facing another long line
Facing another long line, very soon its bedtime
No space, have to face – outside.

Standing in the dole queue, talking to the lady shrew
Talking to the lady shrew, standing in the dole queue
Judgment churns, society turns – aside

Need another life review, needing charity not virtue
Needing charity not virtue, need another life review?
Judgment churns, society turns – aside.

Living here without a name, living here without the fame
Living here without the fame, living here without a name.
Homeless world, life unfurled – No free ride.

Every man just the same, every man the living shame
Every man the living shame, every man just the same
Homeless world, life unfurled – No free ride.

Blues Poetry

2009-08-11T07:01:00.002+10:00

Blues poem - One of the most popular form of American poetry, the blues poem stems from the African-American oral tradition and the musical tradition of the blues. The phrase 'the blues' is a synonym for having a fit of the blue devils, meaning down spirits, depression and sadness. A blues poem typically takes on themes such as struggle, despair and sex. African-American writer Ralph Ellison said that although the blues are often about struggle and depression, they are also full of determination to overcome difficulty 'through sheer toughness of spirit.' this resilience in the face of hardship is one of the hallmarks of the blues poem. But the blues is about more than hard times, it can be humorous and raunchy as well:

There are few characteristics common to all blues, because the genre takes its shape from the idiosyncrasies of individual performances. The original lyrical form of the blues was probably a single line, repeated three times. It has now evolved and its most common structure is:

- a statement is made in the first line
- a variation/repetition is given in the second line
-and an ironic alternative/resolution is declared in the third line.

Okay folks, so here endeth the lesson and now onto some of my creations.

First Attempt: (this one doesn't follow the tradition, but has the right feel).

Breathin' deep Breathin' low
Breathin' long Breathin' slow

Heartbeat fast Heartbeat shout
Heartbeat let the music out.

Second Attempt:

Rhythmic Blues in quatrains
Rhythmic sounds simple strains
Rhyming poetry what a pain

Breathin' deep Breathin' slow
Breathin' long Breathin' low
Breathin' heavily - what a blow

Heartbeat fast Heartbeat shout
Heartbeat let the music out
Heartbeat stopped - Poet rout!

Third attempt: (This one has the imagery of the struggle, so I like this)

Soup line, waiting time
Bed time, long line
No space, have to face - outside.

Dole queue, where you?
Faceless who, charity too
No life, society turns - aside.

No fame, no name
All same, all shame
Homeless world - No free ride.

Fourth attempt: (this is the one I wrote in class from my first line - I hope you like it).

Wandering what to say tonight
Wandering what to say tonight
Morning come - see the light
Wandering what to say tonight.

Heading home down a lonely road
Heading home down a lonely road
Mischief its already sowed
Heading down a lonely road.

Sorry it just don't seem right
Sorry it just don't seem right
Wandering what to say tonight
Morning come - see the light.

So guys, what do you think? My tutor group, loved my last one, I hope you all do to. I have to now write a couple more to submit one good one next week and then begin working on my ghazal - yes I have no idea what that is either?

More Haiku

2009-08-04T17:54:00.003+10:00

Driving home last night after my poetry tutorial, wrote this one in my head. It follows a more modern Haiku style of one thought, one breath and short/long/short; rather than the traditional 5-7-5 Haiku.

Cat’s eyes

Following black snake road

Home late

This was the second one that I wrote as I passed a police car that had pulled a young 'P' plate driver over. Luckily it wasn't me, as I was also over the speed limit - just a little!

Flashing red blue light

Driving fast caught - not today

Red P plate instead.

Haiku

2009-08-03T12:47:00.002+10:00

My first poetry tutorial is tonight and we had to write a 'scent image Haiku' and a Haiku about transport. A Haiku is a traditional Japanese poem that has no more than 17 syllables in the style of 5 - 7 - 5. The idea is to use visual words that form a visual picture of what you are trying to achieve, so here are my first examples.

Week Two: Haiku exercises:

Scent Image Haiku:

Ladybug circles:
Rich roses red ripe ready
Warm earth freshly turned.

Milk carton open:
Lumps of yellow curdled cream
Retching warm smell dream

Scurrying rats in roof:
Ratsak thrown death throe scuffles
Slow sour putrefied.

Travel Image Haiku:

Clouds of steam Iron wheels
Whistle shriek metal grinding
Children laugh – Thomas!

Man whistles hand high
Cars rush past Yellow Taxi
Rush hour homeward bound.

Short Story Update!

2009-07-14T19:13:00.002+10:00

My result for my short story was 72%, which I was very pleased with.

The comments from the tutor were very valid and appreciated, which will help with my writing further.

Now I have enrolled in a poetry course, so hopefully will enjoy and learn lots from this course as well.

Look out next semester for some of my efforts on Vesta-Poetry.

My short story!

2009-06-17T15:10:00.002+10:00

Unfortunately, all the formatting does not transfer over very well when I copy it onto Vesta-Poetry. I hope you all still enjoy the story.

Beverly

Teapots and teeth.

Beverly Adair.

Blackout material, just one shilling a yard! This sign really seemed to annoy my mother, as she dragged my unwilling feet into the store. Muttering under her breath, “If the bloody government wants us to block out the windows they should provide the material to do it. I have enough to do without spending money and time sticking stupid blackout material onto the windows.”
Mr Tindall smiled at mother; she was so petite and attractive, at just 4’9” tall. Today however, she was dynamite in a small package. “Mr Tindall, I need at least eight yards of black out material;” Mr. Tindall, started to answer, but mother quickly interrupted. “I know you can do a little better than one shilling a yard, I am of course one of your better customers, aren’t I?” Mr Tindall’s face looked like he had a tummy ache, as the negotiations began
“I do think it is such a stupid idea, don’t you? Do you know that James Henry nearly ran me over the other night? He was driving without his headlights on and didn’t see me walking home from work. Next thing you know we will all have been killed in motor accidents and Hitler will be able to invade with no trouble at all.” Mother had really strong opinions about the war.

“Brian, don’t touch now.” Mother was looking very smug and poor Mr. Tindall looked rather shocked, so I guess Mother had the better end of the bargain, as always.
“How are you doing, young Brian?” he asked, in the way that grownups have when they don’t really expect an answer.
“I am fine Mr Tindall; I am going to be six next week.” I replied in my very best voice. Mother always insisted that I use my manners when talking to grown-ups.
“My goodness six already!” he replied.
“Yes, do you know that my birthday is on August 1st, it is a very special day? Do you know why it is a special day, Mr Tindall?”
Mr Tindall peered over the counter at me, then looked back up at Mother, but I really wanted to tell him, why my birthday was so special.
“Why?” he finally asked.
“Well it is the horses’ birthday! You see every year on the 1st of August all horses turn one year older. Did you know that Mr Tindall; did you?”
“Hush up now Brian, I am sure Mr Tindall is very busy, let’s get home and put up this material, before Father comes home. Thank you Mr. Tindall, you will let me know when the new tweed comes in, won’t you?” Mother called over her shoulder as she steered me out of the door.

Hurrying down the street we turned into Temple Road, number 23A was our house. Nana and Grandad lived at number 28, a much bigger and fancier house than ours. Grandad was very busy; he owned the Park Royal Motor and Bus Body Company. It was now a very important place as he was building tanks and cars for the army. Mother said that at least one good thing had come out of the war; the family getting rich from old Hitler. Father worked there during the day and at night he had the important job of District Fire Warden. He was not allowed to join the regular army; something to do with his ‘essential job’ at the factory. I think that Mother was very glad. He did have a smashing uniform, which he wore every night. Mr Richards, the father of my best friend Dennis, was away in the army and he said that his Mum was always crying and worrying. Although things were better now that his Dad was home for two weeks leave.

Aunty Mary, Mother’s sister was waiting for us at home; she stayed with us now that Uncle Sid was away fighting the Germans. I was shushed out of the house, while the two of them began cutting up the material and sticking it onto the windows. I went to find Dennis, tucking in my white shirt. I wished that Mother would let me wear old clothes instead of the smart suits she always made for me. Dennis was home so we headed up the street; both determined to find the best piece of shrapnel from the bombs that had fallen the night before, near the London Aeroplane and Firestone Tyre factories. Those Jerries were always trying to hit them with their bombs.

“Is your Dad still sleeping all the time?” I asked.
“No he is beginning to stay awake during the day. He won’t tell me about the war though, just tells me that it is not a game and to hush up. Mum says I shouldn’t pester him.” Dennis’ face pinched up about the mouth and I knew that he felt like crying. My throat felt raspy as well; he was my best friend and I knew he was really scared when his Dad was away. He had to be the man of the house, and he worried that he couldn’t take care of his Mum.
“Let’s run!” I yelled, dashing off as quickly as I could. Dennis was much bigger than me and much faster, so I always had to get a head start.
“Tag, got you.” Darting ahead Dennis clambered over the walls of a bombed house. My shorter legs struggled over the wall, scraping my knees. I picked up a teapot with blue flowers on it. The carpet of blue and white china surrounding it must have been the cups.
“I think I will take this home for Mother.”
“No you had better not, she will be really mad if she knows we left Temple Road and none of our houses have been bombed.” Dennis always thought things through much more clearly than me.
I reluctantly placed the teapot back in the rubble, scrambling carefully over the fallen wall. Finding a piece of a Jerry plane was the best, but Dennis and I had not gotten so lucky yet. One boy at school said he had found a piece, but couldn’t show it to us, said it was confiscated. Yeah right! We didn’t believe him.

Heading home, hot and bothered, I dusted off my clothes. Our blue front door was open, as I walked up the path. Aunty Mary’s voice echoed down the hall. “That is the last one, Eileen. Those bloody Jerries had better stay away from our windows. I’m not doing this again.”
As we sat down for tea, Father came in, sweeping Mother up in his arms, kissing her. Her eyes sparkled as they danced around the table laughing. Aunty Mary smacked his hand as he grabbed her up for a jig; Mother grabbed my hand and we all dashed madly around the table. “It looks like a Dance Hall, with the dark windows, let’s put on some music and celebrate.”
“You don’t have time Stanley; you have to eat something.” Mother said.
“I only need love to survive” Father sang, whirling Mother around again. Breathless, she fell into her chair laughing. “Oh look, boiled potatoes, again!”
I pulled a face at Father; he knew how much I hated boiled potatoes.
“Do you have to do fire watch again tonight, you have been working for the last four days and on fire watch all night, you need to sleep?”
“I guess we will all get some sleep, when this war is over, but maybe we can go to the pictures tomorrow night.”
Father left around 9pm, his uniform smartly cleaned and pressed; his gas mask, torch and helmet in one hand, as he ruffled my hair. “Sleep well son, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Yawning, I brushed my teeth and climbed into the bed in the front room. Mother climbed into bed with me to keep me safe, singing to me, her voice meandering through my dreams as I fell asleep.

Something woke me. A huge wall of air hit me sucking all the air out of my lungs. I felt the world spin. Above my head it was blackness, something was on top of me. I reached up and felt the bed springs. Mother called my name, she was far away. Her hand touched mine, she was next to me; I couldn’t see her. The roaring hit my ears and they popped! I opened my eyes wider and there above me was my bed, Mother and I were lying underneath it. How had we got there?
“Eileen, Brian, are you both okay? I can’t see anything up here. The lamp has gone; there is glass all over the floor. What has happened?”
“Mary, we are here, stay calm, I think a bomb has fallen nearby. The windows have been blown in. Oh bugger it, them Jerries have bombed out the windows, all our hard work is sitting on the floor; bugger, bugger, bugger.” Tears were streaming down Mother’s face as we crawled out from under the bed. The blast had blown in the front door, all the windows and us under the bed.
It was so dark; Mother stumbled around looking for the candles, swearing all the time. I sat still trying to be brave. I was the man of the house, but I felt so little. A scratch, a sulphur smell and a flicker of light showed the devastation. The front room was littered with glass, held together by the sticky material. “Mary, that bloody blackout material at a shilling a yard has saved our lives.” Mother hiccupped through her tears, as we all hugged each other.

“I think a nice cuppa will help things look better, don’t you?” Aunty Mary suggested reaching for the teapot, the space on the shelf now empty. It lay in pieces on the floor, so many things broken. I fetched the broom and began sweeping, wishing I had picked up the teapot with blue flowers; Mother found an old jug and lit the emergency burner to boil water.
“Eileen, Brian, Mary!” Father’s voice shouted. His torch light flickered down the hallway as he appeared, covered in ash, his uniform grey, instead of brown. “Thank God, you are okay. It has hit close by, I need to go and see. Thank God you are safe!”
“Where is it? How close?”
Father’s eyes closed; trembling Mother hung onto him. “I think it is down the street. I need to go and check on my Mum and Dad. It doesn’t look good.”
“The teapot’s broken, Stan, so much is broken.”

Number 28 Temple Road was a bit of a fancy house. My grandparents lived there. Their house was separated from number 30 by a laneway. Number 30 did not survive the 500lb bomb that fell in Ealing, South London on that July night in 1940. Father said that he made his way down the road in the dark. He could see fires burning, but the pitch black meant that he could not tell if his parent’s had survived. Then he heard voices.
“C’mon Pet, we must leave, the floor is going to collapse.”
“I am not leaving without my false teeth; no bloody German is going to bomb me out of bed and make me leave without my false teeth.”
Father shone his torch upwards; the side wall of number 28 was gone. The first floor was suspended in mid air. Nana was sitting in bed, no teeth and not moving, until Grandad found her teeth.
“Mum, Dad get down, the house is going to collapse!”
“Son, is that you?” Nana called. “Get up here and help your father find my teeth, then we can leave.”

Hours later, the sky turned a soft grey with touches of pink. Nana, Aunty Mary and Mother sat around the table; cups of hot tea in hand. Grandad had left with Dad; he was needed at the factory. We waited, safe but still scared. Grandad walked in first, his face ashen, his eyes tired. “The factory is safe, they missed it,” he said in his gravelly voice. Grandad reached for Nana, giving her a hug, then handed Mother something. I couldn’t see at first, and then there it was, my teapot with the blue flowers! “I came across this beautiful teapot in an abandoned house on the way home, Eileen, it was just sitting there. I thought you should use it.”

Father stumbled through the door, face black from the soot, his eyes were filled with anguish, but laughter bubbled from his lips. “You will never guess who I have just seen?” he laughed, as he collapsed into the chair - “Harry Richards.”
“Is he okay, Stan, is everything okay.” Mother whispered.
“Yes, he was sound asleep, on a mattress in the middle of Temple Road and he was stark naked! His front door had been blown in, and he had been sucked out the door. The family was still asleep upstairs. When I saw him, I thought he was dead; it was so funny to see his face when he woke up. There he was in the middle of the road, with nothing on, sitting on his mattress. He had slept through the whole thing.”
The grown-ups shook with laughter and as Nana spluttered her false teeth fell out onto the table; that set us all off laughing even harder.
“Nana do you know Mr Tindall said he was as old as his tongue and a little older than his teeth. Nana how old would you be if that bomb had got your teeth?” I asked, not understanding why this, made them all laugh just that little bit louder.

Creative Writing task

2009-03-21T16:40:00.002+10:00

Task: Write a short story of exactly 100 words (not including the title) in which you quickly establish the character of your protagonist. It should be a story (with a narrative) rather than just a sketch, but you must protray the following three things about your character.

1. What he or she looks like
2. His or her profession or strong interest
3. Something/someone he or she is deeply afraid of, or deeply in love with.

You should try to show or portray these latter two qualities through action or dialogue. The story and its plot are entirely up to you.

Anyway here is mine, Please feel free to comment.

Sleeping with my Professor

"Sleeping with a first year student is so delicious!" Professor Sands whispered in my ear as he captured my hand, trailing along the bed-sheet.

"We have to get up; we can't dally, lectures start at 10am. I wish we could spend the day together in bed." Our eyes met, years of knowledge lay in his beautiful grey eyes and mine widened eagerly, knowing that our day ahead held so much more.

Our drive into University was both comfortable and awkward; we lingered together, touching shyly, the soft kiss of farewell.

"Bye Dear, see you at home tonight" my husband called!

Matthew's Co-Captain election speech!

2009-01-29T16:46:00.000+10:00

Welcome Ms. Gagliardi, Mr Cartmel and Teachers. Also welcome to all students in year 6, 7 and 8. Also to any year 9’s present, enjoy the speech. Students I would like to welcome you all by name, but I realise it would take a really long time, and sadly I don’t know all of you yet, but as your Middle School co-captain for 2009; I will make it my goal to get to know as many of you as possible by my farewell speech at the end of next year.

Now although I don’t know you yet, you need to know me. My name is Matthew Adair, the reason you need to know my name is that this is the name you need to vote for.

What do you need to know about me? I love jokes and I love fun, ask my friends. I am also good at Sport – most of the time! I belong to the Chess club and am really good – most of the time! I also belong to the Computer Club and I am really good at games – most of the time.

The thing that I am good at all of the time is ‘talking to those teachers!’ My goal as your College Co-captain is to help you learn to talk to your teachers, so you will have less problems with them – most of the time.

Another goal for 2009 is that we have more FUN in our Fund raisers. School is hard work and often boring, no offense teachers! But we do have the chance to do lots of good with our fund raisers, these Fund raisers need to become FUN raisers.

Year 6’s, I was one of you, just 2 short years ago sitting where you are wondering when this will end. I had no idea who the candidates were and just voted for the person that sounded the best on the day. I hope you will vote for me based not only on my ‘fantastic speech’ but also on my promise to really make an effort to get to know you and help you become a full part of Middle school.

Year 7’s, I know at least one or two of you, which is a start. Next year, you will leave the year 7 block and start moving around the Middle and Senior school. This experience is a bit daunting and finding LL1 for example can be quite a challenge at first. As your co-captain, I will be here for you, on year 8 day to help as much as possible and through the rest of the year as you find your way around.

And finally to my fellow year 8’s. Some of you have known me since I arrived at the school in year 5. Others I have only got to know recently. I hope you will vote and support me, knowing I will do my best for the Middle school. I will work hard to help with the organisation and make you proud that you voted for me.

I hope what I have said will inspire you to vote for me.
Thank you all for listening to my speech, well most of you!

2008-12-29T06:35:00.000+10:00

Christmas Waist!

Christmas day is over and I am glad of that
I’ve eaten so much food that I am feeling rather fat
I stood on the scale and it gave a sad groan
I looked at the number and I uttered a little moan.

The turkey and spuds are sitting on my thighs
The yummy Christmas pudding and lots of mince pies
Have made my tummy look like a round beach ball
I wish that I was skinny and I wish that I was tall.

Instead I feel like Santa with a tummy and a grin
Rosy fat cheeks and nothing to fit in
So as the New Year comes around, I’ll start afresh again
Counting all my calories and saying Amen!

It was however, worth every yummy bite
I loved the food and I enjoyed a healthy appetite
It only comes just once a year and I did indulge
Next year, I’ll do it all again and suffer with the bulge.

Written by Beverly Adair – December 29th, 2008
(After standing on the scales – oops!)

A poem from 'Classical Love Poetry'

2008-12-27T06:55:00.002+10:00

To be loved is the most wonderful gift anyone can be given and I know that I am loved. My beautiful husband gave me this amazing thoughtful gift for Christmas and even chose the following poem just for me, so I thought I would share it with you all. This is his description of me!

It was written by Macedonius, Anthologia Palatina v 231.

From your lips darts loveliness, flowers from your face,
Love fires from both your eyes, your hands shoot music's grace.
With your looks you rob their sight, their ears you stop with song,
Poor men! Pursued from every side, the hunt will not last long.

A short story written for a friend.

2008-12-17T08:46:00.005+10:00

The Quilt.

I sat intrigued watching her fingers thread the needle with a strand of gold. She seemed to smile as she contemplated the piece of material in her hands, whispered little words and began to stitch it to the other material that lay heaped around her. Not a single colour matched, there did not seem to be a pattern or design to the quilt that she was happily sewing, yet the thread of gold linked and joined them all together.

As I watched her beautiful face, she looked up at me and smiled, her eyes held the mystery of the ages and the knowledge and beauty of the world and I was captured. She beckoned me closer with a nod and I sat down next to her, warmed and welcomed.

This was my first meeting with my Angel-friend. I always knew that there were Angels in the world, but I did not know that they inhabited human form, to teach us the lessons we needed to learn.

We sat and chatted on that first day and I watched her sew together her quilt. I was too shy to ask her about it, but as the years went by, I watched her create many beautiful quilts, hangings and craft items. I never however, saw that first quilt again. I often wondered about it. I also never saw my Angel use gold thread again either, she used reds and greens, my favourite purples and all colours under the sun.

Together we learnt so many things, we raised our daughters together, both children of a new age, young girls who would be strong and powerful women. We shared our fears and our dreams and together, shared hobbies and books. She taught me to see the world with Angel-eyes and to be the Angel that I was destined to become.

Time and distance did nothing to dim our friendship and as each birthday passed; my best friend and I faced them together. We dreamed of a better world and made plans to change it and we did. We learnt to walk new paths, bringing along the best of the old with us and discarding the useless and limiting beliefs we had been taught. The journey was wonderful!

Today, I once more saw that quilt; it lay on my Angel-friend’s bed. She held out her hand as I stepped into the room, my hickory cane, tapping gently on the wooden floor as I hobbled slowly towards her. Her face reflected the time that we have both shared; our smiles still as bright as the first day we met. Yet, today the sadness we both felt was another presence in the room. We knew that we would be apart for a little while, not for long, but very soon our journey would part.

I reached out and touched the quilt, the gold threads, bright and bold, linking squares of every colour and hue. She smiled and asked me did I recognise the square that she was sewing the day we met. I looked carefully at the quilt. In one corner was a green, simple square. It had no fancy pattern, no bold colour, but I was drawn to it. “Yes”, she nodded, “that is your square. Each and every square on this quilt is a friend that I have known. The threads are our journey together and they are gold, because friendship is more valuable than gold.”

Her friendship quilt was so large; it hung down on the floor covering her bed with the love of all the people whose lives she had touched. Each square was the person’s life. She had taken the time to sew them together, to keep the magic of their love and we each only got to see the quilt on the day that we met her. Her strength was fading, yet our colours glowed as strong as the day we had all met her and the gold of her bond, was as strong and true as the day we were included in her life.

I know that my Angel-friend is now waiting for me, so we can begin our new journey together. I know that she will have a crowd of people around her when I arrive, all the friends that she has sewn together, but I also know that there is a special place for me, sitting at her side, sharing the love and friendship of Angels.

A little Christmas routine!

2008-12-08T07:14:00.001+10:00

Christmas morning!

Sitting here so quietly, waiting for the dawn
Knowing little children still happily dream and snore
Wondering if they’ll wake when Daddy starts to stir
He’ll make a ‘quiet racket’, you can be sure.

First he has a shower, banging closed the door
Then he opens windows and gives a morning call
He puts on the kettle, rattling the cutlery
Calling out “Honey, do you want some tea?”

I tell him to hush, as children are asleep
Christmas morning is here he says, “Hurry come and peep”
The presents are piled deep, around the Christmas tree
I wonder if there’s a special one, wrapped up all for me.

Three sleepy little Angels appear at the door
Clutching Santa stockings, eyes wide with awe
First they must have, a morning cup of tea
Dad insists on this, every year, you see.

Then they open little gifts, wrapped up bright and gay
Hidden in the stockings that have hung for many days
Empty just last night and now bulging full
With funny little toys, that surely all will thrill.

The lights are shining on the tree as I stand to take the shot
The first Christmas photo, it always means a lot!
To see the faces filled with awe, as they the gifts behold
The joy I feel as they laugh never does grow old.

I take my place at the base, of the Christmas tree
Daddy sits back and watches, his face lit with glee
I hand out presents one by one to each and every child
We take our time to make it last, for it will be a while

Before the magic comes again of another Christmas morn
When I will lie in my bed, waiting for Christmas dawn
I know the day will start again, as it has every year
With Daddy waking up and causing quite a stir!

Written by Beverly Adair – December 8th, 2008

2008-12-05T06:29:00.002+10:00

Summer Storm

The horizon sky is darkening with clouds of black and grey
The dark it comes advancing in the middle of the day
We stand here in the shadow watching nature’s fury advance
We watch the lightning in the cloud, weaving a heavenly dance.

Water falls from the clouds, in torrents and in sheets
The ground it sucks all that it can, then admits defeat
The rivulets begin to run across the land so bare
They join the streams and begin to tumble debris from everywhere

The water turns a muddy brown, it rages and it swirls
It carries all the debris and its power it unfurls
It brings down trees and houses, sweeps everything away
Then moves downstream with its big load to carve another way.

The sky begins to clear again and we stand back in awe
To see how nature through our land took a mystery tour.
She showed her power in the storm and swept us all aside
We are but here with her consent and may not long abide.

I wrote this short poem the day after our recent big storm and have been trying to work on it since. It is still not one of my best, but I have chosen to publish it now as we are definitely in the Qld storm season. I hope it invokes some of the images of nature's power.

Beverly

A birthday poem!

2008-11-15T09:31:00.003+10:00

Life's string of Beads.

Life is like a string of beads, strung out over time

On each new day, another bead, is added to the line

'Tis on this day that a special bead, is added to your string

A larger nicer, brighter bead that happiness should bring.

For we here know and so do you, of this special day

And for the bead you add, you should recall in a very special way

For birthdays make such lovely beads, as friends they all recall

Their kindness and their happy thoughts, should make you proud and tall.

So when you go to bed tonight, take up this special bead

And thread it carefully on your string, as you its beauty heed

It has within its lustrous glow, a special wish from me

That you will add a lot more beads, all filled with memories.

Anonymous poem collected by Beverly Adair

New poem, something a little different!

2008-11-10T15:29:00.000+10:00

Angels and Demons.

Angels and Demons battle everyday
Angels and Demons our souls try to sway
Angels and Demons fight with words of love or hate
An appointment with God or with the Devil set a date.

Angels dip their wings and with love us shower
Demons send us tempting thoughts and dreams of power
Angels are the thoughts of peace, the thoughts of love and life
Demons tempt with worldly goods, with angry words and strife.

So chose your path with care, chose which way you’ll go
The Demon will fight really hard and won’t give up without a blow
Yet, when you chose the Angel and your soul to love you give
It’s easy to grow in life, it’s easy to forgive.

Demons seem to rule the earth, the world of war and men
Angels are spreading their message, through the power of my pen
Come be a shining Angel, come share the love so true
Come banish every Demon, to the dark, deep yonder Blue!

Written by Beverly Adair – November 10th, 2008
(Words from a loving husband, Angels and Demons.)

In keeping with the theme of joy!

2008-11-08T07:04:00.000+10:00

Words of Mirth!

Have you ever thought about words that mean mirth?
Wonder where they came from and how we gave them birth?
There’s smile, grin, beam and laugh, there’s hoot and chortle too
And everyone of them is special, to me as well as you.

The smile we offer strangers that we pass in the street
The smile we grant a new-found friend, someone we just meet
The smile we give to babies, when they are small and young
The smile for those with an honest heart, pure and strong.

Then there is the grin that stretches from ear to ear
It lights up our faces at times of fun and cheer
The laughter barely held in check, as we grin with joy and mirth
The grin of a proud Mom and Dad at a little baby’s birth.

To see the beam that illuminates the face of one we love
To stand in the sunbeam of God’s Angel Dove
To see the smile light up their eyes and know it shines for us
Makes all the special smiles out there, really worth the fuss.

Then there’s laughter that bubbles up from deep within our gut
It comes out as a huge guffaw, our mouth we cannot shut
The gurgle and the titter, they join the wheeze and snort
We hold onto to our sides which ache, from every strong retort

The contagious little bubble that is the laughter we employ
To spread the pleasure of our lives, the delight and the joy
So share a little laughter, a smile all the way
Make someone’s moment special or maybe a whole day.

Written by Beverly Adair – November 3rd, 2008
(To remind us to share smiles and laughter)

A new poem.

2008-11-06T14:19:00.002+10:00

Hanging out my shingle.

Every morning when I wake, I hang my shingle out
It says that I’m on duty and rushing all about.
My sign says I’m a Mother, advisor and a friend
Always ready with advice, my ear you can bend.

The job description didn’t say that I would always be
On call for every crises, even for the sore, scraped knee
I would need to stay on top of homework and the stuff
That keeps the household running, it sure has turned out tough.

The hours they are long and the caring never ends
The washing and the cleaning won’t wait for the weekends.
I’m on duty 24/7 and then a few hours more
When children they come calling, the sound I can’t ignore.

So days when I am out of steam, when feeling kind of low
When I am not on top of my game and just want to say No!
I’m going to take my shingle in and store it far away
To take a little care of me, my fears and tears allay.

Then I can start out strong again, and put my shingle out
I’m ready to tackle anything and so you hear my shout!
“Come on World, what do you need? I am ready for the day”
Ready to help you sort it out, or just to have a play.

Written by Beverly Adair – November 6th, 2008
(Inspired by Michelle, who told me to take my Shingle in!)

Hope you have a giggle?

2008-11-03T22:07:00.005+10:00

Laughter!

Laughter is the medicine that makes the world go round
Laughter is the magic that bubbles from the ground
And when the bubble touches you, the enchantment will appear
The smile that starts down deep inside, cracks that smooth veneer.

Then when you share the laughter with another soul
It bubbles back and forward and you both lose control
The things that were not funny are impossible to resist
And then the mirth takes over, though you try to desist!

It really is a waste of time, you never should cajole
A person filled with laughter that is out of control
To pull themselves together and keep the sound so mute
Just join with your own chortle, your giggle or your hoot.

For laughter is like medicine, it cures the day’s worst ills
It cannot heal sickness or even winter chills,
But it is more powerful than any modern drug
So come and cure your sadness, don’t be a “Bah Humbug!”

Written by Beverly Adair - November 3rd, 2008
(Inspired by our family’s love of laughter)

Poetry comment

2008-11-02T09:46:00.002+10:00

The past 24 hours have been very creative for me with two new poems. The first one "The Gentle Warrior" is a reflection of the path that I wish to follow in my life. I know that through love and kindness and a belief that I can change the world around me with that love, I can become a better person.
The second is a poem (Magic Mirror on the wall), about how I am beginning to see myself, I like Me!

I love my journey and where I am at and hope you enjoy the ride.

Reflective Beauty!

2008-11-02T09:44:00.001+10:00

Magic Mirror on the wall.

I have a magic mirror and it hangs up on the wall
It has a gilt-edge frame and is the fairest of them all.
It shows not outer beauty, but the love we have within
For our fellow man and the deeds that we will spin.

As a child the mirror shows a face so fine and fair
Not a single wrinkle and no ravage of despair
And that is because a child, has no anger and no sin
No evil words or hatred have they learnt to weave and spin

As we grow and age through time, we see the deeds we do
We see the beauty of our love in a very honest view.
Or maybe we can only see an ugly person there
Someone that we do not know, an image with no care.

Yet if we chose to change our ways and send out love so pure
The magic mirror will heal the marks, the scars begin to cure
We will see our inner beauty reflected in its shimmering light
And know we are as fair and pure - as the legendary Snow White!

Written by Beverly Adair – November 2nd, 2008
(Inspired by my image in the mirror and the gift that I like the person who is reflected there!)

A new poem

2008-11-01T18:55:00.001+10:00

The Gentle Warrior!

A very special child of God is born with a purpose true
And every day we struggle to find what we must do
We wage a battle not with guns, but with thoughts and love and prayers
To become the Angels of our world, to heal the pain and cares.

We are known as Gentle Warriors, as we strive to bring love
To all those injured soldiers who never see - ‘the peace dove’
We only use our smile and joy, we try not to condemn
Harmony we strive for, a way out of mayhem.

Come join our Gentle Army and feel the simple joy
Be God’s Angel on this Earth, his messenger, envoy
And as you teach your children, a new generation begins
The love and message of our dream, a new tapestry we spin.

For armies that have ruled our Earth have brought only pain and strife
But now a New Age Army will bring love and joy and life
To every soul that exists, a bond we can create
To eradicate all fear, the fighting and the hate.

For when we care for others, as we care for our own
Then the world will be a better place, somewhere we call home
Each Gentle Warrior will be humbled, to have fought the battle through
Fulfilled that we helped create - A world strong and new.

Written by Beverly Adair – 1st November 2008
(Dedicated to my Angel friends Michelle and Julie – who have inspired me to be a
Gentle Warrior)

2008-10-28T06:12:00.000+10:00

Love’s tender garden!

Caring for the garden of our first love affair
Tending it with gentle hands, the ground we prepare
Planting little delicate shoots of our love serene
Watching tendrils grow and change, blossoming green.

Nurturing the seeds of the love that we sow
Sharing our amazement as they flourish and grow
Watering and feeding with tender words and love
Blessed from above by a snow-white angel dove.

Summer sees the flowers grow, on the plants and trees
Grass grows lush and green, there are no weeds.
The bountiful harvest of fall we enjoy
We still work together, our love we employ.

Then winter begins to ravage, the garden that we share
Words of anger take their toll and we no longer care
To tend our love and weed the soil
We care no more, we do not toil!

Thorns and brambles take the place of our loving tender green
The words we use are our weeds and the thoughts are hard and mean
And soon our garden is a place, of anger and of hurt
No more tender loving green, just a place of dirt.

And yet it only takes, the loving light of day
To cut away the weeds and create a new bouquet
The magic of our garden, can blossom once again
With the loving words and gestures, of warm and gentle rain.

Written by Beverly Adair – 27 October 2008
(For Julie who reminded us to care for our garden of love)

Another new poem.

2008-10-27T18:20:00.003+10:00

Highway or the Stream!

We are born to travel the river of life
And follow each bend and curve
We meander slowly with the rhythm
Of that watery preserve.

Life begins to push at us
Fast flowing like the mountain stream
We learn and live at a frenetic pace
Not taking time to dream

As years go by we wander far
We move from river to road
We head along at a furious pace
From work to our abode.

We do not take the time
We do not see the view
We do not wander slowly
And enjoy what we accrue.

Our busy lives take over
We rush down the highway of life
Not stopping for the dream
Just living with stress and strife.

One day we notice a river nearby
We see a leaf drifting along
We feel the connection
And know this is where we belong.

As old age reaches out to us
We climb back in the stream
We learn to drift more slowly
We learn to love and dream.

The lessons of old age
Could better serve the young
If we took the time to meander
And had a little fun.

To drift along the stream
To let go of stress and strife
To hear the song and rhythm
Of joy and love and life.

The river gets there in the end
And what an amazing view
To travel slowly along the way
Unlike a plane that flew.

So chose your path through life with care
The Highway or the stream
Both will get you to the end
One a little more extreme!

Written by Beverly Adair - October 27th, 2008
(Inspired by Michelle’s description of her view from the plane on her journey from Adelaide to Melbourne, October 2008)

A new poem

2008-10-24T09:54:00.001+10:00

The Christmas List.

Christmas enchantment happens,
Each and every year
Even if you don’t believe
The magic soon appears.

The stores get out the tinsel
The trees and baubles too
Mom starts making lists
And Dad the money pursues.

To pay for all the lovely things
The little girls and boys
Ask Santa’s elves to make for them
So many thrilling toys.

It used to be a book or bike
Maybe a doll or truck
Now its PS2 or 3
And Pokemon run amok.

A Nintendo DS or a Wii
We parents need a new degree
To understand the words they use
A new vocabulary!

A mobile phone, a GPS
So you won’t get that lost
My mind is in a muddle
My list is now all crossed.

I hope you get the special gift
On your magic Christmas day
I hope you’re not too miffed
That the words went astray

And instead of PS 2 or 3
You get a PS1
Instead of DS or a Wii
We just have lots of fun.

Written by Beverly Adair
23 October 2008

2008-10-20T07:29:00.004+10:00

SHOULD! WOULD! COULD!

That little word that we are taught,
I maybe should, I maybe aught
To do the things you tell me to
I could, I would, I should.

I wonder if I really heard
That those words are so absurd
My heart telling me to listen
I would, I should, I could.

The Universe it lines up straight
My soul soon follows, clear my fate
To follow only on ‘my’ path
I should, I would, I could.

And finally, I take the step,
Of getting rid of should
And then I find that if I would
I really, truly, could

Written by Beverly Adair – 30th July 2008
(Inspired by my friend Michelle who realised that she did not have to follow ‘should’.)

How often in this life do we do things because we think that we 'should' do them? Do we feel uncomfortable with the decisions we make and yet follow through, because we think we will be laughed at, or ridiculed if we do them another way? Decisions are also made because we believe that we have no choice. We have to do what is expected of us. Yet if we lose the simple instruction of 'should' and follow our true heart, we would be so much happier and our decisions would be the correct ones!

I hope you lose your 'should' today!

Beverly

Friendship

2008-10-14T08:58:00.003+10:00

A poem from my collection - not written by me, but I am posting it to connect with my Vesta-Blog, I hope you enjoy.

FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship is a priceless gift, that cannot be bought or sold
But its value is greater, than a mountain made of gold
For gold is cold and lifeless, it can neither see nor hear
And in times of trouble, it is powerless to cheer.

It has no ears to listen, no heart to understand
It cannot bring you comfort, or reach out a helping hand
So when you ask God for a gift, be thankful if he sends
Not diamonds, pearls or riches

But the gift of real true friends!

Writer's Write!

2008-10-11T09:23:00.003+10:00

My brother gave me some wonderful words when I told him that I had registered to return to University next year and do a creative writing course. He said: 'Remember, writers have to write!' I took this to heart and have been thinking about it. This morning I realised that I had neglected Vesta-Poetry and as much as I love sharing my thoughts and words on Vesta, this is also important to me it is - my creative outlet.

I have not published much in recent days and that was because I have been scared that if I share all the poems that I have already written, I will then run out of things to share. I had a fear that I might not be able to write anything else soon enough to put on my Blog.

So today I took the steps to eradicate the fear and sat down to write another poem. It has been raining and the garden is looking wonderful. So this is where 'Rain at last!' comes from. I hope you all enjoy it.

Beverly

A new poem hot off the press!

2008-10-11T09:18:00.002+10:00

Rain at last!

I woke to a sound, I listened to hear more
Was it someone knocking, someone at the door
I listened very carefully to hear the sound again
And then I finally realised, it was the sound of rain.

After months of dry days
After weeks of heat
After days of wishing
The drought we’d finally beat.

The rain started softly, pattering and splattering down
Then it turned into a torrent, I wondered if we would drown
I hurried to close windows, I hurried to close doors
Planning all the while, the new garden chores

Our plants had been dying
Our grass was already dead
Our birds were all hungry
And now they would be fed.

I went and stood outside and thanked God for the rain
I heard the Earth breathe softly, no longer feeling pain
The rain filled our water tanks; it filled our pool up too
It filled my soul, to hear the Earth, softly begin to renew

A new start tomorrow
A new day will begin again
A new morning will bring us hope
With the promise of this rain.

Written by Beverly Adair
October 11th, 2008

Morning Mist

2008-10-11T08:45:00.003+10:00

Vesta-Poetry was looking a little sad and neglected, so I thought I would share this one with you. Today I have woken to a wet and beautiful garden after a lovely day of rain yesterday. So this seemed appropriate, I hope you enjoy it.

Morning Mist.

Dappled sunlight streams between the ethereal cloaks of the mist
Tiny dew drops shimmering on the edges of the leaves
Spider webs glisten like patches of gossamer,
The mystery of the morning parts to a new day

Trees stretch out dark between the patches of white
Gold touched leaves turn from black to green
Warmth and creation slide down the lines of sunbeams
Touching the world of green and grey

Misty mornings yield slowly to the day
Damp, dew-dropped grass
Ruffled feathers of the early morning bird songs
Huddled together to call in the sun

Muted sounds of nature’s orchestra
The Butcherbird warbling through his scales
The slight breeze wafting gently parting the mist to reveal
The sigh and song of leaves

As I stand still and silent
Among the grass I understand, I belong to God
Belong to the Earth and its essence
If I find my stillness and time to breathe, listen and see.

Written by Beverly Adair
September morning mists 2008

My Music Inside.

2008-10-06T18:08:00.001+10:00

My Music Inside.

For many years I have thought and sought
To find my music inside
To let it out, to hear me shout
As through my life I glide

I’m heading down the stream now
I’m in tune with what I want
A writer and a poet
My talents to share and flaunt

So when you see me heading off
To University next year
A mature age student
With lots of nerves and fear

Wish me luck and tell me
That this is what I should do
Then join me on the music ride
And let ‘your’ song shine through.

Written by Beverly Adair
Inspired by my decision to attend University in 2009 to do a Creative Writing Course.

Collecting poetry

2008-10-03T20:46:00.003+10:00

I have been collecting poetry, prose and inspirational sayings since I was a teenager and of course jokes! When my Nana (Dad's mother) died I discovered that she also collected jokes and sayings and these I incoporated into my own collection. I even remember that when she died she had a little saying ready in her suitcase. It was all about the fact that she might not come back from the trip she was about to make - no not the trip to the afterlife! (She was supposed to be flying overseas the following day). Yet somehow, I think she knew that she might not return, so left us all a special message. She had the most amazing collection of jokes, most not suitable for publication (Nana had a wonderfully wicked, naughty sense of humour). I keep something of her alive with this collection.

I have two old notebooks written in pencil, in my very neat teenage printing. The writing alone provides an insight into who I am. I love the idea of words written and collected, stored up to be used at an appropriate moment in life. I have had many hours of pleasure re-reading my favourites and even today will write down inspirational prose that I see.

Along with my own poetry, I will share some of my favourite collections which I hope you all enjoy.

When a word was a word!

2008-10-03T20:36:00.004+10:00

When a word was a word and it meant what it said
and the World was simple and new.
A man made his words and he knew what they meant
and his friends knew their meaning too.

Living was easy, communication was brief
Complexity ne'er spoiled one's view.
When a word was a word and it meant what it said
and the world was simple and new.

Now I look at the sky and I say that it's Blue
and you smile and say yes, sky is blue.
But I don't know that blue, as I think of blue,
is the same blue to me as to you.

And I scream in disgust and I know that I must,
make you see how blue is my blue.
But I know it's but nought, when I see all I wrought was
a lopsided point of Blue.

This is one of my favourite poems of all times. I have always loved the idea that so often when we use words, we use them from our own historical perspective and unless those that we share them with, share the same perspective, we could be speaking another language. I wonder what colour is your blue, do you see blue as I see it, or do you have another point of blue???

Dragonfly riders

2008-09-28T18:41:00.002+10:00

Dragonfly riders.

The sparkle in the sunbeam that catches your eye
The tiny little fairy that you try to deny
You wonder if you saw it
Your adult eyes deceive
It’s only as a child that you truly do believe

It’s easy to see the fairies on the dewdrop in the morn
It’s easy to see their dance on the damp and grassy lawn
The toadstools that they sat on
As they had their midnight feast
Like a child its good to let your doubts be released.

Now dragonflies are flying and we watch their magic dance
We see a tiny glimmer like a sword or a lance
And we know that fairy princes ride the dragonflies today
To woo the fairy ladies with their wonderful display

Seated on the petals like glimmers of the dew
Sit perfect pretty fairies in every shade and hue
We open up our eyes and our hearts to their true place
And the wonder of our sight, lights up our every face

For fairies do surround us
And dip and fly and ride
The dragonflies of nature
They sit on them astride

For magic is forever
For those who believe
Let dragonflies and fairies
Their magic spells weave.

Written by Beverly Adair
28 September 2008
(Inspired by a line from Angel Julie, my friend)

A new poem

2008-09-28T18:34:00.002+10:00

Today I had a beautiful email from my friend Angel Julie in Perth, she sent me an inspired line: "Once the fairies were but a glimmer on a petal now they ride the dragonflies fully seen and fully felt." I immediately began to feel a poem. I find that with a few simple words or thoughts I find the beginning, middle or end of a poem. It is amazing to see how the words, fall out onto the page. I have no structure just the words flowing like water, flowing into rhythm and rhyme. It is so exciting. I really like this one. It is called Dragonfly riders. I hope you enjoy it.

I have also posted my fun poem on telemarketers who are the bane of all of our lives. Hope it gives you a laugh.

Beverly

The Pesky Telemarketer

2008-09-28T08:35:00.000+10:00

The Pesky Telemarketer.

Its 7.35pm and the phone begins to ring
I know who it is going to be
For they have rung before,
You see!

Good evening Madam they always say
And expect you to say G’day
You hold your breath while they start their spiel
Getting cold is your evening meal.

I try to be polite and nice
But they have already rung me twice
I don’t need a phone, or free holiday
Just wishing they would go away.

So now I ask them to remove my number
And with their calls me no longer lumber
Some of them get really mad
I don’t care, it’s too bad.

I have not invited them into my home
I have not given them, the right to phone
I do not like these pesky calls
I wish someone would ban them all.

So if you call me around that time
I may not answer, if that is fine
It is not you, I’m trying to avoid
But telemarketers that annoy.

Written by Beverly Adair
12 August 2008

What to publish?

2008-09-22T18:13:00.002+10:00

It was very hard to decide which poem I should share first. I have chosen the "Should, would, could" one, because it holds a special place in my heart. It helped me at a point in my life when I was beginning to really try and do things that felt right for me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it.

2008-09-22T17:44:00.002+10:00

SHOULD! WOULD! COULD!

That little word that we are taught,
I maybe should, I maybe aught
To do the things you tell me to
I could, I would, I should.

I wonder if I really heard
That those words are so absurd
My heart telling me to listen
I would, I should, I could.

The Universe it lines up straight
My soul soon follows, clear my fate
To follow only on ‘my’ path
I should, I would, I could.

And finally, I take the step,
Of getting rid of should
And then I find that if I would
I really, truly, could

Written by Beverly Adair – 30th July 2008
(Inspired by my friend Michelle who realised that she did not have to follow ‘should’.)