Year of the Dragon

Firstly, may I say G’day from Western Australia! I haven’t been on here because life and family have been my focus so I do apologise… Hope this finds you all well – Happy New Year too! Thought I’d make up by posting a late Valentine’s Day greeting to you all which contains a new poem…

2024: Happy Valentine’s Day, may you be surrounded by love… just like I am. We spent the afternoon at Sir Charles Gardiner Hospital getting the results of Paudie’s current MRI. As is my want, while waiting for an appointment, I wrote a poem. To celebrate the ALL CLEAR result and because it’s Valentine’s Day, we had a lovely Indian buffet at Koh I Noor Restaurant in Padbury.

Year of the Dragon.

Found a Red Envelope next to my morning tea…
It’s Chinese New Year but also Valentine’s Day.
Traditionally, one contains money, the other love
far more valuable…

My routine cup of sugerless tea brewed by hubby,
is in a ‘Nan’s Biggest Fan’ mug given by my grandies,
and matches gold on the card adorned with Red roses
from my Valentine…

My grandchildren will open their Chinese envelopes
with equal anticipation. One would save – the other
splurge. I do both; savour the beautiful words and try
to reply in kind…

Our hug is full of 22 years of caring – sharing our lives
together. The beige liquid swirles in circles recently
stirred, echoing our everyday routines like a cup to
gently wake me up…

His hug at the airport all those years before, after
28 years apart told me everything I needed to know
then. Trust the love, surrender to his arms, believe
Cupid hit his mark…

No matter what the future holds, we will step forward
still exploring the possibilies of each Valentine’s Day .
After all, it’s the Chinese Year of the Dragon and
I am a dragon…

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2024

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Poetic Sounds

1974: When we were young…

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POEM: Before you…

FMF Art © 2011

An extract from my next poetry collection: ‘Exploring Possibilities’.

 

Before you returned, I slept in a bed

without creases.  Only pulled up the sheets

to straighten.  Now I love my wrinkles. 

Today following signs to Yield in Ireland,

I’m used to an Aussie Give Way while 

I put on red lipstick, tell you stories

of Africa when we were both young

 

and watch my words seduce you again.

You remember  young Chianti; full

round ruby red, peppered with berries. 

I remember a Hotel in Kitwe – Blue Nun. 

You say your taste has matured, you now

prefer an Aussie Shiraz; sharp, punchy,

still youthful – allowed to ripen with time.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

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The Light on the Stairs

A beautiful poem by Silver Spun Sand, otherwise known as Tina, on ABC Tales.

http://www.abctales.com/story/silver-spun-sand/light-stairs#comment-652487

 

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Senses

Senses

hear

tender words
questions answers
your current reality

see

furtive glance
visual dance
clever hands and fingers

touch

tentative press
to shy flesh
still clothed in other loves

smell

breathe you in
where’ve you been
through all my loves and life

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2007

From my book “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey” published in Cork, Ireland, 2003

 

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Husbands, Divorce, 30 Years on…

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Trust…No Love…Love.

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GUEST POEM: Bit by Bit.

Photo Source here.

Marisa Wikramanayake  : “I’m a journalist, a writer and an editor. Well, actually, I write novels and attempt to survive doing so by having adventures and being a journalist and an editor.”

Take a look at her website where, among many interesting postings, most recently she has started doing videologs in support of Australian Women Writers.  I’ve just watched Robin Bowers’ interview.

This poem was posted on Facebook today and I loved it. (Naturally, I asked permission to post it here.)

Were you to break me down into my constituent parts,
Bit by bit,
Build me back up again with IKEA instructions but perfectly,
(I will give you an Allen key),
With each Lego piece in its spot,
Bit by bit,
There would be no place for love.

Oh, there would be a tinkertoy space here, some engine that whirled around,
That makes me good at all the grand gestures,
That would let me let you go if you were happier without me,
Without me blinking,
Because you are made of flesh and nerve endings that will hurt,
But I am made of blocks that can be broken down and rebuilt,
Bit by bit.
So I can withstand it.

But there is the space you would find surrounded by the Fabuland set,
That would be that space that doesn’t quite work,
Perhaps they discontinued that line a long time ago,
Bit by bit,
But it’s the space that makes me wake you,
At three am because I want to talk,
Makes me since I am a brick,
Quite selfish and quite thick,
No good at the small important everyday love,
Ever feeling that my part in any duo would not be enough,
It’s the space that will make me leave you behind,
While I chase things that intrigue my mind,
Where I will stand wondering why I am not the one to be in your part when I know how a gendered romance should go,
That openly states when and how I feel,
Because no one who hears believes it’s real.
It’s the space in me that makes me stubborn,
Want to break down your walls and lay you open.
Bit by bit,
To dissect you, pull you apart so I know how you work,
So I can love you the way you deserve.

And you deserve different, flesh and blood with nerve endings and all,
Not something, half real, built of bricks prone to break apart and fall.
I have built myself up to work like a machine.
Over the years,
Bit by bit,
For maternal, fraternal love,
For grand gestures because I can’t protect you enough,
But not at all adequately for the small love on which you’re keen.

– Marisa Wikramanayake, (c) 2015

 

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POEM: Beach Babe

 

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#Romance

 

 

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POEM: All Washed Up

All Washed Up

 

Two rubber gloves hang discarded

Cling to the plate rack of pine

Empty and turned to the tiles

Waiting for a water ball

 

Two rubber gloves hang discarded

No purpose for us to observe

Sadly exhibiting usage both

Hear the dishwasher call

 

Two rubber gloves hang discarded

Colours faded and fingers worn

One springs a hole in the thumb

Its partner hears the bin fall

 

One rubber glove hangs discarded

Pale and lonely for its pigeon pair

Lost in the drain of life’s chaos

Single; no purpose at all

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2006

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