Everyday Poetry

Fog.  And the 8am sunlight Punches through the trees, Its rays caught, then released Through bare branches, Like a spotlight, searching For something less prosaic Than the bins outside the window Still waiting to be emptied.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

This year has seen the distance grow wider: Two metres now the norm, safe, polite, caring; Anything less an intrusion,  An affront, a challenge, an unnecessary risk.  Watching old programmes, looking through old photos, I'm struck by how much closer we felt comfortable with.  How we embraced our friends, casually bumped heads together,  Clasped elbows in laughter, caught hands to grab attention,  Kissed our grandchildrens' soft heads easily and often, Held loved ones tight, without giving it a second thought.   All that closeness seems shockingly intimate, rash. Now TV announcers feel the need to explain "The following programme was filmed before corona virus restrictions" To protect viewers against anxiety at yesterday's norm, To prevent complaints from a self righteous audience. In just nine months we've changed our social customs, Gone from happily ignoring fellow passengers Pressed tight against us on the train or bus,  To indignantly complain...

I wrote this ten years ago, after a charity walk.  It seems like an impossible thing to do nowadays - we'd have to do it virtually,  on our own or in family groups.   Fancy a girls' night out? A ten mile walk, for charity, starting at midnight - women only.  How could I refuse such an enticing invitation? Before I could take part I had to cross two hurdles Getting fit enough to walk 10 miles, and Finding someone to walk with - two new friends.  On the night a thousand women Representatives of all ages and fitness levels Gathered on the sports field next to the deer park.  After a muscle warming disco we set off into the darkness Lit only by a line of hundreds of flashing bunny ears And a shining full moon.  The first two miles across the park were easy The line keeping close together, chatting, laughing,  Beginning to pull apart into smaller groups by the half way mark.  Hips began to complain in the last two miles, Frustrating blisters ...

My creative writing group proposed the theme of Teddy this morning, which inevitably led to me thinking about the 31 years I went by the name of Bear. I loved being a Bear, it's a cute name - when my kids were born their hospital bracelets said "Baby Bear" - but I've been equally happy with my other surnames, apart from one rather tedious drawback: how they are spelt. I've never had an easy name (Like Smith or Jones or Baker) I've always had to spell it out, explain To strangers filling in my details: Nineteen years a Denney (D - E - double N - E - Y) Thirty one years a Bear (Like the Teddy) The last thirteen an Auger (A - U - G- E - R, not orger, ogre, or walker). But it's curious this switching of names Always on loan from the man closest to me in law -  Father or husband.  It's never been my own.   Don't get me wrong, each time I was happy to change it, But it would be nice to know my identity With the certainty of a man Who keeps his name from ...

There are several ginkgo trees outside the gym which have been shedding their leaves over the last few weeks.  Today I noticed they have been decorated with streamers of knitted remembrance poppies. The trees in Dursley, in losing their leaves,  Have become entwined with wool Twisting up their trunks in poppy red,  Each lovingly knitted flower Commemorating the blood of the fallen:  Let we forget.  Our wars, battles, victories, defeats Are today waged against disease.  Sprouting in windows all over town Are rainbows: reminders of hope,  A promise of peace after the storm.  A symbol for a time We may wish to forget.  Copyright Chris Auger 2020.  All Rights Reserved .