A SMALL THING

“All relationships change the brain - but most important are the intimate bonds that foster or fail us, altering the delicate circuits that shape memories, emotions and that ultimate souvenir, the self.” - Diane Ackerman

This week, Poets and Storytellers United has given the theme of “Stubborn About the Small Things”. My poem was triggered by the trifles we have kept as mementos in some unopened drawer or closed cupboard. We look at those as we one day come across them and they awaken memories. Here is a poem on that theme:

A Small Thing

I clutch it tightly in my hand

A small thing, a bagatelle, a trifle -

And yet for me it’s special, grand,

Worthy enough my breath to stifle.

I feel its smoothness, and its metal -

More precious than pure, fine gold,

More delicate than a flower’s petal,

More rare than something choice and old…

“Love me”, you’d said and gave it me,

Feeling your soul were given to me also.

I took it looking at the wide blue sea,

Capturing sun, sky, your face - all I saw.

“I love you”, I’d whispered to you softly

And I grasped your gift so very tightly;

The tiny trifle was for me dear, costly,

Its dullness sparkling, shining brightly…

I look at it again, so many years later

And I feel a pleasure so much greater,

Than what a rusty metal fairground token

Would give, or our words then spoken.

“I love you”, you had said so tenderly,

“I love you”, I had said so slenderly.

And then goodbyes were uttered

Our hearts were closed and shuttered

And now a token is all that’s left

Once our union’s bonds were cleft.

I clutch it tightly in my hand

A small thing, a bagatelle, a trifle -

And yet for me it’s special, grand,

Worthy enough my breath to stifle.

THE CRUELLEST MONTH

“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”― T.S. Eliot

Poets and Storytellers United has prompted us this week to give a poem related to the first line of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land: “April is the cruellest month”.  Here is my offering. Remember I am in Australia and April here is the middle month of our Autumn.

Winter Harvest

Standing on the brink of April
Waiting for the signal
That will send me down its yawning depths;

Poised on the fork of Autumn,
Waiting for the pallid dawn of Winter solstice
That will send my heart a-roaming yet again;

Balanced on the cutting edge of crescent moon
Waiting unmoving, for a single word of yours
That will let the sickle slice cleanly through my soul.

A word can heal, a word can kill;
Your word can make my darkest Winter, warm Summer
And what you say can make my Spring, a frigid Fall;
Speak softly, say your word,
And I will harvest either a rich bounty – or else dry, poisoned chaff.