Found Poetry

Found poetry Fathers Come First by Rosita Sweetman. Found by me. 

Death of a Tree

I started recording my poems. It helps me focus on form and rhythm  This poem was written after a storm felled lots of trees, in particular a three hundred year old tree in the centre of town.

Death of a Tree
Today I spotted a tree torn down by the wind
I took out a flask of tea and sat, watching the wind gnaw at it.
It tore the bark, peeled back layers soft as orange peel.
A squirrel scuttled round my feet,
froze and looked at me with sad green eyes.
"I am alone," it said. "The big old oak has died."
I looked up at the sky as a gentle rain began to fall,
gathering myself up, silent I walked home.

Wine Days

Most memories collect foggy like an extract from our wine soaked days when we used to roam vineyards on groggy mornings and scramble heady over brush. We jaunted up hills, reckless adventurers in unknown territories. Climbing high we perched at the edge of the world, and looked out into the future with eyes full of sun.

Imagine

words high as hills

that twist and turn into
mountains. Imagine
words found on paper that
burst up from underground
and spring into wells. Imagine
words that break into boulders
and shape new land, carving
out myths and legends. Imagine
words as a bowl of hot chicken soup
a plate of bacon and mash,
a fire giving out warmth
on a cold winter day.

Instructions

Plant three different varieties of carrots, 

a bean row, a couple of marrows, 

rooting potatoes, cucumbers and leeks.

Light plays tricks on red brick. 

The sunrise: pink as a cherry blossom.

Wind rustles leaves. Stand guard. Watch the weather.

Cuckoo

I miss the sound

of the cuckoo
above oak tree

branches I climb
higher, higher
surface blue sky.

Arctic Explorers

It’s rained ice for days

and the sea is white and static.

Ahead lights signal in the distance,

relaying messages from voyagers,

lost centuries ago, who rounded land

uncertain, meeting winds head on,

sailing southwards into snowy skies

and icy dark seas.

I Miss Myself

Nightly I return to that same spot
where we spoke under the hickory tree.
I frantically search my pockets search
for where you left me. I search the
obvious places and the hidden ones
deep in my heart. If only I could crawl
inside your eye and view me from the
outside and sit inside your ear and listen
to how I sound. I could rebuild myself
and piggyback on the soft hill of your lips.

I disappeared when you left. I think you
packed me in your travel case, leaving no
forwarding address. Maybe I exist
somewhere happy in your mind.
Now I am in fog not knowing when or how I
will return. I miss myself, please give me back.

Flood (working title)

I think this wants to keep going, though I am stuck with it at the moment. Putting it out there to get a bit of feedback. Cheers in advance.

Flood

The banks of the river have burst again
it spills out, rises and churns. Gnaws
homes, grabs hold of school buses. Opens
maw wide to swallow trees. It spits,
snakes out onto roads, transforms
land into sea fit for ships.

A flotilla of deck chairs, crates
and television sets ride tide, circle
sand bagged houses held hostage on estate.
A chassis of a car joy rides over
bridge, up and over steeple, above
roads and wheat fields, then
plunges deep, settles on sediment
where rust collects. Sepia tones
wash over wreckage.

Desert

The banks roll and hill
stretch and sift
granules of sand flake and spill
caught in a long endless rift of air
arching, shifting
and moving slowly across
sea-like patterns, spilling
out into the cold bare sky.

Star Leaves

The damp weather curtains in,
the half-empty moon peeks out
at autumn shadows.
Leaves settle in piles
growing into streams and then rivers
spilling up and out into the open sky.

Cancellations

We queued at the check-in desk
staring at the arrivals
and destination panels
hearing a doomed overhead
voice booming out cancellations.
We counted the hours and
watched passer-bys, collect bags
and ghost towards exits, with
faces well worn, leaving us
alone in the haunted halls
with nothing but news updates
to pin on our hopes of home.

Once (edit)

A re-working of a poem that had too much going on the last time around. Hopefully it reads a bit easier. Cheers!

Once

The sky darkened,
and the stars gathered
as we sifted through dirt and fragments,
carefully uncovering a man
quiet and skeletal,
fragile and peat,
fingers sharp as little arrows,
and thin curled toes.
With a skull shaped like the moon.

We knelt, picking our minds
for information
wondering who this man was
and where he hunted food.
Travelling with no roads
or maps as guides
only the stars.

Setting (edit)

thought I'd post this edit. Quite different to the original and more to it. Thanks for looking ;)

Setting
The sun sets in the purple bay,
spilling light over masts,
creeping into panelled cabins
of old rotting boats, illuminating
charts and compasses, highlighting
old worn pipes and dog-eared photographs
of women who once kept seafarers company
on cold stormy nights.

Winter

The day arrives skin-cold and dog damp,
the sun wilts brown and overripe,
filthy soot clouds coat the sky.
Temperatures frost, icing over walls
and footpaths, covering thick layers of earth,
blanketing wood, harvested for a blazing fire.
Hills curve and disappear as the
afternoon arrives cat-black,
the arctic moon grows round and full,
white smoke dances out of chimneys.

Constant

We enter deep mountains,
alone and dark in our thoughts,
with footsteps echoing constant,
and wind screeching fierce in our ears.
Up above the sky is tempest,
an empty hole full of space.

Once

Here the traffic is miles wide
and four lanes deep
while traffic hums and
slowly creeps,

connecting homes to highways.

Here new roads are constructed,
and asphalt roads rolled out,
above steel rods hold
the skeleton of a bridge.

Diggers churn over ancient dirt
discovering a man
quiet and skeletal,
fragile and peat,
fingers sharp as little arrows
and thin curled toes.
His skull shaped like the moon.

And it's here we pour cement where
he once gathered food,
where he once collected wood.
Travelling with no roads
or maps as guides
only the stars.

Light Fades

I know it is a bit rough, and the ending could be worked on a bit but I thought I'd let you have a look. Open to any suggestions. Cheers.

Light Fades
The afternoon sun fades,
flickers autumn light,
casts shadows over hillsides,
lightly tiptoes past aging trees.

And then the dark settles in,

Reminding me of when winter
sleet sweeps over forests
sending tall oaks into a gentle sleep.
Lost alone in deep dark memories.

Setting

The sun sets into the bay
Purple and yellow,
Filtering into windows
And schools
Casting little pools of light.

Just Something to Fill the Space

Love hound, pole cat, vixen,
the lantern flickers,
Devil you are my light.
Hen, free range,
you ruffle the earth.

Alone in the dark, full moon bares twins,
And I am Saturn, fullness to the goddess,
love life to the tress,
I am God and who are you?