Just my Poetry

[John A Silkstone]

The Mother

(Dedicated to all foster mothers)


The Chinese lad asked the mother, “Please tell me the truth,
Why is Sam so dark, but not as black as Ruth?â€￾
Mother she was smiling, “Now don’t you fret and weep,â€￾
Tucking him in bed that night, staying till he went to sleep.

She’d over one hundred children, loving them all the same
Though not a single one, from her body came,
When she acquired the children, some were under feed
Others beaten black and blue until they cried and bled.

She tries to make them happy, playing games having fun
This is the first step, the lessons have begun.
They learn to wash behind their ears and clean their teeth each day
And when they skin their knees, she wipes the tears away.

She likes a tidy bedroom, including all the boys
Before they go to bed at night they put away their toys
The girls have pretty dresses; each dress has its place
Teenage girls try make-up, painting up their face.

Names are on a roster, for each one has to learn
How to wash and iron and not to singe and burn,
Working in the garden, planting flowers and veg.
“I want to be like Titchmarch.â€￾ cries out little Reg.

She tells them they must learn. “That life isn’t always funâ€￾
Try to forgive others, no matter what they’ve done.
She teaches them hygiene, and social etiquette
Saying please and thank you, your manners don’t forget.

When it near to Christmas, the old-ones hire a hall
Holding a party for Mother, a real Cinderella’s Ball
Mother sit upon a chair, grandchildren by her knee
She tries to count them all, gives up at seventy-three

Small ones they play games, while big ones sit and talk
Chatting about their children, now little Johnny can walk
They talk about the good times and not the bad old past
they all came to mother’s house to find true love at last.

A love that they will cherish, until their dying day
It was given freely, to take the pain away
They try to pay her back, they do not understand
Her payment is before her, on their own two feet they stand,

When she’s old and grey, and cannot mother no more
She’ll have a thousand children, knocking at her door.
They’ll give her hugs and kisses and sweep her off her feet
Rolls are now reversed. It’s their turn to give a treat.

[Clare]

A really great poem John !
And it looks like a good base for a short story to me also ?!

[John A Silkstone]

Thanks Clare,
glad you like it.
Hadn't thought of a story, but yes,
I'll put on my list of things to do.
Silky

[John A Silkstone]

PAYING THE BILL?

Today
I paid
The Gas bill,
At the electricity shop.
Electric at the Water Board
When will these craze schemes stop?
Telephone now paid by plastic,
Others by Royal mail,
The system's idiotic,
Will sanity ever
Prevail?

[John A Silkstone]

To all poets.
Longford Writers are holding an Open Poetry Competition, last day of entry 1sy October 2005. For further details send a SSAE to:
John A Silkstone,
PO Box 227,
Gainsborough,
Lincolnshire,
DN21 2WT

[GrimDad]

Hi John,

A good post, and your post on 'Winning Competitions' should be very helpful also !!

[John A Silkstone]

Hi Grimdad, How are you keeping, fit and well I hope. Still going to the cinema?

Yes I hope it helps poets that enter competitions, rules may alter from competition to competition but basically they're all the same.
Silky

[John A Silkstone]

BEAUTY DYING

With a beauty like no other,
You nestled in my palm.

Virgin white and gleaming.

I gazed in awe,
As you slowly died.

Leaving only your life’s liquid.

[John A Silkstone]

I STILL SEE

The smell of salty brine invades my senses
While sand oozes between my naked toes.

The squawking gulls wheel over head,
Swooping low for none existing tit bits.

Others see only one line of footprints in the sand.
While I, Still see two.

Your soul still keeps me company

[Digiwizz]

Hi John.

I do like the two poems that you just posted, and to me the two almost read as one. Love the short story that you posted as well !!

[John A Silkstone]

AVIATOR

Suspended on a fine silk thread
Akin to an old withered leaf,
A pendulum in the haze.

Seconds extend to eternity.

The chrysalis opens,
Dark eyes
Scan the vista below.

Head rotates while
Jaws enlarge the opening.

One leg follows another
To explore the outer casing.
Finding purchase
They heave and strain.

Unfurling wings
Stretch taut,
Drying in warmth of day.

Wings oscillating
Legs release their grip.

Demise of the caterpillar,
Creates the aviator.

[John A Silkstone]

NOT A PHEASANT DAY

What’s become of the British Birds?
Their numbers dwindle away,
Not helped by the farmer’s pesticide
Or hedgerows gone astray,
Even the poor old pheasant
Is now being reared by man,
So he can go on shooting,
But the bird...is not...for his pan.

[Digiwizz]

A nice pair of animal poems John, quite different styles but I do like both !! Aviator reminds me more of Spring - which I do hope come very soon !!

[John A Silkstone]

Thank you Digiwizz,

I have just returned from London where I was collecting a prize on behalf of the poetry Magazine I edit and produce. The event will be in the Independent News paper today the 6th Dec.

Silky

[Digiwizz]

Thats great John, well done !!