A Found First Line Poem

Fragile gods made from ephemera, paper,
It began when, as a child, you would lie in the grass
I pour the creamy, white liquid into the glass
Looking for love, or just a casual affair?
There are grapes that taste like cotton candy
Biding my time
We come from the unknown and we go on moving into the unknown

 

Please note that I do not own the copyright to any of these lines and this was just an experiment. Please click on the bloggers lines here to read their material more fully and perhaps follow them. All have been re-blogged on my sister site: http://mybewilderedbrain.wordpress.com/

Thanks to all – Brian.

 

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The Keepsake

A light summer breeze calls for more casual dress,
No jacket, or perhaps carefully laced through a shoulder bag.
Court shoes for comfort and repelling male colleagues
Dark hair, fairly short but wavy with layer after layer.

An upturned nose, that Audrey Hepburn look, a winner.
Her beautiful smile, lit whenever she recognised someone.
The carefree way that she moved, that also moved me,
A pain in my chest whenever she alighted from the bus.

Amazingly I got to know her. She spoke to me first (naturally).
She noticed me smiling at her and asked if she could sit by me.
Gradually we learned some things about each other – her boyfriend,
my girlfriend, favourite nights out – a journeying friend on a morning bus.

Looking back was she ever more than that? No and yes.
Here was someone that I looked forward to meeting every day,
my life enhanced whenever we spent that little time together.
Deeply disappointed whenever she was not there.

Now. Now she is a memory, a keepsake that I cannot hold and
do not need to. She is a smile that returns to my face when I think
about her. Once there was a wish on my part to be more than this.
I wonder if she thinks about, or even remembers, me. I hope so.

 

poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2014

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New Voices

Want to read some new voices and see some great photos – please follow this link to Mybewilderedbrain to read more.

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Save as…

How does the brain store the memories we gain?
What criteria does it use for saving this, or that?
There are people who struggle with their mother’s name
But can describe to us, in detail, their dear old hat.

 

 

poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2014

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Only Child

I always did my best but it was never enough.
A daughter who had to earn love.

Always compared to those shining examples -
the daughters of my parents friends.

The smart girls. Sluts who stole money from
their parents to buy smokes, see boys and drink.

Mentally wounded and physically abused -
For what? For being a good daughter?

School, University and Guilt: good grades.
Home Report Card: “Could have achieved more.”

I sat in my room drawing a better life than mine.
My Dansette on so I could sing along to pop.

Never really fitting in but had some friends.
I was classed as intelligent but difficult. Needing help.

Escaping from school when I was little and
being dragged back.

Trailed around Doctors and Psychologists. Until:
“We don’t really have a reason, it’s just her.”

He probably loved that idea, of me being branded:
“A bad child.” Mum advised not to have any more.

Closer to my Mother, hating and fearing my Father.
He was the family breadwinner and a church elder.

Mother caught in the cross-fire, as often is the case.
She cared. Though not enough to stand up to him.

Mother watched as I was teased and goaded into
fights that I did not want and could never win.

At work Father was well liked and even respected.
A noble scientific mind who loved to help others.

If I had said, would I have been believed? No.
Would Mother say? No. Not in those distant days.

Both were obsequious in front of people of perceived
power. Fake greetings dripped from their lying lips.

Both are now dead but the dust never settles,
it colours my life grey, in some way, every day.

He died a much weaker man showing no regrets.
Mother died later, though we became very close.

I could only ever just be me. This, they despised.
The truth is we never understood each other.

We spoke and thought quite differently – and I was loved
– but never for just being me.

I am on the autistic spectrum: ADHD and Aspergers.

For years I thought that I was the problem.

They had their own, hidden and unresolved.

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