Hexed

 

Here’s a Halloween triolet in which I eschew the usual trappings…

 

HEXED

 

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

I know of you not one thing but evil.

Helpless, hexed, I too am drawn to dally.

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

My soiled heart you add to your tally.

Head clasped, I deny the grubbing weevil.

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

I know of you not one thing but evil…

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

[Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.]

Poems for National Poetry Day 2014

 

Today is National Poetry Day 2014 and the theme for this year is REMEMBER.

Below are contributions from myself and Maureen Weldon.

In the following poem I remember a certain someone from long, long ago. I wrote ‘Rainy Dates’ wandering Talacre beach in North Wales and inscribed the first stanza in the sand with a razor shell as a pair of cormorants headed west beyond the lighthouse, low over waves burnished gold in the sunset…

 

RAINY DATES

 

Cats sprawl in the sun,

Kids throw snowballs in winter,

Your eyes haunt me still.

 

Rainy dates long ago,

Dry white and mandolin,

Steamy breath mingling.

 

Echoes of the anvil,

Victorian lamplight,

Hand in hand, alone.

 

Scents of the earth,

Spirits on the ether,

Our shadows in timeless flight.

 

A kiss beneath dripping boughs,

Your smile and words so simple:

“You’ve come home.”

 

Haiku inscribed in the sand,

Cormorants at sunset,

Dreamy blue eyes.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2008

[Originally published on Airings, Autumn 2008]

~~

Over to Maureen…

 

A couple of years ago I went on a workshop to this extraordinary place, a place never to be forgotten.

RHYDYMWYN

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in a Welsh Valley – whispers

past an ice age.

‘Invited guests only,’ we were told.

Like sharing dreams

we wandered to the wetland

where teasel flowers live;

nesting boxes for sand martins;

big sandy cylinders on poles;

a sort of porch, an extension on the edge.

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in the Welsh Valley.

‘Hush, hush’ World War Two:

the making of mustard gas,

bombs, and the nearly splitting of the atom.

Hush, hush bats live there now

in the high tower laboratory.

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in that Welsh Valley.

It was Autumn.

Being so old, yet young,

the sun dipped and dyed

colours on the trees. Wind

made a slight rustle, round a sleeping Ash.

Yes the trees remember, remember.

 

Maureen Weldon

 

Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published Crannog Poetry Journal, Eire]

Until I was in my late twenties every Saint Patrick’s Day, we, my parents and close friends made for one of the beautiful strands by the wild Atlantic sea of County Cork.  This was a joyful event.

SAINT PATRICK’S DAY

 

Tonight I should be dancing jigs and reels,

Proudly covering my head in shamrock;

Green, very green from head to foot;

And the deep dark porter carrying the cream.

‘Slainte. Cead Mile Failte.’

 

Far, far away I remember

On Saint Patrick’s day – picnics

In Ross Carbery, Ownahincha, Bantry bay.

Did the ghosts of my friends

Picnic there today?

 

Maureen Weldon

 

Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published New Hope International]