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Tea Party

It's funny how some memories of childhood stay fresh and clear, while others disappear.  I came across this memory in some notes I'd made on childhood during my course, and had to write them up before they disappeared once again.   My nineteen guests sit in a circle Splay-legged on the carpet, Silent, eyes blank, looking straight ahead As if in the company of strangers. A mixed, assorted bunch, From tiny dolls with painted hair,  To blue-eyed, blonde-haired Fiona, Standing half my height, my latest friend. Mixed in between, with no distinction made, The hunched and furry bears, Reaching out their worn and clumsy paws Towards impossible teacup handles. The shaky teapot pours juice into their cups, Red plastic plates are passed around To share the iced ring biscuits politely, Though every one is bitten by my proxy teeth. The party warms up as 'tea' and biscuits disappear, Guests slump in their places, inhibitions lost, As they regain the toy box familiarity  Of li...
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Enter stage left

We visited Slimbridge last week for my husband to practice his photography skills.  Naturally,  at this time of year there are few birds to be seen from the hides,  as most have migrated to warmer climes. But there are still a few surprises to be had.  Like an excitable audience,  Crows keep up a companionable chatter, A backdrop to the hushed reverence of the hide Where whispered words barely disturb the silent view Of bare-banked, recently dredged ponds. A splay-toed, brown-bronze feathered glossy ibis Struts slowly onto centre stage, jab-jabbing its downcurved bill Through the water, searching the mud between the reeds, Unconconcerned and unaware of its new role As solo performer on a barren stage. All eyes, scopes, binoculars, camera lenses follow close, Capturing its every step and jab as it feels for its invisible prey,  As it disappears back behind the thick reed curtain, without taking a bow. The watchers disperse to catch the next hide's show, And ...
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Retreat

I really love this time of year when the leaves are changing colour, and before they fall to the ground.   The trees bleed slowly from their tips  Deepening to rust and russet  As they seep into the sky. In spring the youthful sap pushed vigorously  Rushing towards each branch's end, Painting each leaf bright green from tip to trunk. Now in autumn the sap retreats towards the core Draining each leaf of green, revealing hidden colours The rubies, bronze and gold, waiting there all along.   © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Unfurling down the page

I woke up a couple of mornings ago with the beginnings of a poem chasing round my head. I was intrigued by how the sounds of the words triggered other words with similar sounds, and just let it play out on the page.  Stories unfurl from the tip of my pen Curl down the page line by line Until they find space, the time to pause, Gather strength, resume their course again. Words race, keeping pace with my mind Running quick; shadows take shape, Become fixed, lead on to the next,  Remaking places, recalling faces from another time. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Crash

I found some notes for a poem in another old notebook - I've got far too many notebooks,  no wonder poems go astray! This one was written about 18 months ago, after my son phoned to tell me he'd written off his car.  You phone me two days after, Saying 'Mum. There's no need to worry. I'm fine. But I crashed my  car.' Worrying, I pump you for details: The sudden downpour five minutes from home, The aquaplaning across two lanes, The ditch,  The tree. Your wait for the ambulance At the side of the motorway. Only later do I remember Your shaky voice, made croaky By the crushing life-saving seat belt, As you repeat mantra-like 'I'm OK. And I didn't kill anybody'. Whether it's me or you you're trying to convince Is not clear.  I pack the bag That last week held Easter eggs With codeine,  And try to remember  You don't want your kids to know.   © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Poem for Zephyr

I was very aware that I didn't have a 'birth' poem for Zephyr, my lovely third grandchild,  when I was compiling my second collection of poems.  Other poems featured him as he grew, so it was not like he wasn't included,  but still it rankled.  So imagine my amazement - and frustration - when I picked up an old notebook this morning and found this inside! Ah well, as my husband said, it'll just have to go in my next book. My charmed and charming grandson, Third child in a closely strung line, Has crept into my heart While my gaze was distracted. Sitting monumental, his Buddha smile Accepting the here, the now, Invites my cuddle-tickle kisses. Such a happy baby. Third time's a charm. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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One life to live

Another sudden wrench. Someone I've been following on Instagram for a while has 'unexpectedly, suddenly, and quickly passed away', leaving behind a big gap.  I started following her as she was a vibrant, plus-sized woman in her 60s - a fabulous body positive role model. It's odd how close you can become to influencers, even though you don't really know them in any true sense.  A couple of encouraging responses to my comments doesn't count as a conversation, let alone a friendship, but I will miss you Manny.  Her big orange chair stands empty,  no longer needed for her quirky GRWMs featuring sequins, tulle, leopard print, leather, hand painted denim, riotous colours  you'd never dream of putting together but which worked so well with her sass, signature oversized glasses and smile.  She exhorted us all to live loud, to wear what makes you happy,  not to save the special for a special day, reminding us we only have one life to live.  © Copyright 202...
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