Five Poems by Simon Collinson

 

Dec 23rd

 

Winter surreptitiously,

slithered in,

bringing stiff Easterlys,

sends shivers,

down spines,

as the last bee,

feeds feverishly,

upon,

final flowers,

lingering on,

and when the,

last flower is gone,

so will the bee.

 

 

Ambitions

 

A child dreams of far-off places,

of fantastic beasties and wondrous creatures,

on lilac tipped mountains,

climbing to seek,

fame and fortune,

but as child becomes the man,

older and less bolder,

increasingly incertitude,

inserts itself,

as hesitancy insisted,

doubt gripped tightly,

spirit sapped and worn,

those mountains receded,

the grey shrouded monoliths,

look so,

daunting and forbidding,

the paths followed now swallowed,

and hidden in ivy,

creatures look petrifying,

eventually the dreamer awakes,

the mountains have vanished,

and now the dark clouds descend.

 

 

Souvenir

 

Just yesterday,

a tall lady,

dressed in fawn,

passed me by,

and her scent sent me,

seeking for the past,

retrieving,

a smell I’ve not,

smelled in years,

unpleasant in an un,

deux, tois, sort of way,

reminding me of my French teacher,

the formidable and ferocious,

Madame B,

she of scary, scarlet, screamy face,

quatre, cinq, six,

who lived near the school,

in a house with a blue balcony,

she was horrid,

prowling the corridors,

bursting into rooms,

making a grand entrance,

frightening kids,

standing shaking behind desks,

“Bonjour Madame B”

we’d plea, but soon,

shouting and screaming at me,

“You stupide donkey”,

sept, huit, neuf,

she scared me,

dragged me to the sink to wash my filthy neck,

dix, onze, douze,

shrieked at me,

“Tu es flemmard”,

Madame B marches up corridors,

peeks at boys changing for P.E,

Oh la la, was she blushing,

hard to tell with all that rouge,

ah well, Au revoir Madame B,

the scent eventually withers,

but the memory lingers.

The Deep

 

So lately, such a

surfeit of death and decay,

storms around my head,

sending swirling.

suffocating thoughts,

smothering like a shroud.

 

Pall bell strikes,

misfortune knocking,

like a battering ram,

resounding repeatedly,

hammering my brain.

 

Should I let it in? 

 

 

Ghostly Shuffle

 

It’s been a while,

since I used to be,

someone,

considered fab,

for a while,

now ignored,

just a nobody,

enduring,

anonymity,

existing in the shadows,

practically invisible,

a living ghost,

if you like,

now most days,

just trying hard,

to be,

recognised,

hoping someday,

i can be,

somebody.

Simon Collinson is a writer from England. He is a member of the All Seasons writing group. He seeks stillness and solitude.