These bastions of hope
Hunkered hulls
Iron wrought girders-tentative tendrils of tortured souls
Granite greying lies portraying
Sandstone hewn and lives pervading
Rugged landscape molten measures
Of love and labour and dreams unfettered.
Firth of Forth,
Sunshine on Leith
Grotesque, glib, grand
Bastions of strength, courage and hope hide beneath.
©Alison Jean Hankinson.
I am submitting this for open link night at d’Verse.
I took a short break from writing as it was important to regroup, reflect and re-energise. I return now for the onset of spring hopefully refreshed and rejuvenated.
It seems as if the world has gone mad in recent months, and I am not sure that at 51 my life has followed the path that seemed inevitable or appropriate. I do know that at 51 in the UK wisdom and experience count for very little in the current cut and thrust of an austere economic climate. I find myself overqualified and overlooked for less complex jobs and career options and “too expensive” in my own line of work. We were led to believe that if we worked hard and demonstrated dedication loyalty and good work ethic it would lead to justified rewards this appears not to be the case after the age of 50.
Anyway enough whingeing. I must cart on. I must continue to believe that somewhere someone will give me a break and continue to be thankful for the understanding and support of my two current employers for giving me the opportunity to contribute in a productive and meaningful way.
I did need to take a break though, and I have done jigsaw puzzles, walked briskly, read a book, played scrabble and gone for a winter wander in our little caravan. I return to find the crocuses blossoming and the fresh scent of spring on the doorstep. Life continues to astound in its ability to restore order through and after chaos. There is a natural order that somehow continues to exist, first there are the snowdrops, then the daffodils and crocuses, soon it will be the cherry blossom and the tulips.
Onward and upward. Tally-ho.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
It was a turbulent week just like the weather. We saw the wolf moon shining bright in the New Year sky and it brought tidal wrath to the coastline. There were forecast to be High tides and they arrived at the same time as storm Eleanor. Around Cumbria and the Furness peninsula storm surge brought debris and made some of the roads impassable.
As we return to work and tried to re-establish the pre-Christmas normalcy in patterns of life and leisure we know with certainty that we are walking forwards into a turbulent future likely to match the week and mayhem of the wonderful wolf moon. Two supermoons this month, I wonder what the next one will bring.
High tide storm rising
Whispers of windswept dreams fly
New Year, wolf moon chides.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for d’Verse haibun monday.
Whilst I am here this is the wonderful d’Verse anthology that has recently been published and is available to purchase on Amazon.
This is a collaborative project between the dVerse poets and dVerse team. Over 100 poets from around the world contributed to this anthology. We selected not only the best poems but also those poems that take the reader through a journey from the darkest places to the brightest. From the deepest sorrow into happiness and love. From the darkest streets to woods in spring. Come enjoy our journey.
Now available at Amazon North America and Amazon Europe.
Her graceful gesture
Now complete
He held her hand close-by.
She gave with love
Her life complete
His lifeless slumber nigh.
The slightest smile
That settled faintly on his face
The truth of love descried.
She caressed his hand
And kissed his lips
Before his final sigh.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for d’Verse poetics where we are contemplating grace.
From stability and steadfast surety,
We left for uncharted waters
Certain that resilience, faith and hope
Would enable us to endure
And weather uncertainties, brave challenges and more
It turned out to be a leap of faith
And fearsome obstacles lurked behind every door.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for the first quadrille of the year at d’Verse. The leap was last year and I am hoping that this year we will be able to get a stronger foothold on this side…regroup consolidate…build…grow….heal….With love to you this New Year. Namaste.
On the one level
it was a tango fandango.
A pink flamingo
a daring dance of dating
in the early throes of spring.
Shrill trumpet rising
sounds of Chuck Mangione
staccato toccata- reminiscent of Children of Sanchez
Conspiring to court Consuelo’s love
With a pink flamingo face.
One legged lover
with snazzy syncopated rhythm
with a strut to the left olé
and a strut to the right olé
strum that walking bass.
© Alison Jean Hankinson
Things have been out of kilter this month and hence I am a little behind in things.
For d’Verse….
This is Tuesday’s poetics prompt that I didn’t finish….merging with meeting at the bar- and all that jazz….incidentally I think pink flamingoes merge well with jazz…
Links to Chuck..
The image is from Wikipedia and has creative commons licence:
File: James’s Flamingo mating ritual.jpg
http://www.flickr.com/people/pedrosz/
by Pedros Szekely,
Here it is- (I’m sorry- I tried)
The moment of realisation
That we didn’t make it big.
But on a day like today, I count my blessings,
It is good to be alive and thrive inside
in spite of the complexities of life.
Why worry? Why ruminate
On what could have been,
When we can celebrate the beauty and the bounty of all that we behold.
With fragile threads we weave our stories
Try to fasten our futures on to what we hold dear
We take so much for granted, and we often fear
The void, the loss, the loneliness, the finite ending.
We should instead let our spirits soar and hold this beautiful moment
In our memory for eternity.
© Alison Jean Hankinson
I wanted to use this for OLN at d’Verse as it is something I need to remind myself about. The sunset tonight was simply magnificent and no matter how complex and difficult life is there is still much to be thankful for. Perhaps this year that is what I shall have as my resolution “Let our spirits soar.”
In NZ the native owl is the Morepork and this is the sound of its call- Morepork. We have always loved owls as a family it is perhaps their mysticism or perhaps their association with wisdom. My viewings have been limited to those in captivity but my ears are attuned to their call both at home and in NZ. We had several lived in our backyard bush on Mount Tiger and I would fall asleep listening to their calls most nights, it was as familiar as the sound of the cicadas in summer, but here it was during half term when we were caravanning in Cheshire amidst the trees not far from Arley estate that I heard the familiar sound.
This Saturday I had to get the train to London very early in the morning, 5.30am, before it was light to represent our research project at the Rethink annual conference. As we parked the car at the station I heard the call of a lone owl.
Early morning mist
Lone owl calls- winter darkness
Train leaves the station.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for d’Verse haibun monday, where we were asked to consider owls.
The images are all my own.
If I could turn back the clock and revisit the years
The worry and fears would feature less in our lives
I would hold your hand tightly and cherish the tears
I would be kinder, argue less, smile more and realise
That the memories and moments and having you near
Are worth more than ever as ever-swiftly time flies.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is my contribution to the birthday open link night at d’Verse. I am a November birthday. This is about my children, especially my firstborn twin, who is a long way from home and is bravely making her way in the world with no family at her side. When I look back at all the moments I wish there had been more time not less.
The town hall clock, hands of time
Counting the minutes, measuring the moments
Of our paltry lives.
We don’t look up enough
Sometimes we don’t see beyond our own story
Yet still the hands move round.
That same clock struck 11, sixteen years ago.
Same minute, same location, same season.
The leaves fell to the ground in remembrance.
Synchronicity in those hands
You were so small then in your red coat.
Time stood still for that one moment.
I captured your essence in early digital perfection.
The father, the child, the moment
Beneath the town hall clock, the hands that never stop.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for d’Verse. It is my ode to the town hall clock which seems visible from just about everywhere in Lancaster. The theme and timing is appropriate as it will be Remembrance weekend. The feature image was taken after the service in 2001 where ironically my husband was in the remembrance parade before he became a veteran of war.
Hues of Hankinson 