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
whiplash jazz
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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