THE HEAD:

I dug this clay with my hands, from deep within the earth,

Now I await watching & wondering, to what it´ll give birth,

I look longingly at the clay & the clay looks longingly at me,

A shapeless lump of dark red clay is all that I can really see.

I wet my hands & run them over the dark red & waiting clay,

I lift it up & I throw it down, but all it does is sit still & stays,

I thump, I pinch, I squeeze, I mould, I pat, I slap & also knead,

 The clay just sits quietly still on the table & pays me no heed.

With no plan, no thought within my tired & confused old head,

I rub & massage the clay, instead of heading towards my bed,

The clay starts getting softer & warmer, the more I feel & touch,

The clay & I start to yield as one & we both begin to relax so much.

I am still unsure & still not knowing the way I want my clay to go,

I still don´t know how this dark red lump of clay will form & grow,

And yet, all night I pound, I knead, I tickle & I gently, softly mould,

The dark red sticky clay, between my fingers, feels warm, wise, old.

I realize as the cold night slowly goes, passes & into dawn advances,

It´s the clay moulding me & I know that there are no second chances,

As the day dawned, we became one, flesh & clay, the new day & I,

Breathing in life, we both, together with breath & a life-giving sigh.

As the dawn slowly cracks the morning in the far Eastern rosy sky,

I look down at my red lump of clay, now a face with a tear in its eye,

There is a tear too running down my own old & tired, furrowed face,

And where the lump of clay once lay, there is now a head in its place.

I notice that the old lump of clay is the face of my father, now long gone,

He smiled at me from his moulded clay lips, as the golden sunshine shone,

I put the smiling head in the window, for it to greet the sun & facing east,

Happy to have my own father back, even if it is only in clay at the very least.

LINGERIE:

The innocent purity of sweet camisole in cream soft lace,

In broderie-anglaise & crisp white cotton for virginal face,

The becoming of a woman, with those new budding breasts,

Leaving behind those itchy, grey & very dull school-girl vests.

The buddings bloom & soon become those sweet pink roses,

Kissed with transparent lips of cyan, lilacs & pale primroses,

Cami-knickers in watered satin, dainty lace & soft French silk,

Caressing inside thighs, as soft as the cream of moonlight milk.

Corsets beribboned, stays & frilly brassiers in cups of A, B & C´s,

Fishnets, bows, zips & butterflies, negligees that titillate & tease,

Black transparent stockings & those with the silky line up the back,

Leading to heaven´s door & for fumbling hands, mapping the track.

Cheeky little suspenders that chatter, slap, click & eventually snap,

Push up bras, the filled in, the low-cut & also the ones with no strap,

The garters, warm, inviting & shown, then ripped off & casually tossed,

The crystal, scarlet, & black, the plain, the embroidered & embossed.

Time goes & spreads, as does the belly, thighs & those crawling hips,

The elastic loosens & soon it all loses it hold & lets go of its iron grip,

And our lingerie morphs into sad beige bloomers down to the knees,

Pulled up over thick old tights to keep out fingers & the icy cold freeze.

And as we spend our last days rocking away in our old rocking chair,

We remember way back to those long lost days, to our very first pair,

Of those sensuous silken stockings, those ones embracing the thigh,

And in our decline we curse our old age & softly, sadly & wistfully sigh.

THE FORGOTTEN ONES:

They sit hunched up, in neat rows in front of the old television,

Without hearing, not listening & many without even any vision,

Wreathed in bony old wrinkles, bedroom slippers & old grey wool,

With Zimmer frames, sticks & wheelchairs, they either push or pull.

“My son´s a banker”, says an old lady with glowing unconcealed pride,

Another one says, “My granddaughter is going to be a beautiful bride”,

“My son is rich & he says that he is soon coming here to take me out”,

They all show off, they all compare & share their families & they all tout.

Between meds & meals of mush & salt less, fatless pap, they sit & wait,

Awaiting visiting times, the weekends, birthdays, Yule & any special date,

Awaiting the letter, the card, the invitation, the “Hello Dad, Hello Mum”,

But they sit & wait, in neat rows in front of the television & nothing comes.

Errant daughters, careless grandchildren, the forgetting, forgetful sons,

Busy families, with businesses, social lives & homes of their own to run,

Forgetting their old parents, old folk now hidden from view, locked away,

Those old ones, those forgotten ones, now they are there to wait, to stay.

They were once the carers of those who now do not care & do not come,

They were once the ones, to whom their loved ones would come & run,

They were once the ones, who cared & loved a lot without any exception,

And now they are the ones who are left alone & waiting in sad rejection.

But whatever goes by, they still sit & wait, expectantly watching the door,

Listening for those familiar warm footsteps crossing the cold echoing floor,

Convincing themselves & the others around them, that they´re not really alone,

“My son, my daughter, my grandchildren; are coming soon to take me back home”.

LAUGHTER:

The hills gaily rang out with laughter, on the day of her joyous birth,

Welcoming the child to her new home, this happy place called earth,

The valleys resounded with the pealing of some very contented bells,

And one could hear the deep chuckling of the celebrating magic wells.

The child grew running & laughing, with the fields & lavender mountains,

And her giggling could be heard in the droplets of rivers & icy fountains,

She laughed at the wind, teasing & tugging at her windswept raven hair,

She laughed so loud with the tears of rain, until the grey day turned fair.

She grew with the beasts & birds & guffawed at their funny antics & fun,

She ran barefooted through the lilac heather & lovingly embraced the sun,

She smiled with the laughter of nodding wrens & sang with the lemony bees,

And her echoing laughter was carried off in the arms of the billowing breeze.

If she wept at all, it was with tears of joy, running down her dewy rosy cheek,

 Never with sadness & always with laughter, the joyful mirth leaving her weak,

In the deep cold of winter, she howled with the wolves of the old silvery moon,

And together, through the forests they laughed, predicting the coming of June.

She´d witter at the witticisms of winsome, wily & the often wind-fallen wasps,

And together they would giggle & laugh, being to the world, totally, utterly lost,

With the birds, the butterflies, the flocks, prides & the wandering wild free herds,

She´d laugh with every one, with all & echoing through the hills her voice was heard.

The day came when she had to return, to where she called her “original home”,

The world chuckled & giggled & shook with laughter, in every conceivable tone,

No tears were shed that day for her happy spirit, known as the little laughing one,

For upon the lips of the earth she´d left bestowed, the gift of the happy laughing sun.

DANCE WITH ME DADDY?

She´d lie in bed & hear the old cranked gramophone playing,

On creeping down the stairs, she´d watch them softly swaying,

Daddy held mummy & danced her around with such tender love,

To romantic tunes, swirling off the walls & onto the ceilings above.

Then one day the angels came & danced her mummy off & far away,

The soft music stopped at night & along the walls it no longer swayed,

The halls fell silent & at night all alone, into her pillow, she quietly wept,

While listening to her daddy pacing the floors, now he never ever slept.

One night through her tears, she heard the swirling music playing again,

And she thought her mummy had returned to take away her teary pain,

But on peeping, saw it was just her daddy dancing with empty embrace,

With a tear running down his stubbly, lovely, but so sad & furrowed face.

Slowly she crept into the music-swirled room, but of her, he wasn’t aware,

She hesitated getting close, she twiddled her hair & she just stood & stared,

“Dance with me daddy?”, pleaded her tiny little voice, sounding lost & alarmed,

And daddy bent to his daughter & danced her to the moon in his aching arms.

He danced with his little daughter until his grief finally left & flew far away,

He never stopped & he danced her all the way through to her graduation day,

“Dance with me daddy?”, she asked him, dressed in lace, the day that she wed,

And happy in the arms of her daddy, she danced all night while the old man led.

Years flew by & with the old gramophone, she taught her children to dance,

She aged too, as swiftly old father time came knocking & the years advanced,

Her daddy grew old & grey before her eyes & in his final winter of frozen frost,

She realized, that all memories within his mind, had flown & were now finally lost.

“Dance with me daddy?”, she asked, cranking up the old familiar gramophone,

And she gently took her old daddy in her arms & danced him softly back home,

To that place in the past, where she was that tiny, lonely frightened little child,

Upon daddy´s face, distant memory danced together with the glimmer of his smile.