Poetry

Storm House

Stormhouse edit

Storm House
It stands alone in wind and weather
Hard fast against the roaring storm
Hard edged through winter’s gales
It dreams of ancestors long gone
Who warmed those ancient walls
Kept dry with hearthstone fires
Through snowstorm, hailstone,
Winter bleak-light. Dimpsy half light,
‘Til sun turns round the year light
When sap snaps the icy fronds
Then buds do burst break through
The closed up dusty window panes
And summer paints those walls and doors
In yellows, greens, of flowerbed hues.

Painting and poem by Hazel Brown 

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Hetty The Hanger On

Hetty the hanger on Dec 2017

I’m Hetty the Hanger On
Strung up here
Willing dinner to come
Held from suspended state
In interminable wait
I’m Hetty the Hanger On

As you can see (or can’t see) I’m quite tiny
Sat anywhere but here
You wouldn’t find me
I’m Hetty the Hanger On
Ultra neat and impeccably tidy
Whiling my hours away rather slyly

Hung from the end of my tether
I can hold this pause
For as long, well, as long as whenever
Coz I’m Hetty the Hanger On
My forbearance stretches
Out for forever

I stay silent, imperturbably still
My movement is perfectly nil
I’m Hetty the Hanger On
My will to restrain
From this doors window pain
Is an agonized slow motioned thrill

I revel in monotonous glum
I love to play dead and act dumb
I never feel tedious bored
For with web tightly spun
My trapdoor is sprung
I’m Hetty the Hanger On

Kitchen door spider 4 Dec 2017

I exist to entangle entwine
My patience effortless, sublime
Applying iotas of pressure
For unpleasant pleasure
I’m Hetty the Hanger On

A killjoy suppressor
From minute morsels I dine
I’m Hetty the Hanger On
I negate endeavour
I negative time
My motive malign
For crawly creep crime

With endurance exemplary
I intense intentionally
An alarming arachnid
Pulling strings as expected
Mites must succumb my way eventually
All my window pain worth it
For I’m Hetty the Hanger On

And I’m having such
Ad infinitums of fun!

Poem & Pictures: Ian Nisbet

Kitchen door spider 3 Dec 2017

A Norfolk Now

Sunset landscape edit.JPG

Where BE we?
We not BE in Devon
Too flat.
Devon all green bumps of burps.

When BE we?
BE bout now
When this is OK
A Winter insert.

How BE we?
We BE quite inert.
Squintin thro lines that lurk.

Who BE we?
We BE up this tree
Undisturbed
Quiet and unheard.

Too hidden for words.

Two tired little birds.

Drawing: Hazel Brown; Words: Ian Nisbet.

Storm Brian

Storm Brian edit

Blown and Blustered!
Gusted and Fustered
With temperamental Fluster!
It has whined and its howled
Like tormented Fowls!
Whipped up the trees, shaken their leaves
And Dizzeyed the Bees!
The birds have all flown to a much safer home!

Waves crash and smash on the
Old Harbour walls.
Ships strain their ropes, whilst the
Fishermen’s hopes of taking out boats
Are all dashed and postponed…..’til…..
Old Brian is spent and these storms are soon rent
And Autumn’s warm Sun is content.

– Poem & Words: Hazel Brown

My Garden Birds

Back Garden Birds edit

The Blackbird, the Dunnock and the little Blackcap
All share the green lawn out in the back
Garden with stonewalls, bushes and bluebells,
Jasmine, Camelias , with bountiful Wisterias..
Robins and Magpies, quarrelling  Jackdaws…all
Peck and snatch the bread and the seed
‘Til a  Squadron of Seagulls devours all the feed!

 – Illustration & Poem: Hazel Brown

The Good Pud Day

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
– Mary Oliver

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The Good Pud Day

Who made the whorl?
Who made the toast, and the tea cake?
Who made the please pudding?
This please pudding, I mean –
the one that has pleased itself onto my plate,
the one that is forking “like-me” into my mouth,
that is wobbling me fat and forth instead of tight and slim –
that is cream crimed with amorphous and overinflated size.
Now it plies lies, calorifically noshes my face.
Now it gratifies, waves goodbyes to what I weigh.
I don’t know exactly what a dessert is.
I do know how to accept exception, how to belly down
into a pud, how to revel in a pud,
how to be bone idle and gross, how to bloat through my meals,
which is what I’ve been stewing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have sponged?
Doesn’t every puddy expire so fast, all too spooned?
Tell me, what is it you aspire to chew
With your plate piled in sticky slice?
– Mary Golloper

Bye for Now!

Bye for now!

As your last smiled-kissing lips, sighing body fusses
To leave the house in fast-flustered— missing buses,
Echoes of those last- passing paths of unsaid words declare…..?
To drift… On the air and fall on un-made bed and chair.

I gather up cup and plate, taking time to contemplate
Our loving, coupling-lip-kissing Sunday to Friday date
And know, now, over time, your body has woven into mine
With fine spun threads of spit and twine…..a Chrysalis

Wound ’round an energy as divine as joy, with blisses
Unbounded. Our bodies bond in liquid spiralling kisses
spinning us up! And out—-around, around and around!
Each golden chakra full- filled, flung upward without sound!

Into a white-bright…white-light of breathless Peace!

– Hazel Brown 19 Feb 2017