Everyday Poetry

Dots This came to me as I was staring out of the conservatory windows,  admiring the view of the valley facing our garden. Five white dots on a green ground Sheep grazing slowly across the field Seeking the freshest grass. Three white dots on a blue ground Butterflies spiralling upwards Chasing the promise of summer. One white dot on a grey ground Your head bobbing around our garden The fixed point in a restless universe. © Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Memento Doing some (rather late) spring cleaning the other day,  I noticed the pile of stones I keep as an ornament in the bathroom. They were covered with dust and needed a good clean to reveal their full beauty.  The poem came out as a series of waves,  which seems appropriate. On the shelf A plate of stones Chosen from thousands On sand and pebble beaches Picked out and saved as special Each one designed to prompt a memory Of otherwise long forgotten, leisurely days. Every now and then, Washing off their coat of dust Reveals their secret hidden beauty, The reason they were stuffed into pockets, When others, less deserving, dropped back onto the beach. Shapes smoothed By pounding waves at the land's edge Revealing stripes, spots, marbling, speckles Pearly pink, sandy beige, granite grey, and black, Large pebbles fitting snugly in the palm of a hand Small stones worn down faster, or over longer ages, All glisten in the water, dulling down to dry s...

Keeping the peace September's Writing Magazine prompt is about keeping the peace, or finding peace in difficult situations. In her teens, my feisty older sister Fought hard against our mum's rules and restrictions. They argued their loud way through disagreements Neither of them backing down, Neither letting the other have the last word. She was often denied permission On what to wear,  who to see, Made to stay in, or worse - To come with us on family outings: "You will come,  and you will enjoy yourself." My teens came four years later, A secret apprenticeship, watching from the sidelines Taught me the wisdom of secrets and subterfuge. Skirts could be worn longer, And rolled up once out of sight. Curfews could be 10pm, If only the bus hadn't been late/cancelled/ Or I hadn't spent the fare by mistake. Boys could be met away from home Until I could be sure they'd pass the test. Years later, my sister took me to task: "You let...

Journey My poetry group has as its theme this month: journeys,  modes of transport.  I've picked out some good ones from my poetry books, and have also written this, as a reminder to myself not to take things like mobility for granted. Reduced to a walking frame (Shuffle, hop, shuffle, hop. Rest.  Repeat.) Each journey Planned meticulously In advance To avoid retracing Effortful steps. Each day confined To the space between Armchair Freezer Bathroom. Stairs a mountain To climb posterially Once each day. Weeks later,  and I am freed. Free to wear normal shoes (trainers! sandals!) Free to walk without thinking about every step Free to drive wherever the whim might take me Free to forget and go back for something - even upstairs! Free to tend the garden, decorate, do the monthly shop Free to attend book group,  art group,  poetry group Free to drive myself to meet up for coffee Free to visit my grandchildren,  after twelve lon...

Getting from here to there My husband keeps asking if I'm ready to drive again,  but I'm not in any rush. In the nine weeks since I've driven - Six in plaster,  three learning to walk again - My silver machine has sat idle Waiting for me to recover. I wish I could tell you I long to get back behind its wheel To free you from ferrying me around. But for now,  I'm happy Expanding my horizons on foot Building stronger muscle tone Accustoming my bones to this new way of walking, Re-learning how to climb stairs, without a stick. Of course I miss independence, Going out without making arrangements. But until I can move without thinking, Without pain,  without anxiety, My car can stay idle. © Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Switch It's sometimes hard to get up,  when you've nothing in the diary and it's cold outside. In that time of morning Before the body stirs from its warm nest Sheets wrapped tight over neck and shoulders, Before the switch from rest into action It is still possible to sink Through daydreams back into slumber. While the taste of morning coffee lingers, Sleep sits in each eye's corner, Hair a mass of messy tangles, Limbs curled foetal close Resisting the inevitable stretch The sudden thrusting back of the duvet, The start of another day. © Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

For Tim One of my friends from book group has been seriously ill recently, and his reaction to it has made me realise something new about him: in his message to all of us he typically underplayed the seriousness of his condition and sought to reassure us he'd be back to normal soon. You gave us all a turn there,  mate, One minute living it up on holiday, The next in a hospital bed,  awaiting repatriation, Island hopping in helicopters, Such drama! We didn't know what to think! Now you're back you send us messages Reassuringly underplaying it all, Sending us your love, Hoping to be back in circulation soon, Suggesting a book we'd like to read. Just hold on there a minute! It's time to take, not give - Take our love, our best wishes Use them to build your strength, To ease your circulation. We have genuinely missed you, Your on the nail analysis,  your wit, Your contrary point of view, But there's time enough to think of getting back. Fo...