DAISIES IN JAMJARS
I never ran on concrete footpaths as a child
clutching a thick stick in my chubby little hand,
dragging it along metal railings
to hear song and rhythm released
but plenty of children did.
Mucky fields and cows
thousands of insects in ditches
the might of many birds
provided my early years soundtrack.
There was no music at home
not an instrument to be found, but sound absolutely moved me
It spiralled up inside so I danced while chanting
stamping my feet in the back of the van
till I saw you smiling in the rear view mirror
became self-conscious and stopped;
blushing shyness, six year-old me.
The river was a divine symphony and there began my humming
Enchanted by the drumming of rain on leaves
Pit-pat pit-pat fingertips made of water
softly dropping to teach me beats.
In school we “played” recorders
more screechy than mating cats
a squawking ordeal I still remember
but not as awful as that September when we were punished
for chatting (as little girls do)
by sister Margaret.
The virgin Mary in white and blue
altar daisies in jam jar skirts
all witnessed the nun unleash her rage.
“Hold your hand out” she said to Michelle
Wood skin smack
Frozen, I watched.
There was no percussion at school
not one drum to be found, but sound absolutely moved me.
Radio brought music to my world
and I still remember that little girl
Tears of shock and swollen knuckles
The heavy hand
Of a violent bitch
That nun did not play
but she used a drumstick.
ODE TO CROWS
On the wings of human imagination
You soar through the centuries
Known as a powerful
Creature of intelligence.
Greek mythology revers you as prophet
But messengers are not always treated fairly
Apollo, crazed by his lover’s cheating
Lashed out at the raven
scorching feathers black.
The bible says that Moses released you
to check receding waters after the flood
King Solomon’s hair was as black as your body
While Norse God Odin looked to you for world news.
Later, scholars picked the records apart
depicted you as evil and the dove
so white as peaceful.
The Morrigan of war shapeshifting as a crow
or the three in one Goddess
of girl, woman, crone;
oprojections are endless.
I see your resilience
and if you feast on the corpse
well what about it;
life comes in many forms.
You move above me with the rising of the sun
to land on a mighty oak
Taking your place in the court
of animals, trees and clowns.
Urban waste your treasure
jittery twitchy on the ground
Noisy, yacky, clever croaks
The stillness of dawn reveals your voice
a symphony of scavengers
Mouths and beaks sing songs of life
where you simply play your part.
Copyright Kathryn Crowley
Kathryn Crowley is inspired by nature, the human condition, her dreams and travel. Society’s wellness and woes also influence her writing. She is a published poet who loves music, dance and song writing. Creativity is her soul food. Her next book will be available in Autumn 2021. See www.artyshe.com.
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