Archive for the winter Category

Lost Geese

Posted in Poetry, Spring, winter, writing with tags , on April 13, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

The screech of lost geese
Swallowed by the fog is
The only sound not stifled
In the thickening sickly night.

Softened streetlights serve only
To blur silhouettes of trees still bare,
The air shivers slightly in the drifting mist.

A black cat stalks, unintentionally blending
Into pavement almost as dark,
Senses sharpened by the screech
Of lost geese.

Hide and Seek

Posted in birthdays, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, winter, writing with tags , , on January 16, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Change crouches

Beyond  peripheral vision,

Unseen but sensed, unsettling.

Its scented breath is felt;

Searching stretches senses, strains

Muscles around  eyes, making

Bridge of nose ache,

Dragging concentration into

Wordless void.

Is it hope or fear

Which so distracts?

From this moment so empty,

Which waits for the future to

Explode into view?

And what then?

Tartan

Posted in love, Mental Health, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , , on December 7, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Some days beautiful

Things need

To be

Written

 

Words fly across

The page

Like the shuttle of some old loom

Interlacing the weft  of solid experience

With dreams and imagining

To create wondrous tartan

Hard-wearing, warm and comfortable

To keep us snug together

On a night such as this.

Farewell

Posted in love, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , , , , , on September 29, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Soft October sunshine sits

At the garden table

One last time.

 

Gone now is the madness

Of summer

And the rush to plunge

Into her burning rays.

 

The passion and fire

Has cooled to a mature love,

Neither needing anything from the other.

The fear of loss has given way

To the assured strength of letting go.

 

So we share a last

Glass of wine

And fondly reminisce ,

Knowing that she must flee

To warmer climes and I

Must soon endure Winter’s embrace.

 

We part as equals,

Wish each other well,

Thinking not of the stinging pain of loss

But of the tales we will share

When our patience is repaid

 

And the joy of unexpected visits,

Those stolen secret moments,

Which we see us through,

Until spring.

The True King

Posted in death, love, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , on September 17, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Snowfall

With all

Her Opheliant beauty

Sharpens the shards of

Winter’s shattered heart

 

Freezing tears become

Vengeful spears

To vanquish

Summer’s madness and

Rotting autumnal

Cruelty

Consumed

Posted in Poetry, shopping, winter on September 6, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The old man whistles absently,

As he closes up his shop,

At five o’clock,

And enters the darkening street,

Heading home to

The comforting constant of the ticking clock,

The flickering shadows in soft orange firelight,

The occasional crackle and spark reminding him

That time is alive,

Even at rest.

All gone

Now

A distant electronic hum, like tinnitus,

The glare of too-white light dissolving shadows,

Like over-exposed celluloid, desperate

To convince us that everything is always the same,

That night is unnecessary

And that consumption is holier than rest.

Shadows

Posted in love, Poetry, winter on September 1, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The world beyond this misty pane,

Is rendered exotic only,

By the limitations of the frame,

Suggesting things unseen.

 

The wind, its bitter chill being unfelt

Indoors, promises to set free

Trapped shadows of loneliness and regret,

Forced to dance in here by flickering lamplight.

 

Meanwhile, from outside,

The room I long to escape

Is made intriguing by the  soft glow

Of lamplight suggesting warmth and comfort,

 

(The shadows’ tortured ritual unseen from outside)

That may soothe the stings

Of loneliness and regret, brought on seemingly,

By the howling wind’s icy fingers.

 

Where, then, is comfort to be found?

Only your loving arms, my dear,

Can tame the tempest and dull,

The shadows of this too cruel winter.

 

Only your embrace,

Can bring spring, the sun

And blooming,

To me again.

 

Josephine Corcoran

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