Tag: poetry

October Ombre

October ombre- Autumn’s hue

Halloween pumpkins and gourds adorn dank doorsteps

Milky early morning mist. In the air-a crisp clean chill

Abundance of Fall apples falling to the leaf-carpeted floor,

Russet leaves of the Japanese maple, October ombre, Autumn’s hue.

Coffee, chocolate, cinnamon and nutmeg aromas wafting through the alley

Mixed with mildew and scent of leaves rotting, sweetly pungent against the early morning dew

Woodsmoke, whispers of the winter ahead billows from suburban chimney pots

As my faltering footsteps softly crunch the leafy path anew

Stagnant stench of acrid coke smoke, chokes

October ombre- Autumn’s hue.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This was for the d’Verse challenge to write a poem about Autumn in the Fold style, which is new to me, and I had a go, but not quite sure I really did it right.

A Sliver Of Courage.

In a very small moment,

right before the crack of dawn,

I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I saw a sliver of courage,

a small glint of steel in a hopeful eye

and knew that everything would be

just as it should.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

Hello to Kim, it is a long time since I have done this, so it took a sliver of courage.

For D’Verse

The west wind…

I heard a whisper across the water

It told of a world where there were wonderous opportunities and all were welcome

Where freedom was valued and compassion was at the core of civilised communities.

 

A whisper carried by a westerly wind washing the waves across the sand-banks

Calling me home, I longed to drift with it, I yearned for its whisper to be true

For it to wrap me in its comforting promises and relieve me from the pain and suffering of the moment in which I live.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

Day 15 Napowrimo

I don’t know if this poem is finished….perhaps it is an unfinished poem.

 

The Poem speaks…..

I exist because you thought me

And I clamoured for my voice to be heard

For my energy to explode across the meaningful void of silence that exists between our worlds.

 

I dance between our worlds

I bring life to the lifeless, lyrics to the song, enchantment to the disillusioned

I am magical mystical moments that separate reality and dullness from freedom and spirit.

 

I lift the conscious to a greater sense of awareness

I create a depth stronger than the deep-rooted foundations on which you build your windiest cities.

I am lighter than air, a whim, a wish, a wistful glance into a wearied past,

A foray into a frozen forest of feelings that no-one else dare explore.

 

You give me breath and life and send me reluctantly skittering into a world of startling sterility.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse meeting at the bar where we were asked to consider ars poetica which I think is the art of poetry. I guess I tried to see what it was like being a poem.

From cargoes to wasteland.

The first poem that ever really grabbed me was Cargoes by John Masefield, I was about 7 years old. I think my dad could recite it off by heart and it sounded so delicious, the words were so lyrical and dripped off the page like honey and then there was the dirty British coaster and it made me so proud to be a northerner, whilst we didn’t have the opulence of the Orient, we played an important role in the world. This was when I started to write poetry but I struggled for a while as I preferred to write poems that didn’t rhyme and I didn’t know anything about structure either and had no-one to teach me.

As a teen I moved into the realms of The Wasteland and had a wonderful teacher who made the Thames maidens come alive- I can still hear the Weialala leia- and loved the references and the voices, the languages, and the tempo and timbre changes. I discovered Sylvia Plath and devoured Ted Hughes, he lived in Heptonstall for a while and I used to play there at the whit walks with the Brass Band and walk down the steep cobblestones playing my trombone. Then I stopped writing and only really started again in November 2016 as my 50th birthday present to myself, and I discovered d’Verse. I love the challenge and the words and the learning and the community. It has been a wonderful voyage of rediscovery and I love giving a voice to the past, then the stories can live on.

Winter storm

We take to the road

Spring’s adrift.

©Alison jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse where we have been asked by Toni to explore where our inner poet was inspired and nurtured.

 

Water-lilies.

Lilies fragile and fragrant

Nymphs at the water’s edge

We danced daringly amidst the emerald damselflies

Bathed bashfully beneath the Buckwheat moon

Love smouldered and we stole each other’s hearts

Pleading troths of love and intimacy for eternity.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

Photo own- this month’s Buckwheat Moon. Submitted for Toads Tuesday platform.P1050371

Game Over.

Worthlessness wins

Nauseating numbness

Dreams diminish and die

Silent sorrows surface

Regret rising like a rancid tide.

 

Regret rising like a rancid tide

Silent sorrows surface

Dreams diminish and die

Nauseating numbness

Worthlessness wins.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

A palindrome poem. This was my first attempt at a Palindrome poem the other week. I was at a low ebb, things had been a little complicated. I thought I would submit it for the open link night at d’Verse.

 

Fancy Perfume and Twirling Ribbons

Poems can ring, rise upon sun and moon

or bring momentum to an errant flame.

Maybe it falls face first, mangled too soon

its sound wailing against the sting of rain.

 

Dawn will singe your senses, set them all free

perform song and acrobatic dances

cry out in celebration, yours to see

Rhymes scatter silently like forgotten fancies.

 

The wilderness rings bright with poetic voices

Sublime and reverent sounds echo through the trees

Words of wonderment and great rejoices

Poetic dreams elope on shifting breeze.

Ideas and thoughts float light as a feather

Our words will often weave them lovingly together.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

This is a shared piece of poetry in response to Jilly’s July Challenge.

Click here to read the details on how you can participate in Jilly’s July Challenge.

I didn’t manage the anagram bit…but I did complete the sonnet that was begun by colourfulpen.

Sorry I didn’t manage the anagram bit.

 

Storm clouds gather over Heysham Head.

 

Against the backdrop of the sea

My love for you rises with the tide

No plain nor perfect place I would rather be

With my time-worn soulmate at my side.

 

Sunset over Lakeland Hills

Windmills as far as the eye can see

Hand in hand we walk the sands

No plain nor perfect place I would rather be.

 

Storm clouds on the horizon

Wind blows strong across the land

Sudden wind chill makes us shiver

Hand in hand we walk the sands.

 

We head for home across the Head

In the Church ruins shelter and hide

Against the backdrop of the sea

My love for you rises with the tide.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

Submitting this for open link night. At d’Verse.

Salford Pals

 

I have spent a considerable amount of time this weekend rebuilding the lives of my paternal Great-grandfather John Henry Mcclenan( McLanaghan) and my Great grandmother- his wife Frances Taylor/Skinner. It is a fascinating story of friendship, war, battles and lives lost, and love rising like a phoenix from the ashes to build what was to become a large and strong family. John Henry and his best friend George Skinner were to fight in the Boer War, George was killed and John Henry injured in the hip and returned to Salford to convalesce. On recovering he went to see George’s wife of 4 months Frances Skinner and over time they fell in love and were married on 14 December 1901.

Frances was 27 by this time but they went on to have 8 children, one of whom was my Grandfather Frank born in 1911(the one on the horse), and although getting on in years John Henry served with the Salford Pals 15th regiment from 1914-18, surviving a number of key battles including the Somme in 1916 and the siege of Thiepval July 1st 1916 and was awarded a number of medals. Frances and John’s fourth child was a daughter Hilda and her Great Grandson Christopher Finney went on to earn the George Cross for bravery in the Iraq war 2003. I think great things came from the broken fragments of John Henry’s Boer war broken-ness. He passed away in 1926 from amongst other things TB in the injured hip. I might not have fully complied with nature- but maybe war counts as the impact of human nature…

Bleak Boer War battle

John Henry lost George Skinner

Frail Fall brought Frances.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

For d”verse our challenge is to write about finding beauty in the broken pieces or imperfection and/or the process of mending the broken pieces.- kintsugi. A “broken” object, cityscape or landscape, or personal experience of mending and embracing imperfections. Kintsugi means “golden rejoining,” and refers to the Zen philosophy of acknowleding flaws, embracing change, and restoring an object with a newfound beauty.