Lost In A Song.
Published by Anchor Books in the anthology 'Whispers In The Wind' 2001
How beautiful the life that voice gives verse
How easily your will and mind are swayed
The words seduce you from reality, and worse
With each beguiling note that’s gently played.
With your eyes, you see all that’s in your day
Let your heartbeat rise and fall with every note
All your senses tricked and teased into belief.
Then awake once more, come back from what he wrote.
The singer is an artist and a thief.
Painting pictures in your dreams of hope or sorrow
And keeping them, to tempt you with tomorrow.
S. P. Oldham.
Through the Eyes of a Child as a Grown Woman.
Published by Triumph House in the anthology 'Yesterday's Dreams.' September 2001
Nanna’s old pantry, big enough to walk in,
An outside toilet and chickens in the back.
A big old mop always in its’ bucket
And the wooden window seat at the top of the stairs.
A pile of drawing paper at the side of the armchair
I could use for pictures if I was good,
And a guitar I was never allowed to touch!
And only a few gardens away a spinning wheel,
There on the lawn! Making me think of fairy tales
On the bus journey home.
At the end of the street, a shop now long gone,
That had a door for “in” and a door for “out”,
And a smell no shop has ever had since.
And always in my memories it was a quiet place,
(I don’t know if that was true!)
A place where I felt safe and excited at once!
A place for adventures then,
A place for memories now.
Still a place where I feel at home.
Still a place where I feel safe.
I don’t know who lives there now.
S. P
Nothing special about me
Legs end too soon,
Skin’s not perfect.
I scrub up ok
But I can’t wear a dress
And my perfume’s cheap, not the best.
Yet when he looks at me
When he gives me that slow
Up and down
Drinking me in look.
When his hands are in my hair
And his lips are on my mouth
When we’re alone
And there’s no one else to see me,
I am beautiful then
I do all the boring jobs
That keeping home necessitates
Can’t keep my nails long
For very long
When I’ve just got up
Hey that’s the way I look
No permanently perfect style for me.
But when I feel his arms around me
When he pulls me close and holds me so tight
That it’s hard to breathe his name
When I can still feel his touch on my skin
Long after he is gone
When I’m alone and there’s no one else to see me
I am beautiful then.
S. P
Hope.
Published by Poetry Now in the anthology 'Another Day Dawns,' May 2001.
Like the promise of a lovers’ kiss
Hope hangs in the air.
Like all the seasons wait for Spring,
And all its’ new beginnings.
Like spray from the foaming waves,
Freshness lifts the spirit.
Like the virgin snow,
Or a clean white sheet of paper.
With the fleeting hint of a smile,
And a flash of a lovers’ eyes,
The heart quickens,
And an empty moment is filled.
Because of one gentle word, spoken in love,
Amidst many words spoken in pain,
A small ache is cured,
And another piece is made whole again.
Like a strong fist
Cradling a new born child,
The new will learn from the old,
And strength is also new born.
Like a beacon of light,
On a long, dark road,
The way is shown,
And we are not lost, after all.
S. P
Grey.
In shades of grey
I think of you
And me, among the shadows
Ashen-faced
And out of breathe
Wading in the shallows
Cotton-soft
And hard as rock
Grey the storm that broke us
Wisdom-grey
Deep in thought
Blurred and out of focus
Age-old grey
At thirty-five
Grey with life’s intentions
A bird-bead eye
Looks sharper for
More grey, and its’ dimensions.
S.P Oldham
A little patriotic poem (for Adam!)
What compares?
If you know of somewhere then please tell me;
This love affair has gone on for so long
And though we’ve had to part, as lovers often do
I’ve never really left this land of song
I know this earth is full of many wonders
Our Earth; a mystery of extremes
Places where the wild sea beats and plunders
Yet always I see
I’ve heard of awesome sights, beyond description
Of sun-kissed shores; of calm and peaceful pleasance
No matter how they defy imagination
So many scenes, to hold the eye’s attention
To tempt the painter and the poet to their art
Tell me once, if you must, then no more mention
Countless beaches ravaged into drama
Shining deserts stretching far and wide
All are wonderful; all Earth’s panorama
Yet one place, alone, fills me with such pride
Have you ever left her? Longed to see her hills and mountains,
Waving promises in greenery and flower?
Holding secrets that they’ve held throughout the ages;
Knowing every hour is her finest hour
She seduces you; cleaves you to her wishes
Bends you to her will and makes you whole
Wales I am, praise God, and ever will be
S. P
(For my sisters - just a little something!)
Sisters.
Always there,
Close
But far away
In my thoughts
Every day
Knowing me well
And not at all
Charting my course
Every rise and fall
Sharing the good times
Easing the bad
Four of the best friends
I ever had
My sisters.
S. P
There’s an old man in the house across the road
His garden’s deep and twisted; overgrown
All the children knock the door and run away
But the grown-ups leave him well alone.
The kids believe that he is something bad
Their fright delights them as they flee from his door
When he opens it; slow and stooped and tired,
The simplest task for him become a chore
Upon the lines that cross his face they read wrong-doing
In the bags beneath his eyes, they see flight
Withered hands they see, shaking with the devil;
But they do not see the child in the night
Yet, not once has his voice risen above a whisper
All the breath his years allow him to expend
If only they could see the small and patient smile
When he finds they’ve all outrun him, again;
Though it’s a slow and sometimes painful way to see them
The old man always leaves his chair to get the door
It’s the way he fools himself that he still matters
That someone’s come for him
And cares for him
The way they did before.
S. P
Club Scene.
Come to me, my painted love
And I will tell you tales of
Your ballroom, filled with glittering lights
Raucous men in drunken fights,
Scarlet girls in dirty skirts
Searching hands under fitted shirts;
You shall see your often dreamed of freedom.
Yes, come to me, my painted child
To where those things that once beguiled
Are seen through dry-ice smoke and song;
Look at where you yearn to belong
Pretty maidens? Yes, there are many.
Handsome princes? Two a penny;
But where’s the orchestra, the staircase and the kingdom?
Don’t run away, my painted rose
There’s so much more, and heaven knows
You’ve such determined competition
Shake off your girlish inhibition;
If you want to dance to the tune they play
Let your conscience go, make your body stay
Offer your soul up, to the rules of this place
Cold day awaits you, your paint is cracked;
Shows the flaws the false night lacked
Gone are the dreams of the girl, but slow
Even now not keen to let them go,
No sophisticated smiles, no thrills
But slurred words, rough hands and cruder skills
And all your pretty colours turned to grey upon your face.
S. P
Old Gods.
Even the moon sulked
Skulked behind clouds
The stars dimmed
And dipped their lights;
Defiant trees
Bowed in compliance;
Once calm waters
Lashed at banks
Their one-time defenders,
In their urge to escape;
The sleeping desert
Rose up and
Spat
At its own futility;
Mountains pleaded,
Begged forgiveness,
Found frosty air and
Cold contempt;
While weak man,
Helpless mortals
Shivered in the empty
Heart of rock;
Of Earth herself,
When the Old Gods
Raged.
S. P
Oh So.
He says he loves me, even when he’s sleeping;
How can he know, when his mind is not his own?
He says Eternity is ours, but it’s not his to give;
Just how does he know we’ll never be alone?
What authority has he, over destiny?
How can he be oh so cool? So self-assured?
Time has nothing to prove; it doesn’t give a damn.
You can deny, or just take it at its word.
What fills him with such absolute certainty
When he holds me and says “Everything’s all right?”
How can he be so sure? It’s not so obvious to me.
But I smile, because his eyes are oh so bright.
And his smile is oh so soft and gentle,
And his hands are oh so warm and strong,
And his lips are oh so close to mine,
And I’ve loved the man for oh so long,
I’ll ignore all the creeping doubts,
That try to find a way inside my mind,
I’ll bite down on all the fear-filled words,
That would be oh so true, and so unkind,
And I’ll let my oh so heavy heart believe him,
Make my oh so tired mind believe it too,
When he whispers, “Baby we’re all right,
And Baby, I am so in love with you.”
S. P
The Wood for the Trees.
How did I ever feel protected?
There, beneath your brittle arms,
While the days passed by me, undetected
Beyond your browning, fading charms.
Why did I listen to your aching moan;
Your groans, your endless, ancient song,
When my heart sang to me of sunshine
And my head knew all was wrong?
What kept me there? Bound to your power;
Bound to your old, relentless sway.
Held me, helpless in your bower
While the rings of my time turned away.
Where did my eyes rest, when I looked
Upon your dry, your knotted brow?
How did I snag myself; get hooked
Upon the thorns that pierce me now?
When did I truly see your forest
Where, once, I fancied meadows lay?
How did I find the strength to protest
And force your heavy arms away?
Those visions fell like autumn leaves before my eyes
I consigned them all to foolish fantasies;
I fled the wood, and to my summer fresh surprise
Saw so clearly, all your guardian trees.
S. P
Plumbing the Depths.
The puddle lies before me
A murky invitation
And from down the years, I hear
My mother’s remonstration
I smile, and look deeper
Into its’ oily depths
Its’ rainbow illumination
A naughty child temptation
I glance down at my high-heeled shoes
Satin-blue, to mark the night
Diamante stars dust their surface
Beautiful shoes; cruelly tight
I wonder just how good it would feel
To cool my heels, here and now.
I hitch up my skirt; I might;
There’s not another soul in sight.
The silk of my stockings whisper
As if to hurry me on
I suppress a girlish giggle
Oh, but the urge is strong!
I want no courtly Raleigh
The night is cloak enough
As a child, I would not pause so long
By now the deed would be long done
The thought decides me, and so
I step into the inky bliss
The waters rising with my blood
The coolness of a parting kiss;
I splash, and the puddle rains grey
Inhibitions ebb, and seep away
The puddle is all the things I miss;
But I never knew, until I did this
I hear my own delighted squeals
Oblivious to the stares; Aghast,
It comes as quite a hearty shock
To learn I have company at last
I stop; oil-smattered, puddle greasy
And wonder what a sight I make
Then I ask them to join me, as I cast
A backward glance, at my carefree past.
S P
The Buttercup Prediction
I remember all the truth
Held in a buttercup;
Petals stroked your soft throat
With all the sharp proof of a knife,
Whilst I, the jury, deliberated
And announced the verdict;
“Guilty; you like butter!”
Then we blew the heads off dandelions,
Crushed rose petals for perfume,
And made a chain-gang of the daisies.
© S. P
Universal (Unsuitable For All.)
When I was 21, and a film was an ‘18’
It was deemed worthy of such censorship
Because of many an ugly scene
Now that I am older
Such films have lost esteem;
For what was once classed as adult,
Is now a mere ‘15’
This gives me cause to wonder
How long it will be so;
That same ‘15’ will fast become
A lowly ‘12’ you know;
And as we all get wiser
All the more stupid too
I don’t think it will be long,
Before that becomes a ‘U.’
© S. P
The Executioner's Garden
My washing line
A gallows for repeat offenders
Bearing the stains of a life
Not so carefully lived;
Stretches
Above the sheared lawn
Hangs limb-less body parts
Up, for the crows
Offers
Defenceless arms
To the whipping wind
And the beating rain
Pinches
With plastic fingers,
Fleshless skins
In pretty colours
And I
Watch from my window
And do not rush to pull on legs
And hasten their release.
S. P