The editor congratulates the following poets whose poetry have been selected out of the hundreds of submissions as "Poem of the Month" - Well Done!!!
- Back to bed (Winter Quatrain)
- Counting sheep and blessings
- A fisherman’s brew (Elizabethan sonnet)
- 21 (for Chloe)
Back to bed
(Winter Quatrain)
I wipe the mist from frosted window pane
and peer into the early light of day.
How chill this flagstone floor against my toes
when winter holds a morning in her sway
I scratch a hole and press my sleep warmed nose
against the cold opaque of silvered frost
in hope of seeking out the sunrise warmth
but every ray is wreathed in mist, and lost.
From kneeling vantage point on window seat,
I watch as sifting snowflakes dance and fly,
each one unique in crystal patterned host
of feathered flakes which float from frozen sky.
Then fast my naked feet on icy stones
to seek once more the comfort of my bed
and find again that dent of dream filled warmth
where moments past, I left my sleepy head.
~o0O0o~
Counting sheep and blessings
These hours that pass should find me lost in sleep
but still this heartless clock marks out each chime,
and I, unwilling company to keep,
await with restless ire the march of time.
How silent and how slowly drifts this night,
with every minute stretching out its length,
abetted by the moon’s attentive light
which stares me out with sleepless, silvered strength.
No whispered words of heavy lidded calm,
nor mesmeric companion’s even breath.
Remembered feel of warm, encircled arm
brings harsh the true finality of death
and. with such thought, a wry and grateful smile
that I may pace this clock a further while.
~o0O0o~
A fisherman’s brew
(Elizabethan sonnet)
On bobbing boat in freezing winter sea
he rubs his hands and breathes a warming blow
on fingers stiff and gnarled, bereft of gloves
to offer them a woollen knitted glow.
The sky holds not one drop of sunlit heat
although its vast and cloud free depths are clear,
as if the heavens were a frozen land
reflecting back an icy blue veneer.
The whistle on the old tin kettle blows,
announcing comfort’s flow from steaming pot,
and in appreciation of his tea,
the heavens frozen beauty is forgot.
As hands clasp steaming cup with heated glee,
he smiles, with gentle triumph, at the sea.
~o0O0o~
21 (for Chloe)
I look at you, sometimes, and wonder how
so valuable a gift is given free;
the priceless holding of your ‘then’ til now,
the dawning of who you will always be.
I hear you speak your mind in all its strength
and count myself as honoured to be here,
in pride of place, throughout your childhood’s length,
to treasure every precious smile or tear.
There could not be a prouder heart than this,
that watched as you took on the world and fought
for all that you believed, with no remiss
whilst teaching more than you were ever taught.
I thought to make no payment at the start
that such a gift was given without cost,
but, looking back, I see I paid my part;
the moment you were born, my heart was lost.
~o0O0o~
© Mary Merryweather Travis 2008
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Brenda V N
