Category: poems

The legacy.

One day this will all be yours my son

When my bones are wearied and my work is done

Until that day I will share with thee

All my wordly goods and hospitality.

 

I looked across the garden lawn

Each rock and boulder, each tree and flower forlorn

Planted and placed by this loving pair

With whom I had been fortunate my life to share.

 

She had passed away in early Spring

A moonless night she earned her wings

His saddened eyes then lost their light

She had been his diamond bright.

 

He carried on though his despair was clear

Determined to spend more time with those he held dear

With his estranged family he made his peace

He shared his stories of the past and his frustrations ceased.

 

The autumn came the nights were cold

His desire to die took a stronger hold.

The clock stopped at ten past three

For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for Day 9 of Napowrimo

 

 

 

Basking in the boundless light of thy bitter love.

Be still my beating heart

In this boundless light I bask

In his bountiful love I bear witness

I wear love’s malleable mask.

 

Be still my beating heart

For fear of battles feigned in vain

And swordsman on his shining steed

Did my fragile heart reclaim.

 

Be still my beating heart

For he doth love another

And all the magic in the world

Will not ease my slumber.

 

Be still my beating heart

I must hide my shame and guilt

Give me strength grace and fortitude

And let my broken dreams be rebuilt.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for napowrimo Day 8, the prompt was to write in the spirit of Shelley, which was perhaps a bit challenging at 7am, anyway this is as much in the spirit of Shelley as I can muster.

The image is of St George…I imagine this to be the fair damsel in distress once the rose petals have faded.

It was in the public domain on wikimedia-  attributed to circle of Lucas Cranach the Elder [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

A mother on raising sons.

My first was stillborn,

My cries carried across the fields on the cusp of a winter storm

The snow lay thick on the ground,

I lay like a mewling ewe and cradled her in my arms

Before the long walk home.

 

There were others, each swelling of my belly a signal of his pervasive masculinity.

Three brothers followed by a changeling child and so we were cast aside forced to live as outcasts

I moved boulders and stones and tilled the soil, back-breaking into the dead of night

A bairn on my back and another one snug as a bug deep inside.

He couldn’t feel my pain.

 

One by one they all moved on, they wearied at our laborious life

They found themselves new families and took themselves a wife

And I was left behind, old hag with sagging breasts

No milk to nursefeed bairns on winter nights

No place for my wearied bones to rest.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for imaginary garden with real toads where we were invited to write in the voice of another.

Beneath the skin- The raw.

Haemorraghing hatred and fear

Poison oozing out through every microscopic pore

Spilling forth with septic spores of mistrust and malevolence.

I know not this place where I find myself.

 

I wish I had a rose for every time you spoke my name

The world would be a mesmerising memorial to you.

I catch my image in the mirror and see you have left all the hallmarks of your own life and loves upon my face, they are etched deep beneath the skin.

Sometimes I lose myself and see only you.

And I am faceless and forlorn.

I know not this place where I find myself.

 

There was a summer, a sea breeze,

A silent longing for a solitary moment of the life that was before.

These shores have weathered fierce and tumultuous tides

And now the pain recedes

And I am left awash with grief.

The hollow dreams, the futile hopes, the empty promises.

And I know not this place where I find myself.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

This is my offering for d’Verse open link night. The photo is my own, the white rose symbolises new beginnings and also remembrance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manchester-moments and musings on the Lancashire cotton mills and the cotton famine. 1862.

These red bricks, these tall chimneys,

Coloured by their blood, shaped by the hands of their children

Carried on their rugged shoulders and working class calves.

We don’t look up enough, we don’t marvel at what they gave us.

These edifices echo with their pain and suffering

Voices of our forefathers, sinewed souls of our ancestors

They built their empires in cotton and coal so that we could enjoy

The fruits of their labours and be forever known as the workshop of the world.

 

Salford, Stalybridge, Manchester, Blackburn, Wigan-working that weft

Darwen, Accrington, Chorley, Preston, winding that bobbin up.

And the roll call falters, unemployment, hunger, desperation, and impoverishment

They stood together arm in arm, hand in hand, through protest and starvation,

To demonstrate their love and pride for another brother in another place.

We should stand tall for we stand on the shoulders of giants

They gave us humility, compassion, work ethic and pride.

True northern spirit and true northern soul.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

Featured image from the public domain labelled for reuse. Horrockses Cotton Mill Preston.

Other images are my own.

This journey into the cotton famine was a soulful journey and I am very proud of the stance taken by the Lancashire millworkers and the sacrifices they made. We were encouraged to look at soul for poetics at d’Verse. 

I have edited this and made some changes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The legacy of a superhero.

Hopes and dreams like ripples across the water,

The moon casts it light surreal across the surface.

An abundance of voices remember and connect.

Your existence and your inner beauty left a shadow on my life

You reach beyond the grave and you continue to create your magic

Through my footfalls and my hands.

And through the light that continues to shine in the eyes of all those whom you touched.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

We had a prompt on d’Verse and it was about “super” and of course I think our lives and pasts are actually littered with so many superheroes and I think they leave a living legacy in that they touch our lives and change who we are and what we become.

I learned about the heroes of the cotton famine this week, and it made me proud of my ancestors, we stand on the shoulders of giants, and it is sad to say goodbye to Prof Hawking who has been a true superhero to so many. This poem was written about Princess Diana. The images at the bottom relate to the heroes of the Cotton Famine the Lancashire Cotton Mill workers.

The image of Diana was from the public domain and able to be reproduced.

My own flock of birds…

Here they silently speak my language

Share my passion for puns

Take pride in a past that is a portrait

Of my heritage and the story of my blood.

 

Here I belong

The names of the rivers and valleys and mountains

Are etched as clearly in my mind as the rugged landscapes

That call out my name on wild and windy mornings

and stir my restless spirit from its slumbers.

 

Irwell, Ribble, Eden, Lune

Here the waters wash away my whispers

Pendle, Cribden, Criffel, Shap

Here the shale and slate smooths away my fears.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse poetics.

 

 

 

 

Burning bridges.

The salmon pink sky

The smell of spring lingers

Snow high up on the fells

If I burned my bridges

By coming home…

 

I gained new ground

Garnered new worths

And accept the light shining forth

Is different to the light that I imagined.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse quadrille and we were asked to consider burn.

 

 

Beer-tinted glasses.

He was only happy when knocking back the beers at the bar,

His raucous laughter would peal though the open windows of the snug in the pub,

He was everybody’s hero and everybody’s friend and everybody loved him.

 

 

Until he made it home, up the garden path

The key would turn in the lock of the old wooden door.

Behind closed doors through beer-tinted glasses he was everybody’s fiend.

 

 

His temper flared, his anger rising like bile from below his belt

Buckle undone he would wield his weapon and exert his ire

Until the sun rose and the dulcet tones of the dawn chorus could be heard.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson.

 

Meeting at the bar tonight for d’Verse and we were asked to explore the demon drink. This is my offering.

 

Moo Indigo-the ballad of Doris and Flo.

We are the trailer cows

Feel free to have a browse

It’s so fine to have you near.

 

Whenever you are feeling low

Take a breath real slow

And know we are here to cheer.

 

We munch and chew our cud

Wherever we are stood

We have no worries or fear.

 

We like it by the trailer

From here we can see who mailed ya

And our presence brings you here.

 

We like to swish and moo

We’ll always make room for you

Just don’t stand too near our rear.

 

Moove over Duke-love from Doris and Flo…

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is intended to be fun. It was written for d’Verse poetics and inspired by the beautiful and emotive photography by Sharon Knight. This image was entitled Trailer Cows and was from https://sunearthsky.com/

We were given permission to borrow the images.

I liked all the images and would have enjoyed writing about many of them but this one captured my imagination the most. I was taken by the two cows, whom I named Doris and Flo.