Olivia - A Poem
August 6, 2008
Oh! A splendid sight was she to behold,
on a Summer’s noon; Blazing azure eyes
playful, beneath the canopy of leaves.
Flowers nearby, began to fade away
from my view, as her head tilted high
beckoning rays of sunlight to caress
her silky cheeks. Sweeping blonde hair unfurled
divine; Her resplendent jaw line perched on bold
imagination’s shoulder. Soft, lips, ripe,
magnificent; Thirst, and typhoons of lust,
Simmered hot within my embracing arms.
Then as a candle blown out at night
I stilled my mind; Her beauty etched upon my heart.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
Model: Olivia of LTY Designs and Tutorials.
My Writing Desk
August 2, 2008
Circular streams, course from one open window
Through to the next, across my writing desk
Where a laptop gently purrs its echo
Of my ceaseless thoughts and dreams statuesque.
The shimmering sea inside harbour walls
Toys with my senses high above the trees,
That stand, looking up in their genteel shawls
To the ridge where I sit with Summer breeze;
A cat extends her paw and gently plays
With sheets of paper on a wooden chair,
Distracting esurient eyes sideways,
Followed by a tender smile, playful glare,
A teasing cry, then kiss, then stroke, then tap,
Typing, focused, poetry, to unwrap.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
Written in response to the poetry prompt on this website.
Kent Earthquake of April 2007
August 1, 2008
Pleasant quiescence, filled my dreams
As sunlight seeped through the window,
Placing warm shafts of chiffon streams
Upon rested forehead aglow.
Awareness, vague; consciousness slurred.
Contentedness, a slow pavane
Rolling as waves gently demurred
To the onset of daylight’s scan.
Awoken! Fear! an implosion
Of senses wretched with panic;
Walls shook from the explosion
Near! Loud! Possibly volcanic!
Then calm, a tease to the jarred soul,
Mocking tensed muscles perplexed;
Car alarms cried out distressed, the toll
Rang strong of screeching seagulls vexed.
Frozen, currents of confusion
Rippled down the length of my spine,
Reality or illusion
Both sealed facets yet to define.
The neighbours’ doors opened, wide eyes
Scrutinizing the street unchanged,
Finding comforting smiles arise
Through nervous pleased greetings exchanged.
Tortured sea its secret revealed
Looks silently towards the coast;
Centuries old memories yield
To the Earth’s perpetual boast.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
(Written shortly after experiencing the earthquake)
The Iranian Nuclear Question - ‘War’
July 31, 2008
Entry for this week’s poetry prompt.
Time: 03.00
Setting: Bedroom
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some irrelevant moth in the dark corner of my bedroom:
Hey you!
Sleeping down there
Wake up bulky shrew!
Do you scare?
Beaman:
Why would I be fearful of you my dear?
What fool would quake because of you clung near?
Where is the sweat running down terror’d brow?
Who are you? I say sleep or depart now!
Moth:
Cease sough!
Question I hold.
Rest I not allow.
I’m Kobold*!
Beaman:
The moon is shining but my mind is glowing
You are but indigestion!
A dream, so pray do ask your question.
Moth:
Persia,
Her nukes soon true.
Western inertia
What to do?
Beaman:
Whilst doubtless from a mental apparition
This matter, though grave, needs recognition;
A tough predicament we now do face,
If we’re to avoid nuclear ambsace.
Their leader, Ahmadinejad be his name
Finds use in rhetoric and lies to inflame;
Plans blossoming, an evil insensate,
A land poison-filled soon to deflagrate.
An ancient foe aroused in wailing mist
While Europe honours the brave pacifist;
The left’s hand seeks out peace and fellowship,
But with Israel their harmony slips.
What will we say to our children tomorrow
When London, Rome or Berlin cry sorrow?
Amidst the radioactive ruins sad.
That we disregarded nuclear jihad?
Let us soon see our brave air warriors deploy,
To fix claws on power plants and destroy!
With steel in their wings and hearts fiercely hardy
They’ll crush the holocaust-causing Mahdi.
Moth:
Sound words.
Leave take meanwhile.
Return undeterred.
So I will!
Beaman:
Why old moth? Why?
Silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* A spirit of German folklore. The name comes from the word kobalt or kobold meaning “evil spirit”.
Passers-By
July 24, 2008
A sunshine faded pebble
On the ocean bed. Once it lay
Above, upon a beach. Just like
Memories they did share.
Footsteps reclusive. Eyes languid
Gazing at the pavement, a love
Long mislaid now walking near, fate
Ascending, surface bright.
Dreams forage amongst tumbling ruins
In dark hours. Pathways distinct
With repeated use, fair dancing feet
Searching for hearts adrift,
Now slow swinging arms are so near
their wrinkled hands clenching sticks,
An embrace and flowing tears nigh,
Alas the sun is too bright.
The lights of past dance-halls, twirls,
Blinding lovers that once were.
When washed in colour and sparkling specks,
Enclosed, antiquated.
A brief relapse of music
Strokes ageing ears. A scent of old
And a whisper, glow in deep waters,
Fading, as they walk past.
Wearied legs. Aching backs
A chair for each when at home
Alone with fragile memories,
Destiny satisfied.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
My Difficult Birth
July 23, 2008
It happened very slowly for my mother,
one whole day I’m told; curled misery!
The problems were escalated
by the large size of my head
which got shipwrecked in the narrow channel
and though malleable to some degree
the ramparts did not budge enough.
More doctors were called, and from their film
‘The Dam Busters’ they quickly calmly flew,
then proceeded to split
the stretched and bloated protective casing,
that was her belly round; freedom from the squeeze!
You see my birth was hard indeed.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
My entry for this website’s weekly poetry prompt.
One Word: ‘Allah’
July 20, 2008
In poverty stands he firm with eyes
On heaven’s door; his gaze implies
A comfort held; his smile bright sceptre
The creation of his protector.
On a makeshift counter there lie
Wares arrayed; like the old Sinai
He bares the rush of feet and stares;
A life he keeps, death to forswear.
Near, voices perceived, but only
To Marzuq dances that, which lone
He catches from the grass and walls
That surround his mind enthralled:
Says the pavement, and the packet,
Sing the fibres in a jacket,
Chant the cells in every vein
That do mimic drops of rain.
Chirps the blackbird in the tree
And the tiny skittish flea,
From the Cirrus in the sky,
To the moon that watches high
As the voice of every object
Cries His name with deep respect.
“Allah”
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
With You Always
July 19, 2008
A market stall’s covering gently flutters
In the early Spring breeze,
As the scents of fruit and fresh bread mingle;
The young man gazes towards her
As she lowers excited eyes;
Crowds hurry looking for new things to buy.
How courage reaps rewards that reverberate,
Up to the heavens high;
Her smile stills all sounds that weave encircling;
The beauty of her face and soft voice
Kindle faint embers in his heart;
A bird merrily chirps in nearby trees.
Morning sun reflecting in her rich green eyes
Enrapture seduced passion,
Coursing through their consecrating psyches;
Soon he proposes by the brook
And a week later they marry
In a little church amongst joyful crowds.
Paradisiacal events then unfold
With the arrival of twins
Bringing exaltation to both parents;
Her red flushed cheeks shine like apples
As she watches their children play.
Love sits on thrones of permanence.
A Winter arrives that brings fearsome concern
As she sits by his bedside
Scared, for his life, whilst the doctor is called;
Tears soak the pillows where his head
Rests in her warm and tender embrace,
A sweet kiss breaks free the chains of sickness.
The children play with their toys, by the shined shoes
Of visiting guests and priest,
Her finest china cups are handed out,
Conversations float through hallways
Where life continues resolute;
His gaze rests upon her resplendent brow.
Wrinkles and blemishes emerge as years pass,
Yet her prettiness remains,
Sitting sipping tea they talk through the nights,
Laughing at their shared memories
And drying her moistening eyes,
Then dancing in flickering candle light.
Old age ravages the once soft skin of youth,
As eyes watch passing seasons,
And memories slowly fade away;
He studies the contours of his love,
Sitting quietly sleeping peacefully.
Silently watching her life disappear.
“It is sad”, says the daughter to the doctor.
“My father died years ago”.
She picks up a small silver square,
From the dressing table nearby.
Faint tear stains rest discernable,
Trapped in the frame of an old photograph.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
A Cat’s Morning
July 11, 2008
Unfurling form blossoms; a mindful wave.
Tired, its eyes of tailored hubris seek out
The dawn’s commencement; sleep, breached and dissolved
With a stretching of consciousness devout.
A coriaceous nose sniffs the still air,
Exploiting senses, keen; kind nature’s gift.
Flames of hunger flicker from deep inside
Its belly; the warm bed is left adrift
Receding to the shadows far behind.
The small creature, royally promenading,
Moves onto the landing towards steep stairs
As food is placed, with calls, serenading.
The feline’s self-obedience is lost.
It descends frantic, then, scampers apace
To the kitchen where soft salmon chunks lie;
Joyous feasting, later a fond embrace.
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
Big Ass, Little Dog
July 11, 2008
My life, my youth, so short, so loved.
Above, the creaking of her chair –
Soon I shall to the ground be shoved;
Shaped to a square.
My legs, will not withstand the weight
That floats menacingly on high,
Threatening to bones desecrate,
I cannot defy.
Faith lost, beneath the monumental,
With its slow and fateful descent,
Soon to make my face ornamental,
On cold cement!
Fibres slowly rupture though muted,
As I make ready, to succumb,
Under her mass to be routed,
Oh dear her bum!
© Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss
-
Recent Comments Gravatars
george enobong on Osama Bin Laden: Terrorist and Poet
tiniak on Poetry Prompt 8 - ‘Copper Trees’
Preston Valdez on Poetry Prompt 3 - ‘War’
Greg White on The Iranian Nuclear Question - ‘War’
Loraine Weaver on Charles Simic returns to writing poetry
Dana Barton on Poetry Prompt 5 - ‘The Olympics’
Sue Burns on Olivia - A Poem
Thurman Carney on One Word: ‘Allah’
Jaqueline on Poetry Prompt 9 - ‘Birthdays’
Donald Avery on Joanna Lumley criticises modern poetry