Poems

The Skelington I’m a skinny scary skelington made up of clinkly bones and if you were to hear me I’d sound like xylophones, but usually I’m under skin or found hanging from a chain, for I’m the skinny scary skelington that haunts the ghostly train. But sometimes I’m also seen when the full moon’s at its height rattling around a haunted house giving everyone a fright, like standing still round corners with the moonlight shining through or jumping out of cupboards and shouting a great big “Boo!” A Blind Man Reflects I have often thought, before writing this verse which would be worse; to be deaf, to be blind all these years through frustration and tears, I still can’t make up my mind. So what would I miss if I couldn’t see or hear well, for a start, the froth on my beer! the sound of crashing waves on cliffs so sheer the sight of changing seasons throughout the year the sound of the squeak when breaking in new shoes the sight of so many people of different hues, the sound of guitar strings when changing chords the sight of sailing boats on the Norfolk Broads, the sound of music in its many moods the sight of these words as this poem concludes. These are just some of which may delight someone who has either hearing or sight, and until the time I can answer my riddle I’ll be forever here, stuck in the middle. Smoke On The Wind This morning I met a ghost he was eating marmalade and toast, sitting at the kitchen table scoffing all that he was able. “Hello,” he said, raising a hand, “you’re the new owner we understand, your moving in was quite a surprise didn’t give us time to dematerialise.” “Aaare yyyou a ggghost?” I asked with a stutter, as he spread more toast with yet more butter. “You‘ve got it in one,“ he said with a leer, “sometimes I‘m not and sometimes I‘m here.” “You said ‘we’ and ‘us’” and right on cue another ghost drifted into view. “Yes,” he said, “but two’s all we intend; meet Joanna, she’s my ghoul friend.” At the use of this well-worn joke the ice had definitely been broke and as the house shook with our merry laughter we all lived happily ever after. The Word The lines are fixed the paints are mixed I'm just waiting for the word. The easel's up don't interrupt I'm just waiting for the word. Brushes all stand drink is at hand I'm just waiting for the word. Turn off the book phone's off the hook I'm just waiting for the word. I'm not ready yet finish off cigarette I'm just waiting for the word. Senses are tense the jump is immense I'm just waiting for the word. And the word is... "now" Nonesuch Just the one card this year then well, it only goes to show it’s not the friends you think you have or who you really know. But the card looks so lonely now standing alone on the shelf, but who’s to know and who’s to care that I sent it to myself. Lost Love And where are you now, Angela Hull, with your autumnal hair and head so full of wonderful dreams; of mountain streams where we used to meet and paddle our feet in the owl-brown water of a shaded pool where we used to swim and play the fool, then rolling down hills and climbing trees scuffing our shoes and grazing our knees with the hillsides ringing with our laughter which the stones would echo long ever after. Then taking our ease beneath the long trees and drinking in the closing sun comfortably tired after the day’s fun, then walking slow with measured tread towards home and lie in our loving bed. All poems © Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2021