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2009 Poetry Theme Challenges

#14 Leaving Home




I am a birdwatcher and I have spent the last few weeks of lunchtimes watching a family of kingfishers, last Wednesday the chicks fledged the nest to start their own lives, without mum and dad. This is not the first time I have watched a nest but it is the first time I have done so as a writer. It certainly has inspired me and I have a fair few notes to work from. The challenge is to write a poem about leaving home whether as human stories or a tale of nature.

Inspirations


Happy quilling

Jem
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Leaving Home
Challenge Replies



Divena Collins

Sands of Time

Maryse Achong

Emancipation Day Blues

Jem Farmer

Muddy Welly Boots
Salute
Upon the Mat

Ryter Roethicle

Gone Are The Days
Guestimation
Leaving the Toybox
Loved for a While
One day a Week
Quest for Truth
Waiting the Day

Nia Wynne

Little Dark One

John Willowdown

The House on the Hill



Maryse Achong

Emancipation Day Blues

Black brothers as we celebrate today,
I feel a sadness deep inside of me
For those who waged a war so valiantly
For rights you now abuse so casually;
You dishonour them in the greatest way.

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Divena Collins

Sands of Time



Grains of time, passing slowly through,
Flowing through life, particles of sand,
the sands, that flow from tidals anew,
hour glass anewed, good fortune in hand,
take this hand, lovers destiny, reviewed
forever renewed, from the sea,to the land.

Neptune rules the waves of the seas,
the seas, whisper legends to be told,
once told, sailors sung shanties with ease,
easy to please, dark rum in the hold.
oceans behold, in a briny sea breeze.
natures breeze, where destiny unfolds.

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Jem Farmer

Muddy Welly Boots



Childhood holidays, just me and my dog,
wet smelly dog and muddy welly boots,
a boot camp of life away from city fog,
lost in the fog we were hunting for coots,
little cootling ducks are dangerously wild,
in the wild back garden of a town child.

-----

Salute

The final farewell hurts the most,
but always should be said clearly,
no room for close, even nearly
does not suffice. I pay dearly
for art, but words no longer cost.

A picture forms a thousand words,
but no image appears in letters,
I'm tired of being in fetters
restrained by form and post setters,
in ink I fly free with the birds

-----

Upon the Mat

A gentle hum of rock -a -bye,
the thoughts that flow inside my mind,
relax they say, let go, unwind,
the words are there for you to find,
upon the mat, a silent sigh.

Inhale the world, let it mingle,
then breathing out, release the junk,
with closing eyes the mind sunk
to see another floating monk,
as aged limbs start to tingle.

And later thoughts shall jar to life,
as stabbing pains begin to creep,
between the smiling flowers, weep
as eyes open from peaceful sleep,
upon the mat, no words are rife.

So swap the pen for coffee pot,
rejuvenate an ancient heart,
then sneak upstairs to study art,
and leave the words where minds depart,
and pictures fill my vacant spot.

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Ryter Roethical

Gone are the days



Gone are the care-free days of our youth,
Youthful days when all was so sublime
Those primal days when word was proof
Going along the paths you chose to climb
With each climb, Time, and Fate was aloof
Truth blown away like the sands of time.

Some people are born with the silver spoon
A wood spoon for others in life's pantomime
A pantomime where you are a chosen goon
But a goon that survives what ever the clime
Sometimes others have perished before noon
Their lives blown away like the sands of time.

-----

Guestimation



All creatures leave the nest this is a fact of life,
Well before maturity sets in, so they will learn.
Why do some humans cling to their to their brood
Treating them as if their whole life is of concern
And keep them weak protecting them from strife.

I hear you criticise me saying I am rude
It is a fact, that tempering requires white heat
And air conditioned protection provides naught
Then leaves them wanting much and incomplete
Leaving us wondering why the world is screwed.

Without morals and values all can be bought
Old fashioned ideas aren't politically correct
But bad manners and rudeness is over rife
I've been there, done that and now I can reflect
The future, wondering, what has this brought?

-----

Leaving the Toybox



The music being played is sad now,
Swiftly Kanga wipes away a little tear,
And even Wambi has a little sniffle.
She has gone away and they miss her,
Even toys have souls and feelings you know.

It began that first day they saw her with me
I knew they were also under her spell
But I didn't mind they had fallen for her.
Now this sad little band is just a shell
Each one lost, and sharing the misery.

The bright colours of the toybox
Look drab, lifeless and insignificant.
Eeore has found his tail in a corner
And just cast it away as unimportant
Owl is sad and speechless with shock.

An hour is too long without her concern
And days have far too many hours.
They must wait until cloth hearts can heal
But my heart does not have those powers
Will it heal if she should ever return?

-----

Loved for a while

Even in the moonlight thy scent arouses me
But I will not reach out and touch thee
Lest thou scratch me and send me away
Looking at thee I would much rather stay.

With the morn I shall gaze on thee again
And carefully cut thy barbed stem
Wearing thee pinned closer to my breast
For a while, til time and tide does the rest.

-----

One Day a Week

One day a week I saw you
As you began sweeping
The decrepit house
That my heart had become
With a tolerant smile
You who spanned the universe.
Now one day a week.

Lulled into sleep
By the whispers of morality
My lust awakens for no one
It has been swept from my dreams
By apathy and a brush of your hand
Far to often
Now one day a week

Once you held me in the palm of your hand
I counted the hours until I saw you.
Even the seconds
Desperate
Pathetic.
Too many days a week

Love is such a squirming, useless thing
When it comes from the inside
And meets no lips to catch it
It dissipates into the atmosphere
Like silent gas
Hanging there like a dull cloud
No longer one day a week.

-----

Quest for Truth



Cover your eyes and really see things
The wind blowing the rain across the window
Sliding across the glass crashing on the frame
Looking now with the eyes your ears endow
Leave a feeling become aware what others bring.

Cover your eyes and really touch things
How empty a room is without love there,
And the fullness and warmth of one that has.
The feeling of touching someone who cares
The difference in life twixt winter and spring.

Cover your eyes and really hear things
The silence of a warm summer night
Mother Earth breathing, warm and content
The dripping of rain after a short shower
Creating puddles and all the rippling's.

-----

Waiting for a Day



Because I could not stop for death
Death left me to my own device
A device that looked for one of wealth
This means I put death on the ice
That kiss of ice and that final breath
The final breath I've now missed twice

He kindly stopped for another bloke
Or else why am I still around
Still around and almost still as broke
Hidden in the smoke when life is sound
I sound it out carefully and have a poke
A careful poke not wanting a rebound

Someday I will hear that gentle tap
A tap heralding my soul's timely end
An end from this my earthly lap
A lap that will give me time to send
That I intend to take that final nap
And clap and greet him like an old friend.

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Nia Wynne

Little Dark One

You came into the world a darkling bay
Whose dam was fleet as a misty deep dusk,
And who knew that you'd grow into a rusk
Of strength and speed, sire of unreckoned husk
So great, you left pastures greener, they say.



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John Willowdown

The House on the Hill



The big house on the hill used to be full of parties and lights
but now only weeds and spiders
go there to dance,
dressed in the sad exhalations
of days that once were,
blood-red poppies in their hair.

The Lord went off to Flanders to fight
and all his servants went with him,
to fight men on horses
to fight men in tanks,
men in their thousands,
fathers and sons,
men of high and low rank,
shop-keepers, husbands,
Lords and their heirs,
poets and doctors,
tall, short and average,
dark-haired and fair.

On little, flowered hills they fought the attack,
with bayonet and bullet and bomb,
around them fell shells and comrades were killed
and few of them ever came back.

In the house on the hill, beneath the white moon,
a pale shadow still prowls the grounds
- a faithful old soldier, too old to fighht,
that waits for the Lord to return.
He does not see the spiders and rank weeds
but sometimes, inbetween the trees,
he sees the pretty young women,
wives, sweethearts and daughters,
dancing where the garden used to be
and hears the brass band lightly play.

"One day, one day," I heard
him mutter and light his pipe,
"the Lord will come back from fighting
and there will be bright lights and gay balls
in the big house upon the hill
and I can go home and put my feet up once again,
wearing my old dog-eared slippers
and throwing bits of steak and kidney pie
to Jeff where he dozes infront of the fire
and annoy my old Missus.

But until then there's the distant hills and woods to watch
and enemy shadows and moonbeams to catch,
signals to decipher and secrets to keep
- a man can't afford to sleep on his feett!
When the Lord returns he'll hold me to account."
"Hopkins," he'll say, "I hope you've
held the fort while I've been away?"
"I've done my best, Master," I'll say.
"Good enough," the Lord will reply,
"now put that silly gun down
and come inside and have a dram, my good man,
you look as cold as a monkey's you-know-what."
"Thank you kindly Sir," I'll tell him,
"that will nicely hit the spot!"

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