Gavin Whyte's Blog, page 21

The Wind (A Poem)

The wind that blows the branches,

Of the tree you sit with,

Next to your love.

The wind that kisses a leaf,

Making it fall onto your open book.

The wind that strokes her face,

In a way you wish you could,

Maybe someday,

Maybe.

The wind that blows her hair,

Like an invisible admirer,

Mischievous and impersonal.

Strands of Asian-black,

Like tentacles reaching out,

Trying to touch what isn’t there,

But you are.

Although someday you won’t be.

Perhaps you’ll imitate the wind,

Be her invisible admirer,

Mischievous and personal;

Stroking her face,

The way you always wished you could.

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Our Little Friend (A Poem)

A white friend,

You dreamt of,

When your friend was grey.

Tail not wagging,

But happy, you knew,

Happily waiting.

Years later, you met,

And you remembered the dream.

A messenger in white…

I am the start,

Of the rest of your life;

Follow me,

I will guide you,

And all will be well.

And you can tell,

Me many tales,

Of how your old life fell,

Through your fingers.

Of how you had to let go,

To catch something new:

Something borrowed,

Something blue.

Why else do you think I visited you?

We said goodbye,

And a thank you,

Hoping that one day,

It will be our turn,

To visit you.

 

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Cozy (A Poem)

Cozy on a chilly night,

A warm glass of red,

Sitting next to my love,

Whilst reading in bed.

Curled up watching a movie,

The sofa makes us three,

Far from being a crowd,

The best form of company.

Fingerless gloves,

A wooly hat pulled down to the brow.

I hear folk speak ill of winter,

And every year I wonder how.

 

*

I wrote this wee poem as an experiment for the word prompt challenge, here on Word Press. It’s the first time I’ve participated

The Bus Driver (A Poem)

Hands at the ready,

Knees needed like springs,

The bus goes chug-chug,

At the hands of the driver,

Who doesn’t know to break,

Until it’s too late.

You lurch forward,

Sideways,

Knocking into the woman next to you:

Sorry.

A lucky charm hangs behind the driver,

A small pineapple on a string,

So you think of spikes,

Then a pricked finger from Junior School,

Stabbed by the teacher;

A drop of scarlet.

Will you cheat again?

No.

Heavy stomach,

Sweaty palms.

The bus spins around on a two-pence piece,

Without the driver looking in his rear-view mirror,

His secondary object of awareness.

It’s all he needs,

To know he can’t drive,

The way he thinks he can.

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A Frozen Balloon (A Poem)

A Frozen balloon,

Wrapped around the finger,

Of a father.

A petrified prod,

Of an innocent one.

Don’t worry,

It won’t harm you.

But you never know,

The next gentle push says.

The balloon nods,

Agreeing to the uncertainty of its nature,

The right to be concerned.

How many pokes will its inflated patience accept?

It’s Buckaroo,

The balloon,

Because it will blow,

Not away,

But up,

One day.

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The Intangible Touch (A Poem)

Surgeons on the underground,

Operating on an illusion,

To improve their lives.

Their enclosed world,

Where nobody exists,

And no thing does either,

Other than the Operation,

Of an intangible touch.

Lovers become strangers,

Until only strangers remain,

In a loveless world,

Other than the love,

Of the Operation.

Speak during It,

And be met by a nothing,

That was once someone,

You knew,

You loved,

You still care for,

But is now a momentary void,

That you stare at in wonder.

The world,

And all thoughts and opinions of it,

Are pushed to the back of the queue,

For the sake of the Operation.

Press send,

Like,

Next,

A smiley face with a drop of sweat,

And the world returns;

A world that sits and waits,

To be experienced,

Without the distraction of an Operation,

That never,

Really,

Needed to happen.

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Looking In (A Poem)

Outside,

Looking in,

You sit,

Listening to the laughs of many;

Chasing rainbows,

Floating passed,

In a breeze that carries with it cut grass,

In December.

Children on leads,

Dogs on the run,

A group of shoulder-shakers having fun.

Santa hats,

And picnic mats,

Kites in blue;

A technicolour ball,

And a language you wish you knew.

Outside,

You’re looking in,

To a world that’s hidden,

And that’s fine with you.

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Beethoven (A Poem)

The food waste is full;

It smells like something,

Nobody would eat.

You hear Beethoven in the distance.

You rush to the kitchen,

Before he leaves.

You all stand in the street,

With your bags and tubs of smelly waste,

Listening to a symphony you forget the name of.

You tap it out on your knees,

As you wait,

Watching a neighbour chew betel nut,

With his blood-orange teeth.

Your neighbour upstairs sees you,

Just as Beethoven is at his loudest.

You all scuttle to the back of the truck,

Throwing in everything unwanted,

All holding your breath.

Your neighbour waits for you,

Fumbling in her purse.

She hands you 1000 New Taiwan Dollars,

All because she hasn’t seen you in a while

You try to say no thank you,

Both in English,

And in her mother tongue,

But she doesn’t understand anything you say.

You feel bad,

Because you’re certain it’s just because you’re British;

A novelty.

You put the money in your wallet.

You tried to say no!

You tell yourself,

Just as Beethoven is running off,

In the distance,

Getting quieter and quieter.

Beethoven; the taker of trash,

The bringer of cash.

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Time to Shine – Short Story

I’m happy to announce that The Writers Newsletter has published a short story of mine called Time to Shine.

It’s about a girl who’s kept in a room, with only her heart for company.

Please follow this link to read it… and if you like it, please share

Poems for a Purpose

There is something special about writing a poem for someone.

I don’t consider myself a poet, but I have to admit that writing poems to help someone overcome a habit, to celebrate their birthday, to honour the birth of a child, to toast a marriage or engagement, or even to help guide someone grieve the death of a loved one, fills me with gratification.

For many years I have written for members of my family a poem on their birthday. (That is, my parents, two sisters, two nieces, and my wife.)

Yesterday was my youngest niece’s 6th birthday.

I have never before posted any of the poems I have written for others, but I find myself wanting to share this one. Perhaps because it’s less personal.

My niece is called Ava, and she likes to sing… that’s about as personal as it gets.

Here it is:

There was a little bird,

Who didn’t know how to sing.

Every time it opened its mouth,

Nobody heard a thing.

Its parents wanted to help,

But didn’t know what to do.

They even sought a wise owl,

And even she didn’t have a clue.

They gave it honey and lemon,

And told it to rest, be patient, and wait.

And on the day when it came to sing,

It tried for hours, staying up late.

When no sound left its busy mouth,

It flew off, in a rage.

It flapped its wings against the wind,

And, not looking, flew into a cage.

At first the bird was frightened,

Trapped!

“How am I going to get out?

I can’t even sing to get help,

Let alone shout!”

But then the bird heard something,

A sound that had a sweet ring.

For the cage was for a birthday girl,

Who really liked to sing.

She sang as she opened her presents,

Saying thank you for every one.

But when she came to the bird she stopped,

And asked it what was wrong.

The birthday girl listened

To the bird’s, woeful tale.

“Don’t worry, little bird,” she said.

“Just copy me, and you won’t fail.”

So the girl sang, and the bird listened,

And every time it tried,

To copy the young girl’s singing voice.

“Try again, bird, don’t be shy.”

“Sing as loud as you can,” she said.

“Don’t be afraid to be heard!

Your voice is extra special

Because it belongs to no other bird.”

The bird took a deep breath,

And finally let out a shrill.

The squirrels heard it in the trees,

And the sheep heard it on the hill!

The little bird was elated,

So happy now it could sing.

And the girl opened the cage and said,

“Now go, and do your thing!”

The little bird flew out,

And gave the girl a peck on her cheek.

And just before it flew off,

It said in a voice that wasn’t weak:

“I was a gift for you,

But you gave one to me.

So every birthday I’ll come to visit

With my friends and family.

“We’ll sing you happy birthday,

And bring a cake of good flavour.

And on the top the icing will say,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AVA!”

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