The Steel Snowdrop

Originally posted on Worldly Winds:

This image was selected as a picture of the we... This image was selected as a picture of the week on the Czech Wikipedia for th week, 2007. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am a contradiction!

Damaged and fragile,

a smashed up china doll.

Introvert and quiet,

a lone snowdrop,

passed unnoticed –

unwatched and unobserved.

Inside –

a cavern.

Older than time itself.

Deep and hidden,

solid,

like a foundation.

Ever there, ever present,

with a core of steel.

Immovable.

Determined.

A stormy winters night,

brooding and moody,

ethereal, transcendent,

not belonging.

Like a storm cloud passing through.

I am a contradiction,

with a beating

heart.

© Steel Snowdrop 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

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Thirteen

Originally posted on Worldly Winds:

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With tick after tock

as life leaves the clock,

time is ebbing away,

and tock before tick,

where time starts to slip,

reality shrouded in grey.

The pendulum swings

as the death knell rings

night bleeds into day,

as midnight chimes,

love’s sleep is sublime,

youth has out welcomed its stay.

 

© Thirteen 13.08.2014

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

Picture credit: Picture courtesy of www.commentsyard.com

 

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Tipping Sheep (the right way)

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Tipping Sheep (the right way) was inspired by my son – in celebration of his 18th birthday today, here it is again! If you would like to purchase a paperback copy of my first anthology by the same name, please contact me on worldlywinds@mail.com

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With face of delight,

my son runs to me –

I’ve tipped up a sheep,

he shouted with glee.

 

My face drops with horror.

Well how could this be?

Am I the worst mother,

has he learned nothing from me?

 

“Calm down Mother!”

my son reassures.

“It’s not as you think,”

with derision he snorts.

 

“We walked in a field,

(in the group we were five,)

saw a sheep on its back,

with legs waving at sky.

 

It soon came apparent,

from what we could see,

that the sheep was so stuck,

‘twas a strange sight to see.

 

We tried hard to lift her,

but to no avail,

she was fat, wet, and smelly,

the weight of a whale.

 

Then out of the blue,

an idea did occur,

we spread out our groundsheet,

to roll her on there.

 

With one mighty tug,

we pulled the sheet up,

and the sheep it did tip,

(the right way up!)

 

So, off with a wobble,

and a, ‘baa,’ of delight,

the sheep she then trotted –

it was quite a sight!

 

So you see Mum, it’s true,

the things I did say,

we tipped up a sheep.”

(Thankfully – the right way!)

 

 

©Tipping Sheep (the right way) 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

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Rumi

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Tara

I said what about my eyes?

“Keep them on the road”

I said what about my passion?

“Keep it burning”

I said what about my heart?

“Tell me what you hold inside it?”

I said pain and sorrow

He said:

“Stay with it”

 

by Rumi

Picture Credit

Green Tara – Painting by Devendra Man Sinkhwal, Nepal

http://www.tibetanart.com

Call for Submissions: My Perfect Vacation Poetry/Flash Fiction Series

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

journey Summer is here and people are hitting the road to enjoy some rest and relaxation — and maybe even some cultural enrichment. What’s your idea of a perfect vacation? If you’ve experienced one — tell us about it in a poem or flash fiction (100 words or fewer). Or if you’re still waiting for your dream sojourn, let us know what you envision — in a poem or flash fiction.

PROMPT: In a poem or flash fiction (100 words or fewer), tell us about your perfect vacation — real or imagined.  Please send a photo of yourself — at any age — to accompany the poem, and provide a caption for the photo (when, where). (If possible, send a vacation photo.)

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems or flash fiction. You retain all rights to your work and give Silver Birch Press permission to publish on social…

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Eight Lilies

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It has been ten years since the death of my mother. This is one of my favourite poems dedicated to her. Not a day goes by when she isn’t missed and mourned.

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Eight Lilies of remembrance,

stand to mark the way.

Eight lilies, one for each of you,

respect and honour the day;

to show that I still think of you,

though that day is done,

each lily marks a bygone past,

from a lifetime that is gone.

 

I smell their sweet thick lily scent,

It makes me think of you;

with fondest memories in my heart,

and tears that are now few.

No longer living in my world,

It is as though you’re dead.

The lilies are memorial,

to words still left unsaid.

 

© Eight Lilies 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

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Pioneers

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Pioneers

 

All the past we leave behind,

yet we carry it in our heart,

St Helena girls through and through,

as the years swiftly depart.

 

Fat knotted ties and skinny ones too,

berets and gingham, dress code rules,

regulation skirts as we kneel on the floor,

cast off our cares as we escape through the door.

 

Dungeons and turrets, paradise road,

galleries and balcony, put on a show,

keep to the right, single file on the stairs,

spiral up to the library, for she who dares.

 

Physics and chemistry, biology labs,

bunsens and tripods, asbestos slabs,

the chemical stench and old parquet floors,

roller blackboards and the fume cupboard doors.

 

Windows that stretched for miles on end,

bring new horizons, a chance to transcend,

safe haven sanctuary for those with an art,

still part of the school, yet worlds apart.

 

Art school boys installed on walls,

language labs and netball courts,

red brick history commemorates the day,

air raid shelters for those who would stray.

 

Toilets and cloakrooms, chequerboard tiles,

lurk in the smoke room and hide for a while.

Graffiti on lockers, who loves who?

Hands off! Keep out! Music allegiances too.

 

Wait at the staffroom, hover at the door,

how long do I wait before knocking once more?

Skulk to the sickroom to skive off P.E.

feigning bad cramps of our weekly monthly.

 

Boy’s Grammar hockey, excited flirting,

navy blue knickers, unflattering skirting,

frost bitten toes, don’t kick up a fuss,

changing our kit on the P.E. bus.

 

Home economics and schoolgirl cookery,

who stole the cakes? Antics, skulduggery!

Brown wicker baskets, raise a toast all around,

we never succeeded to burn the place down.

 

Stoic St Helena with her stained glass stare,

Venus de Milo by the piano chair,

red velvet curtains setting the stage,

assembly lectern for a self-righteous rage.

 

The corridor of doom led to her lair,

hand on your knee and that inimitable glare.

The end of the lesson, by bell or by gong,

ubiquitous memories of days long gone.

 

All the past we leave behind

yet we carry it in our heart

St Helena girls through and through

as the years swiftly depart.

 

© Pioneers 20.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: school building and St Helena stained glass window – Claire Jones

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Cuthbert Bank

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Cuthbert bank

I am delighted that Dagda Publishing have featured one of my poems on their site, cue *happy dance*

To see the full poem follow the link below

Cuthbert Bank

 

I’d like to say a big thank you to them as they have been supportive of my work. Why not pay their site a visit, they feature some talented writers :)

http://dagdapublishing.co.uk/

Scrabble

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shattered life
thrown down in letters
spelled disaster

 

©Scrabble 01.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/456271005970022686/

found on downgraf.com

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Karen by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm (All About My Name Poetry Series)

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

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Karen
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

She wore it and bore it,
like an ill-fitting coat,
a name duly bestowed,
from his mistress’s throat.

Obsessed by the curse,
not her familial name,
an unfortunate victim,
of his clandestine game.

Dad told her a story,
again and again,
she should have been Phillip,
not a girl, shy, and plain.

This was cold comfort,
to be given this news,
as he’d also died young,
singing the sugar blues.

The Carpenter’s coat –
she wore that one too,
a mismatched fit,
she shrank from view.

She pondered a name,
ambiguous, and strong,
a spiritual death,
yearning to belong.
As she grew older and wiser,
and tired of this fate,
tipping the scales,
the deed sealed her fate.

The mistress was smug,
as her mother boohooed,
to use her new name,
they still staunchly refused.

Karen’s long gone now,
victim, weak, and lame,
too scared of…

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